I used to think that the day would never come

20,832 words later.
135 pages.
4 years.

Iain Martin Wilson has written his first ever feature film script.

Run
Hug the shadows.
And I'm gone.

Get up, Get on up

6 or 7 pints earlier
Hung over on the 67
Am I still dreaming?
Cars and people drift by
My belly bubbles a
dirty warmth onto my
face and behind my eyes.
My eyes must be very red.
'Take on the Daddy Burger'
'London Beer Gas, Calor' drives by. Oh dear.
And a nice shiny peugeot and a ship.

Is it worse though?
Driving the long bus down to the city.
Is it Thatcher's dream I'm living in?
It's certainly not the Bay of Biscay.
Is it a low?
I want to go up the Kingsland Road,
And home again.

Revenue protection?!
They sound like a civil servant's mafia.
15 people in fluorescent jackets
+ 3 Rozzers.
The shits.
They won't get me this time, I'm on the 67
They look freezing.
It's not their fault someone wanted bent Mercedes buses
That are completely rubbish.

Someone typing a text message
AND cycling at the same time.
Genius or madwoman?

Please Drive By Carefully in our Village
That's way better than the Daddy Burger advert.
The Daddy Burger is offensive, worthless and artless.
Probably done by some kids on drugs - cocaine.
Banksy, au contraire, and other graffiti people.
What a lovely use of space.

I wish I had a penny for every mobile I saw on this journey.
I still wouldn't have enough for a loaf.
Fucking inflation.

The top of the guerkin
pops its head over the
concrete cargo and stands,
Erect behind the puffs
of smoke from the city.

Foster has now done:
cock
bollock
useless shit

Nearly there
I need a can of fizzy pop,
I'll get it from the shop near the
Euro Free Zone warehouse.


p.s. Library my arse. Where are the books in that photo. And who the hell wants to walk up a spiral staircase.
Those who think that library looks pretty, haven't used it.
They installed a busy library with 1 or 2 male toilet cubicles per floor.
The computer area resembles a sweat shop.
Princess Anne opened it.
It gives static shocks to everybody who touches the bannister.
You need to have one leg shortened to walk on the spiral staircase without looking like a tosser.
It's apparently rubbish to move around if you're in a wheelchair, even though you can access every floor.
I worry that one day, someone might get crushed by the government periodicals.
It is truly a library from hell, designed by people who don't use it.

One day, let's draw a chalk outline of a human body at the bottom of the spiral.

The day the music died

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/southern_counties/4256855.stm

This is five minutes from my house and down a route I've walked a million times.
It's so fucking sad.
Yet something we know,
http://www.simonjones.org.uk/

What a life it could be, I'll wake you up at half past 3 with a lasagne.

Word up me homies.
In a break from blog-etiquette, today I am going to write about nice things that have happened to me. Y'see, I'm a believer in luck and karma. So I'll be thankful for the abundance of good things that have just happened in the last 24 hours. Having been a bit bored and lazy of late, suddenly, eveything's coming up roses.
The Amigos Project are interviewing me, with a view to having me as a volunteer.
Advice UK are doing a new project which might give me some skills.
I finished formatting 118 pages of script and just have to write my tail-end.
The workshop we're holding on Saturday seems to be going hunky-dory. Indeed, my friends have even set up a website for us.
I haven't taken a half-dose of my anti-depressants for 3 days, and am not suffering.
And I once again own Definitely Maybe, and have been listening to it.

The only dampening thing to happen today, was that my favourite author, had to leave work early cos her son, Jo (whose name I remembered) is ill.

The author in question is a colleague and friend, and joins Nick Hornby as the only person to have written TWO books which I have read. And both have been top-notch. In fact, I'd put Alper above Hornby cos I've already forgotten what it is about his books that I liked- thinking about it, nothing really happened in Fever Pitch and High Fidelity other than lots of pontificating. Still good though. Debi Alper, on the other hand, has written the only stories I've read with characters that I can properly empathise- socially-conscious people who are friends, who go to MayDay 2001, get trapped for ages and don't like it, who smoke weed and don't make a fuss about it or get 'damaged'. Who live in London, come from all over the world, and have sense of humour. And they have adventures, proper ones, with killings and dirty intrigue and everything.

There's always that problem of being able to separate a like of the person from appreciation of their work (I still remember thinking Madness' comeback single 'Lovestruck' was really good, because I liked them. Then, one day, I realised that it wasn't), so someone I know should really borrow a copy of the books from me, cos I reckon you'd all like them.

Authors who fell by the wayside during the second book:
Sartre- read Nausea, gave up on age of reason.
Michael Moore- Downsize This was the second book I ever read (after Fever Pitch), I gave up on every other (but did read a book he edited about his TV series).
Joseph Heller- read Catch 22, gave up on God Knows
Dickens- read Hard Times, wrote comparative bits with Xmas Carol for English GCSE in spite of not reading it.
Terry Pratchett- forget which, I tried to get into Discworld. Dickworld in my opinion.
Karl Marx- read the Manifesto, skimmed through the others for my degree.
Shakespeare- read Macbeth, bits of others.


Then there's a massive list of classics I started but turned out to be shit or boring. Again, if anyone knows of any authors I HAVE read twice (my brother might, but I dunno if he can post on my site), let me know.

Don't look back in anger

Keeping with the poetry theme, I'm posting up my favourite poem from my early youth. It was written by me for my GCSE English Coursework in Year 11. It got 11/40, I can't remember my SPAG mark:

I left the school and was confronted
By a man in a mack.
He beckoned me into the car
And locked me in the back.
He sped away quite quickly
To a small country retreat,
And locked me in the basement,
with another boy called Pete.
Pete was an odd-looking guy,
With no mouth and no eyes,
He commuicated in morse code,
By zipping up his flies.
Slowly it occured to me that Pete had never kissed.
But alas, instead of sympathising, I just took the piss.

I still don't know if this is a sonnet or not. Perhaps it was, cos Shakespeare was often forced up our arses by the English teacher.

From the same period of time, I wrote a poem that went:
Billy B had BSE,
He sat in rooms and dribbled.
He rarely used to come and play,
Which really was uncivil.

Of these I am very proud.

On a same-same but different note, someone wiped the entire contents of the hard drive on the computer back home without warning me. Gone forever are the massive amount of .bmp drawings from my summer spent with a broken arm (aged 14?), words, posters from my old band (including Des Lynam's face super-imposed on a hot bod, and an image of Hitler dressed as a clown, under the title 'Everyone loves to party'), downloaded images. In short, everything but porn. It's a lot of stuff that I'm sad that I'll never see again. If anyone has any computer-bits from their past they wish to donate to my now forgotten virtual childhood 'twould be much appreciated.

It's only words

MINUTES
Here I am
This collection of emotions and motivations
Floating alone
In a pool of people and pollution
Tragedy and beauty
And when I get too wet or too cold
I get out, and dry myself and go somewhere warm.

Whilst very small, the pool and the water, and me and its depth
Were one and the same.
Walked along, into the water. Gradually walking out again.
Kicking the water, playing in the water. Running away from the water.

Then I learned to swim.
The water and me were then defined.
It was there, I would conquer it.
And if I stopped, my nose would fill, and I would splutter,
And have to kick again.

Swim, swim, swim. That's all we've got to do.


DESKTOP PARTYING
16 hours in a day
with 2 on a bus.
7 in an office.

16-9=7

What happened with the rest?

I hope they were spent messing around.


MY GAIT

It's hard to be happy, and abstract,
when my world is so crappy and dull,
I spend my time on computers,
Hoping their light will plug up a hole.
And it does, for a while,
If you're writing a style,
But when that time passes,
You're left needing glasses.
Cos the world goes all blurry,
and leaves you with Lonely,

So I lie back down, and weight
for love to come back to my gait


BLUE MONDAY
When that song comes on again, I'm going to go mental.
Said the man to me.
We looked for a second, at the DJ, but he wasn't paying attention.
We stood up, even taller, and smiled.
Then fell back down again.
Our arms and legs were moving, but our soul just wasn't there.
So we willed another tune, and bosh.
Blue Monday.

OWN HOPE
The only things I own
Are hopes, not hate and pain
Cos everyone owns pain,
It's why we're all the same.
I borrow it
from time to time
there is a part
which is all mine.
Yet it owns me, cos it's ours
And what is ours, Is part yours
I'll never OWN what is part yours.

But we can share it,
don't you see,
then hope it goes,
but differently.

Hopes are different though,
because they're all unique,
that's why we choose such different things
When thinking what to eat.
I'd like to eat potato, with chili on the top,
Some like to eat salads and pasta.
I'd like to write and make a film, my film.

SLAP HAPPY
flat back, on the ground
ear down, there's no sound
but the bass from above
the instrument of love
It rattles and hums
and throbs til it's numb.

Bom, Bomb, Boowng, buh.
The sound it slips undah.
The musical mole
hits straight in the soul

Free Nelson Mandela

Today, I saw Nelson Mandela. I'd heard the rumours on Monday that he'd be in Trafalgar Square. On Thursday Morning, the radio confirmed it. I went for a cigarette break, alone, thought about it, and thought 'Stuff work. I'm going to see Nelson, it's not like I'm in prison.'. Work very kindly obliged, and set me free.

The whole bus journey, I felt little jitters down the back of my neck. I was proper happy, and gagging to tell eveyone: 'Did you know Nelson Mandela's talking in Trafalgar Square? The Nelson Mandela.'
I texted almost everyone in my phone book. Two people replied with, 'say hi from me.'. Edward said he'd go if it was Nelson Muntz. Some were jealous, and others ignored me.

There's not much to be said other than the quote which people attribute to Nelson Mandela, but isn't from him at all
Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. Is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be. You are a child of God. Your playing small doesn't serve the world. There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we're liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

Good words aren't they

For once in my life, I have someone who loves me.

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