What a massive week. My publisher arrives late Sunday. And we crack open a few beers. Then we crack open a few more. By Midnight we have progressed to the really dodgy bottle of red we got for free with our last take-away curry. The label informs me that it is a red wine - after that - yer on yer own.
Perhaps it is made from dingleberry? Or the crushed bodies of a thousand beetles? It tastes sweet - cough syrup with a kick. But it's either that or a bottle of sparkling pear wine that's been sitting in the garage fridge for the last five years - waiting forlornly for a chance to be drunk. The wallflower of the vineyard. Short of every other bottle of wine spontaneously vaporising across the known universe - this baby is gonna remain firmly undrunk. But...never say never...so there it remains. I'll keep you posted on that one - out there somewhere is a date with destiny - I can sense it. This worries me. Slightly.
So the big day arrives - as I launch myself on an unsuspecting public. My publisher informs the police to expect a crush - cops on horseback and kitted-out in riot gear are ready to beat back the mobs of screaming fans. First day of the Chester Literature Festival and I'm opening it with the New Writers slot. No pressure then.
I arrive at the St Mary's Centre in Chester. It's pretty cool. It's quite obviously a church. Or an ex church. Ornate ceilings, stained glass windows and a funky sofa chair at the front where I guess the altar once stood. This is to be my writer's chair. I will impart great knowledge from this chair and try not to look like Ronnie Corbett on it (It's the same chair! Honest! Nicked from the Two Ronnies circa 1979).
There's a respectable turn-out. Friends and family and random strangers. I worry about the random strangers - they look a nice bunch. But how will they react?
I stand up for an hour - regaling the crowd with witty (ahem) accounts of my early writing career and interspersing it with snippets from the book. I am careful to avoid any of the overly profane paragraphs for fear of corrupting the ears of the young toddlers running around the front of the venue. (In Chester, all children are made to run around outside old churches to pay their keep - it's a local tradition. Like Morris Dancing. But for kids).
It's a buzz. I love it. If ever there was a moment when I realised I could do this for a living - it was immediately after when we all set off the pub at 3 in the afternoon. At last - my ideal career!
And then it's back to reality - the cult celebrity-status high of Monday is replaced by the sad anonimity of every day normal life by Tuesday. Ho Hum. Everyday life can still be quite amusing though. On Saturday morning at 7 am downstairs on the couch with Fintan it began like this.
"Hey Daddy - what is this?" says Fintan as he pulls something from the depths of the couch.
"It's Mummy's Bra" I say.
"Is that for her Boops?"
"Er..well...yes...they're for her Boops..."
I am not about to get into a conversation about the correct pronounciation of Boobs. That way can only lead to further complications.
Later that day, my mum comes up from London and we take the kids to the Zoo. Declan hollers at the Elephants but is non-plussed by the Komodo Dragon. Fintan informs me that "Dum Dum is sad because we are leaving the zoo." Dum Dum is a forty foot giant Easter Island statue made of fibre glass. He also lives in Night at the Museum. When we get back I tell Fintan that Nanna Market is my mum. And I lived in her tummy once.
"Yes. And I lived in mummy's tummy and then when I grew up, then Declan lived in Mummy's tummy."
"That's right Fintan. That's exactly right!" I say. Proud that he understands the rudimentary points of reproduction and the family org chart. (I don't think they call them that - but I do).
"Living in mummy's tummy. That's disgustin'!" he tells me.
Hmmmm - I suppose it is. But it still beats living in a hunk of pink goo with a giant needle in yer neck and getting farmed out as dinner for a bunch of sentient robots. I leave that out. Perhaps the Matrix is for next week's night night chat.
Sunday 24 October 2010
Sunday 17 October 2010
The "Scatalogical Constant", journey's into Radio Stardom and the merits of a Tramp Entourage
Another blur of a week. The only constant in my life is the scatalogical constant. The Scatalogical Constant is like Faraday's Law or Boyle's Law but messier. This week - on Monday - it began like this.
"Daddy! Daddy! Come quick! Daddy there's something on the carpet!"
"What is it?" I shout from the kitchen where I am busy disposing of his brother's nappy in an industrial compacter.
"I think it's a poo daddy...or a slug."
"Don't touch it!" I yell. Trying my best to wrestle the nappy into the bin. One touch from them - and you're a gonner - like a bite from a zombie in 28 days later.
I get back to the living room and inspect the damage. It's all very suspicious. The 2 kids stare at me with innocent angelic eyes. Sadly for Declan he can't talk - so his brother has a clear advantage.
"Declan did it," Fintan proclaims and wanders off to dissassemble the "Tower of Doom". Rule one of playclub. Never. Never disassemble the "Tower of Doom". It makes an Ikea flatpack house look easy to put up.
The next day - my books arrive from the publisher. I rip open the box with the kind of anticipation I last had when I was a five year old on Christmas Day. I wait an extra forty seconds whilst Sarah runs for the camera to capture the moment. I open the box and stare at my babies. Fousands of 'em. Well - not quite. But alot. The shiny red and white cover with the graffitti sprawled all over it and the dead body with the bottle in it's head...and the blood spattering across the getaway car. It's a work of genius. Looks brilliant. And it's in my hand at last. There it is - in Black and White. Now I just have to set those babies free to create bedlam and panic amongst the book-reading masses. Can't wait!
I call lot's of people and tell them the news.
"It's in the British Library! They've got an electronic copy! How good is that?!"
The thought of being an electonic copy at the British Library fills me with great literary pride. This is how JR Hartley felt in those Yellow page ads. Kind of.
I go to bed content and ready to take on the world.
I have to delay that a bit to take the kids to school / nursery and go to work. But when I get back...then I will take over the world and begin this great adventure!
Later in the week I'm on Dee Radio. I rock up early and warn myself not to say anything stupid on air (which can be difficult for me - sometimes just opening my mouth is all it takes).
The DJs are dead nice and I relax. Being in a radio studio is pretty cool. I am tempted to press buttons but decide against this. Suddenly - Gavin the Dj says "thirty seconds to go" and I realise this is it. I'm on air. To a local listenership of 35,000 people.
Ok that's not too bad - I only make a fool of myself in front of 35,000 people. And some of them will still be asleep.
We talk about maintenance on oil rigs and I worry I will send the listeners into a terminal coma. Luckily - we soon turn to the matter at hand. My upcoming book launch and opening new writer slot at the Chester Literature Festival. I tell the DJ that Dumb Luck will be a crime series - so in ten years time - it'll replace Touch of Frost on a Sunday night. He laughs and I safely steer myself through the interview without swearing or pressing any big red buttons (although I do accidentally turn all the lights off when I try to "buzz" myself out of the studio immediately after). Doh!
I'm on a high! The only minor bum-note was my inability to get them to play either something by the Stone Roses, Elbow, Led Zep or Plan B. Instead - my out-tro is "Relight my Fire" by Take That. Not quite rock 'n roll - but I let it pass.
Looks like I'm taking to this media life like a bear does to crapping in the woods. I'm a real natural...(hmmmmm...maybe not). Next step is my first phone interview on air - with a radio station in Dublin.
I would ask my people to talk to theirs. But I don't have any. Next step - get me an entourage. They need to be cheap. Possibly free. And look glamorous and literary. It's either that or I get the three vagrants who hang around the offie near the city centre and smell of P*ss. This is more of a Whitnail look than I'd intended, so is a real fallback option of last resort. Or failing that - I'll carry on as is - with two little monsters hanging off me instead.
"Daddy! Daddy! Come quick! Daddy there's something on the carpet!"
"What is it?" I shout from the kitchen where I am busy disposing of his brother's nappy in an industrial compacter.
"I think it's a poo daddy...or a slug."
"Don't touch it!" I yell. Trying my best to wrestle the nappy into the bin. One touch from them - and you're a gonner - like a bite from a zombie in 28 days later.
I get back to the living room and inspect the damage. It's all very suspicious. The 2 kids stare at me with innocent angelic eyes. Sadly for Declan he can't talk - so his brother has a clear advantage.
"Declan did it," Fintan proclaims and wanders off to dissassemble the "Tower of Doom". Rule one of playclub. Never. Never disassemble the "Tower of Doom". It makes an Ikea flatpack house look easy to put up.
The next day - my books arrive from the publisher. I rip open the box with the kind of anticipation I last had when I was a five year old on Christmas Day. I wait an extra forty seconds whilst Sarah runs for the camera to capture the moment. I open the box and stare at my babies. Fousands of 'em. Well - not quite. But alot. The shiny red and white cover with the graffitti sprawled all over it and the dead body with the bottle in it's head...and the blood spattering across the getaway car. It's a work of genius. Looks brilliant. And it's in my hand at last. There it is - in Black and White. Now I just have to set those babies free to create bedlam and panic amongst the book-reading masses. Can't wait!
I call lot's of people and tell them the news.
"It's in the British Library! They've got an electronic copy! How good is that?!"
The thought of being an electonic copy at the British Library fills me with great literary pride. This is how JR Hartley felt in those Yellow page ads. Kind of.
I go to bed content and ready to take on the world.
I have to delay that a bit to take the kids to school / nursery and go to work. But when I get back...then I will take over the world and begin this great adventure!
Later in the week I'm on Dee Radio. I rock up early and warn myself not to say anything stupid on air (which can be difficult for me - sometimes just opening my mouth is all it takes).
The DJs are dead nice and I relax. Being in a radio studio is pretty cool. I am tempted to press buttons but decide against this. Suddenly - Gavin the Dj says "thirty seconds to go" and I realise this is it. I'm on air. To a local listenership of 35,000 people.
Ok that's not too bad - I only make a fool of myself in front of 35,000 people. And some of them will still be asleep.
We talk about maintenance on oil rigs and I worry I will send the listeners into a terminal coma. Luckily - we soon turn to the matter at hand. My upcoming book launch and opening new writer slot at the Chester Literature Festival. I tell the DJ that Dumb Luck will be a crime series - so in ten years time - it'll replace Touch of Frost on a Sunday night. He laughs and I safely steer myself through the interview without swearing or pressing any big red buttons (although I do accidentally turn all the lights off when I try to "buzz" myself out of the studio immediately after). Doh!
I'm on a high! The only minor bum-note was my inability to get them to play either something by the Stone Roses, Elbow, Led Zep or Plan B. Instead - my out-tro is "Relight my Fire" by Take That. Not quite rock 'n roll - but I let it pass.
Looks like I'm taking to this media life like a bear does to crapping in the woods. I'm a real natural...(hmmmmm...maybe not). Next step is my first phone interview on air - with a radio station in Dublin.
I would ask my people to talk to theirs. But I don't have any. Next step - get me an entourage. They need to be cheap. Possibly free. And look glamorous and literary. It's either that or I get the three vagrants who hang around the offie near the city centre and smell of P*ss. This is more of a Whitnail look than I'd intended, so is a real fallback option of last resort. Or failing that - I'll carry on as is - with two little monsters hanging off me instead.
Sunday 3 October 2010
Supa Lion Pitch invading, the Deadly Flying Falcons and how to vomit your stomach contents through your eyeball
So Sarah and I went posh at the Chester races. This meant that I wore a suit and an ironed shirt and made an attempt to rub off the gravy stain on my tie - and Sarah wore a dress. Sarah's sister would have been along for the ride as well but she was too busy vomiting up her entire body through her nostrils. Oh how we bemoaned her fate - safe in the certain knowledge that she had succombed to one of nearly two million deadly viruses brewing inside of our kids - just waiting to attack some unsuspecting rellie when they visited. Oh hindsight is a wonderful thing. But 48 hours later and a conversation goes like this:
"herghhhhhhh.....erghhhhhhhh....ugghhhh...sperghhhhhhh...."
"Stop moaning...stop yer moaning Tom - you'll wake the kids..."
"Oh my God -I think I'm dying Sarah...erghhhhhhhhhhh"
"Try to moan less...can you try to moan less?"
If you could suck yourself into a blackhole of vomit - then I was swirling in it's Event Horizon - perpetually trapped in a vomit loop of doom for the whole of Sunday night. Things were made only marginally worse when Declan somehow ended up in the bedroom with me (whilst Sarah was wrestling with her own inner vomit turmoil). That bit of the night went something like this...
"Erghhhhh...get off me Declan...go away...I'm dying...back to bed...back into bed..."
"Come on! Come on! Ghhhhhhhhh Ghhhhhhhhh...WAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"
Which roughly translated means - Get up Dad - it's 4 in the morning for crying out loud! It's time to get up and watch the flashing box again! Need TV...need milk...I NEED MILK GODDAMMIT!"
Having never died (to my knowledge) I have never experienced Hell - or purgatory - but I have a feeling that I came pretty close to it that night.
But the races themselves they were great. The RAF parachuted in from three thousand feet which was a bit flash and the cast of Hollyoaks put on a fashion show. It woulda been more interesting the other way round - but that's the way life goes.
One of the lads from the RAF Falcons, who but ten minutes earlier, had been hurtling out the sky at terminal velocity was sipping a glass of champagne next to me and attracting the attention of an entire gaggle of tidy looking women. I myself stood idly sipping my booze and wondering why these girls seemed to be overlooking me. I asked my wife what the big attraction was... just because I couldn't jump out of a plane under enemy fire, land on a target dropzone with pinpoint accuracy and take out an enemy with relentless precision...but could they sit at a desk for nine hours and type on a keyboard? Could they drink a combination of wine and beer at the same time and still write with competence. Oh - Oh? They can? Crap. Well that's me out of a job.
Post the removal of my entire internal organs and stomach content over the week I was secretly rather looking forward to this weekend.
And Lo Fintan and I set off at 8am yesterday for the big smoke. Headed into the wild craziness - the beast that consumes all who enter it and spits out raw husks where humans once stood (yeah - you ever tried commuting there for longer than a year?!) - and so we boarded the Virgin Voyager - destination London.
I came armed with provisions to make the SAS proud. Travel Connect 4, a glo in the dark T-rex to assemble, a dinosaur magazine to read, 250 milligrames of yer finest jelly beans (orange, lemon - no marshamallow), DVD player, an array of DVDs including but not limited to Dinosaur Kings, The Land before Time, Barney (that purple b*stard!), Wallace and Grommit and Flash Gordon (I'm slowly converting him to the classic stuff!).
I met my Dad at London Bridge at midday and there we surprised my Grandad by running up to him and telling him we were off to the footie. Now - I did have some advice from Deborah my sister-in-law in Ireland that running up and surprising anyone over eighty is not medically advisable...bah...what does she know?! At which point my wife pointed out she was a Doctor. Either way - four generations of the family were gonna walk on the pitch at the New Den, get photographed with the team at 3pm kick-off and then watch a cracking match before meeting the man of the match and having their photo taken with him and getting the match ball. For any Millwall fan it's almost unheard of to be offically invited on to the pitch - usually we just run on and wait for the cops to chase us off. So this was something really special. 125 years of Millwall - from humble beginnings from a Jam factory team on the Isle of Dogs to the accolades and trophies we know today...ahem. Cue tumbleweed!
Either way - what a day - met all the Millwall legends and then the Director came down to ask my Grandad how he'd managed to support the club for eighty five years without losing the will to live. The answer lies somewhere between pigheaded stupidity, wondrous unquestioning delusion / devotion and a compulsory lobotomy that every fan of non premiership teams suffer as a matter of course through-out their life - still - wouldn't change it for the world!
So now I'm off to check out the new Kindle the missus bought me and see if I can download my book on it yet. Not far off...and then the world will be mine! All mine!
"herghhhhhhh.....erghhhhhhhh....ugghhhh...sperghhhhhhh...."
"Stop moaning...stop yer moaning Tom - you'll wake the kids..."
"Oh my God -I think I'm dying Sarah...erghhhhhhhhhhh"
"Try to moan less...can you try to moan less?"
If you could suck yourself into a blackhole of vomit - then I was swirling in it's Event Horizon - perpetually trapped in a vomit loop of doom for the whole of Sunday night. Things were made only marginally worse when Declan somehow ended up in the bedroom with me (whilst Sarah was wrestling with her own inner vomit turmoil). That bit of the night went something like this...
"Erghhhhh...get off me Declan...go away...I'm dying...back to bed...back into bed..."
"Come on! Come on! Ghhhhhhhhh Ghhhhhhhhh...WAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"
Which roughly translated means - Get up Dad - it's 4 in the morning for crying out loud! It's time to get up and watch the flashing box again! Need TV...need milk...I NEED MILK GODDAMMIT!"
Having never died (to my knowledge) I have never experienced Hell - or purgatory - but I have a feeling that I came pretty close to it that night.
But the races themselves they were great. The RAF parachuted in from three thousand feet which was a bit flash and the cast of Hollyoaks put on a fashion show. It woulda been more interesting the other way round - but that's the way life goes.
One of the lads from the RAF Falcons, who but ten minutes earlier, had been hurtling out the sky at terminal velocity was sipping a glass of champagne next to me and attracting the attention of an entire gaggle of tidy looking women. I myself stood idly sipping my booze and wondering why these girls seemed to be overlooking me. I asked my wife what the big attraction was... just because I couldn't jump out of a plane under enemy fire, land on a target dropzone with pinpoint accuracy and take out an enemy with relentless precision...but could they sit at a desk for nine hours and type on a keyboard? Could they drink a combination of wine and beer at the same time and still write with competence. Oh - Oh? They can? Crap. Well that's me out of a job.
Post the removal of my entire internal organs and stomach content over the week I was secretly rather looking forward to this weekend.
And Lo Fintan and I set off at 8am yesterday for the big smoke. Headed into the wild craziness - the beast that consumes all who enter it and spits out raw husks where humans once stood (yeah - you ever tried commuting there for longer than a year?!) - and so we boarded the Virgin Voyager - destination London.
I came armed with provisions to make the SAS proud. Travel Connect 4, a glo in the dark T-rex to assemble, a dinosaur magazine to read, 250 milligrames of yer finest jelly beans (orange, lemon - no marshamallow), DVD player, an array of DVDs including but not limited to Dinosaur Kings, The Land before Time, Barney (that purple b*stard!), Wallace and Grommit and Flash Gordon (I'm slowly converting him to the classic stuff!).
I met my Dad at London Bridge at midday and there we surprised my Grandad by running up to him and telling him we were off to the footie. Now - I did have some advice from Deborah my sister-in-law in Ireland that running up and surprising anyone over eighty is not medically advisable...bah...what does she know?! At which point my wife pointed out she was a Doctor. Either way - four generations of the family were gonna walk on the pitch at the New Den, get photographed with the team at 3pm kick-off and then watch a cracking match before meeting the man of the match and having their photo taken with him and getting the match ball. For any Millwall fan it's almost unheard of to be offically invited on to the pitch - usually we just run on and wait for the cops to chase us off. So this was something really special. 125 years of Millwall - from humble beginnings from a Jam factory team on the Isle of Dogs to the accolades and trophies we know today...ahem. Cue tumbleweed!
Either way - what a day - met all the Millwall legends and then the Director came down to ask my Grandad how he'd managed to support the club for eighty five years without losing the will to live. The answer lies somewhere between pigheaded stupidity, wondrous unquestioning delusion / devotion and a compulsory lobotomy that every fan of non premiership teams suffer as a matter of course through-out their life - still - wouldn't change it for the world!
So now I'm off to check out the new Kindle the missus bought me and see if I can download my book on it yet. Not far off...and then the world will be mine! All mine!
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