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A Modern Parable

Faith, Hope and Charity walk into a pub.  Whilst they wait beside the bar to get served, Charity clears her throat and begins;

“Unfortunately I can’t afford to buy this round.  After all I have 16 children and am a homeless, disabled, endangered Orca Whale.  And there is a drought in Grimsby.”  Charity nodded trying to encourage the agreement of the others.

“And well things are a bit tight for me see.  So if you could get the drinks in this time, I will buy them next time.  See I am sure my luck will change.  I am due a big win.  And when I get it, I swear I will look after you.”  Promised Hope.  Faith looked them both up and down, shook her head and got the drinks in.

Faith, Hope and Charity took a seat beside the window.  As they huddled around the table Hope took an enormous swig of her beer.

“It’s alright for you.”  She moaned as she wiped the foam from her chin with the back of her hand.”

“What do you mean?”  Asked Charity.

“At least you have children, at least you can swim, at least you live in Grimsby.” Hope downed the rest of her beer.  “What have I got eh?  Nothing but hope I tell yer!”

“I’m sorry.”  Sniffed Charity as she wiped a tear from her eye.  “Here you go. Sounds like you need it more than me.”  She passed her untouched beer to Hope.

Hope immediately guzzled down the pint in one swift action.  She let out an enormous belch which shook the windows.  Charity continued sniffing miserably, whilst Faith looked deep into her beer.

“And you, you have a great life.”  Barked Hope in a raised voice.  “You and your certainty.  At least you will go to heaven.  What guarantee have I got of an afterlife?  Eh?  All I am left with is miserable bleeding’ hope.”  Hope was standing over Faith, waving a finger around like a conductor directing an orchestra, all the while eyes completely fixed on Faith’s beer.

“Fuck off you fucking arse coveter!”  Whispered Faith angrily, not averting her eyes from her pint for even a second.

Coming Out The Closet

One of the weirdest aspects of trying to be a writer is the moment when a new acquaintance discovers your hidden, dirty secret.  The first thing they usually say is ‘wow, you’ve written a book.  What’s it about?’.  To which I reply ‘the death of a pet, a conspiracy and a period of social disruption.’.  Then there is a pause whilst they try to compute what exactly this means before replying something like ‘so does it have any vampires in it?’.

Perhaps I am mildly exaggerating, nevertheless the point is a valid one.  The moment you tell someone you have written something or you want to be a writer creates a moment of awkward reassessment despite the fact that many moons ago artistic aspirations were admired.  Nowadays it seems that people believe that if you want to write you are either mad or just bat-shit mental.

It is even worse when the thing you have created is not typical of now.  If your novel doesn’t contain wizards with their wands out, or gay vampires or women eating chocolate in their knickers or a lawyer in a race for justice or a policeman in a race for time or some other more acceptable 21st century template for success then you are even harder to understand.

Personally I find these moments extremely embarrassing and stumble through my answers certain of what the people I am speaking to are thinking.  The most amusing thing is that they try awfully hard to be pleasant and almost everyone ends up asking the same question.  “So are you going to try and publish it?”, to which I usually reply “No, I am going to eat it.”.  Bizarrely it never even raises a smile.

The urge to write isn’t dissimiliar to being as mad as a barking cat.  It’s a compulsion which sits inside the body and can flare up at any time.  It grows and shrinks during your lifetime.  I wrote the first draft of my novel, some 75,000 words in less than four months.  It is almost an addiction.  It is part of a person’s character.  If ever you find yourself in this situation, don’t be afraid of this person who is sharing part of their soul with you.  After all, most crazy people aren’t violent.  It’s only their thoughts which are.

The Water In Malta Don’t Taste Like It Ought Ta

I recently spent two weeks on holiday on the island of Malta.  I left with a tan, food poisoning and an overwhelming feeling that Malta’s uniqueness stems from experiencing it rather than its geographic location or natural beauty.

When I arrived in Malta I didn’t know what to expect.  I had absolutely no preconceptions.  I knew that it had been Britifyied, that it was in the Mediterranean and that it was small.  I was surprised to discover that Malta is the biggest island in an archipelago, the most bombed area of land during the Second World War and also the only country to ever receive a George Cross.  Quite possibly the only country in the world to receive a medal from another one.

The Maltese Islands are essentially a clump of rocks both geographically blessed and cursed.  Located in the Mediterranean Sea, they have a warm climate and beautiful blue seas.  Unfortunately their strategic location between North Africa and Europe has led to them being attacked many times through history.  On top of that the lack of natural water means that they have had to develop methods to use seawater whenever possible.

Situated around the islands you can find a number of prehistoric temples bizarrely devoted to fat women.  Historians are at a loss to explain why, which makes it infinitely more interesting.  It was while on a tour of the fore mentioned sites that I learnt that the Maltese Islands, like Britain were once connected to the mainland. In those times Malta was inhabited by elephants and hippos.  When Malta was finally cut off from the mainland these large animals were trapped.  Later remains of these animals showed that over time they had suffered from a form of island evolutionary dwarfism.  The concept being that large animals living in an area so small, over time actually begin to shrink.  This was fascinating for me.  As the concept rattled away in my brain my eyes were drawn to the souvenir shop.  The woman behind the counter was about 5 foot 4.  I resolved that I would keep my eyes open.  A few days later I realized that the people of Malta also appear to be suffering from a form of evolutionary dwarfism as the vast majority of the people we met were really rather short.

A wonderful example of the clash of British and Mediterranean culture can be found in their new bus service.  A few weeks ago a British company called Arriva bought the state owned Bus Company.  Overnight the shaky ancient buses which were as much a part of Maltese folklore as being under siege were gone.  They were swiftly replaced by modern air conditioned buses running a new schedule which fewer drivers.  The buses ran to a strict timetable which was rendered in valid by several factors.  First of all if a bus is full it doesn’t stop at a bus stop. Second a number of these buses are long bendy things.  The Maltese islands contain some of the tightest hills known to man; it was bad enough trying to get up some of them in a minibus.  And thirdly in the first weeks the new drivers didn’t know the routes.  The important and British thing was that they have a system which is vital as we all know its better to have a system which fails than no system as all.  The Mediterranean aspect was that many people would get annoyed by a once working public transport system suddenly not working and more often than not would voice their complaints.  The responses they received included shouting, swearing and in some cases violence.  It was absolute chaos albeit slightly organized chaos.

During my holiday I experience the best and worst of visiting a country which is dependent on tourism.  The worst example of the tourist trap was the Blue Lagoon. Everywhere we went we met sales reps urging us to buy tickets to visit the peaceful tranquility of the Blue Lagoon.  Eventually we relented and bought tickets for a boat trip.  When we arrived there, we were greeted by the sight of about 17 boats and 5 thousand people fighting for a place on a beach which was less than 50 square meters.  Needless to say it was near on impossible to find the peace and tranquility which everyone kept telling us about.  The best example was a random trip to a small town for a ‘Festa’.  It was a celebration of a Saint (in Malta they have about 3 months of these celebrations for different saints in different towns every weekend.) unlike anything I had ever seen before.  It was a five hour show of fireworks, music and drinking; culminating in the most impressive ground firework display I have ever seen in my life.  I felt like I had been transported to Mexico City.  The most impressive thing at all is that in two weeks on Malta I never met a single sales rep who tried to sell me tickets to a ‘Festa’.

Would I recommend visiting Malta?  Yes.  It’s not the place for a beach holiday as most of the beaches are rocky and rough.  There are a few sandy beaches to be found which are lovely.  There are a number of interesting places to visit and many things to do.  As a holiday destination it is probably the most cosmopolitan I have ever visited.  The people are welcoming, the beer is cheap, the sun is hot and the wealth of history is incredible.

Deeper Meanings

With the third draft put to bed I am now engaged in what I hope will be the final draft.  In the meantime I am starting to research agents and publishers and beginning to sketch and outline for a plan of action.  Soon I shall have to write a synopsis.  The idea of trying to summarise 81,000 words with 350-450 words feels me with fear.  Can I do this?  I really don’t know.

The fear inside me is overwhelming.  At the very beginning writing is an intimate process.  It’s just you going on a journey with your imagination.  The moment you decide to try and get your work published is the moment the illusion of privacy dissolves.  The function of your writing changes from being something personal, like a hidden aspect of your personality to some kind of curiosity at an auction.  By sending your work out you are asking people to assess it, put a value on it almost.  This can lead to you dying by the sword.

Anyone with artistic aspirations has their own, personal ambitions.  It is incredibly important to be aware of your goals.  This is something I fail at as my goals are ever changing.  I feel like writing is an addiction to be.  Initially finishing my first draft was satisfaction in my head.  For a short time I felt like a writer as I had written something.  Eventually that was no longer enough.  Now I feel as if I need validation via publishing, despite the fact that the odds are stacked against me.  If I fail I will feel like a failure.

I have no idea whether this is a common phenomenon.  When I was young, I felt different, estranged from humanity.  The reason was that I wanted to write.  The longer the feeling stayed with me the weirder I felt.  It was never something I could tell to people, even after I had got to know them quite well.  In the beginning I couldn’t understand why I treated it like an illness, or a dirty secret.  As a thirty year old man I still find it awkward to admit.  Like an Alcoholic at an AA meeting I tend to just blurt it out and then feel scared.  The fear itself is caused by the fear of judgement.  I am afraid that people will think I am mad, eccentric or just plain stupid.

By pushing on and trying to publish my work I am confronting that fear head on.  There is no escaping it.  To be an artist of any form you must open yourself to judgement.  I am trying to embrace it.  If I am to fail, I would rather die at the tip of a sword than wither away with only fear and ignorance for company.

Phone Hacking – How To Become A Boring Egomaniac

Last Sunday saw the closure of the News Of The World.  After 168 years the newspaper finally shut it’s doors for good after becoming caught up in a scandal which has rocked journalism to it’s very core and created a band of boring twittering arrogant celebrities who have been jostling by all forms of social media for the moral high ground.

Six years ago the News Of The World employed a number of journalists who were complicit in hacking peoples voicemail pins and listening to their messages.  In some cases they were also hacking emails.  The moral tidal wave which eventually destroyed the News Of The World was due to the fact that they had hacked the mobile phone of a young girl who had been murdered.  Undoubtably morally reprehensible behaviour, to even those who have somewhat flexible morals.

Every second another celebrity crawled out of the woodwork to share their disgust over the NOTW scandal.  Each comment more useless than the last.  The end result being that the media steamroller crushed the remnants of the NOTW.  The witchhunt crushed around 200 jobs.  The number of arrests stand at less than 10 percent of those employed at the newspaper.  Not a single member of those employed at the NOTW at the time of its closing has been arrested.  Each of the arrests pertain to ex-staff members who worked at the NOTW six years ago as do each of the allegations.

To be a successful newspaper you must respond and adapt to the wants of your readers.  As long as I can remember the Sunday newspapers were filled with investigative stories.  And pictures of famous women on holiday minus their bikini tops.  There is a reason that a newspaper lasts 168 years and that is that it responded and adapted to the demands of the time.  To some degree the media of our nation represents the people of our nation, otherwise it would never have been so popular.  Why so many people are in denial about this I don’t know?

We live in a time when our government uses the very same practices as the NOTW.  The key difference being that they justify such actions as vital to National Security.  Every day phones are being tapped and hacked.  Emails too.  Private conversations are being recorded.  To feign outrage, and deem such actions as immoral whilst staying silent about around 97% of the governments of the world doing the exact same thing is ridiculous.

In the coming weeks the Sun will move to a 7 day week and attempt to fill the void left by the departure of the NOTW.  The Government will demand inquiries very quietly from the corners of their mouth.  People will forget.  The PR machine will win.  And life will continue in the same pattern as once was.  This is inarguable, like gravity and bread always landing butter side down when you drop it.  What kind of victory will it be then?

The celebrity campaign has cost 200 people their livelihoods.  So far not a single one of those people have been proven to be guilty of a single crime.  Yet many still laud it as a worthy achievement.  A 168 year old newspaper has been crushed into non existence.  In the coming weeks another will emerge to take it’s place.  Targeting the exact same demographic, selling the very same stories of tits and sleaze.  Yet many still champion themselves as slayers of the dragon.  Newspapers may well be subject to tighter restrictions and less freedoms, whilst the governments which sit in judgment continues to hack and tap the phones of their citizens.  What kind of victory is that? A rather hollow one.