Short shrift...

Got more than a little bit tied up planning for a short film last week, hence the lack of blog posts. Not very good, I know. I feel as if I've let you down. But, if you're going to strut about wearing the name badge that comes with the suffix 'director' you have to do the homework. We shot the film on Saturday, which was no mean feat, and, generally, all appeared to go well. Although when I see the rushes I may amend that sentence. The short is called Suite Dreams and I co-wrote the script with M. I made it with these guys. Should have a running time of around 10 minutes. There's furniture, drama and a knife. What more do you want (ok, ok, I know. Car chases, pyrotechnics and CGI next time around, I promise)? Here's our lovely cast of two atop our little sofa:

Nothing much...

We've mostly just been moping about today due to swine flu rearing its ugly head in our house. I trotted out and bought some medicinal Subway sangers for lunch. Then I made some pizzas for dinner, as the posh have it. Non-food activity included bits and pieces of short film-related gubbins and some minor scribblings, followed by X Factor and catching up with the fortunes of the NY Jets.

I like what the comedian and star of I Love Various Things - Andrew Collings, of Collings and Herrrin podcast fame - said re the current state of news on this week's effort: "If you look at the papers, the news isn't the news, the news is just what's been on telly the night before." Very true.

Wedding party...

Short rehearsal today in readiness for shooting short film next weekend. Got off to an inauspicious start when I got dropped off in town by M's dad, exited the car and watched it speed off up the road before realising that I'd left my bag with scripts inside the car. Caught up with the bag and, with some time to kill before meeting actors I opted to head to a hotel bar on the Marina - away from a city centre crawling with Hull City fans. Walked in as a bride and groom were having their photos taken, got past them without standing on the bride's dress and found myself in the bar with the rest of the wedding party. Liverpool and Man City were on plasma screen, the second half, I thought, just kicking off. I turned to the man next to me and asked if the first half had been any good. He looked at me with a puzzled and rather scared expression - no doubt wondering which side of the family I was from - and said "ok". It was only much later in the day that I realised I had actually been watching the first half. I left before the speeches. Although I feared the worst after all that, rehearsals went very well.

My so-called vision...

Pretty much opted out of spending the evening tweeeting sarcastically about Children in Need (or #bbccin) in favour of planning for the expensive filmmaking hobby that I have and adding to the reams of paper that exist in the folder marked 'Single Span'. Hopefully by the shoot next weekend I will be able to articulate my so-called vision.

Lights...

X Factor 'star' Rhydian turned on the Christmas lights in Hull tonight. As far as I'm aware he replaced soul singer Beverley Knight, who was lined up for switch-throwing duties. Although, given recent events in the Midlands, it's probably better to give the job to someone who won't attract a massive audience. As I walked through the growing crowds early this evening I noticed, yet again, that the German Market was being mostly ignored. I'm sure it picked up when Rhydian took the mic and people decided to seek out something a little bit more appealing. Bah, humbug!

Overheard on the bus...

"He's getting me one of those new phones for our anniversary."

"What type of phone?"

"He's borrowed the money. From Credit Union."

"Yeah, Credit Union. You can never get into debt with Credit Union. Even if you borrow, like, 500 quid from them."

"It's one of those just out November phones that were out this month. It does everything. You wanna know how much my bill was last month? F**king hundreds. He said, for your birthday, you can have a new phone or you can have the new PSP3. I'll give you the other one for our anniversary. I'm real excited. Anyway, there's no way that the apple closed her eye."

"What apple?"

"School phoned me. Today. You've got to come pick her up. There's been an accident. She's partially blind. My little lass. I said, there's no way that's a f**king accident. You've blinded her with an apple? The only way you can blind someone with an apple is to throw it at short range with force. That's not an accident. She's partially blind now. Wait 'til I get to the school."

"Did you see Hull City playing Italy on Sky?"

"Yeah. I watched summat on Sky. It was a draw."

"They lost."

"It was a draw. 2-2. They were playing Fulham. Or was it West Ham? It wasn't Italy. I don't know, I don't even like football. Can you phone the school and talk to that teacher now? Tell them it wasn't a f**king accident. How can you blind someone with an apple?"

Extrawurst...

There is currently a German Market in Hull city centre, part of the city's festive entertainment. I have heard a few people complaining, saying silly things like, "Why are they here? Is there a Hull market in Germany?" This suggests that Hull's markets are exportable. The all-year-round market that takes place twice a week not a million miles from our house is a notorious outlet for counterfeit goods and, on Sundays, is more of a car boot sale than a place to head for fresh foodstuffs. Germany would not want it. Last night, at around 6pm, as we were killing some time before heading to the cinema, myself and son Sam wandered around the visiting German Market. We were, aside from the German stallholders, the only people there. Which was a little strange but rather typical. I say hurrah for Extrawurst, Fleischwurst and juicy old Bierwursts. But, it would appear, I'm in the minority.

On the buses...

I've been sans car for a few weeks now. It is rather liberating and has reminded me that we don't need that shit that outside forces are always convincing us we do. Yet, as it gets colder, walking around the city has less and less appeal. So, tonight, I turned to public transport, specifically buses. Which, in this city, appear, on my scant experience, to be appallingly smelly and unreliable. Nobody in their right mind would choose to travel this way - such is the stench of urine that they're like a public (in)convenience on wheels. But there you go. Maybe I do need a car after all. Tonight, we went to the cinema, and watched inconsistent man-munching, splatter-happy, scare-flick Jennifer's Body. We were out of the cinema by 8.20pm - not late enough to think that there'd be any trouble hopping immediately on a bus home. I didn't realise how shockingly sparse buses were at that time of night. It's as if Hull had shut down. What's the deal, transport bosses? Rather than loiter in the loon-infested interchange (described, no doubt, in tourism literature as another 'jewel in the crown' for the city) until the bus came we hopped inside the Royal Station Hotel, where drinks are expensive and tables are frequented by bald men with Blackberries.

Two today...

This day is all about Finn, who is two today. The house is full of toys and people and noise and food and laughter and it's bloody brilliant. He was up at 5.45am listening to TalkSport (erm, ok, I picked the station) and headed downstairs at around 6.20am to be amazed by the day ahead of him.

Oh happy day...

We walk past a house just as a funny little woman is making her exit. I think I overhear her say to those still inside, "Happy Bowling Day." Sounds a little bit weird, I think, and laugh out loud and ask M if she heard it. "Yes," says M, "Happy Floor Laying Day." M, after I've given it a few seconds thought, is obviously right (she usually is!). We ponder whether the people inside are simply sprawled in the horizontal on the floor or are going to be spending the day ahead fitting a carpet, parquet blocks, laminate or some other floor covering. We also wonder if Floor Laying Day is a national holiday we've not been told about. Are you laying a floor today? Are you celebrating same? Please advise.

Order, order...

Our takeaway traumas took another turn earlier this week, when we decided to continue with our flamboyant lifestyle and get some pizzas. I spurned fancy telephone and internet ordering, preferring instead to walk to the second closest pizza 'n' kebab emporium (we boycotted the closest - the Quangoesque-named Hull Pizza - when it took them over two hours (two hours!) once to deliver an order that I'd originally gone in to collect but that they suggested bringing to our house 'very soon'). Anyway, this week I ordered a Mexican which, the menu on the wall pointed out, is that famous Mexican sauce Bolognaise topped with cheese and jalapeno peppers. The jalapenos are the important ingredient because, without them, you end up with the Italian. Which is precisely what happened. Do I not look and sound like a Mexican? Is it even worth me using words caciquismo if this is how things end up? I didn't phone to complain or take it back. I just ate my Italian and complained after every mouthful.

AFC #2...

Mary: Thank you for making sure I was okay last night. I wasn't going to open my door for anyone.
Me: That's what neighbours are for.
Mary: He was a conman*, that man, a conman. He was. Really.

She could have told me before I parted with the two quid! Neighbours. Tsk.

*I don't think he was. He showed me a little laminated ID card and everything.

AFC...

A knock at the door at 6pm. I can see through the glass in the front door that it's a bloke with a box full of flashing lights. I wouldn't normally open the door but there we are and there he is and he makes a good case for me buying one of the flashing lights - little toys with neons attached when I look closer - which would, effectively, result in a donation to Action For Children. He closes the deal, sort of, and I hand over a couple of quid, but tell him I don't want the flashing light, which would only end up in the bin. This confuses him. "Doesn't your little boy want one?" I tell him no. Just want him to take the money. He does and heads off down the street. As I shut the door I can hear a voice from the other side of our porch. It's our elderly neighbour, Mary, the woman that calls Finn 'Flynn' despite me pointing out her mistake all the time. "Have they gone? What did they want?" I am, in essence, having a conversation with a very thin wall but I open my door to talk to her. She is not there, she is standing in her porch. I shout, "it was a bloke from Action For Children. Selling flashing lights. He's gone now." Only he hasn't. On hearing me shouting he's come back and he's there, right there, stood outside Mary's front door. He knocks on her door. "I'm not opening the door. Not when it's dark. You could be anyone. Leave me alone. I and not opening the door," she says. He begrudgingly walks off. I check that Mary's ok. "It was just a man selling flashing lights," I remind her, hoping to put her mind at rest. We talk through the wall for a while and Flynn diffuses the situation by making comedy noises that are audible to Mary. "Night night," he laughs. "Night night".

2012...

Picked up Vue's in-house, comma-tastic publication prevue (I like the title, it's oh so very clever and I also like Vue, their nice comfy seats and adult-sized leg room and, in Hull, the whole "only digital multiplex in Europe" thing) when we were at A Christmas Carol 3D yesterday. A pull-out quote in prevue made me laugh about but also put me off the forthcoming (the word forthcoming is only used in reference to films, isn't it?) sensory-blitzing 2012. "The human stories," goes the quote, "seem destined to play second fiddle to the effects, after all, seeing the end of the world is what you've paid your money for!" I especially like that exclamation mark. Who needs stories about humans when you can blow shit up? That, my friends, is the future. Who will survive 2012? I don't think it matters! All that matters is the catastrophe!

The late Hunter...

I do like to take a book into the bathroom with me. Today, I reached out en route and found Hunter S Thompson's Kingdom of Fear finding its way into my hands. I randomly turned to a page - page 46 as it happens - and read this...

"Well, wanting to [write] and having to are two different things. Originally I hadn't thought about writing as a solution to my problems...It was writing. It was the rock in my sock. Easier than algebra. It was always work, but it was worthwhile work. I was fascinated early on by seeing my byline in print. It was a rush. Still is."

"Theatre isn't church. There's nothing innately good about it. Most theatre is still really bad," Mike Bartlett has told The Observer. "It has to appeal to people who do jobs and have lives. Theatre about theatre is the most awful, terminal nonsense."

Precisely. It would be nice if all playwrights thought the same. The full interview is here.

Customer service...

Today we decided to live in the fast lane a little and throw caution to the wind by spending money we can, as povery-stricken scribes, barely afford. Yet it's nice to have a little treat now and then, if only to remind yourself that life is not just about bills, bills and more bills (no, it's about bailiffs and CCJs too - Finance Ed.). So we ordered a nice little Indian takeaway. Nothing too extravagant, just a curry each and a couple of chapatis. But just, we thought, enough to take the pain away. Yet despite the simple order, they got it wrong. Not massively. But just enough to spoil the occasion. Once I realised what was missing I phoned them to ask for it to be sent. 45 minutes later it had still not arrived. "How long does it take?" I chuntered. "We're busy," started the reply. What kind of excuse is that? Don't they want to be busy? And are they only busy because they keep f*cking it up? We will purchase our food elsewhere in future, should we ever scrape the funds together again.

Fuming...

Popped a stonebaked garlic bread in the oven and, as the 12 minutes at 180° mark approached I opened the oven door for the required 'is it done yet?' sneaky peek. I was quickly faced with fumes that the oven seemingly enjoyed fanning in the direction of my face. I couldn't see a thing and my eyes were streaming under the misapprehension that several CS canisters had been hurled into the kitchen. The smoke alarms in the house then went crazy. It was quite some time before normal vision was resumed and the smoke went the way of the extractor fan. Weirdly, after all that, the garlic bread hadn't burned at all - indeed, it was poifectly cooked. Am assuming the fumes were garlic butter rolling off the bread and onto the oven bottom. Later, I set about attacking the oven with the failed-chef's weapon of choice - Mr Muscle. I know how to have fun.

Flash, bang, wallop...

In the true tradition of Guy Fawkes, we assembled round at M's sister H's house, ate pizza, hot dogs, olives and humous, waved sparklers around and watched a couple of grown men igniting the contents of a huge box of Standard fireworks. And very good it was too. Almost two-year-old Finn mainly enjoyed himself and the flashes and loud bangs, aside from the moments that he was asked if he liked what was going on, when he would furiously shake his head in the negative. Good fun, nice food and people, lots to watch and a great walk home, with Finn falling asleep in his pram to the sight and sound of hundreds, if not thousands, of explosions.

Meeting...

Happy Birthday M! Today, you are the same age as Jesus Christ. Was. When he. Well, you know. The end bit. Enjoy!

I had a meeting re some work, re working efficiently, because that's the game we're in, the working efficiently game. The meeting was delayed for 45 minutes because two other meetings had to take place. You couldn't make it up. Or you could, but you'd be making really boring shit up.

Square circle location...

Spent a few fleeting moments at a boxing club last night - a potential location for a short film that, should we ever get our fingers out and make it, will bring together the drama of boxing and the slightly feistier world of the Dewey Decimal Classification System. A sure fire, award-winning hit if ever there was one. We mucked around with gloves and bags and, out of earshot of everyone, I made disparaging comments about boxers. The club was great. The clientele - lots of scary, hairy, tattooed gents with muscles - was scary. I also realised what I have suspected for some time - I have a gymnasium allergy.

Alternative view...

I am writing this in someone else's house and I am looking out of their window at a view that is not my own. Actually, when I write at home there isn't a view at as I face a wall these days and natural light, what there is of it, is right down the other end of the room. So it's nice to work under natural light, rather than those Compact Fluorescent bulbs of shitness that the powers that be have us working beneath in the futuristic times that we live in, and actually have a view to look at. Their dininig room table is also at a nicer height than the table that I work at. If it wasn't for all the noise, why, I'd've found the perfect working environment. Pinged off some stuff to the theatre, spoke to someone about potential workshops, checked my various email accounts repeatedly. This is work. Or, perhaps, this is work?

I will be clearing my blog roll out at some point soon. Quite a few bloggers have fallen of late, no doubt due to that 140 character social media tool that Stephen Fry used to like but now doesn't because someone told him he was boring. Yes, blogging is so, well, last year. I shall keep it up. I like it. And it will last longer than newspapers, you mark my words. I will attempt to use the blog again as a warm-up exercise before the working day begins, a la Herring. Those Tories are big on blogging these days. I might rid the roll of everbody but Tories, although their writing style is a bit, well, S Fry. I jest, of course, because Tories are c**ts and I hate them. But I do have a strange, perverted fascination in their utterances which, generally, are complete lies presented as fact. Politics, eh? At least I popped myself on the electoral register today. The extreme left will get my vote if I can find them.

Watch this, literally...

Finn, as you'd expect of an almost two-year-old, takes things literally. So it was this morning when, as we were about to embark on a mammoth Play Dough modelling session, I momentarily placed my mug of tea on the floor. "Watch that mug," I said, with health and safety my major concern. Finn did indeed watch that mug - he knelt down beside it and stared at it for about two minutes. Disappointed that the mug didn't do anything in response to all this attention, he turned his back and picked up a lump of his brightly coloured modelling clay. The other day M asked Finn to stop playing with a toy dog and put his shoes on - he placed his shoes on top of the dog.