While having a tidy this morning, I came across some ephemera from my past which, as per usual, started a train of thought that led me back to the PC. The ephemera was a programme from a play what I wrote (TM – Morecambe and Wise) when I was 17. Forgive me if you have heard this one, but the story goes something like this. I am 17 years old and already my literary aspirations are reverberating around the college I attend. I am approached by two fellows from the music department who are looking for someone to write a play for them. They want to use the aforementioned play to act as a framework for their songs and wanted it to be in the vein of “The Rocky Horror Picture Show”.
Of course, I accept. I could never turn down a challenge and so I set to work writing for these two. The leader of the pack was a guy called GL, he was everything I wasn’t. Handsome, out-going, very talented to the point of precocity.He could sing, dance, act, play the piano very well and write music. He could also fit a whole Big Mac into his mouth, but that’s another story. So I deliver the play and forget about it. Weeks later, I read in the local paper that the new drama wing to the college is being opened with a performance of the play what I wrote. However, the title has been changed and the writers are GL and SM, the two guys who asked me to write it. Of course, I respond the only way I know how by writing a letter to the local paper objecting to their story and claiming total misrepresentation.
My actions get me into hot water with the Head of the Faculty. “We don’t wash our dirty linen in public here,” I am told. The letter instantly earns me a promotion: I am to direct the play and get full credit. This is great, but the problem is that I am a shy 17 year old with no aptitude for drama or direction. Oh well, I wing it the best I could and go ahead with the play with only a week to curtain up. On the night of the first performance, I pick up a programme and notice that I have been omitted off the credit list once again. Me and The Missus-to-Be (boy we go back a long, long way) make it our job to print addendums to the programme and slot them in at the last moment. The disaster is averted.
Anyway, I find this programme in my box of literary memories this morning and I remember GL. After the play, GL completely ignored me whenever I saw him around the college. It was if I never existed. As time passed, I realised that he was one of those people who climbed on the back of others to get where he wanted to go. His talent was actually surrounding himself with even more talented people, using their ideas and claiming them for himself. I saw him do this with his musical writing partner, SM, who no longer aspires to creative pursuits and instead made his career in IT.
So I google old GL out of curiosity and discover that he is working in the US. He is the Creative Director for some religious Disneyland in Orlando and bleats on about “putting God into people”. Jesus H Crackers, I think. But then, in a weird logical way, it all kind of makes sense.
Meanwhile, I got The Missus back last night and she told me all about her magical mystery tour in France. She brought back all manner of sweet goodies from a Patisserie she visited. Much lip-smacking went on.
Today, I found a really cool clip of Mike Oldfield and his band playing a snippet of Ommadawn, courtesy of Google Video:
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I’ve just listed some more detritus from my CD collection. Tuck in, folks. I know you really wants it:
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I’d just heard that the Missus had been diverted and was AWOL somewhere in France. She should have been in Poitier, but fog caused a diversion. My mind was elsewhere when I received a phonecall from RB, a man to whom I had applied for the position of Technical Writer – writing and compiling instruction manuals. Getting the call, you immediately begin to think that maybe an interview might come out of it, but at the back of my mind I didn’t like the tone of voice Mr B was adopting. From his voice, I deduced that he was a cocksure cunt and I soon realised that no job was forthcoming. He asked me about my experience of heavy machinery. Of course, I had none and said so adding that I was an adaptable worker and willing to learn about his products. But no, Mr B wasn’t having any of it and explained that he was looking for someone who had an engineering apprenticeship and wasn’t taking my application any further. With that, I thanked him for his time and ended the call. Well excuse me for applying, Mr B, but you asked for someone who could write, research and compile instruction manuals and I believe I can do that. His job advert should have said “Engineer Wanted – Will be Required to Write”.
Oh well, it’s the first time I’ve ever got a job rejection live and direct over the telephone and let me tell you this, I’ve had way over 300+ job rejections. (When I went through my first period of unemployment in the 1990s, I kept all my correspondence and it totalled well over 200 rejections). I thought getting a rejection letter was deflating, but being told over the phone that you aren’t good enough is positively demoralising. Oh well…what can you do about it, eh?
Later on, The Missus called and told me of her journey from Hell, being taken to a different airport, getting a bus to Poitier airport and then getting the train to her destination, arriving so late that she couldn’t make dinner with the clients she was interviewing. Why put yourself through this nonsense, I say? Stay at home…it’s less stressful.
Today I received a letter from the company handling the debts for Highbury House/Highbury Entertainment/Paragon Publishing, asking me to submit any unpaid invoices to them. I doubt this means that I will get any cash, but it is probably so that all the debts can be totted up. And so I need to go through my files and print out those invoices again and post them off. It’s never a pre-paid envelope, is it?
Sad news today is that Henry McGee has passed away. For those of us of a certain age, he was the actor that appeared alongside the Honey Monster in those iconic Sugar Puffs adverts from the 1970s. He also appeared as straight man to Benny Hill and was in many classic comedies as an accomplished character actor. Let’s hope that Reg Varney is still alive, eh?
Meanwhile, over at Google Video, there’s absolutely loads of Pink Floyd clips to watch and download. Man, I just love the WWW.
Yesterday, I did another sift through the crates of my CD collection and sorted another hundred or so titles that can be sold off. It’s funny how quickly you can pick up a CD, look at it and discard it, realising that you’ve only listened to it a couple of times.
Meanwhile, news has just come in that The Missus is now lost somewhere in France after her plane was diverted due to fog…
Oh well, the incident known as “The Great Chapman Stick Debacle” is over. After much humming and ahhing and gnashing of teeth and impotent frustration, I reluctantly sold the instrument. Today it will be winging its way to a new owner and I managed to make a £100 profit to boot. Oh well, every cloud has a silver lining. As I have been a little preoccupied with said 10-string beast, I’ve not been doing much recording (even with the Stick). A night or so, I started a doodle. It’s another sketch and I doubt I’ll be able to make anything decent out of it.
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Managed to sell nearly the whole crate of CDs on eBay. There’s been an awful lot of envelopes to stuff and stick – almost a cottage industry. Going to do a second sift of the collection and see what else can go. Whooppeee!
For many years I’ve been fascinated by the Chapman Stick. It’s a strange instrument that requires the player to touch the strings onto the fretboard. For about ten years I’ve been trying to get hold of a cheap one. Last week, I was lucky enough to nab one on eBay. It arrived on Friday and I have spent the weekend experimenting with the instrument. It’s a lovely, wonderfully crafted instrument. Here are some pics:
Unfortunately, two factors have caused me to put the item back up on eBay. The first was that despite being able to play rudimentary basslines on it, I just couldn’t find a way of integrating into my existing setup. It sounded too…well, like a Stick. It was obvious that I hadn’t thought this through. I like my bass to sound like a bass and this just made me sound like Tony Levin. Did I really want this? The second factor was Highbury House being put into receivership, which was also announced on Friday. Oh the irony. When the going gets rough, the unnecessarily expensive instruments go on eBay. It’s a shame…I don’t want to sell it but I keep telling myself that it sounds rubbish and doesn’t compliment my music as a way of softening the blow.
So if you want to bid on this item (or know someone who wants to get hold of a cheap Chapman Stick) head over to here. If you mention this website, I’ll knock some cash off as a discount. 😉
Meanwhile, the sale of my record collection continues here.
Now I am off to sulk in the corner…
So Highbury House went into receivership. Well I didn’t see that coming (sarcasm). It was obvious that there was no way the company could survive after such mismanagement and a huge mountain of debt. So where does that leave freelancers like me? Without cash, I guess. Again, this post is a heads-up to those googling Highbury House and receivership. Paragon Publishing, the company I wrote for on a regular basis, was a subsidiary of Highbury and has been bought up by Imagine Publishing, which is owned by Paragon’s ex-owner Damien Butt. Whether or not I get anymore work is debatable (and to be honest, I don’t know if I want to chance my arm again. Once bitten, twice shy, etc). The current issue is the loss of earnings from this collapse. I doubt I’ll get the significant sum owed to me. There’s no protection for the likes of me. The problem is the knock-on effect this missing money has. In the summer (and next January), the taxman will come sniffing around and expect me to pay him. Well I can’t at this juncture. With my salary slashed by this crash and work drying up rapidly like watering hole in the Serengheti mid-day sun, I am well and truly stuffed.
Oh well, you got to laugh, ain’t ya?