London again, films and fish vagina jackets

Posted: May 7, 2012 in Publishing
Tags: , , , , ,

It has been a week of warmth for a change. The kind of warm where you could wear a t-shirt outside and not get nipples that could cut glass. Knowing I am meeting a film company and someone I wanted to impress, I bought a linen jacket. A clever juxtaposition of smart with surf skate wear – BOOM! Hey London, lets see you cope with surf chic. I even cut my hair and, for the first time, put ‘product’ in it. I was out to get my man. In a purely heterosexual way that is. There was a cheaper coach that arrived in London earlier. This would give me time to consume a gallon or three of espresso, and let the post coach trip desire to murder someone abate. However, true to form, and I’m telling myself it is because it is a bank holiday and not that God hates me, storm clouds gather.

Plymouth has 24 hour parking. And that is cosmopolitan for Plymouth. I arrive to leave my car, and there is a barrier across. The car park is 24 hours, but you can only enter or leave from 7am to 11pm… how the fuck, exactly, is that 24hours? Well yeah, you can leave your car there. Does that mean my drive is 24 hours? So I had to find an alternative car park. Maximum stay 3hours. Also meaning I had to run to the coach station. The storm clouds gathered and started pissing heavy rain. It’s 3am, and I’m running like a motherfucker, through the rain, in a linen jacket. I climb on board my coach, get to my seat, and people are looking at me like I’d just pushed a boiled potato up their ass. This was because, linen jackets are not designed to get wet. When they do – they stink. The jacket reeked like you got a bowl of piss, put fish in it and left it on a radiator for a few days. It stank so bad it made my eyes burn.

Five long hours later, I understand why the coach was cheaper. Because it went to Heathrow airport, not London. There I stood, in my fish vagina jacket, in the heaviest rain, many miles from where I needed to be. This had me catching the tube and running across London. Another thing about a linen fucking jacket. When wet, it cannot hold it’s shape. To aid the jackets creative journey of ‘I don’t want to be a jacket anymore’ I’d filled the pockets with phone and wallet, change, heavy things to aid it’s distortion. One side drooped heavily like it had a stroke, pulling the shoulder of the apposing side over my back. Giving the attractive appearance of a hump. This also pulled up one sleeve, just enough to give the illusion I had one exceptionally long arm. I looked a right cunt. Oh and hair product. Fantastic stuff. My hair looked good for once. Right up to the point where the rain hit me, washing the ‘product’ into my eyes, allowing a prolonged chemical burn.

I try to calm down. But London, you ain’t helping. I go into a café, it looks nice. I want to sit in the corner and just chill. I go to order my coffee, and it’s £4.10! I asked, “Did I break a fucking window on the way in here? £4.10?” but I was assured that is the price. There was a sign that said free refills, so I guess that makes it okay. Four coffee’s later, I am about to leave and I am presented with a bill for £12.30. To which the waitress pointed out the sign ‘Free refills with food!’ I could have bought a Panini and had all the coffee I wanted… cheaper than just coffee. London, you motherfucker, you make no sense. So I took off with my miss-shaped fish vagina jacket, and my red burning eyes, across London for my meeting.

It wasn’t long before the four coffees took effect. I needed to use a toilet, so into Victoria station I go. Now, toilets in London, they demand some discussion. First off, there is a turnstile. A Turnstile! The only places I have been with a queue and turnstiles are theme parks, so you get the feeling of Woohooo – This is going to be good! You then have to pay. Yes, you pay  30p to use a toilet. It is a public toilet, the same ones that our taxes pay for. It has a guy outside it in a uniform, asleep, surrounded my empty plastic cider bottles, that I paid for and yet, you still have to pay to shit. A ‘shit tax’ if you will. This is going to be the best shit ever I convinced myself. Because, at home you can shit for free. Things that you have to pay for are better than the free things right?
I don’t believe in God. But if I did, Victoria station toilets is not a place he has been. London is so posh, that they even put a shit in your toilet for you already. When I got to the only toilet free. It had a shit in it so big, it looked like King Kong’s thumb. On the walls, is the angriest, most evil, hateful stuff. It’s not written, it’s fucking carved! London gets people so angry, I can see why it’s carved, it brings out the worst in you. You have no choice, shit yourself, or use the toilets. You pay to see others shit and sit on their piss. So when you are done, and need to do your paper work… there is that dispenser. You know the massive toilet roll in a case. What an utter cunt of an invention. That was no accident that it was so cunty. There is no paper. Yet purely for the aid of your torture, there is a little window, so you can see inside and there is paper. Just you cant get to it. So you try to get your hand inside and rip it to shreds in the serrated metal cutting thing. I will soon me crossing London in my fish vagina jacket, burning eyes and wearing one sock.

I went to London with one goal. As you might know, by book is becoming a film. As is the way with the good luck of the book, A fantastic film company, Fulwell73 want to make it. When you see their work and what they have done for others, you just get excited. They are brave and want to make a brilliant film and worry about censors after, rather than make it a ‘Cert 15’. However, there was one other person I wanted to work on it. I accidently met Kieron Hawkes in London a while ago. He is one of those people you meet that when talking to him, he is looking about, like a terminator, downloading data. Taking things in. What struck me was his knowledge of film, his passion, his no compromise attitude. The next coincidence was I watched his film Piggy, and WOW! A full on assault on the senses. Hard, confrontational, brutal cinema that has that special hidden gem of a sub-plot. In the same way two-dimensional people thing ‘Fight Club’ is about fighting, some will think ‘Piggy’ the same. I didn’t know Kieron, wrote, directed, scripted and edited it. I found this out by Paul, my guy at my publishers. He said “Oh, yeah, that Kieron guy did all of it… he read your book by the way and loved it.” Since then, to my meeting in London, Kieron has become a buzzword in film. Already signed up by Channel 4 for a comedy series, and courting big offers form studio’s in Hollywood. Everyone wants a piece of him while he is relatively little known, before he becomes huge and expensive. I should have said ‘Can we get him for my film?’ to Leo, from Fulwell73

Here is the other coincidence bit. I know my approach to all this is shit, and I am an asshole. But the Film company who want to make ‘Malice in Blunderland’ is the company who made ‘Piggy’ and who gave Kieron a copy of my book. I endured a prison rape like journey across London, and being honest, never vocally said ‘I want this guy Kieron Hawks to make it.’ because I don’t know what the fuck I am on about. I don’t even know if it is my place to suggest people I want do do things. But, in the office of my publishers, along with the film company. A guy stood up and held out his hand. I knew exactly who he was, as we’d met before. “Hi, I’m Kieron Hawkes.”


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