This thing that I wrote

Could you help me out a little, please?

Last year I wrote a novel. I know, I haven't mentioned it for a while. Think yourself lucky. You thought you'd got away, didn't you? The novel - or rather the first draft of it - has been sitting on a memory stick since I finished it at the end of November and I haven't gone back to edit it.

Why? Because.editing is hard work and I'm lazy. Creating stuff is fun. Going back and making it slightly-less-crappy is difficult. There will always be something else more attractive to do. Like sitting on my sofa, drinking tea, for instance. I need a sizeable kick up the backside.

So this is what I'm going to do. Below is an (unedited) exerpt from the book. Have a read. Let me know what you think - in the comment box, Facebook, Twitter or your social network of choice. Because, after all is said and done, I'm a tart, and feedback flicks my switches, presses by buttons and turns my dials to 11. There's an image for you. Anyway, here goes for nothing:

oOo

Ken Hamilton was a clockwise man and proud of it. Asking him to drive in the other direction would have been like making him betray his very soul.

He checked the time on his watch; still six minutes until he needed to get going. Good, he thought. I’m ahead of schedule. Can’t mess up the timetable, especially not with Inspectors out on the route today.

Hamilton considered himself at the very peak of his profession. He was, he thought, similar in many ways to an airline pilot given the keys to a 747, only in his case he was in the driving seat of a National Express West Midlands Metro-Cammel Turboliner double-decker bus. But it wasn’t the vehicle that was significant – it was the route.

The number 11 bus route following Birmingham’s Outer Circle was, he would tell people, the longest scheduled urban bus service in Europe. He wasn’t entirely sure if that was true. More often than not, a listener’s eyes would get that strange faraway look whenever he started to talk about it. He was rarely challenged by people when he made claims like that.

He used to tell the very same people that he was just like his namesake, Lewis Hamilton. “He too drives his own single-seater around circuits all day.” By this point in the conversation the other party would rarely take him up on this claim. The other seventy seats on the bus surely should count for something. And the clockwise 11C bus route was hardly the same as Monza. Normally though, he’d get comments like, “Is that the time?” or “Excuse me, I think I’ve just seen my wife carrying a week’s supply of humus,” or some such.

Ken had been on the 11C for fifteen years and had resisted all attempts by the management to move him onto other routes. The 11C was the gig for him. He was a man with a passion. He knew every inch of the 27 miles, every one of the 68 stops, every turn, every junction and every sleeping policeman. It was a pity the passengers got in the way somewhat, but he supposed they were a necessary evil. And he was not going anti-clockwise, no matter what.

It wasn’t as if he had any personal enmity against the 11A drivers. Ken had spoken to one once for a few minutes before realising, and in fairness he’d seemed almost reasonable. But anti-clockwise was retrograde, against the natural order of things. Some things happen for a reason. On one occasion he’d absent-mindedly missed the terminus at the end of his shift. He couldn’t face driving against the flow of the route, so he’d simple completed another circuit.

The Inspectors hadn’t liked that one bit. What did they know, the philistines?

He glanced at his watch once more. Still three minutes before I can get going once more. He looked out of his window, at the nefarious delights of Acocks Green Laser Quest. This is the life. I am master of all I survey.

BANG BANG BANG BANG!

Oh, this was really too much. Someone was trying to get on. Really, he thought, it’s the passengers that make this job so difficult. Always wanting to get somewhere, that mad dash from A to B. In Ken Hamilton’s mind there was a lot to be said for starting out from A and ending up back there once again, a mere hour and a half later.

BANG BANG BANG BANG!

For God’s sake. This was completely unnecessary. It was putting him off his Daily Express. He had half a mind to drive off, but that would mean arriving at the next stop ahead of the timetable. He wasn’t having that.

With a hiss of hydraulics, the passenger door folded open and made further argument academic. Ken stared madly – he hadn’t even touched the controls. “What’s going on?” he asked out loud.

“Please don’t be concerned, Mr Hamilton,” said the figure, stepping lightly onto the bus. “I am sorry to have inconvenienced you. I need to take you somewhere.”

“What? I’m in the middle of my shift. Don’t be daft. Now, unless you have correct change or a pass I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” He thought it a little odd that he couldn’t make out any features. The youth of today, always in hoodies or some such clothing. Strange, I can’t actually make him out at all. It’s like the light just skips over him. Must get my eyes checked out. He blinked.

“Mr Hamilton, please step out of the cab and follow me. You will understand.”

“I understand,” said the driver. An alarm sounded briefly as he opened the door to his compartment, then silenced as he slammed it shut once more behind him. “Where are we going?”

“I cannot tell you at the moment. But the journey is necessary.”

“We’re not going to have to go anti-clockwise, are we?”

“Probably best that you don’t worry about it, Mr Hamilton.”

The write stuff

I may not have mentioned this before, but I'm a fan of the US TV series The West Wing. And when I say 'fan' I really mean it. I liked this show a lot when it was on. In fact, it's fair to say I loved it. I mean, really loved it. I would quite happily have married this show and had lots of little West Wing babies with it.

I think I've made my position relatively clear.

One of my favourite characters was Sam Seaborn, Deputy Communications Director for the White House. He was great with words - as you'd expect from someone in that position - and was passionate about getting them right. In one episode, he'd been given the ostensibly simple task of writing a birthday message from the President to some middle-ranking government figure - a Deputy Transportation Secretary or some such. It was by all accounts a quick message, but he just couldn't get it right. Over the course of the episode we saw Seaborn - a man used to writing the State of the Nation Address - descending ever further into frustration as he struggles to find the right words for a slightly-glorified birthday card note.

I loved that portrayal because I know exactly how that feels.

The other day I spent best part of an hour struggling over the creation of a 70-word section of text at work. It was a little more important than someone's birthday message, but nevertheless I was having no luck. I had it at 120 words. It said everything that it needed to say. No important points were missed. But it needed to be shorter - the page for which it was intended was tight on space as it was. But I was struggling. I couldn't edit it down without missing some of the piece's vital meaning. I re-read it. I got up and paced around. It just wouldn't work.

Eventually I got it right. But it was painful. It said everything that needed to be said, and I didn't have to reduce it to stupid point size in order to get it to fit. Because that would have been cheating.

But when I sat back and looked at the words, I remembered that it was this part of my job that I enjoyed. I still consider myself lucky that a large part of my paid employment involves writing. No-one - least of all me - is going to claim that the stuff I produce between 9 and 5 is going to change the course of human history. But I like to think of writing as crystallised thoughts. What goes on in your head is put down in words and sentences, preserved for posterity and communicated far and wide. Or, in my case, sent to people who sell mortgages for a living. Look, it pays the bills, OK?

The other thing it reminded me was that I have a manuscript of a novel that I need to dust off and edit so I can show it to other people without dying of embarrassment.

It's like the whole 'tree falling in a forest with no-one to hear it' thing. If a book gets written, but is never read by anyone, does it actually exist?

Time to get the red pen out.

 

My life in sport

Last weekend I went to a film premiere. I know, get me. There wasn't a red carpet, unfortunately. No reporters on the way in asking me what I was wearing. Shame really. I would have loved to been able to answer them with a confident "Jacamo. For men who love pies a little too much."

But anyway. The film. It was the latest release from my friend Chris, who over the last few years has done a number of these friend-sourced movies. I have mentioned them here before. They're great fun, even when filming them involves the possibility of injury. This latest one was a selection of short sketches tacked together for the general amusement of the discerning filmgoer. And Chris was generous enough to let me put one of mine in.

The sketch was based on a silly short story I wrote. And as most of you weren't present at the cinema screening on Saturday, here it is. I'm sorry. I don't know what I was thinking when I wrote it.

                                                                           -o-

Whenever real sports fans are gathered together the same names will crop up. The legends of athletic history. Coe, Ovett, Redgrave. Thompson, Hoy, that one that goes to the toilet in street. These are characters spoken of in hushed tones. And to that list, that panoply of greats, we could so easily have added one more name.

My name.

For I had the ambition. And the vision. Not much in the way of natural ability, or, for that matter, physical fitness. But I was hoping that the ambition-and-vision thing would make up for these glaring omissions.

Because I not only wanted to bring gold back to Blighty; I wanted to introduce the world to a brand new Olympic sport. My name is Phil. And I was going to be the world’s first Sudoku Olympic Gold Medallist.

I was never the most athletic of people, growing up. My idea of strenuous physical exercise involved a game of chess next to an open window. But I thought it unfair that the plaudits only went to those able to work up a sweat. It was my considered opinion that the Olympics should be open to all; not just the grunt-and-jump merchants. And that’s when I had my brainwave.

At first, I’d considered developing Wordsearch as an Olympic event. But then I realised this would be giving an unfair advantage to Chinese competitors. After all, they would already be comfortable with the concept of writing up and down as opposed to side to side. So Sudoku it was.

I embarked on an extensive training session. I would start by learning the numbers. All of the numbers, one to nine. After all, if you’re going to be an expert, you need to start with the fundamental principles. At the same time I got my application in to the International Olympic Committee. Apparently they have to decide on things like this; it’s not as if you can just show up at the stadium with fifteen hundred copies of the Puzzler book and expect to be let in.

My parents were supportive, in the main. “He needs to do this,” my mother said to anyone who would ask. “He needs to achieve. He needs to push boundaries. He needs to win.”

“He needs to get himself a sodding job and stop living in our loft,” my dad would reply from behind the Daily Mail.

Over the months and years my Sudoku skills came on in leaps and bounds. I had a testing regime, practicing for up to twenty hours per day. At my peak condition I was a lean, mean, Sudoku-completing machine. I could do the ‘three lightbulb’ ones in 45 minutes.

But I needed further encouragement. I found out that Sir Steven Redgrave was visiting my town to give a talk on his life and career. I went to see him, and, when he had finished speaking, had a minute or two to explain my plans for greatness.

He had a couple of words for me. I did not understand either of them.

Eventually the momentous occasion arrived when the letter from the IOC arrived. This was it; the continuation of all of my hopes and dreams. A further step along the long and arduous route towards Olympic glory.

I opened it with trembling fingers and read the contents carefully. There were terms I did not fully expect, like ‘colossally inappropriate’ , ‘bringing the Games into disrepute’ and ‘please do not ever write to us again’.

And I’ll tell you something. I’m sure Jesse Owens never had this trouble.

Did you miss me?

I'm sorry. No, really I am. Terribly terribly sorry. I am apologetic in ways that only a seriously-lapsed Catholic can ever be. And I am lapsed, trust me. I don't know my Ave Maria from my Vorsprung Durch Technik.

I'm only too aware that throughout the world people have been anxious. "What's happened to Make Lard History?" they've been asking. "Almost three weeks and no posts whatsoever. What's that all about?"

I wrote 60-odd thousand words last month. This month? Bupkis. Nada. Nowt. Sweet bugger-all. Oh, the irony. One of the things you're supposed to get out of NaBloPoMo is the habit of writing regularly. "Write every day," they say, "and hang the quality control." It's supposed to make you more prolific; if you're getting used to knocking off a few hundred words before breakfast every day, the theory goes, you should be able to carry this on when you're not up against a deadline.

Unfortunately, Real Life is what happens when you're busy making plans.

But I'm back. Earlier this evening a friend asked me to help him with something, which meant logging into my Blogger account. And as I looked at the piles of dust, the cobwebs and dead flies, I thought to myself, "You know, this place used to have some life to it."

So I'm back. Hold onto, um, whatever it is you're supposed to hold onto at times like this.