I should probably get a cat
Posted on | February 26, 2009 | 4 Comments
Can’t really stand the little feline bastards but, as I’m off to London, it seems that a proficient ratter is a necessity. A half-decent, rat-catching moggy and I can be mayor, just like Boris Johnson. I’ve read it somewhere. I don’t think it needs thigh-high boots like that Puss-In-Boots which is a pity – a talking, boot-wearing cat is really the only type I can bear. The slinking, shitting ones, I can take or leave. Well, if by ‘take’ you mean chase, kicking, out of my garden…
But that’s all a bit tangential.
The main point: The BBC, in their flawed and wonderful wisdom have invited me to attend a comedy writing workshop. Hurrah for me, eh? Well, hurrah for me and a bundle of other socially awkward geeks with more time than friends that have probably been invited. Just kidding, can’t wait to meet you all, chaps. We can talk about girls. Or, I don’t know, Linux or Top Gear or something.
It was actually the last century when I was last in London. I’m intrigued to see the myriad wondrous things that, I’m certain, a decade or so of New Labour government has brought. I’m guessing that the congestion charge solved traffic issues long before the solar-powered hover cars were even considered. Still looking forward to a ride in a hover-taxi though – “You’re in a Johnny Cab”. Cooooool.
So, 8th and 9th of March, I am to be accommodated at Boris’ pleasure. Eeeeuuuuww!
Radio, what’s new?
Posted on | February 12, 2009 | 1 Comment
I’ll have some stuff on Recorded For Training Purposes on BBC Radio 4 at 11PM tonight (Thursday).
Erm… that’s it really.
Sooooo… You like sports? Right, yeah… No, me neither. Ok then, bye.
Goose-stepping, twelve-stepping…*
Posted on | February 12, 2009 | 8 Comments
“My name is Gerry, and…”
“Hiiiiiiiii, Gerry.”
“Errrm, yeah, hi… Right, My name is… Oh right, done that. I have a problem.”
“That’s the first step, Gerry. Now all you need to do is to accept that you’re merely a helpless puppet in the palsied, control-freak hands of a higher power and you’re well on the way.”
“Wooooah, woah. Higher power? I’m pretty high on the atheistic scale.”
“That’s ok. We just want you to turn your will and your life over to the care of god as you understand Him.”
“As I understand him? But I understand him to be a wholly imaginary construct, only valid in the ignorant infancy of our species and utterly superfluous to any reasonable, rational and non-stupid civilisation in an age where science and, lets face it, common-sense prevails.”
“What? But… That’s not the way to wellness.”
“Huh”
“Well, can’t you just pretend – like all the losers forced to come here by the courts.”
“Arse. “
“But the steps?”
“Arse to the steps. Arse, I say.”
While I may be on my fifth pint as I write this, I’m relatively certain that I don’t have any sort of serious alcohol problem. I can stop any time I want, honest. I do, however, seem to have developed a weird addiction for Twitter. I’ve been ‘tweeting’ for a while now and I realise that I’ve been neglecting this blog for ‘The Twitter‘.
Sad? Probably. Truth is, I am relishing the ‘micro’-blogging that Twitter allows. And, oddly enough, the last couple of months have seen a spate of celebrity Twitter incursions. Twitter has hit the mainstream. Perhaps that’s reason enough for those of you reading this not to bother with it. If, however, that hasn’t deterred you, do feel free to ‘follow’ me – Gerry Hayes on Twitter
I know it’s sad. I have no defence for that.
.
*A prize (well, more kudos really) to the first one that recognises the reference.
Meet the parents
Posted on | January 25, 2009 | 8 Comments
Breakfast at my parent’s house. I think I fancy a boiled egg and some toast.
Then I remember…
A few months back, the small pot, the one that was perfect for boiling an egg, disappeared. “Oh that’s gone” was the response I got when I asked. No elaboration. How can a pot just be gone? Why is it gone? This sort of mysterious happening is pretty much par for the course in the house of my youth. This particular incident, however, has made breakfast a little more difficult when I visit. If I decide I want to have a boiled egg for breakfast, I need to do it in the next size pot which holds about two litres. That gives me a perfect three-minute egg in, oh… about half an hour or so.
Then the toaster. It only has short slots. Not a problem if you buy those square, toaster-pan things but they never do. Always the tall, full-size sliced pan. Because of this, you either have to leave the top sticking out and remaining, stubbornly untoasted or flip your slices over half-way through. The former is deeply unsatisfactory and the latter just leaves you with toast that has a barely warm top/bottom and a horrible, charred rectangle in the middle. Rather than relenting and buying a different toaster or simply buying bread that fits the toaster, they have convinced themselves that they like their toast this way.
This talent – being able to convince themselves that everything is perfectly normal – is really something to behold. Infuriating and entertaining in equal measure. Well, equalish. A suitable illustration:
Many years ago, they decided that they would no longer need their open fire and blocked it off with a sort of built-in, wooden thing. Sounds weird but, strangely, it looks reasonably normal. Every now and then though, a bird manages, somehow, to make its way down the chimney and it gets trapped behind the built-in thing. Now, there’s no way to gain access so my parents happily convince themselves that nothing is wrong. Even when my brother makes them stand and listen to the frantic flapping of whatever poor bastard of a bird is trapped there, among the bones and rotting carcasses of his birdy predecessors, they insist that they can’t hear anything. “It’s probably just the wind”, they say, as the grotesque, avian-abbatoir claims another victim.
Eventually, the flapping stops.
Eventually.
Crazy bastards.
Tags: bad toast > bird graveyard > breakfast > family > parents
I’m on the wireless*
Posted on | January 20, 2009 | 8 Comments
* In the days before Web 2.0 and Twitter and such, the wireless was what old-timers called the radio**
** In the days before DAB and podcasts and such, the radio was a device that sat on your kitchen windowsill and received crackly broadcasts of news, The Archers and popular music of the day.
Anyway, BBC Radio 4 are broadcasting a new series of their sketch show, Recorded For Training Purposes, over the next few weeks and one of the episodes will feature one of my sketches. If that sounds vague, that’s ‘cos it is. They seem to be terribly busy sticking all of the various bits together and haven’t been able to say when mine will appear. I have to sit by my computer, obsessively refreshing the page with the running orders until I see my name appear, which is fine – might as well be that page as any other.
UPDATE: I really should have mentioned that the show, Recorded For Training Purposes, is on BBC Radio 4 at 23:00 on Thursdays.
Tags: BBC > radio 4 > recorded for training purposes > sketch > Writing
I can stop any time I like
Posted on | January 11, 2009 | 6 Comments
Perhaps foolishly, I bought my wife a Nintendo DS thing for Christmas. Since then, she’s been getting pretty full-on with the whole Nintendo thing but she was, at least, keeping it under control. Then, last night, I did a favour for a friend and, in return, he gave me a cartridge thingie with a shit-load of games on it. This additional cornucopia of Nintendo goodness has pushed my missus over the edge.
Since about half past nine, she’s sat on the sofa, furiously tapping on her little DS touch screen as I try to drink beer and watch the whole fifth series of Peep Show (a hugely worthwhile endeavour, relatively speaking). Eventually, half an hour ago, she said she was off to bed. At least I got to see the extras without any tapping.
Rather disturbingly though, when I went for a wee a couple of minutes ago, I noticed she had decided that she wasn’t quite tired enough for sleep. Sitting, in a darkened room, bathed in the dim, blue-white light of the tiny, twin DS screens, she sat, tap-tapping away. After expressing my opinion that it’s not right, I asked what could possibly provoke such preoccupation.
“BakeMania”.
She’s tapping into the night, making virtual cakes. Jesus wept. She’s got a Mario-Monkey on her back.
Peer pressure
Posted on | January 4, 2009 | 2 Comments
It seems that everyone else is doing it. Round-ups of the previous year seem to be de rigueur. Personally, I’ve never cared for them or, indeed, any new year shenanigans. I’m not really one for the new year thing – arbitrary day after all.
That said, I’m the bitch of peer pressure. So then, daah, dah, dah, daaaaaah, here is the year of Gerry (such as it is).
- January to July: Drudged along in a meaningless, brain-melting job with no hope of redemption.
- August: Redemption. I am freed. Redundo-boy rides high.
- September: Euro-Disney family holiday. Saw nasty side of ‘Disney-liking adults’. Awful, ignorant bastards. Best not get me started on that lot.
- October: DIY.
- November: Managed to get something done.
- December: Fucking Christmas and all its diversionary shite.
Despite all life’s and wife’s efforts to the contrary, I did manage to blag my way to the following this year:
- Red Planet Prize 2008 – Finalist (no winner announced at time of writing – fingers crossed)
- Movie Mogul Fund 2008 – Semi-Finalist
- British Short Screenplay Competition – Quarter-Finalist
- Rouge Wave Short Scene Competition – Winner
Tags: British Short Screenplay > competitions > red planet > rouge wave > Writing
Meet the new blog, same as the old blog
Posted on | December 31, 2008 | 15 Comments
It’s new and yet it’s not… Well, it is… Kind of.
Welcome to Stare Into Space.
All new domain name. All new, and completely original, look (see how it sparkles). Same old dull content. I am style above substance; form above function. I am the lipstick on the pig.
Basically, my old blog was of a bygone era. An era where I was anonymous and whinging about my day job. Not actually having that (or, strictly speaking, any) job now, I have no further need of anonymity. Quite the opposite – now I want people to know who I am. To that end, I came out, so to speak, on my old blog a while back and, as I try to get people to take me a little more seriously at this writing lark, I began to feel a little embarrassed by my old blog’s name. I didn’t really want to have to mutter ‘Jimmy Page’s Trousers‘ under my breath when people (and by that I mean important people who might give me money one day) asked for email addresses or the like.
So, I did what anyone would do when a good and loyal friend is considered ‘uncool’ by the in-crowd – I pretended I didn’t actually know Jimmy Page’s Trousers and went off with the cool kids to smoke and drop rocks from the overpass. Sure, I felt a pang of guilt but, you know, they had beer.
Jimmy Page’s Trousers is no more. From now on, when people think of Gerry Hayes, they will think of staring into space. Pretty apt really.
I’d really appreciate it anyone who linked to jimmypagestrousers.com could update their sites, links, blogrolls, or whatever to link to www.stareintospace.com
Also, you can click the subscribe icon (if you have one) in your browser’s address bar or click here to subscribe to new posts in your favourite RSS reader/aggregator thing.
Comments and suggestions are (genuinely) welcomed. There will be some more tweaking of things that vex me with the design, so feel free to add to the list. Really.
Thanks everyone.
Par-rump-a-pum-pum
Posted on | December 24, 2008 | Comments Off on Par-rump-a-pum-pum
Time once again to celebrate the feast of the Christus, or the birth of Cliff Richard, or whatever it is that forces us to spend daft money on daft gifts for daft friends and relatives. I’m planning the traditional Christmas of gorging myself on carbohydrates and dead birds (and the flesh of miscellaneous other animals), getting drunk and arguing with someone before falling asleep in an armchair. Brilliant. I really do wish it could be Christmas everyday.
Tomorrow is the only day when it’s acceptable to make the ‘leg or breast’ joke. It’s the only day when it’s ok to work the word ‘goose’ into conversations more often than the average Carry-On film. Tomorrow is the only day of the year when you might get away with saying ‘you’re an old slut on junk’ to your wife – as long as you sing it a bit.
Insane, hyper-child is abed and, I think, settled. Cookie, milk and carrot are on the hearth. Beer is in the fridge. All is right with the world. All that remains is for me to wish you all a very happy Cliffmas.
Ho ho ho, everyone. All the best.
Tags: beer > Christmas > Cliffmas > hyper kid
Woman-Flu
Posted on | December 15, 2008 | 9 Comments
Very little sleep last night. Wife and daughter have colds. Daughter not too bad but wife ‘at death’s door’ apparently.
Last night she woke up and started groping noisily around her bedside locker for Strepsils. She found them eventually and rattled the rattly blister-pack trying to get one out, eventually succeeding. Then she dropped the Strepsil onto the floor and I heard it roll under the bed where the dust-bunnies live. Undeterred by fluffy nastiness, she fumbled about trying to find the missing Strepsil. After what seemed like hours, she gave up and went back to the blister-pack.
Rattle… crinkle… rattle… plunk. She dropped the blister-pack on the floor (Strepsil blister-packs hitting a wooden floor make quite an annoying noise at three AM). Cue much blind scrabbling about for blister-pack, rattling and skittering it around on the floor all the time. She finally found it, extracted a second Strepsil (after more rattling) and popped it in her mouth.
At last. Some peace and quiet.
FX: Suck, chew, Strepsil clunking against teeth, etc.
Aaaarrrggghhhhh!
If you’re interested, my body is, so far, valiantly fighting off the nasty little cold bugs. That may be because it’s so tensed that nothing wants to live there.
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I mostly sit around all day and drink tea. Occasionally, I write stuff and send it to strangers so they can humiliate me and deride my efforts. Other than the self-harm to dull the shame of failure, it's not a bad life. Like I say, there's tea.
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