haters gonna hate – even the shit i be proud of, yeah?


October 2014

degenerated man – pink military stand alone

So Jim Murphy’s celebrating his win as most despised politician in Scotland by throwing his hat in the ring, hoping to be elected to the country’s finest poisoned chalice – the ‘leader’ of the ‘Scottish’ labour party. And he really is the best choice for the job. If any one politician can unite the whole of Scotland (the country, not just labour’s north British branch office) in returning the SNP next year and the year after, it’s this hambone. The latest polls show the SNP taking the whole of Scotland (were there a general election tomorrow) and, after Project Fear’s excesses, there can’t be much more black propaganda left in the world still left to use.
Oh happy days! The Daily Record (which used to be a newspaper, apparently) is backing Murphy right up to the balls. I got paid this morning, so we better stock up on popcorn.
In other good news, I finished my final character dossier yesterday and loaded the whole lot into Scrivener. So today’s officially designated a day of rest before I return to the coalface tomorrow – and the sky explodes on Saturday. So I’m devoting today to a little shopping, a couple of episodes of ‘Torchwood’ and possibly a spot of sexual activity before the long romantic drought that is NaNoWriMo.
I attended the Fife area meetup the other night. It’s a pretty good feeling of personal reinforcement, meeting some of the other crazed and friendless keyboard-loners. And I didny expect a game of ‘pimp my plot’. Everyone wrote a synopsis of their work, then in turn, each of us scanned each and made suggestions. No idea how much use my probing and personal questions were, let a lone my demand that everybody else ends their opus with a big mushroom cloud too, but at least two of the suggestions I got back will be folded into ‘Regular Guy’ somewhere next month.
It’s odd, trying to come up with a synopsis on the spot like that. All I really have is a few characters and a sort-of setting. A bit like how Mike Leigh approaches his work. Except with more jobbies.


sweet gene vincent – ian dury and the blockheads

The death of Alvin Stardust is like another bent nail in the coffin of my youth. He might not be remembered for much, but when I was growing big-boy hair, he was a glam rock Gene Vincent, a Leo Sayer who looked like he could fight.
In other news, vast, morbid crowds of keyboard hooligans are starting to gather in warlike formations on the edges of the NaNoWriMo site, especially on the forums/genres/other on the bizarro, new weird, gritty surrealism thread. They are a peaceable people, for the most part, although given to these annual outbursts of ritualistic prose savagery. Its what separates us from the skinheads, yeah?
Me, Ive completed all but one of my character dossiers, outlined the thing and I’m batch cooking. Every time I make something to eat, I make enough to fill a small car over and above what I need right at that moment. My freezer’s slowly filling up with meals I can just hurl into the microwave and have done with. No slaving over a hot stove for me next month!
No, I’ll be squeezing out two thousand words per day, much like Jack Nicholson in ‘The Shining’. I have a couple of birthdays in November, as well as a sabre-toothed partner whos already insisting I communicate in more than just grunts and sighs this time. For some reason.
And, I’ve completed the final revision of ‘Ladies and gentleman’, which should be out in December, just in time for it to be lost in the ex-mess rush. Im just waiting for the cover now – and that horrible, horrible afternoon when I nuke the book and finalise the formatting.
So, hit me up (kreibebe) over on Youll find me being unusual on the forums/genres/other/bizarro, gritty surrealism and the new weird (or whatever its called this year) thread. Something like that, anyhoo. That and the Fife forum.

shat out of hell – cradle of filth

Visiting Ipswich, I’m struck by the difference in poverty between here and Scotland. The burg itself is about the size of Kirkcaldy, the architecture reminiscent of Chatham in Kent. Long curved streets made of Victorian-era terraced houses leading to the central explosion of consumerama. I spotted an HMV and a Maplin, neither of which exist in Fife. There’s also a pedestrian precinct, implying there’s enough car ownership in the area to have to legislate against carbon monoxide and accidents.
When I think about south East England, I always imagine the black hole that absorbs Scotland’s oil revenue, but counting the empty shops like black and missing teeth, this place hasn’t seen a bawbee of it. Everybody I pass seems worn down, stressed, as if surviving itself is killing them. Colours are dark and dull like they’re waiting for a funeral to turn up and happen to them.
In the café, I’m served by Eastern European girls, thin and serious-faced. Outside the window, the rain comes down grey and diagonal, like cross-hatching in a Howard Chaykin comic.
In the HMV, another surprise. As I enter, I’m walking through full price CDs and DVDs, not bargains as would happen in Scotland. The shop is deserted. I don’t have to say “excuse me” once in the twenty minutes or so I browse. I drift back out into the rain, which has reverted to vertical.
When the skies clear, I explore some of the pubs, accompanied by natives. Southwold Broadside is a particular winner and I don’t think I’ve ever seen Hobgoblin on draught before. I’m told the next night that the deserted pub we play pool in is Dani Filth’s local.
The more I examine Ipswich, the more I notice the bizarre juxtaposition of old and new buildings, as if, when cash injections arrive, old buildings are pushed aside by up-to-the-minute prefabs. The railway station is a prime example. A 50s/60s frame, dotted with the same identikit micro-shops that infest every other station in the UK.

the lap-dance is always better (when the stripper is crying) – bloodhound gang

With the referendum and all, I’ve been writing a lot about politics for what seems like most of the last six months, so as a wee palate cleanser, here’s where the writing’s been going.
This week, I’m working my way through the final polish of the Roger McRoger autobiography I’m working on. This should be out by the end of the year. It’s the first time I’ve ghostwritten anything for anyone, but he seems pleased with what he’s seen so far, so I must be doing something right. Or, he’s too polite to have me whacked or something.
He’s also tasked me with the job of sorting out the cover, since he was so impressed by the ‘1919’ covers. This was during a marathon drinking session (or ‘editorial meeting’) in a strip bar owned by some friends of his a couple of weeks back. Considering I’m the sort of person who goes to fetish clubs and doesn’t look at people, you can no doubt imagine how comfortable I was with that. For the first half dozen pints, anyway. They seemed like really nice people and I hope they were only joking about barring me for life. I didn’t even want a lap-dance and how was I supposed to know she was pregnant, anyway?
I’m also planning next month’s NaNo, a novel about digestion, excrement and plumbing. I’m kreibebe on there. Approach at your own risk.
I had some ideas and assembled them into some sort of an order, then went back and pulled, stretched and crushed it into an outline that made some sort of sense. This is a whole new ballgame for me – a novel with a beginning, a middle and an end. God knows where that’ll end.

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