Lenny
Posted on | March 30, 2008 | 5 Comments
I’m just having a listen to some Leonard Cohen as I write. Splendid stuff. I’ll admit that I’m a relative latecomer to Lenny, having only cottoned on in the last four or five years (all of the ‘real’ fans are scoffing so hard that they’ve probably hurt their throats now – fuck ’em).
Anyway, I’m having a listen to remind myself that I’ll soon be popping along to see him. In June, thanks to some dodgy dealings leaving him stony broke, I’ll be sitting down to see him do his thing. Hurrah for dodgy dealings as I’d never have gotten to see him otherwise.
.
Did any of that matter? Really, though? I have to stop posting when I’m full of beer. I’m not my usual engrossing and erudite self. I also delude myself into believing that I’m normally engrossing and erudite.
Sorry everyone. Normal captivating and learned levels of posting will be resumed shortly.
What have I done?
Posted on | March 29, 2008 | 7 Comments
Pretty much everyone reading is, I’m sure, aware of NaNoWriMo. Well, it seems that there is a script writer’s alternative. Script Frenzy seems to be a newish endeavour, designed along the same lines.
Basically, the idea is to write a 100 page script in the period from April 1st to 30th. The average, feature-length script is in the 90 to 120 page ballpark so this basically means writing a movie in a month. Granted, similarly to NaNoWriMo, what’s required is a first draft in this time period. To ask for more is really the stuff of madness for normal people.
Again, similarly to NaNoWriMo, there are no actual prizes to speak of. Unless you count a spiffy icon that I can pop on my blog to boast at how I managed to do it and the sense of achievement at having completed the script. Both seem like pretty poor prizes to me, which begs the question, why have I signed up? Because it’s there or something. I don’t really know. I’m anticipating that the sense of community and arbitrary deadline will encourage and motivate me to great things. Or, if not great, then, at least, things.
Nevertheless, it is a scary prospect. A feature-length script in a month is a tall order. I am deeply worried that my Inner Critic, never one to keep his derogatory trap shut, will chide and condescend so much that I’ll never manage it. I know that I’m going to find it extremely difficult to shut him out sufficiently that I actually finish a first draft in that time. Still, I know that doing so will be an extremely useful exercise as it’s that Inner Critic that makes me ponder and fuss and obsess over everything I write (not here obviously) so much that I end up doing eight rewrites on each sentence. As I go. This is why I don’t get enough stuff done. I’m trying to stop this insanity but it’s hard. I’m hoping that Script Frenzy is the answer.
So, there you have it. When I get around to fiddling with code, there will be an icon over in the sidebar to announce, to the world, my participation and make it more difficult to pretend that I just forgot. In the meantime, there is one below.
April is shaping up to be a busy month. Wish me luck. Better yet, offer to babysit.
Beers
Posted on | February 15, 2008 | 3 Comments
Some beers last night with The Brother. A bit shaky now.
Is it a bad sign if your urine has the colour and consistency of Lyle’s Golden Syrup?
I thought I had more time
Posted on | January 22, 2008 | 5 Comments
Yesterday, my daughter took a cook book from the shelf in the kitchen and sat down in the sitting room to have a look. I went with her.
“What’s this?” she enquired.
“It’s a recipe book that tells you how to cook things,” I said.
“Why?” she asked. She’s still in the why-stage. Inquisitive little thing. Too damn inquisitive as I soon found out.
“Well, if you don’t know how to cook something, you can look in here.”
“Did you get it when I was a baby?”
“Before that, I think,” I said.
“Did you get it when I was in mammy’s belly?”
“Maybe even before that”
“Did you help put me in mammy’s belly?”
Oh shit. Where did that come from? “Errrrm. In a manner of speaking,” I told her.
“How did I get in mammy’s belly, dad?”
Arrrggghhh! Shit, shit, shit. Emergency, emergency. She’s three, for Christ’s sake. I thought I had another few years at least. What can you do?
“Let’s go get a chocolate biscuit,” I said. I’m not sure how much time I’ve bought.
Bad news for the Chickens
Posted on | January 11, 2008 | 5 Comments
Despite what I said below, in a politician-like U-turn, Mrs. Jimmy Page’s Trousers now seems much less convinced about the plight of the chickens and the benefits of buying something that hasn’t lived in a vast warehouse, wobbling on its feeble little legs lest it plonk down and burn its arse on its own and its mates’ shit.
It seems she subscribes to the ‘if I can’t see it right now, it is obviously not happening’ school of… ermm… knowing things.
I’ll keep trying little, sad chickens. I’ll keep trying Hugh.
Chicken bandwagon
Posted on | January 9, 2008 | 1 Comment
Huge Firmly-Witterstein has been on the telly for the last two nights showing the masses the horrors of battery chickens and the nasty life they have before they end up in our pots and our poo. Many probably knew this already but fair play to him for trying his best to get people to take notice.
I’ve always liked Firmly-Witterstein. I’ve spent much time dreaming of heading off down the country to become self-sufficient, surviving on home-grown hooves and horns, and Jaffa Cakes fresh from the ground. It is a nice dream. Hugh, of course, now seems to run a multi-national empire of restaurants and shops and probably lives in a solid gold house where he has people in hover-packs to deliver MacGiblet burgers and free-range chicken nuggets. Still, River Cottage global domination and Hugh’s predilection for offal aside, I have a lot of time for him. I like his shows a lot and really hope that he manages to change something with his Chicken Run show.
On the chicken-front, personally, I’d be happy to pay the extra for the free-range fellows, but Mrs. Jimmy Page’s Trousers is a chicken-cynic (and more than a little tight) and has constantly poo-pooed the idea. As she tends to do most of the shopping (and I, the cleaning – I’m a twentieth century man), she usually ignores my pleas for happy chicken, preferring instead the cheap (resisted the ‘cheep’ pun, there), sad birds. She seems to be coming around somewhat after sitting through Hugh’s Chicken Run for the last few nights though. Good news, little chickens.
So then, the Save The Chicken bandwagon (or Chicken Out, as Hugh’s calling it) is one that I’m happy to jump on, and encourage all to do likewise. Off you pop to Hugh’s site and sign the petition thing. A small word of warning: Loud things happen on the site, so turn your speakers down first (especially if you’re in work).
The good thing about this Save The Chicken thing, is that, unlike the Save The Whale or the Save The Giant Squid campaigns, we can still get to eat the delicious little chickens. In fact, it means that they’ll be even more delicious – a happy chicken is a tasty chicken. Everyone’s a winner.
Isn’t Erdinger lovely?
Posted on | January 5, 2008 | 4 Comments
Isn’t it though? In all of it’s delicious and different guises. Yummy.
I’ve had some. Tasty, scrumptious nectar. Erdinger. Yummy, yummy Erdinger. If the Erdinger people are reading and want to present me with some sort of promotional package, they can reach me at trousers (at) jimmypagestrousers.com. If they’re not though, I and I realise that they have a lot of work to do in making various delicious beers, that’s ok too.
I have to upgrade my digital package, if only to get some decent music channels instead of “Shit Hits For Teenage Girls”.
Chicken liver paté (I know that there’s probably an accent circonflexe over the ‘a’ but I don’t know how to make it appear) is nice on toast.
The channel that is ‘Smash Hits’ isn’t good. It’s currently showing something called R’n’B Party. Not my cup of tea really.
Dido is on another channel though. She’s pretty, and not so pretty that I think I don’t have a chance; just pretty enough. I mean, obviously that David Boreanaz bloke is something of a threat but, realistically, is he really that good looking? And his career’s been pretty shite since Angel tanked so, I reckon I’m in with a good chance. Don’t like her music much though. Nobody’s perfect.
Another beer needed. I put it in the freezer half an hour ago. Nice.
Crap. Now it’s Robbie Williams. Women want him and men want to be him. Yeah, right. Not this man. “Ooooooh, pay attention to me, pay attention. I sometimes get a bit depressed.” Oh for fuck’s sake, Robbie. Welcome to the world you talentless cunt. If I were you, I’d send Guy Chambers a bunch of flowers or a six-pack or something ‘cos you need some help to write something that isn’t in rhyming couplets.
Now, it’s some girl doing a cover of Bryan Adams’ Heaven. I initially baulked at it until I remembered I don’t like the original and realised that this is actually much, much better. Bryan Adams sucks (except for Summer of ’69 which I like to sing when I’m pissed – come to think of it, I’d like to hear it now). And he’s no sense of humour, although that may be Ryan Adams who’s his brother, or is him, or something.
Flicked over and that shower are doing Lady Marmalade. Aguillera is also pretty but I don’t think I’d have as much of a chance as with Dido (no offence Dido). L’il Kim is contibuting with ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.” She’s very talented.
You know who I hate with all of the bile-producing glands in my body? Sean Kingston. What a pointless, useless, talentless, song-thieving, fat cunt. It’s one thing to sample a bit of someone else’s song (and I’m not that keen on that either) but to just sing some new, shit lyrics over someone else’s (someone with talent you will never have) song. That doesn’t make you musician, you hack, just a cunt. What a chubby-boned wanker.
And Fergie’s shit too. I know I’m not the first, but it does annoy me that she bleats on about London Bridge when she means Tower Bridge. And I’m Irish, for fuck’s sake.
I should probably go to bed. Sleepy now.
Ooooh. Ooooh, wait… Westlife.
I’d like to be under the sea
Posted on | January 3, 2008 | Comments Off on I’d like to be under the sea
Ok, my dreams are becoming a little worrying. Last night, I dreamed that some friends were having a bit of a party. It was a fine affair with booze aplenty and there seemed much merriment. There were a few famous musos there and I remember noting them, although I can’t remember who they were now.
One person that I do remember, however, was Paul McCartney. The reason I remember he was there is that, as the party progressed and as the booze continued to flow, he began to slow dance with me to Octopus’s Garden. Now, secure in my sexuality as I am, I didn’t protest at this and assumed it all to be a merry jape. I did protest however, when he started trying to French-kiss me a minute later. That was a little too much and I had to put a stop to things.
Paul McCartney. Trying to tongue me. To a Ringo song. It’s not right, is it?
They’re on to me
Posted on | December 21, 2007 | 1 Comment
I am no longer anonymous. Apparently, some of my mates are aware of my secret identity. They know I blog. I didn’t think that anyone knew except Mrs. Jimmy Page’s Trousers (and she’s never looked as she’s not really sure how to work the Internet). The jig is up and now I feel all self-conscious and exposed (like in those dreams where you go to school in your underwear).
It seems that one of them has, Neo-like, hacked the net or something and tracked me down. He obviously then shared this information with the others. And they’re here. Maybe even now. It feels weird. I don’t think I like it.
So, Doug, Jeff, Pete… fuck off you snooping cunts.
It’s not weird, is it?
Posted on | December 17, 2007 | Comments Off on It’s not weird, is it?
On my desk at home, I have a small battery. Specifically, it’s a CR2430 battery and it’s there to remind me that I need to order one to replace it as it’s worn-out. It’s a shiny, metal disc of just under an inch in diameter.
Every time I see it, I really, really want to eat it. I don’t know why. Something to do with the shape and size – circular, slightly rounded on one face, flat on the other. I’ve never felt any inclination to eat other batteries of any kind. Nor have I ever, even in my youth, felt any urge to eat coins or small change.
But something about this… Every time. Every single time. I can even feel what it would be like going down my throat and plopping, coldly into my stomach. I can feel my throat tighten slightly at the alien difference of it.
What’s the story? Am I weird?
« NEWER Entries — OLDER Entries »Gerry Hayes
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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