When you’re writing contemporary fiction it’s important to keep things…well, contemporary. Now at first glance this statement doesn’t seem like rocket science (or should that be shuttle science?) but keeping your book fresh ain’t as straight forward as you might think. Things change fast these days; slang, attitudes, society in general I guess and if you’re not careful it’s easy to work up a piece that you think is current and relevant only for it to become passé and clichéd before it hits the editors desk. Take one aspect of UK culture as an example: the good ol’ British bobby. Don’t get me wrong, I think the coppers do a cracking job but I was under the impression (I guess from the days when I was hanging on street corners) that their attitude, towards youth in particular, was still authoritative and one which demands respect. Apparently it isn’t. I was watching the box last night (camera crew following a various policemen going about their business in London) and was amazed at how naff community policing had become. Policemen chatting casually with gangs of under age drinkers on the very same streets they should be keeping safe. Policemen using words like ‘dude’ and ‘chill’ instead of ‘you’re nicked’. Policemen swearing and lighting cigarettes for 15 year old girls. And as the kids realised that these friendly, laughable policemen were more concerned with looking cool than doing their job, you could see the respect drain away. I’m just glad that I didn’t involve the coppers in the story line of Recycling Jimmy….I would have been so wide of the mark.

Revelling in the after glow of a magnificent ManU victory last night, I was flicking through the channels looking for something to wind down to. Came a across a program looking at celebrity religion (kabbalah, scientology, P Diddy with $7MM diamond encrusted crucifixes etc) and yes, I know most of this is history now, but it did make me think about what is really going on here. Okay, I am not a religious person but I do try and respect other people’s views. So what is it about a celebrity that makes them think they can hijack someone’s religion in the name of cool? More to the point, what gives them the right to stamp their personal brand all over it? Okay, Kabbalah might be represented by only a piece of red string (that retails at about $26 a length by the way) but why does Madonna feel it necessary to build a Kabbalah hotel? And as for Kanye West (or is it Jesus Christ, I can never remember; they’re so similar aren’t they?) the less said the better. There are more examples but I won’t go on, suffice to say that these people are truly missing the point. I mean, if we look at JC for example, he was surely one of the biggest celeb’s of his day, and in a very competitive market too. Imagine if T shirt’s had been around then? He’d have cleaned up. Don’t the modern day celeb’s realise that daubing themselves with 2000 year old icons isn’t cool, it’s both naff and disrespectful to those who truly understand what their religion is about.

Recycling Jimmy

Imagine you’re cabin crew and a bloke refuses to take his seat for take off. You have no choice but to throw him off the plane in the name of passenger safety right? Now, imagine you’re orthadox Jew and it just so happens that your god demands that you stand near the toilet and pray to him at exactly the same time as the plane you’re on has to taxi. Your god’s a higher authority than the airline yeah? His word holds more weight than the young kid demonstrating how to put a life jacket on and pointing to the emergency exits doesn’t it? Stand off. But this isn’t about the god vs United Airlines, this is about two people who are both suffering from severe OCD. Each is compelled to obey the rules that they’ve been indoctrinate with. The Jewish bloke should have had enough common sense to realise his god would probably understand that, as part of society, he may have to cut his prayers short every now and then, for example whilst he sat down and buckled up. Similarly, it isn’t beyond reason for the cabin crew to appreciate that the bloke will be done praying long before they reach the start of the runway and that he isn’t going to die because he’s stood up while the plane trundles around at 25 mile an hour. Personally, I think the pair of ‘em should have been thrown off the plane; preferably at 30,000 feet (with the life jacket on ofcourse).

Recycling Jimmy

So, yet another romcom hits the big screen. Something about 27 dresses this time but I guarantee you it will be the same old crap with too many flaws to mention…but I’ll have a go. There’ll be the lonely, vulnerable girl; beautiful, intelligent, fully cashed up with daddy’s fortune. In other words, a bloke’s dream catch. So why the hell hasn’t she got a boyfriend already? It’s not as if she’s chosen to be single or is particularly career driven. She’ll work in a cafe or a video store and spend all day moaning about how ‘there’ll never be anyone for me’. The whole thing would be so much more believable (dare I say romantic?) if the lead lady was ugly, genuinely stupid and had actually tried to get a boyfriend before. Enter the bloke. He’s easy to spot. Good looking (but not dashing) innocently naïve, skint and on a run of bad luck that would make the bloke carrying the Olympic torch through Tibet feel wanted. He’ll cry a lot too (not the torch carrier…although we’ll see about that), usually about something she reminds him of. It’s a complete mismatch for Christ sake! And the story will never gain credibility because the plot will be transparent, the dialogue mush and the humor infantile. When are film makers going to realise that we can only watch what we’re given? Forcing us out on first dates to watch sloppy, ill thought out tripe just isn’t fair. Give us a choice once in a while. You could do a lot worse than to develop screenplays from edgy, original stuff like Recycling Jimmy, The Game or Truth or Bare. There is no excuse; the materials all out there.

Recycling Jimmy

Heather Mills eh, what a girl. ‘Nuff said….well almost. I mean, Sir Paul MCcartney must surely have been one of the most ‘romantic’ geysers on the planet. Imagine being woken up every morning girls by the chubby faced scouser’s soft tones, as he sits on the edge of the bed grinning and strumming away? And I mean his guitar! But no, in the end it all came down to money, as it always does. And there may be a clue here to what ‘romance’ actually is; a litmus test for how much a potential partner is prepared to give. Be honest, what’s romantic about train stations and wind swept hill tops? Absolutely no appeal what so ever apart from one thing: women know that if a bloke is prepared to stand in the pissing rain and wait for hours on end just to see you, then the chances are that somewhere down the line he’ll shell out for a big shiny rock. That’s what romance may be. A litmus test of a blokes potential and Macca had buckets of it.

Recycling Jimmy

Thought I’d let you know about a new blog just started up. It’s kind of a battle of the sexes thing; an exchange of ideas over a week or two centred around a specific topic that men and women don’t traditionally see eye to eye on. It was my girlfriend’s idea (a result of her growing fascination with blogging I guess) and it should be fun. Hopefully people will get involved because of they don’t, it’ll just end up being me and her trading blows in public! Have a look anyway, read the ‘rules’ and let me know what you think. I’m up first with my attempt to expose romance for what it really is……….or should I stop now and run for the hills?

I’ve got a couple of projects on the go at the minute (both at various stages of frustration) so it was cool to have an excuse to close the lap top for a while. That excuse was a short trip to Italy, skiing mainly but with a couple of days travelling tacked on the end. After the snow, we decided that Venice could be nice at this time of year and we were right, a cool breeze having emptied the city of the smells and tourists that can make a summer visit here feel like a crappy fair ground ride. It was on the water taxi on the way to the hotel that I happened across a short article in the guide book inviting me to spend some time at Harry’s Bar.

‘Apparently Hemmingway used to drink at this bar, love.’

‘Oooh, Gucci!’

So it’s obvious from the start that my girlfriend and me have got different things to see and do but as we’re unpacking in the room I manage to convince her that we should find the bar and chill out for a bit before trying to empty the shops. The concierge explains where Harry’s is. Not far actually, just a quick stroll through San Marc’s insatiable pigeons, a right turn at the water front and a 100 yard stroll to the corner where the gondoliers meet. Italian men are worse than the pigeons when you’re with a beautiful woman and my plummeting confidence isn’t helped much by their laughter as I stop to ask where Harry’s is only for one of them to reach across with his oar and tap on the brown door behind me.

‘Grazie. Now come on love, leave the nice men alone.’

Inside the bar is small with not so much a sense of 1920’s chic, more a station waiting room some way down the track. The semi fine furniture is cluttered with jackets, umbrellas and confused, flushed faces. No sign of Hemmingway either and I’m beginning to wonder where I’m going to get my inspiration from. There are waiters though, more pigeons dressed this time in white jackets and I order a couple of Bellini’s from them. While I’m waiting I get a clue from the table next to us as to what Harry’s bar means today.

‘Er, excuse me waiter, but Martini is usually served in a cocktail glass isn’t it?’

The waiter smiles at the American gent with ridiculous contempt. He looks down at the short, stubby glass of gin and then back at the customer.

‘That is how Mr Hemmingway liked them sir’

Our drinks arrive as we’re laughing about this and finally I get the inspiration I came for, and not only to write but to market and sell as hard as I can too.

‘Forty five euros for two bloody drinks!’

The American gives me a knowing nod and together we finish our drinks and hum the theme tune to The Italian Job.

Recycling Jimmy

It’s been almost 6 months now since Recycling Jimmy was published. It felt great to hit that particular milestone but in truth that was just the beginning of the challenge; a bit like emerging from the rapids and spotting the waterfall ahead. If you don’t believe me, take a look at this article by the excellent Derek Armstrong. Scary indeed, and as Derek points out, the most important (if not only) tool in the author’s box is branding. This is something I was told very early on in the process, something that has been pounded into me time and time again until the publisher was sure that it had sunk in. Must admit, it’s kind of fun to watch now as a new batch of Kunati authors are taken on; drill Sergeant Derek whipping the recruits into shape. Feel a bit like Richard Geer, driving off on his motor bike to go and collect Deborah Winger from the factory. Trouble is, unlike Mr Mayonaise, things aren’t quite so straight forward for me. It’s this branding thing see. Do you be yourself and hope that that’s enough or do you try and be something you’re not and run risk of getting sussed? Pick the wrong costume and you could end up marginalising yourself and shutting out a large percentage of potential readers. Judging by Derek’s picture on the Foreward blog, he went for the ‘terminator’ look; rogue robot author sent from the future to destroy Harry bloody Potter (sorry kids). Now there’s a death match worth paying to see.

Recycling Jimmy

As hard as you might try, you can’t seem to avoid the US elections. There again, you really shouldn’t because the global community will be affected by who eventually finds their way into the Whitehouse. And this brings me to my first point about the short falls of democracy. Even though the rest of us will have our lives affected by US policy (both domestic and foreign) we don’t have a say in who will become the most powerful person on the planet. That aside, there’s a bigger problem in all this, with the underlying principle of one man one vote (ah, those were the days…). See, the thing is, to properly exercise that right and take your place in a democratic society, you have to be able to vote with your head. The problem is that a not inconsiderable number of people don’t actually have the brains to understand the issues that they are presented with. I include myself here on many aspects of UK politics. How the hell should I know if Europe ’s a good thing or a bad thing? That’s your bloody job to know isn’t? Don’t make me choose! But democracy demands that I choose, otherwise it isn’t democracy. So, forced to do so, rather than vote with my head I vote with my heart. I vote based on things like, ‘well, last time I was in Spain I got my wallet nicked so I’m stuffed if we should move towards a European Federation.’ Get the problem? You see this in the US now. Most people aren’t voting with their head, they’re voting with their hearts. ‘Oh, she always looks so nice in them dresses don’t she? I think she should run the world’ or, ‘Yessiree, ‘bout time we had a black president.’ It simply can’t work anymore. But, not one to moan without offering a solution, I think I’ve cracked it. Voters shouldn’t be presented with people; they should be presented with policies. Simple manifestos, that’s it. No press interrogation and digging into candidates schooldays. No gender or race issues to tug at peoples heart strings. Vote on what you’re presented with without ever knowing the people behind the manifesto. Imagine the excitement on results night when the curtain on the cubicle is pulled back and you find out you’ve voted for Harry Hill? Cool.

Recycling Jimmy

I got fan mail today from a bloke who’s just finished reading Recycling Jimmy. Now I know that, for most of the Kunati authors who had their novels published at the same time as me, this milestone was passed some time ago but I like to think that my target audience are just slow readers. Particularly pleasing is the fact that the letter came from someone who had never written to an author before. He just wanted to thank me for giving him a good laugh. How cool is that? Made me realise too that the whole process of writing a book doesn’t count for much if no one appreciates it. I always thought that I was writing for my own pleasure and whilst that maybe true to a point, the fact is that once published, you realise that you were writing for others; writing in the hope that someone, somewhere will like what you’ve done. There are other types of feedback that validate all this of course: royalty cheques (which reminds me, where the hell is mine?) and reviews, but generally these are from people who are either in the business or have an interest in it. If I had to choose, I’d take that unsolicited contact from a complete stranger any time. On the other side of the coin, no doubt it’s the start of sleepless nights for me; images of a tattooed madman sat sniffing my book surrounded by walls covered with news clippings and excerpts scrawled in chicken’s blood. Only messing Allan, much appreciated and glad you enjoyed RJ.