Once upon a time a vampire came to our block.
We thought he was scary and evil.
He won our trust.
(Although one of us didn’t trust him)
We all became the best of pals.
Then he ate some of us.
Well learned a valuable lesson.
The End.
Nobody he knew would have stolen Keith Kinsey’s car. That car was sacrosanct, like his house, his holiday villa on the south coast, his children, his wife, his space at the greyhound track, even his seat at West Ham.
So, walking out of his Essex home at seven thirty on a September morning and seeing a Jaguar-sized space where his car had been the night before was a shock. He didn’t want to take the Range Rover into the West End. He had no wish to use the Porsche in Soho because of the kind of wankers who used Porsches in Soho.
Kinsey stood and looked at the spot that recalled his 1972 white E-type and went momentarily blank. Fumbling, he pulled the mobile phone from the inside pocket of his overcoat and speed-dialled Tommy Mallion.
Too late, as ever with Davis. He was buried in the one suit he owned, inside the breast pocket of which he’d popped the letter before going out into town for his last night.
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The youngster came home last night with beer. He had quite substantial amounts of beer in a large crate. He’d been to the supermarket. He’d forgotten to bother purchasing the necessaries for a family weekend in with his ‘partner’.
She had decided it was best for all if he simply remained away from their city central flat until Monday. She hoped, as ever, that by then he would had gained some basic sense. She may even have calmed down enough not to want to do substantial damage to, “His last remaining useful asset.”
So, due to the fact that his pals were either bored with him or they had learned how best to keep their partners in good order, the youngster had no place other than his Grandad’s to go.
He’s always been daft. He’s not a bad lad, although I cannot for the life of me understand where his daft genes came from.
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Press Release: LONDON JUNE 21 2011
UK developer, GasheadAuGrrr Games, is proud and excited to announce the exciting news that Zombie Dragon Skirt Ball War of Duty is now in development for all major gaming platforms.
An innovative mix of volleyball, the Koreastahn War and Dragon fighting, for the first time ever, Dragon Skirt Ball War of Duty brings Zombies into the fray.
A family is washed ashore during the first Koreastani War and finds themselves set upon by [please name them properly in the press release] Enemy Insurgents riding in infected dragons. The familiy’s only hope of escape is the play volleyball at high speed and with few clothes.
“We are excited to bring this platforming, FPS, RPG, MMORPG breakwatershed moment in modern video gaming to [insert platforms that we've signed up to] history going forward. We feel it’s a flagpost marquee moment for all stakeholders,” commented deputy vice president in charge of Gamification Studios at GasheadAUGrrr, Mr Gregg Arnie Stokcton Head.
Dragon Skirt Ball War of Duty is due for release in Fall 2012.
I am thinking of asking Stephen King or Simon Pegg… or both.
Yes, I‚Äôm going to ask them to use their actual talent to create some text that I can use to sell my book, Dead Idea. The text will be loosely based on my book. The text will be ‘leaked’ online in order to convince people that my book (Dead Idea) is creatively rich and interesting. The text will also convince people I have the talent and that the content of my book will be up to the same standard.
I’m also going to ask my pal Paul to write some slow, mawkish music using his oboe and the D-minor chord. I am going to include this as an MP3.
Simon Pegg & Stephen King
My new book – called Dead Idea Рis using some tried and tested ideas all of which have been imagined and creatively realised by people way more talented and original than I am.
It‚Äôs a book (called Dead Idea) about zombies attacking people who aren‚Äôt zombies yet but will be if they don’t beat the zombies. It’s set in a football stadium or a nightclub or somewhere.
If I’m really honest, I’ve not really put that much thought into writing it. There are no novel nor interesting angles or techniques in there. I mean, why bother? It’s not as if I have the talent or the inclination to provide any insight or originality. It’s not as if people want those kind of disruptive problems.
Interviews for Dead Idea
Of course, when I’m interviewed about it I’m going to talk about “metaphors”, “analogies”, “zeitgeisty moments”, “modern moral morays” and “insightful commentary”.
I’m also going to talk about “a bit of fun”, “awesome bloody madness”, “game-changing genre reboot” and “recapturing the adrenalin of zombie lit from back in the day”.
Depends on who is doing the interview.
The simple fact that I’m using some tired mechanics wrapped up in a few clichés shouldn’t make any difference to the piece of text I’m asking Mr King or Mr Pegg to produce for me.
They have free reign, well near as damn it. I’ve asked them to make sure that they “Pep it up a bit. Make it emotional but not so emotional that it actually forces the target market to assess their emotions in the world outside of schlock and awesomeness.
Dead Idea – Remember How You Felt!
The idea is to evoke enough emotion in the reader so that, in this age of fragmented media and information overload, they remember the name of my new book – Dead Idea ‚Äì and they don’t notice the weary ideas and pedestrian writing when it finally rolls out. By the time it rolls out I want my consumers to defend Dead Idea like it was their own child about to be murdered in its holiday bed.
Ideally the consumer will confuse the text written for me with my own actual work.
You see, I need people to remember, I do not want them to think about Dead Idea. Jesus Christ! If they actually think about Dead Idea and the amount of money I’m asking them to fork o over for my bland rehashing of an idea that’s been done, if I may say so, to undeath – well, I’m fucked.
Importantly I need them to start talking about the name of my book (that’s Dead Idea) now so that I can convince retailers to buy in stock before the reviews are out.
My problem is, however, that I’ve not finished Dead Idea (the name of my new book) and the bits I have finished are, frankly, so utterly uninspiring that I can’t even get my girlfriend or any of my friends to show much interest in it.
So, I get someone else to use their work to convince potential clients that my work is worth buying.
My problem – although I trust both Messrs Pegg and Mr King’s talents – is that the glut of zombie popular culture that I’m attempting to extract the last few fruits of profit from requires a Unique Selling Point. Hence the dead child.
Dead Idea
Sure some people’s children have actually died, but we cannot sacrifice the creative force for the minority. Sure, I could ask Messrs Pegg and King to ensure that the dead child appears peripherally rather than right up front but, honestly, where’s the emotional impact?
Honestly? If it was down to me I’d use a dead zombie puppy or kitten but I can’t. My target audience likes puppies and kittens. More people have loved and lost pets than they have children. More of my market has had dead pets than they’ve parented live children for fuck’s sake! Lol.
Using a dead kitten as the key focus, right up front, with no warning, it will not have the same impact. So, I’ve asked Messrs Pegg and King to ensure some form of infanticide occurs from the off.
Real art does that, and you can defend real art against, well, nearly anything. It’s bloody Teflon is real art.
Real artists and works of art such as, well, none leaps immediately to mind, have used dead kids staring you in the face from the first paragraph.
So, I don’t see why the advert for Dead Idea that I’m getting other more talented people to produce and that does not reflect the actual work I’m producing should be judged differently.
And what harm is there in it?
Dead Idea – a Book
People like zombie stuff, that’s for sure. Who wouldn’t? It’s an easy enough trope to manipulate. It is certainly scary in a comforting way. It has also created rule-sets: “Fast zombie vs Slow zombie” etc. The knowledge of these ‘rules’ provides a sense of community among those more inclined to yell, “Fuck you, ya bucket of cum!” than “I’d not thought about it like that, let’s have a talk”.
Zombies are certainly less likely to encourage actual analysis than using the homeless, the disabled, the poor or terrorists as “the other”. The problem is, however, that by now even the most dull-minded of consumers are starting to notice the constant repetition of a Zombies, Zombies and more Zombies.
Well, maybe not the most dull-minded. Certainly not those consumers who are abjectly cowardly in raising an opinion that might see them as “funless” or “just saying it for effect”, and they’re my market. I love those guys.
So, the zombie cult remains profitable and its death still some months off. At least that’s what I’m telling my publisher. I mean, it is still quite possible to elicit cries of “Awesome!” and “Hellz yeah!” and “Genuine LOL” from the Idiocricy by slapping the following onto the Internet and using some pre-seen footage, probably in slow motion and probably with that mawkish music.
“Zombie My Little Pony!”
“Zombie Mario Meets Zombie Obama!”
“Zombie Cake!”
“Zombie Libyan Uprising!”
Don’t Forget! Dead Idea! Coming Soon!
So, I hope that Messrs Pegg or King decide to take me up on my request to enable me to hitchhike their talent. I only want about 400 words out of one of them – plus Paul’s oboe noodling. As long as they remember to ensure that a child dies in there – a zombie child who isn’t actually a zombie at the end of the backwards piece – then I reckon that I can, like a pimp for the soul Рsolicit just enough emotion to make this shit stick long enough for word of mouth to take off.
Some people might complain though. This is not the end of the world, this merely calls for a damage limitation exercise. For that I can trust to the kind of people who are unable to see an advertisement when it’s crammed into their gullets like corn into a French goose. This inability comes from the delicious fact that these people have already committed to the idea that their hobby is actually their world. These are the kind of wonderful consumers who will defend my 400 words of trope-repeating, wearisome tripe against all-comers.
In order to help these fantastically sticky fans along, I’ve already got some arguments lined up for them:
1) It’s just some text, get over it.
2) If this was a poem and not a schlock novel then you’d say it was art!
3) It’s just some fun, get a sense of humour.
4) It’s not EVEN a real CHILD FFS!
5) Why don’t you think about the real dead kids in Africa?
6) Didn’t you hear the music? Didn’t you see it was to be read from back to front? Are you stupid?
7) Do you hate novels? Are you a hater?
8) Why are you trying to censor stuff? That’s what the Nazis/Communists/Democrats did/do/want to do.
9) Just because you felt bad about the dead child being used to sell a product doesn’t mean you’ve got to bum me out by making me feel bad. STFU!
10) Awwwww are you butt-hurt? Get a life loooza!
And don’t forget… the absolute killer rhetorical response, it’s Number 11, it’s:
11) So, they used a dead child in that advert for killing kids in road accidents!!! Did you object to that too!!! Haterz gonna hate… jus’ sayin’. Piece out.
Yes, I reckon, marketing-wise, I’m on a winner.
George Rugley refuses to talk about the house on the green in the village of Wallington. Save for a petition to have it demolished and the ground on which it stood since 1899 concreted over, George is adamant in his silence.
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David Williamson’s The Club could never been made today.
Forget the fact that it’s about Aussie Rules from the old VFL; that it was actually set and filmed in one of the biggest names in that code, Collingwood. Concentrate on the performances and the script.
Concentrate especially on the downfall of Graham Kennedy’s character, Ted Parker. Or there’s the smug dope smoking scene. Or the ‘intellectual’ sports star Geoff Hayward, hated by his teammates until…
Script excerpts such as the one that follows still resonate – now but think “Asians” instead of “New Australians”:
Jock: A marvellous high mark you took last Saturday. You just seemed to go up and up!
Geoff Hayward: Yeah, I felt like Achilles.
Jock: Yes…[laughs] … Who’s he?
Geoff Hayward: A Greek guy who could really jump.
Jock: Ah, yeah yeah. Well some of these new Australians, you know they could be real champions, if they forget about soccer and just learn to assimilate
The Club shows off David Williamson’s writing as well as The Removalists or Corporate Vibes.
Mostly forget all my blather. Tight script, genuine acting, brilliant performances… oh, and Graham Kennedy. One of Australia’s best-kept secrets.
Haring down the hill into the village on his five-speed – past the preparatory school, past the scout hut and the post office Рthen cornering tight right, hardly time to change down, past the hair salon.
This is what it was like before I was born. Before I asked you what death was like and before you showed me.
I’d never seen the image of a dead man Рa corpse picture – let alone the real thing. Back then, I’d never seen a cold morning without breakfast or hope of supper. I hadn’t seen a very great number of things, although I hoped to.
I think I’d seen you – back before I was born. Standing in line, waiting to be dropped into life. I like to think that we’ve had some personal contact, albeit briefly; me to receive orders or maybe make a request. You to look me up and down, smile in a fatherly way and pack me off into the great adventure of life.
I’d like to think we’d had some acquaintanceship so that we touched maybe before I learnt all about touching in that other way. But sitting here now, looking forward to being caught or to killing and running again – maintaining the chase – I somehow doubt it.
Your rosary feels small and looks like a string of seeds. It’s doing me as much good as any charm. Might as well be a rabbit’s foot or a crescent from Islam. I don’t know. I wish you did.
Before I was born, when I was good, before the blues, cigarettes, tests, longing, loathing and this wet night in a ditch, I seem to remember your bright face smiling, beaming. Beautiful, as beautiful as anything that has crossed my path since. Much more beautiful than my mother, who was never that.
I was good before I was born, made up of all the particles from that start of the atheist universe as I was, I was as good as anything because I was anything.
Now I am bad – a butcher.