As I sit on my overused computer chair, smoking with two cups of tea and numerous DVDs scattered about the place I hear the shrill cries of 'what does your blog name mean'? A clever person would have deduced that the use of 'doth' makes it a reference to the past, perhaps 14th-16th century? Well, you surprise me with your intelligence because those decades encompass the time that a very famous man penned the line 'some say youth doth rule me'.
With further skills of deduction one could perhaps deduce that this man had defiance in him in his youth, perhaps something that people thought his young and tender years couldn't handle? Maybe a point to prove.
I highly doubt you came to these conclusions but so rare is good conversation these days the only way it can be achieved is either with a small group of people or in this instance myself. (Maybe too much pretension there).
The man in question is serial shagger, ginger pubed, fat bastard and overall tyrant Henry VIII, who penned the lyric in this poem:
Though some say that youth rules me,
I trust in age to tarry.
God and my right, and my duty,
From them shall I never vary,
Though some say that youth rules me.
I pray you all that aged be
How well did you your youth carry?
I think some worse of each degree.
Therein a wager lay dare I,
Though some say that youth rules me.
Pastimes of youth some time among
None can say but necessary.
I hurt no man, I do no wrong,
I love true where I did marry,
Though some say that youth rules me.
Then soon discuss that hence we must
Pray we to God and Saint Mary
That all amend, and here an end.
Thus says the King, the eighth Harry,
Though some say that youth rules me.
He really was an arsehole in his later years. He turned from a young, handsome, ambitious and graceful King into a tyrant, who, after one domestic would play tennis and feverishly masturbate over a roasted pig on a plate while two of his wives severed heads were used as sex toys by executioners. Of course, this is a well established point of view. It makes it easy to hate a historical figure if you view that figure in only one dimension. The 'sexy' U.S. programme 'The Tudors' would have the viewing public believe that 'Harry', as his friends and interloping cocksuckers would call him, was a very handsome 30 year old with not an inch of fat. The fact that he would be over 40 when the series began and already a fat fuck seems to have been ignored. I suspect this is for the benefit of Americans, who don't have a history themselves and feel it's meritorious and beneficial to take a whole legion of artistic license with ours.
The truth is, at first Henry was a kind, noble King, somewhat over-conscious of fulfilling and carrying on his father's legacy. It also seems he was incapable of being told 'no' after the demise of Sam Neill- sorry, Cardinal Wolsey, the last man who could influence Henry.
Henry wasn't married 6 times as the popular history would have us believe either. He had 3 marriages that legally stood. Henry is of course one of the most influential monarchs who ever lived. He created the Anglican Church, was the first to make Catholicism seem a rotten, shit infested thing and wasn't really that bad. He just wanted to be Mufasa and needed a Simba to make this life-long dream a reality. If The Tudors show him watching the Lion King I highly doubt it would make the lack of historical fact in the show any fucking worse.
That post was shit but I was bored, so there.
JPH
Tuesday, 28 July 2009
Sunday, 26 July 2009
I Got a 'B' For Being Spectacular
I was recently looking over my vast collection of paper earlier on and I found something that really took me back to those happy, heady days of school. The great days where football was played on concrete daily, when you could throw an apple at a teacher and scurry away with no-one grassing you up. Those were the great days of my life. It seems life has been a downhill slump ever since.
What I found was a short story I wrote in year 10 for English. I remember at the time I was none too impressed with Mr Gunningham for giving me a 'B' for it. By my early standards it was wildly imaginative and actually....if I may say so, quite brilliant.
It was a story about a frog, imaginatively named after those 10p chocolate bars called 'Freddo' and set in the backdrop of an inter-species war between land and flying animals in a back garden in Kensington. Freddo was an assassin frog employed by the 'Al Capone' of the garden 'Sparrow', who was profiting from the war by selling the services of his mercenaries who were composed of bees (of which Sparrow owned a hive, thus unlimited troops), whilst sabotaging the two warring factions war efforts to keep it forever in stalemate. I had made up nice names for all of these armies, but I can't lay my hand on the story at the moment, it's somewhere in this swamp of paper.
Anyway, Freddo tracks down and kills a gang off pacifist insects intent on stopping the war, who were to reveal the sabotages to the leaders of the two armies. This was witnessed by a young frog called Sam, but rather than let Sparrow know of this, Freddo tries to guide Samuel to safety whilst crossing the battle ground of the garden to 'Peace Turf'.
The ending was frenzied, the war got to a crucial point with dogs and cats collaborating, defections to both sides and Freddo killing Sparrow who was intent on killing Sam himself. The war eventually ended in a blood-bath with neither sides winning until the leaders made a peace treaty and the clear up action began with the maggot cleaning services put to use. The last line was one of the human owner of the house going out to sunbathe and calling back to his wife: 'get me the disinfectant, it fucking stinks out here!'
It was well written and a nice bit of imagination if I do say so myself. I will never forget the lingering anger that I had when it was given a 'B' when other kids had been writing typical horror and ghost stories and securing themselves A+s. Maybe one day I'll get the chance to actually write a full novel on it but for now I'm happy enough to appreciate it as a rare finished work, which is actually pretty damn good.
JPH
What I found was a short story I wrote in year 10 for English. I remember at the time I was none too impressed with Mr Gunningham for giving me a 'B' for it. By my early standards it was wildly imaginative and actually....if I may say so, quite brilliant.
It was a story about a frog, imaginatively named after those 10p chocolate bars called 'Freddo' and set in the backdrop of an inter-species war between land and flying animals in a back garden in Kensington. Freddo was an assassin frog employed by the 'Al Capone' of the garden 'Sparrow', who was profiting from the war by selling the services of his mercenaries who were composed of bees (of which Sparrow owned a hive, thus unlimited troops), whilst sabotaging the two warring factions war efforts to keep it forever in stalemate. I had made up nice names for all of these armies, but I can't lay my hand on the story at the moment, it's somewhere in this swamp of paper.
Anyway, Freddo tracks down and kills a gang off pacifist insects intent on stopping the war, who were to reveal the sabotages to the leaders of the two armies. This was witnessed by a young frog called Sam, but rather than let Sparrow know of this, Freddo tries to guide Samuel to safety whilst crossing the battle ground of the garden to 'Peace Turf'.
The ending was frenzied, the war got to a crucial point with dogs and cats collaborating, defections to both sides and Freddo killing Sparrow who was intent on killing Sam himself. The war eventually ended in a blood-bath with neither sides winning until the leaders made a peace treaty and the clear up action began with the maggot cleaning services put to use. The last line was one of the human owner of the house going out to sunbathe and calling back to his wife: 'get me the disinfectant, it fucking stinks out here!'
It was well written and a nice bit of imagination if I do say so myself. I will never forget the lingering anger that I had when it was given a 'B' when other kids had been writing typical horror and ghost stories and securing themselves A+s. Maybe one day I'll get the chance to actually write a full novel on it but for now I'm happy enough to appreciate it as a rare finished work, which is actually pretty damn good.
JPH
Weak of Hand
It's been nearly a week since my last post. Don't let that give you the illusion that I've been spectacularly busy because I assure you, I haven't been.
It's been a week of bi-polar proportions, a couple of good nights out amalgamated with some drops in mood occurring due to people who in their own ways make my life difficult. Whether they mean to or not is another matter.
What's been getting me to sleep recently is Red Dwarf series I-VIII, playing all the episodes of a series in one big chunk with the commentary on. Effective DVD commentary fascinates me and it only seems to work with comedy films or programmes as the people concerned are wits and funny in their own rights, so it makes for an entertaining listen.
Wednesday deserves a post in it's own right really, so I will conjure up one as soon as I can be bothered from my hat of magic tricks. Last night, or if I'm more precise, Friday night was funny and entertaining, but isn't it always when you go out with your mates for a small booze and go to a grotty, yet popular club where there seems to be an abundance of midgets?
Other than that nothing has really happened. A few new writing ideas need to be put into fruition, as like so many others I have plucked from the sky, they are still in their embryonic stages which, in rough terms, can be described as recurring thoughts accompanied with me saying: 'ooo, that would be good'.
Friday also brought to my attention that lack of aptitude I have for dancing. In February last year I went to the very same club, pissed out of my head doing Mick Jagger impressions to anyone who was willing to see me stamp one foot with my lips protruding from my face singing 'I Can't Get No Satisfaction'. At the peak of my merriment I was dancing without giving a shit what I looked like, the result of this may have looked good or bad. This time around, drinking slightly less, I couldn't dance to save my life, my legs were leaden, my hand kept on touching my neck. I believe this is the one thing that holds back my skills for rhythmic movement: what the fuck to do with my hands. I shall have to work on it, if I can find the power to give a toss....
What I might do to break this awful boredom is review the albums that have shaped my life so far individually in posts. Will give me something to do other than frequent naughty sites and eat cheese whilst watching Shakespeare: The Animated Tales which yes....I do have on DVD
Well, until next time
JPH
It's been a week of bi-polar proportions, a couple of good nights out amalgamated with some drops in mood occurring due to people who in their own ways make my life difficult. Whether they mean to or not is another matter.
What's been getting me to sleep recently is Red Dwarf series I-VIII, playing all the episodes of a series in one big chunk with the commentary on. Effective DVD commentary fascinates me and it only seems to work with comedy films or programmes as the people concerned are wits and funny in their own rights, so it makes for an entertaining listen.
Wednesday deserves a post in it's own right really, so I will conjure up one as soon as I can be bothered from my hat of magic tricks. Last night, or if I'm more precise, Friday night was funny and entertaining, but isn't it always when you go out with your mates for a small booze and go to a grotty, yet popular club where there seems to be an abundance of midgets?
Other than that nothing has really happened. A few new writing ideas need to be put into fruition, as like so many others I have plucked from the sky, they are still in their embryonic stages which, in rough terms, can be described as recurring thoughts accompanied with me saying: 'ooo, that would be good'.
Friday also brought to my attention that lack of aptitude I have for dancing. In February last year I went to the very same club, pissed out of my head doing Mick Jagger impressions to anyone who was willing to see me stamp one foot with my lips protruding from my face singing 'I Can't Get No Satisfaction'. At the peak of my merriment I was dancing without giving a shit what I looked like, the result of this may have looked good or bad. This time around, drinking slightly less, I couldn't dance to save my life, my legs were leaden, my hand kept on touching my neck. I believe this is the one thing that holds back my skills for rhythmic movement: what the fuck to do with my hands. I shall have to work on it, if I can find the power to give a toss....
What I might do to break this awful boredom is review the albums that have shaped my life so far individually in posts. Will give me something to do other than frequent naughty sites and eat cheese whilst watching Shakespeare: The Animated Tales which yes....I do have on DVD
Well, until next time
JPH
Monday, 20 July 2009
For the Sake of It
I would have posted at the weekend, but fate seems to have driven a wedge between me and absolutely anything interesting or inspiring as of late. A resentment springs on me as I see other people's infinitely more interesting lives but since everyone else is a cunt, the resentment soon evaporates into nothing but apathy.
Recently I've been thinking about my future: love life, job...overall destiny. I've welcomed these thoughts as someone welcomes yellow hemorrhoids, however, they are a welcome respite from the doom-laden thoughts that normally occupy my mind. I've been thinking about forcing a few ideas I've had on, first in short story form and then translating them into script form. A lot of what's in my mind idea-wise has centered around Victorian London and the events of that century. It's an era of poverty, sepia toned evil and horror that greatly interests me. It just strikes me as odd how ideas mutate.
Firstly they start off as an image, a scene or a particular sort of character that you'd like to see. The rest is all added on over sometimes an extremely long amount of time. My comedy idea has been in the offing for 4 years. First it was to mirror the great things in all the comedies that I like: the sense of male interaction and camaraderie, the absurd and the banter. As I grew older the idea matured and evolved from a Young Ones copycat to a self-sustaining comedy which grew from my experiences and surroundings. The dialogue wasn't simply insults and farce anymore, at times the situations now border onto Comedy-Drama, I'm just not too sure which route to follow. The characters become less gag-machines, more real, finding humour from everywhere, rather than interaction with those who surround them being the only basis for laughs.
I expect to be productive with my ideas before Uni begins again, or i'll continue in the cycle of being to lazy to write while having the time and wanting to write when I don't. Motivation is the key as to whether i'm going to get out of this rut.
Unmotivated
JPH
Recently I've been thinking about my future: love life, job...overall destiny. I've welcomed these thoughts as someone welcomes yellow hemorrhoids, however, they are a welcome respite from the doom-laden thoughts that normally occupy my mind. I've been thinking about forcing a few ideas I've had on, first in short story form and then translating them into script form. A lot of what's in my mind idea-wise has centered around Victorian London and the events of that century. It's an era of poverty, sepia toned evil and horror that greatly interests me. It just strikes me as odd how ideas mutate.
Firstly they start off as an image, a scene or a particular sort of character that you'd like to see. The rest is all added on over sometimes an extremely long amount of time. My comedy idea has been in the offing for 4 years. First it was to mirror the great things in all the comedies that I like: the sense of male interaction and camaraderie, the absurd and the banter. As I grew older the idea matured and evolved from a Young Ones copycat to a self-sustaining comedy which grew from my experiences and surroundings. The dialogue wasn't simply insults and farce anymore, at times the situations now border onto Comedy-Drama, I'm just not too sure which route to follow. The characters become less gag-machines, more real, finding humour from everywhere, rather than interaction with those who surround them being the only basis for laughs.
I expect to be productive with my ideas before Uni begins again, or i'll continue in the cycle of being to lazy to write while having the time and wanting to write when I don't. Motivation is the key as to whether i'm going to get out of this rut.
Unmotivated
JPH
Friday, 17 July 2009
Death of Respect
This will probably sound like a - hard done by - post by a 'youth' who's continually pissed off at being plastered with same ASBO as the minority of cunts who make people's lives hard but fuck it, here it goes..
When masturbation and Indiana Jones followed by my weekly visit to Casualty left me unenamoured with bugger all to do, I found myself tempted to watch a documentary on BBC Iplayer called 'Death of Respect'. This programme sought to determine whether there was a genuine lack of respect and morality in these hustly, bustly, stabby times and if so, on whos door should the blame be left at in the shape of a flaming bag of dog shit?
At first I was expecting an hour-long diatribe on how the 'youth' of today is steadily eroding those crucial British values of respect, family, stuff-upper lip and tolerance. This was only a part of what it achieved.
At first all the show seemed to press was the lack of 'cap-doffing' when a funeral procession passes by. I think somebody failed to notify the host, who was bordering on ancient, that no fucker has a cap to doff anymore. What it didn't do, which was refreshing and somewhat surprising, was pillory today's generation as drug consuming, binge-drinking nihilists, who beat up grannies 24/7 and take a break from this arduous schedule of immorality and cuntitude to get another chav pregnant whilst keeping a firm eye on a coathanger to get rid of it.
It interestingly went further back to all the previous decades where young people have had a sense of individualism and movement. It blamed fashion, music and liberalistic ideas and it blamed the people who have given birth to children since the 60s. It blamed Thatcher, yuppies, money, drugs, secularism...in fact, it blamed all the major events in history since the 1950s as laying the foundations for this awful problem. It would have saved an hour of television had there just been a picture on a screen of a pointing finger, above it the words: 'It's all your fault you cunts!'.
I admit myself, that there are a group of young people in this country, not particulary belonging to any specific generation who don't deserve to breath the air that keeps them alive. What exactly can we do to stop this though? If I was too choose between Cameron and Brown to sort out wankers, it'd have to be Brown...at least he looks like he can fuck someone up and wasn't born with a rod up his arse.
Respect has arguably disintegrated over a long period of time, but the show made the point that an immediate solution just isn't there: if it took generations to lose the morality that we once held, then it's going to take roughly the same amount of copulating to get a fair crack at re instilling it. Sometimes I do feel a bit sick at seeing white kids act black, thinking its a particularly charming thing to be a slobbering, bent-legged retard whilst showing all the hallmarks of being a spaztick without knowing what one actually is. To be reminded of what a lovely person I am and how conscientious and responsible my friends are all I have to do is take a trip to my own secondary school at the years that followed me to see examples of individuals challenging Darwinism in their own devolved way.
It seems society and the press has put whole generations of young people in a bowl and whispered at us, showing a hating glint in it's half closed eyes 'you're fuckers and the world is shit because of you' when most of these members did, in their bygone youths, exactly the same excesses as todays 'youth' have seemingly conjured up anew. Thats my biggest problem with this.....problem: people say 'youths'....I'm a youth...does that make me a cunt too?
I'm not saying I have the answers to any problems...because I don't, but surely backing the infintely tarred entire youth into a corner is only going to induce people fighting their way out of it?
Rant over...smile :)
JPH
When masturbation and Indiana Jones followed by my weekly visit to Casualty left me unenamoured with bugger all to do, I found myself tempted to watch a documentary on BBC Iplayer called 'Death of Respect'. This programme sought to determine whether there was a genuine lack of respect and morality in these hustly, bustly, stabby times and if so, on whos door should the blame be left at in the shape of a flaming bag of dog shit?
At first I was expecting an hour-long diatribe on how the 'youth' of today is steadily eroding those crucial British values of respect, family, stuff-upper lip and tolerance. This was only a part of what it achieved.
At first all the show seemed to press was the lack of 'cap-doffing' when a funeral procession passes by. I think somebody failed to notify the host, who was bordering on ancient, that no fucker has a cap to doff anymore. What it didn't do, which was refreshing and somewhat surprising, was pillory today's generation as drug consuming, binge-drinking nihilists, who beat up grannies 24/7 and take a break from this arduous schedule of immorality and cuntitude to get another chav pregnant whilst keeping a firm eye on a coathanger to get rid of it.
It interestingly went further back to all the previous decades where young people have had a sense of individualism and movement. It blamed fashion, music and liberalistic ideas and it blamed the people who have given birth to children since the 60s. It blamed Thatcher, yuppies, money, drugs, secularism...in fact, it blamed all the major events in history since the 1950s as laying the foundations for this awful problem. It would have saved an hour of television had there just been a picture on a screen of a pointing finger, above it the words: 'It's all your fault you cunts!'.
I admit myself, that there are a group of young people in this country, not particulary belonging to any specific generation who don't deserve to breath the air that keeps them alive. What exactly can we do to stop this though? If I was too choose between Cameron and Brown to sort out wankers, it'd have to be Brown...at least he looks like he can fuck someone up and wasn't born with a rod up his arse.
Respect has arguably disintegrated over a long period of time, but the show made the point that an immediate solution just isn't there: if it took generations to lose the morality that we once held, then it's going to take roughly the same amount of copulating to get a fair crack at re instilling it. Sometimes I do feel a bit sick at seeing white kids act black, thinking its a particularly charming thing to be a slobbering, bent-legged retard whilst showing all the hallmarks of being a spaztick without knowing what one actually is. To be reminded of what a lovely person I am and how conscientious and responsible my friends are all I have to do is take a trip to my own secondary school at the years that followed me to see examples of individuals challenging Darwinism in their own devolved way.
It seems society and the press has put whole generations of young people in a bowl and whispered at us, showing a hating glint in it's half closed eyes 'you're fuckers and the world is shit because of you' when most of these members did, in their bygone youths, exactly the same excesses as todays 'youth' have seemingly conjured up anew. Thats my biggest problem with this.....problem: people say 'youths'....I'm a youth...does that make me a cunt too?
I'm not saying I have the answers to any problems...because I don't, but surely backing the infintely tarred entire youth into a corner is only going to induce people fighting their way out of it?
Rant over...smile :)
JPH
Catharsis
Catharsis is what I'd forgotten that blogging provides. I have tried several times to make a blog, write a diary, keep a journal but all attempts have been flawed by my sense of having to impress people, to propagate it for others entertainment. It's only been a week, yet I have discovered what I needed a blog for.
It's for all the things that are on my mind, to be able to pull them out and stick them in a post on a pretentiously titled online journal. It's for my sanity which always rocks back and forth on the sea of madness, threatening to sink. It's for the health of my hands, which simply can't keep up with whats on my mind with a pen in them and the fact that I should write everyday to hone my skills by putting a part of me out there, near hidden, but still there.
My previous exploits at blogging had imaginative titles such as 'soul pollution' but truthfully irrelevant posts to me, I mean, who wants to know that the only day of the week that has an anagram is Monday? (Dynamo if you're interested). Despite the unimportant and muchly-thought-about posts, the seeds of honesty and the self-service that blogging really is were present in smatterings...
'27th December 2007
PISS PAINS!
Let me set the scene for you:
Greenwich Theater, an average panto is on the stage directly in front of you and you have had a few beers. There is a little bit of a signal that you need to go to the toilet, but you can control it for now.
20 minutes later and you're sweating, you can feel it beating down the door. Your left leg starts twitching insanely and your suddenly gripped by the fear that if you hold on any longer your bladder will actually burst inside your body.
So you sit there and, even though you've been told to not go to the toilet during it, you get up and jump, run, all sorts of movements down to the toilet. In there you experience an out of body moment that you will remember forever as the piss is streaming out like a waterfall.
Well, I thought it was interesting'
That had to have been one of the worst experiences of my life and yet one of the funniest but my oh my have I grown up since then. I still see life as a huge batch of material ready to be turned into a joke, but I suppose now that I'm actually tasting life and am somewhat less of a sociopath I'm funnier. Subtler. My writing skills have matured, my ego has been hit from all sides...to put it simpler, since then...i've lived. Now I know It's good to have a moan, it's great to have a joke and it's even better to shove it all online, knowing that it's your little secret, which only you can choose yourself to show people, rather than something specifically designed for you to link to people hoping they'll see it and find it funny.
Well, that's my little piece on the benefits of blogging and long may my attachment to this one last. In 10 years time I hope to look back on this and see what a twat I was, but a twat who could express himself and was unashamed or perhaps unaware that he was one.
Keep Blogging (to whoever reads this)
JPH
It's for all the things that are on my mind, to be able to pull them out and stick them in a post on a pretentiously titled online journal. It's for my sanity which always rocks back and forth on the sea of madness, threatening to sink. It's for the health of my hands, which simply can't keep up with whats on my mind with a pen in them and the fact that I should write everyday to hone my skills by putting a part of me out there, near hidden, but still there.
My previous exploits at blogging had imaginative titles such as 'soul pollution' but truthfully irrelevant posts to me, I mean, who wants to know that the only day of the week that has an anagram is Monday? (Dynamo if you're interested). Despite the unimportant and muchly-thought-about posts, the seeds of honesty and the self-service that blogging really is were present in smatterings...
'27th December 2007
PISS PAINS!
Let me set the scene for you:
Greenwich Theater, an average panto is on the stage directly in front of you and you have had a few beers. There is a little bit of a signal that you need to go to the toilet, but you can control it for now.
20 minutes later and you're sweating, you can feel it beating down the door. Your left leg starts twitching insanely and your suddenly gripped by the fear that if you hold on any longer your bladder will actually burst inside your body.
So you sit there and, even though you've been told to not go to the toilet during it, you get up and jump, run, all sorts of movements down to the toilet. In there you experience an out of body moment that you will remember forever as the piss is streaming out like a waterfall.
Well, I thought it was interesting'
That had to have been one of the worst experiences of my life and yet one of the funniest but my oh my have I grown up since then. I still see life as a huge batch of material ready to be turned into a joke, but I suppose now that I'm actually tasting life and am somewhat less of a sociopath I'm funnier. Subtler. My writing skills have matured, my ego has been hit from all sides...to put it simpler, since then...i've lived. Now I know It's good to have a moan, it's great to have a joke and it's even better to shove it all online, knowing that it's your little secret, which only you can choose yourself to show people, rather than something specifically designed for you to link to people hoping they'll see it and find it funny.
Well, that's my little piece on the benefits of blogging and long may my attachment to this one last. In 10 years time I hope to look back on this and see what a twat I was, but a twat who could express himself and was unashamed or perhaps unaware that he was one.
Keep Blogging (to whoever reads this)
JPH
Thursday, 16 July 2009
Who's Looking Over My Shoulder?
Upon reading an article on BBC Entertainment News I felt as sick as a dog...
It appears that a 30 minute sitcom surrounding Freshers has been commissioned for BBC2. Sound familiar? Well, it did to me seeing as it's almost a carbon copy of an idea i've been working on for donkey's years. This isn't the first time this has happened either. There have been several films in the past 2 years which have strikingly similar premises and plots to ideas that have been scribbled on pieces of paper by myself.
Yes, I know that I haven't been copied, but I feel as though this has thrown down the gauntlet to me to get my skates on and write something substantial before it pops up under a different guise on mainstream television. I'm going to carry on with this idea, knowing that the premise is similar to that of 'Fresh' - the imaginatively titled behemoth of plagiarism - but that mine will be better and unique. A further positive point is that 'Fresh' has been put in a pre-watershed slot on BBC2, so I will still have the freedom to make it closer to real student life and real student banter than any pre-swearing time slot sitcom could ever be or devise.
It really is about time I got my skates on and used that 200 mph brain in my skull. It's high time all those ideas which are in the countless notebooks and pieces of paper in my shoeboxes burst out of their cardboard prisons and away from that useless gel sachet they have to keep company with. Plays, sketches, scripts, screeplays, all of them waiting to be freed from the confines that my lack of motivation provides and turned into butterflies from the cocoons of laziness, free to roam the world and to reach people.
I promise all of that will happen after Eastenders.
Regards
JPH
P.S. http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/8153351.stm (it looks shit from the one picture)
It appears that a 30 minute sitcom surrounding Freshers has been commissioned for BBC2. Sound familiar? Well, it did to me seeing as it's almost a carbon copy of an idea i've been working on for donkey's years. This isn't the first time this has happened either. There have been several films in the past 2 years which have strikingly similar premises and plots to ideas that have been scribbled on pieces of paper by myself.
Yes, I know that I haven't been copied, but I feel as though this has thrown down the gauntlet to me to get my skates on and write something substantial before it pops up under a different guise on mainstream television. I'm going to carry on with this idea, knowing that the premise is similar to that of 'Fresh' - the imaginatively titled behemoth of plagiarism - but that mine will be better and unique. A further positive point is that 'Fresh' has been put in a pre-watershed slot on BBC2, so I will still have the freedom to make it closer to real student life and real student banter than any pre-swearing time slot sitcom could ever be or devise.
It really is about time I got my skates on and used that 200 mph brain in my skull. It's high time all those ideas which are in the countless notebooks and pieces of paper in my shoeboxes burst out of their cardboard prisons and away from that useless gel sachet they have to keep company with. Plays, sketches, scripts, screeplays, all of them waiting to be freed from the confines that my lack of motivation provides and turned into butterflies from the cocoons of laziness, free to roam the world and to reach people.
I promise all of that will happen after Eastenders.
Regards
JPH
P.S. http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/8153351.stm (it looks shit from the one picture)
Tuesday, 14 July 2009
Stayin' Alive
Forgive me if my recent posts have been mundane, self-piteous and boring. That's just the way the stale, mouldy cookie has been crumbling recently. Hardly anyone reads this anyway so I'm pretty much talking to myself. This boring old summer is dragging on a bit isn't it? There's only so much I can take of sitting in front of my computer watching old episodes of Sooty & Co mouthing the theme tune with a cigarette in one side of my mouth and a twiglet in the other. Peeling off my computer chair due to the layers of sweat my unhealthy body produces to occassionally empty my bladder and bowels, whilst looking in the mirror to see any evidence of whether facial crabs lurk there. Waste management is indeed the highlight of my day.
It's not been a summer of great news all round. I feel like Oliver Twist with one leg who has had the misfortune of meeting Fagin's older molesterous brother, whom also has a perchant for amputee porn (Dickens missed a trick there). O.K. things aren't THAT bad: I still have my health, a roof over my head but the rut is enormous and nearly too much to get out of. Retakes have to be done in August, 3 aspects of a Politics Course to get myself worked up about are trundling their incomprehensible way towards me. I'm not big on philosophy. There's no money to do anything with, I'm even considering sticking ads up on here and getting people to come on and see my innermost thoughts all in the name of money. I have no idea what my team are getting up to and how the fuck we're going to get through a season in League One. Women are doing my head in: the lack of attractive ones, the ones who think they're attractive and the stalkerish, annoying, psychotic ones who have the capacity to ruin my day. There are the ones who are posh or from far away who think that a taste of London is to hang around with the dregs of society, the wrong sort of people, invariably putting themselves in danger. Men...I have no problem with because we have common sense, it seems the opposite sex has fallen behind.
The end of summer can't come any sooner really, the sooner I'm back at Uni, with money and work to do I'll be happy.
Oh, by the way...I'm still alive.
Still Breathing
JPH
It's not been a summer of great news all round. I feel like Oliver Twist with one leg who has had the misfortune of meeting Fagin's older molesterous brother, whom also has a perchant for amputee porn (Dickens missed a trick there). O.K. things aren't THAT bad: I still have my health, a roof over my head but the rut is enormous and nearly too much to get out of. Retakes have to be done in August, 3 aspects of a Politics Course to get myself worked up about are trundling their incomprehensible way towards me. I'm not big on philosophy. There's no money to do anything with, I'm even considering sticking ads up on here and getting people to come on and see my innermost thoughts all in the name of money. I have no idea what my team are getting up to and how the fuck we're going to get through a season in League One. Women are doing my head in: the lack of attractive ones, the ones who think they're attractive and the stalkerish, annoying, psychotic ones who have the capacity to ruin my day. There are the ones who are posh or from far away who think that a taste of London is to hang around with the dregs of society, the wrong sort of people, invariably putting themselves in danger. Men...I have no problem with because we have common sense, it seems the opposite sex has fallen behind.
The end of summer can't come any sooner really, the sooner I'm back at Uni, with money and work to do I'll be happy.
Oh, by the way...I'm still alive.
Still Breathing
JPH
Dead Heads and Threats...
Today has been a rather mixed bag. I have the threat of a kicking hanging over me, which is about as potent as Calpol is alcoholic, but is disconcerting nonetheless. Now I find myself trawling the net looking for a drawing of a dead Michael Jackson by a Polish journalist.
It's not a very nice drawing, it shows an emaciated bald man, eyes screwed up in different directions, a collapsed right nostril with surgical scars and burns on the scalp. It just struck me as very odd that a human being could cope with so many metamorphoses in a lifetime, but I have to remind myself that this was no ordinary human being. The Sunday newspapers have a knack of ruining my appetite.....
The kicking comes from a drunken night out with Cocky Balboa and BurT. A lesbianic, breasted ponce-girl had the nerve and audacity that her place in society permits to undertake jokes at our working-class expenses. I can't remember too much of the night, but I remember the word 'common' being thrown about and me responding with a series of drunken jibes. If sober, this would have washed over me and finished leaving me with the inevitable 'I should have said that' syndrome. However, I was fucked. So insults about lesbianism (she attended a local all-girls school, so there is logic there) and her social status ensued.....I'm sure there was something about pony fucking in there too....weak I know, but sharp wit was rendered useless by scores of Becks and pints of frothy stuff (insert sperm gag here). That was the end of it really, well, her trying to climb over a table to presumably slap me was stopped by a mutual friend.
On seeing her later that night at a bus stop I could have apologised when she said 'I didn't really like you tonight'. I intimated that I couldn't care less as I was drunk and when drunk I believe I could shove a badger up Chuck Norris' arse. So that was that.
A month passes and I hear it through the grapevine that I 'started' on her, her brother is out looking for me and knows where I live..if I'm honest near the exact location. The nature of the rumours could be from sheer hearsay or actual direct quotes, nothing could happen, something could. The former is more likely. The most disconcerting thing is that it plays on my well established paranoia. I know I'll be on my guard for the next few weeks, gauging threats in my head, being James Bond in my mind without the girls and the 60's chauvenist attitude. The threat of the sibling is an old one and one which rarely comes into fruition, but it's still not a nice thing.
I have level headed people around me telling me I have nothing to worry about and that if anything was going to happen it would have happened by now. I can see the logic, but my stomach still churns in the logic of the knowledge that I'm not a fighter..if anything I'm a bleeder. I wish a simple life without the threat - however much it lacks in potency - of a kicking.
Well, it may come to pass..it may not, I doubt it will, but if by some sheer twist of fate I do go by the way of MJ, please don't let there be a God-awful Britains Got Talent contestant singing within inches of my corpse.
Regards
JPH
It's not a very nice drawing, it shows an emaciated bald man, eyes screwed up in different directions, a collapsed right nostril with surgical scars and burns on the scalp. It just struck me as very odd that a human being could cope with so many metamorphoses in a lifetime, but I have to remind myself that this was no ordinary human being. The Sunday newspapers have a knack of ruining my appetite.....
The kicking comes from a drunken night out with Cocky Balboa and BurT. A lesbianic, breasted ponce-girl had the nerve and audacity that her place in society permits to undertake jokes at our working-class expenses. I can't remember too much of the night, but I remember the word 'common' being thrown about and me responding with a series of drunken jibes. If sober, this would have washed over me and finished leaving me with the inevitable 'I should have said that' syndrome. However, I was fucked. So insults about lesbianism (she attended a local all-girls school, so there is logic there) and her social status ensued.....I'm sure there was something about pony fucking in there too....weak I know, but sharp wit was rendered useless by scores of Becks and pints of frothy stuff (insert sperm gag here). That was the end of it really, well, her trying to climb over a table to presumably slap me was stopped by a mutual friend.
On seeing her later that night at a bus stop I could have apologised when she said 'I didn't really like you tonight'. I intimated that I couldn't care less as I was drunk and when drunk I believe I could shove a badger up Chuck Norris' arse. So that was that.
A month passes and I hear it through the grapevine that I 'started' on her, her brother is out looking for me and knows where I live..if I'm honest near the exact location. The nature of the rumours could be from sheer hearsay or actual direct quotes, nothing could happen, something could. The former is more likely. The most disconcerting thing is that it plays on my well established paranoia. I know I'll be on my guard for the next few weeks, gauging threats in my head, being James Bond in my mind without the girls and the 60's chauvenist attitude. The threat of the sibling is an old one and one which rarely comes into fruition, but it's still not a nice thing.
I have level headed people around me telling me I have nothing to worry about and that if anything was going to happen it would have happened by now. I can see the logic, but my stomach still churns in the logic of the knowledge that I'm not a fighter..if anything I'm a bleeder. I wish a simple life without the threat - however much it lacks in potency - of a kicking.
Well, it may come to pass..it may not, I doubt it will, but if by some sheer twist of fate I do go by the way of MJ, please don't let there be a God-awful Britains Got Talent contestant singing within inches of my corpse.
Regards
JPH
Sunday, 12 July 2009
How Quickly Things Change
'Dear *****,
Thought i'd write you a notes just to tell you that you're the best thing that ever happened to me and I love you with all my heart and soul.
Forever and always yours
*****
xxx'
Within my shoeboxes full of ideas and scribbles I found that written on the first page of a small blue notebook I'd forgotten all about. It can't have been more than 9 odd months ago now that it was written. Bloody hell. It shows me that nothing in life is permanent, but it also makes me decry the person who would say such things only for them to become redundant. After the events of last year, whenever I hear two people in the heartswept thralls of love, I can't help being a cynic. I never used to be like that. She turned me into that. Well, here's to first loves, everyone has to have one, everyone has to lose one. The ultimate innoculation for idealism.
JPH
Thought i'd write you a notes just to tell you that you're the best thing that ever happened to me and I love you with all my heart and soul.
Forever and always yours
*****
xxx'
Within my shoeboxes full of ideas and scribbles I found that written on the first page of a small blue notebook I'd forgotten all about. It can't have been more than 9 odd months ago now that it was written. Bloody hell. It shows me that nothing in life is permanent, but it also makes me decry the person who would say such things only for them to become redundant. After the events of last year, whenever I hear two people in the heartswept thralls of love, I can't help being a cynic. I never used to be like that. She turned me into that. Well, here's to first loves, everyone has to have one, everyone has to lose one. The ultimate innoculation for idealism.
JPH
Saturday, 11 July 2009
These Summer Days Get To Me
These Summer days get to me,
I blink and they're gone,
I've used up all the hours,
and nothing I've done.
Just smoked more cigarettes,
stared at the screen,
my eyes go all funny,
they start to scream.
Break out
of this 'nicotine stained cage'
I think in a rage
but I don't want to.
I need motivating,
a peak to climb,
just something to aim for,
to slow down my time.
These Summer days get to me,
I think I'm not the only one
who sits inside and watches people
needing a job to be done.
JPH
I blink and they're gone,
I've used up all the hours,
and nothing I've done.
Just smoked more cigarettes,
stared at the screen,
my eyes go all funny,
they start to scream.
Break out
of this 'nicotine stained cage'
I think in a rage
but I don't want to.
I need motivating,
a peak to climb,
just something to aim for,
to slow down my time.
These Summer days get to me,
I think I'm not the only one
who sits inside and watches people
needing a job to be done.
JPH
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)