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Whiskeys in the Jars

Thursday, March 19th, 2009

Being in Cheltenham – the unofficial home of literary creation – and a student of Creative Writing, I’m encouraged by my tutors to attend the open-mic nights that occur on a monthly basis. the one I viewed last night was attended by a particularly ingenious performer who took old Irish folk songs and fables and twisted them into humorous parodies.  While listening, an idea occurred to me to do something similar.

Bare in mind, I’ve just thrown this together this morning and it needs work.  Each section is intended to be performed in the respective style of the band in question:

(Dubliners)

As I was browsing right through
The many vids on YouTube
I saw a version bizarre
An old Whiskey in the Jar

I clicked the link to view it
And the quality was quite shit
But clear as the beards on their chins
‘twas The Dubliners that did sing

Mush a ring dum a doo dum a da
Whack for my daddy’o
Whack for my daddy’o
‘twas Whiskey in the Jar

(Thin Lizzy)

I went back to the options
And the next that I did click on
A classic from the seventies
The good; the great Thin Lizzy

Phil Lynott’s gruff voice was bliss
Gary Moore played that great lick
The old folk song they took on
To the joy of a new generation

Mush a ring dum a doo dum a da
Whack for my daddy’o
Whack for my daddy’o
It’s Whiskey in the Jar’o

(Metallica)

And finally I move ya
From Dublin to California
With weight on Lizzy’s cover
The howl of Metallica

A classic it may not be
But that matters not to me
The sweat beads out of my pores
When I hear James Hetfield ROAR

Mush a ring dum a doo dum a da
Whack for my daddy’o
Whack for my daddy’o
There’s Whiskey in the Jar’o

Whiskey in the Jar’o
Mush a ring dum a doo dum a da

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Posted in Writings | 2 Comments »

Arise

Wednesday, December 31st, 2008

From Discworld Monthly:

On December 30th it was announced that Terry Pratchett has been
awarded a Knighthood in the New Year Honours list. We would like to
pass on our huge congratulations to Sir Terry Pratchett (and his
squire Rob Wilkins).

*salutes*

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Perspective

Thursday, October 23rd, 2008
We’re currently doing narrative points of view for Prose Fundamentals and we were set a mini task for next week’s lecture. First we were given this:

There are only five passengers on the bus. Thomas is trying to read; distracted by a small boy who runs up and down the aisle, giggling so much that spit covers his chin. The boy’s mother shouts ‘Billy! Billy! Sit your arse here!’ as the bus lurches round a corner and the old man turns, studying the mother through thick glasses, before righting his shopping bags and settling again. The bus stops at traffic lights and Thomas folds his book, resting his chin on the seat in front. ‘Good boy,’ says the mother, ‘Sit down. Sit down I says! Good boy. Here,’ she says, passing the boy something Thomas cannot see. The bus is shuddering and Thomas sits upright, tasting the sour metal smell on his hands. He notices that the old man has also sat upright, staring intently at something outside. Then a horn beeps from behind and the driver curses and the bus swings into traffic. Thomas turns, pretending to check who has beeped but actually glancing at the girl who sits cross-legged on the back seat. He has been aware of her all journey – the crackle of her headphones; the smell of a perfume he cannot name. He thinks, perhaps, she smiles.

Then we had to pull prompts out of hat. Most of them were along the lines of Describe the scene in the first-person from the point of view of Thomas or Describe the scene in third person with limited omniscience focused on the mother. I managed to pull out ‘Perspective of the “old man”. First person. Past tense. Monologue told twenty years later.’ Trust me to pick an easy one…

I’ll never forget the last time I saw her. We would always meet for a cup of tea and a scone in the High Street at about ten o’clock. We’d been meeting like that for about three years, ever since I first moved to the area. We just happened upon each other one day. I was worried when she didn’t show up that day. I remember thinking, I wonder where she is. I couldn’t enjoy my tea and scone.

There were only a handful of people on the bus home. There were only ever a handful of people on the bus home. No one ever talked to each other in those days; not like when I was a boy. Everybody knew everybody. Not like now an’all. Everybody has to know everybody. Them bloody cards.

There was a woman shouting and swearing at her little boy. Horrible little thing, he was; running up and down, bothering everybody. She gave him some bloody chocolate just for sitting down. Only got something like that at Christmas when I was his age!

The bus driver was in a hurry as well. Nearly lost my groceries all over the floor. I’m surprised he even bothered to stop at the lights.

Anyway…that’s when I saw her being put in the back of the ambulance.

I stopped off at the cafe a few times after that. Well, truth be told, I think I was back there every day for a couple of months.

Then I’d just pop in every now and then, y’know, just in case.

Eventually I just stopped going.

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Mark Steele on Darwin

Friday, October 10th, 2008

In relation to my earlier posts about that old book with all the spelling, grammar and continuity errors in it, I thought I’d share a little something by a British comedian I doubt many of my American chums have ever heard. He’s sort of the Billy Bragg of comedy:

Posted in General, TV, Writings | No Comments »

The Curse of Cain

Thursday, October 9th, 2008

One of the optional modules I chose for my course is Myth, Epic and Folk Tale, in which we study various old texts that have endured down the centuries and, despite having been reworked and re-edited time and again, have remained influential to this day.

Presently, I’m reading the King James Bible.

I’ve attempted to read a version of the bible before (out of curiosity), but couldn’t even get through the first few short chapters before my attention wandered. Whether it’s the version I’m reading or the fact that I have some genuine motivation this time, I’m now making better headway and have just read chapter 4.

By now, many of you probably know my standing on religion. No one can say with absolute certainty whether or not there is a god – some almighty creator who started the whole thing – but what I can say with a great deal of confidence is organised religion is full of shit. Everyone single one of them has been built up by a handful of people with an agenda to control the masses, and nowhere is it more evident than in their own teachings.

“You can do this. You can’t do that. This group of people (who I just happen to be a part of) are always right and never to be questioned, and anyone who disagrees will be judged and punished by our particular all-powerful ghost (though if wanna take a few shots yourself, it can’t hurt your chances of getting into that big glowing cube in the sky).”

That said, if that’s what you’re happy with and makes you comfortable and you don’t try to force any of rhetoric down anyone else’s throat, fine. There’s no harm in that.

However, there is a particular group within every religion for whom that isn’t enough. These are, of course, the fundamentalists.

Fucktards; each and every one.

For example, female VP wannabe Sarah Palin believes of her own gender; “…in sorrow thou shalt bring forth children; and thy desire shall be to thy husband, and he shall rule over thee.” (Genesis 3:16) All of which seems particularly harsh when Adam’s punishment for the same sin – eating of the tree of knowledge – was to eat from the tree of life and live forever, tilling soil and fucking his submissive wife.

Also, only 5 pages in and I’m already finding typos and continuity errors. When referring to God, the rule is to always use a capital – he is He; his is His; etc – so it’s a little confusing when He’s in conversation with Cain and the lower-case is used, especially when there’s no paragraph break for a change in speaker and no quotation marks at all.

At this particular point, having just killed his brother, Abel, Cain is one of only three people in existence (himself and his mother and father, Adam and Eve), so he’s talking about when he says, “…I shall be a fugitive and a vagabond in the earth; and it shall come to pass, that every one that findeth me shall slay me”?

It’s also worth noting the lower-case of ‘earth’. Even if there were more than three people in existence – including himself – he’s unlikely to meet any of them wandering around in the ground.

People take this stuff literally.

LITERALLY!!

If it wasn’t for one of them being the leader of one of the most powerful nations on the planet, and another poised to potentially take his place, it would be hilarious…

Posted in General, Grumble, Writings | 2 Comments »

I have coffee, Kit-Kats and custard creams!

Saturday, September 27th, 2008

Mwahahahaha – bow down, fools!

*ahem*

I’ve been aheming a lot lately. ‘Fresher’s Flu’ is in the air and everyone is either coughing, sneezing, sniffling or all of the above. My psychology tutor in college told me that there about 120 variants of the cold virus and once you’ve had one, you become immune to it. I think everyone’s brought their own…

My first week of classes is over and what an interesting mix they are. Monday was Imaginary & Real Worlds in which we read a few creation myths, discussed recurring themes and how they tie in with superhero origin stories (i.e. all’s quiet, something triggers a metamorphoses, there’s a bit of conflict, some kind of resolution, but nothing’s the same again). We were also given a fifteen minute exercise in which to come up with our own creation myth or origin story.

No mean feat!

After that was our first Fiction Workshop, which is essentially the same as what I’ve done in previous creative writing groups, but with a little more specific work involved. That said, last week’s workshop consisted of sharing and discussing our favourite books, films and TV shows. The usual batch was on offer but we then had to think about how those things have influenced us as writers for next week (just a paragraph on each).

We also have to make five observations about anything, just to show that we’re being alert and keeping our eyes open for inspiration.

And we have to take something with us to read aloud and have critically analysed by the group. Fortunately I’ve got a whole portfolio of stuff to choose from :)

Tuesday was Myth, Epic & Folk Tale, which, it turns out, is actually an English Lit module. I left the class kinda daunted by the whole thing. We’ve got quite a long list of stuff that has to be read for the course, the first of which being Homer’s Odyssey for the 7th.

I don’t know if any of you have ever read Homer’s Odyssey. It’s loooong. And I am not a fast reader.

Also, it’s kinda baffling. The whole thing is laid out in a Shakespearean, poetic style and the language and structure make some of the idea hard to follow. All the same, I’m enjoying it so far.

The first assessment for the course is a deep, critical analysis of either that or The Grimm Fairy Tales, involving extensive reading and research. I’ve never been much for research…

Wednesday was something called Learning & Personal Development. Not a lecture, as such, more a way of helping us manage our time when it comes to assessments and seeing how we progress throughout the year.

It is an utter waste of time, which is ironic seeing as the main part of it is aimed at helping us manage what little time we have. They’ve chosen to do this by taking an hour off us every week (two on week three) and giving us an extra assignment to do.

Academics can be such morons.

I was hoping to get to my first mixed martial arts class on Wednesday evening, but GoogleMaps guided me around and around in the wrong direction before leading me to the back of the complex, which was all locked up. On reviewing the map and the satellite photo, I realised I could’ve just walked straight down the main road and found the entrance. GoogleMaps is far more detailed than other map sites (Mapquest didn’t recognise the address I was looking for), but its directions are pathetic)

Thursday’s are my day off. Yay! Every university student gets one, except a select few taking joint courses (that’s joint as in two conjoining courses, not joint as in the first thing that probably crossed a few of your minds on first seeing the word) who don’t plan their timetable well enough.

Thursday was the first Kendo session and I was really looking forward to going along and hitting people (well, being hit more likely) with big sticks, but I was too exhausted from coughing up chunks of lung to make it.

*ahem*

Finally, Friday was Playwriting Fundamentals. Again, this one was a little daunting because quite a few members of the class have done some form of playwriting, performance or drama as part of their A-Levels. I’m one of only two who have no experience in it whatsoever. However, I’m not too scared. As far as I could make out from the class, the trick is to be sparse with details and focus predominantly on dialogue.

I like dialogue :)

Incidentally, I’ve recently been reading R.A. Salvatore’s Vector Prime (the first of the Star Wars: New Jedi Order novels) and have realised that, as good as he is at putting together a good action scene, he sucks at dialogue. Otherwise it’s an enjoyable novel, so far. I hope to have a chance to get back to it at some within the next three years, though my reading lists are telling me it’s unlikely…

Anyway, there are two thing in particular that I find interesting about the playwriting module. First is the performance aspect. Unlike most writing classes where you would read out your own work to be assessed by the class and tutor, we’re essentially required to write scripts that will then be performed by other members of the class, and perform scripts written by other class members.

Secondly, we have no class on the 3rd and 17th of October. Instead we’re off to the theatre to take in a couple of performances. Beyond the odd pantomime when I was young, I’ve never experienced the theatre.

This Monday will be our first Prose Fundamentals lecture, which happens alternate weeks in place of Imaginary and Real Worlds. Hopefully that won’t bring with it it’s own reading list, though I hold out little hope…

In other news, I now have a full compliment of posters adorning my walls. Combined with the vast amount of drinking I did last week and already building stress over the workload, I’m feeling like a true student again!

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No beer and no TV make Bebbet something something…

Saturday, September 20th, 2008
Fortunately, I have beer, so it ain’t all bad.

I’m here!

The months of waiting are over and I am, at last, in Cheltenham, ready to start my new life as a student. The past week has been a blur of induction meetings, furniture arranging, quicky-meal ‘cooking’, getting lost, finding pubs, getting to know people, getting pissed and recovering from getting pissed.

Last Saturday I drove Surrey top stay overnight with friends, to limit the amount of driving I’d have to do on Sunday. Cheltenham is a four-and-a-half hour drive from Sunderland, but only an hour and a half from Surrey. Unfortunately, the overnight stay involved going out for a friend of a friend’s birthday, so I wasn’t exactly in the fittest of states on Sunday. In fact, I was nursing a splitting headache all day, compounded by not being able to find a petrol (gas) station when the fuel warning light came on, then getting lost in Cheltenham trying to find the campus.

I had hoped to get there early and get away as soon as possible, so I could take my dad’s car home.

After moving all of my stuff in and going through a bunch of meetings about accomadation rules, regulations, dos and don’ts, it was 6pm. Stopping off for fuel and something to eat on the way home (I hadn’t eaten or had a smidgen of caffeine all day) it was 11:30 when I got home. I had time for a cup of tea and some last second packing before going to bed.

Monday was mostly spent on a train, including a half-hour unscheduled stop thanks to a signal failure. As advised by my head of department, I stopped in at the university as soon as I arrived, which proved to be an unnecessary excursion, but the campus is only a three minute walk from my halls of residence, so it wasn’t so bad.

The mess I returned to, however, was bad. I hadn’t had a chance to unpack anything on Sunday, so my room was all bags, boxes and lacking floor-space. I made some vacant attempt at unpacking, but once my TV, 360 and ‘puter were done, I gave up, made my bed and joined some housmates on a night out.

Several hours of bouncing around a dance-floor and several fewer hours of sleep later, it was time for my first induction session. It was very dull as, it tunrs out, the rest were for the whole week, though Wednesday did see a group trip to the Victoria Art Gallery in Bath to draw some inspiration for a sample project.

There wasn’t a lot to see at the gallery, but at least a dozen pieces triggered some form of story in my head. That would have been a good thing if not for the fact we had to deliver the finished piece yesterday morning.

Eventually I settled on a painting called The Bride of Death by Thomas Jones Barker (I’ve scoured the web for a decent picture, but come up lacking) and wrote this.

It’s also worth noting that Bath is, at first glance, a rather beautiful city. When you look a little deeper, that traditional building façades are spoiled somewhat by the over-abundance of corporate logos and construction work, but it’s still a very pleasant place to stroll around.

So, here I am. My room’s as I want it (though could do with a couple of more posters), I’m getting along well with my housemates (one we never see, but the other four of us have hit it off well), I’ve been mistaken for Irish three times and everyone thinks I look 22, which is nice.

It’s a shame I can’t get a TV signal but, with the help of Comedy Central and iPlayer, I’m not missing much, and it does save me having to buy a TV license.

Classes start on Monday. By then I’ll have hopefully caught up with alerts…

Posted in General, Grumble, Writings | 2 Comments »

Ceremony

Saturday, September 20th, 2008
Inspired by Thomas Jones Barker’s “The Bride of Death”

We have spent so long preparing for this night. We vowed that nothing would get in the way; that we would not be denied our ceremony.

She looks so beautiful in her gown; its simple beauty reflecting her own. White satin made almost crystalline in the moonlight. A full, glorious summer moon that turns her skin to porcelain. Her golden hair frames the personification of purity. A wondrous vision marred only by the slight gape of her pale lips and the strained, shallow rise and fall of her bosom. Her heart races with anticipation, as mine struggles even to crawl.

Calm yourself, my love. Soon it will be past.

My hand quivers feebly as I take up hers. It is cold to the touch, but her slender fingers grip strongly, as if she fears to ever let go. I feel like I should close the window, but she does so love the fresh ocean air.

In her other hand she holds her humble bouquet: Forget-me-nots that I picked for her that morning. I even made a small crown of them for her to wear.

It lies broken now, on her pillow.

She gently closes her mouth and draws in a long, deep breath that seems to fill her with life. And then she opens her eyes and, for a moment, my heart soars. She looks from me to my ever faithful companion and she smiles. She could always find peace in his big, soulful eyes. She said he would be my best man. And, indeed, a better friend I never knew.

Her smile fades and she closes her eyes.

I can hear distant church bells sing in chorus to the tide.

And my best friend howls his death lament, as The Reaper takes his bride.

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Disappointment

Friday, August 22nd, 2008
For those who haven’t read Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials trilogy, and at some point intend to, look away now. A major spoiler follows (as well as a long rant).

I’m currently reading The Subtle Knife, and while it so far isn’t a patch on Northern Lights/The Golden Compass, I am enjoying the story as a whole.

However, I’ve just read the scene where Will finally meets his father, only to see him die after all those years of searching, and it is one of the most shoddily written scenes I have ever read. After building up the meeting throughout the first half of the novel, it comes and goes in the blink of an eye and in the coldest and least emotional way possible.

Feeling desperate, tired and utterly alone, Will wanders up a mountain on his own. A deep darkness descends and he’s suddenly accosted by some strange man, whom he fights and knocks the wind out of. Why this supposedly spiritual man would come across this kid on a mountain and decide to grab him and crack him across the back of the head when the kid tries to get free is beyond me.

When Will does free himself, does he call for help from the witches? Does he escape back to the camp to warn the others he’s just been attacked? No. He sits quite calmly and has a conversation with the man, going so far as to proffer him his wounded hand.

In darkness still too deep to see each other’s faces, the man applies a healing ointment to Will’s wounded hand, dresses it, then decides to light the lamp he’s carrying so he can see the boy’s face.

A brief flicker of recognition from them both, and the man’s shot and killed by the witch whose love he spurned many years previous (a plot point fleetingly referred to way back in the early part of the novel).

If it had been a cinematic scene, the moment between father and son, when the realisation dawns, would’ve been drawn out a little to show some kind of emotion between the two – confusion; relief; joy – and to allow the audience to connect with what’s happening. Obviously this is a bit trickier in a novel as simply stating, “The two experienced confusion; relief; joy,” is very dry and in no way conveys the intended emotions, but there are options. You could back-reference some of things each character has gone through to bring them to this moment; the trials they’ve overcome so they could finally find each other. You could delve into the characters’ memories of all the things they’d missed while they were apart. You could even have each character looking forward to all of the good things that will come now that they’re together again.

“But in that moment, as the lantern light flickered over John Parry’s face, something shot down from the turbid sky, and he fell back dead before he could say a word, an arrow in his failing heart.”

That’s it? They recognise each other, he’s shot with an arrow and dies?!

The confrontation between Will and the witch was well handled, but after she’s topped herself and Will has said an emotional farewell to his father, there immediately follows a bizarrely cold description of Will taking ‘the dead man’s’ things and spying his feather-trimmed cloak. “His father had no more use for it, and Will was shaking with cold.” I wonder if anyone could come up with anything more emotionally detached than ‘His father had no more use for it…’.

I know it’s only a small scene in the grand scheme of the trilogy, but that in itself is part of the problem. It should be one of the most emotionally powerful scenes in the novel and is instead dealt with as if it’s just another little obstacle along the way; as if Pullman wanted to get it out of the way so he could get to the ‘juicier’ stuff.

I such a huge and intricate story, crammed with such high quality writing, the whole scene is a massive let-down; a bizarre and confusing disappointment.

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How It Should Be Done

Sunday, July 13th, 2008
I’m a writer. Complete absence of success aside, I’ve reached that point in my ‘career’ where I feel comfortable saying that. As a writer, I am, of course, interested in the work – and more specifically, the technique – of others.

BBC2 is showing Pulp Fiction tonight. I wasn’t in the mood to watch the whole thing, but having watched the introduction, and the beautifully scripted and played conversation between Tim Roth and Amanda Plummer, I had a hankering to watch ‘The Bonny Situation’, which, for those who don’t remember, is the latter section of the film after the main story arch has played out.

During the two-way between Vincent and Jules as they’re cleaning the car, I realised that Quentin Tarantino possesses a talent few writers do: That is the ability to shape his dialogue to specifically fit a certain character.

It’s something every writer strives for, but it’s a very difficult thing to do. When reading a script or a novel, it’s easy to distinguish who’s saying what as a reader because we’re told, but if all you have is the dialogue, it takes a very talented writer to allow you to make that distinction. None of the dialogue in Pulp Fiction could be transposed from one character to another because every line is sculpted to that specific character.

And that is why I hate Quentin Tarantino; the smug, overly talented, genius-like git…

*ahem*

(bitter? me? pfft)

Oh, and possibly my favourite line in a film, ever (albeit better in context): Vincent – “Jules, you give that fucking nimrod fifteen-hundred dollars and I’ll shoot him on general principle.”

Posted in Movies, Writings | 8 Comments »

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