Pete Doherty Satirical Podcast

I wrote and produced a satirical podcast this morning and posted it on Hold It Up For Ridicule, see My Satire above. I’d been thinking about the careful rock romantic image created for Pete Doherty by the music biz, and I wanted a different angle on the usual miserable treatment Doherty gets in the media. At the moment, it’s unthinkable that as Doherty grows older, the media will push that bohemian image into dangerously safe David Essex territory, but I can see it happening already. As ever, I have to say, this is not an attack on Doherty. I’m holding up the people who make the news for the ridicule they deserve, which is the definition of satire.

Caroline rang to say the VT killer, Cho Seung-Hui, was on a creative writing course. This proved to be not quite true, although he did do scary creative writing. Sadly, his last bit of writing conveyed his thoughts in the clearest, most attention-grabbing language you’re ever likely to see, and no one at VT is laughing at his writing now.

I’m still building my blogroll. Hello to Marissa who sent a great comment on my Friction Fiction Podcast Show on Myspace.

Humans Beings Are a Pretty Good Concept

When I walk to the gym, as I did this morning, I walk along a short stretch of the A350, one of the busiest roads in Britain that cuts through Westbury. There’s a pavement, or sidewalk, and when I’m going uphill, it’s not possible to see the traffic coming up the hill behind although I can hear it. It’s not a good idea, when passing someone walking downhill, to step to the edge of the sidewalk to let them pass. If I did, I’d be very likely to have my head taken off by the wing mirror of one of the many huge trucks passing through.

Fine, but people walking down the hill, although they can see the traffic situation and are able to judge whether it’s safe, tend to go to the edge fearful of the approaching traffic. They prefer to hog the inside, so a battle of wills develops. Taken to its conclusion the battle could end, were it not for common sense and good manners, in a nose-to-nose collision.

So on these occasions, knowing I don’t have eyes in the back of my head, I stay close on one side so the approaching person has to tackle their fears, move out and judge from what they can see coming up the hill whether they can pass. That’s preferable for me. I’d hate to step into the path of what I can’t see coming behind me.

However, on some occasions, such as this morning, there is a person who takes up the whole sidewalk as though I don’t exist. And that makes me think. Do they know I don’t have eyes in the back of my head being human like they are? Are they that within themselves, not realising that we share most of the same features, even though we’re all unique?

If you haven’t read Notes from the Underground by FYODOR DOSTOYEVSKY, do, it’s a great book. I found the full text here. I’m not sure which translation, but it looks good to me.

The protagonist, or paradoxalist, describes how he plans retribution from one small slight he received in a snooker hall by an officer who in the narrator’s view thought highly of himself and little of others. The novel was a great influence on the intellectuals whose stirrings led to the 1917 revolution in Russia and the formation of the Soviet Union. In fact they shaped 20th century modernism all from one fictional account in a novel.

However, fiction or not, Dostoevsky’s psychological portrait is very real. The small slight almost certainly happened and sparked some kind of terrible uncertainty in someone, and Dostoevsky thankfully chose to write it all down. Incidences like my A350 stand off remind me that one small slight could lead to writing like my writing, a whole revolution, and what next, post-post-modernism? So that’s one reason I wrote it down. The other was England’s batting collapse against South-Africa.

Small slights such as these are common place, and easy to deal with and best not dwelt upon. But I dwell because I’m a conceptual writer. We’re in an era where self-awareness is very low. I don’t mean people aren’t aware of themselves and their own needs. They aren’t aware that their self is the same as another’s self. It’s not a lack of empathy, it’s a lack of understanding of the human taken as a whole, as a single entity. It’s as if individuals are so talked down, they don’t even believe they’re part of the human race. And a person who asserts one-upmanship on the sidewalk without realizing it, a subconscious assertion, is failing to understand their small act of war.

By pure coincidence, when I got back, I had a message from Debra Di Blasi about my Friction Fiction podcast show. I spent the afternoon looking at her web site and writings, and found she has interesting ideas about small acts of war too.

Up Late and No Time

Me, Pete and Terry, 3/4 of Beatlejuice on 2005 looking strange singing harmonies on Nowhere Man in Rick’s studio Reading. You can see we’re dead ringer for John, Paul, and George. Happy days.

I woke up late due to some kind of sleep inducing lurg kicking in, and now it seems the day has gone. Well I never had a plan anyway other than dragging myself up the hill to the gym.

I added Wes and Gethan to my blogroll. Please take a look.

And as I was emailing Wes, I wondered whether many people knew about Google Adsense. Some people don’t like it because they can’t control the content of ads that appears on their website which is a good reason not to use it. However, it’s the only ad I know that gives dollars per clicks. Amazon and Linkshare only give dollars for sales. I’m not to allowed to click it myself, as Google police can find out. But give it a click. It’s the kind of exposure Google and the advertisers would want.

Friction Fiction 38, Cars, and the Economy

Today I published the Friction Fiction Podcast Show 38 I recorded on Friday at Libsyn. Here it is on iandsmith.com for downloading or just plain listening. This week I play music from Slumberlords, Ditto, Stanton Delaplane, a great new song from Tommy Mac, and Ashwan. I read two poems from a booklet published by SCAN poets in Reading in 1994, Jit’s Greyhound, and Jit’s Whirlwind. They suited the themes of the music. I also read A34 Poems, from my collection What You Will See published by Gatto. It’s another angle on the environment.

The A34 bypass at Newbury was a nineties battleground that environmentalists lost. Years on, and the bypass hasn’t solved any problems. In fact it’s time to bypass the bypass. My poem is about the economic dependancy on the car that Thatcherism, with its mobilised labour markets (which I was part of), created. Ten years on, and economies depend on cars, ie we’ve built the economy round the car, and we might soon see the disadvantages of doing this in the way a team built around one star might suffer when that star becomes old, lazy and expensive to run.

Today, I went to Reading, so I haven’t done a thing other than publish this, and do a little promotion on Myspace, and delete loads of unwanted mail.

I’m having a big think about my second novel. I’m going to write a 1500 word synopsis instead of writing the novel. This is because motivation to take it on in the way I took on my first novel has gone. I thought of separating it back into its short story components, but I have many short stories published so what’s the point of adding some more? Try something different. So tomorrow, I’ll try to get that synopsis started and see if I can have the energy to complete it.

Welcome Back Friction Fiction Fourth Series

My long satirical piece Margaret Thatcher Speaks at the Gdansk Shipyard, 1988 is now up on Hold It Up For Ridicule. I wanted to do something a lot more thoughtful than usual, and I was inspired by the Gracenesta blog which I don’t even think comes out of the UK. They certainly don’t know what the hell they’re talking about.

This allows me to start writing the first script for series four of Friction Fiction. There’s lots of great music about as usual, and I found plenty to fit in with the theme of my poems from the 90s, which is the usual displacement, and alienation.

I can hear Ireland having a torrid time against the Aussies on TV. Even so, I’m going to press on with Friction Fiction and watch the cricket later on the highlights.

Busy Writing a Long Satirical Piece

It’s probably a parody because at the moment there’s no way of knowing it’s not the real thing. I have time yet to add a satirical element, but at the moment I like the fact that it’s pretty real. I picked up some material from three places, and I’m working it into a long political piece for Hold It Up For Ridicule. I started it yesterday evening, and had lots of attempts before a real idea set in. I had many interruptions. People wanted to look round the house which is for sale, and Microsoft’s Automatic Security Update has left the PC hanging for five minutes after restarts. I posted to a few Support forums. The Microsoft forum has a some discontented people with problems caused by updates, all far worse than my lapyy’s problem.
Anyway, back to work. I wanted to spend time on a longer piece because I did so many short, fairly ordinary pieces, so why not go for a seven pager for a change.

Tony Blair: The Wilderness Years The Novel

Tony “Bono” Blair sets out to be CEO with a top Scottish construction company, McCreedie, and meets a strange woman on his journey.

“I feel you have been called upon. You’re the chosen one.”

He stays in a hotel occupied by American oilmen. He meets the strange woman again, and she warns him to be careful. Two men collect Tony: Aristotle Paterson site manager, and Breeze McKong foreman, whose son Billy drives a truck.

“Site? What site?”

The men are puzzled. They were expecting a construction expert. Tony arrives on the site, and is pushed into a dilapidated shed. He’s going to be testing concrete for a runway.

Tony meets chief engineer, Mr. Freeman, who says Ardrossan International Airport is expanding, but Tony is suspicious about drums of hazardous chemical. He sees a worker crushed, and nobody is concerned.

Paterson takes him to his bed and breakfast. His landlady is Mrs Harris, the strange woman. Tony escapes, but meets an aggressive drunk, Sandy Donaldson. He hears scary metallic noises. He sees Sorensen’s Marine Processor fish canning factory.

“There’s no fish round here, sir. You never see fish going in, sir, but you see the cans coming out, and they’re full of seagull.”

Tony’s path is blocked by a mountain of concrete. The man on the mixer, Jim Baird, removes it for him. But a silent man in a combat jacket blocks his way. Tony charges, nearly hitting Freeman. Worse, the hazardous chemical is just plastisizer for the concrete.

Paterson explains:

“The concrete is weak because the money ran out.”

Jim expands.

“The concrete’s weak because of the plasticiser. Paterson won’t want you finding his concrete’s weak.”

So, Tony writes a diary. He tricks Paterson into signing it, but in the lab, McKong makes all the test cubes. Freeman protests, and forces Tony to make one truthful cube. Cube testing day comes round.

“My theories about the world and bad men and everything were going to be proved correct when my itsy-bitsy cube shows up to be no stronger than John Major Minor’s lower lip.”

Tony looks in the log book while the cubes are being tested.

“July 13th No cubes. McCreedie’s concrete tester deceased.”

Yoiks.

McKong has the results. One cube is disastrously weak.

“I think you’ll find that result’s discarded, sir.”

The computer had scrubbed the only accurate result, because it was too accurate.

Mayhem. The man from the Faroes steals petrol from under Tony’s nose. Jim claims not to have seen him, and advises Tony to say the same, which leads him into a chat with CID. The man from the Faroes is on the run.

At the beach, Tony witnesses illegal fishing, and decides to act on it. He tells Paterson, but Paterson says keep out of it.

McKong sends Tony to the top of a silo to measure cement, but he nearly falls.

“I’m back from the dead. There’s no cement in the silo.”

But they don’t accept it, and send him back. He makes up some number instead, which will have disastrous consequences.

Tony sees white refrigerator lorries, and Sorensen’s men in the storeroom. One of them pulls a gun on him, and he runs to Paterson.

“Don’t creep up on people. It was just a bolt gun. They’re using refrigerated lorries so the plasticiser doesn’t explode.”

But Tony is sceptical. He buys a BMX, and discovers the Kirk. He sees a funeral, but the man from the Faroes wants to settle an old score regarding petrol. Tony heads off, but the man doesn’t follow. He disappears. Tony goes inside the church, and Mrs. Harris’s sister tells him to get out.

But that’s not so bad. Jim takes Tony to a bar, The Blue Bell, to meet Connie Delaney. Sadly, Sandy Donaldson is there with his mates, the fishermen.

Jim then takes Tony to a club, but this time it’s Jim who has to escape when a man wants him to work on some cranes.

They head south, but a queue of white lorries stops them. They return to find McKong beating his son Billy. Tony intervenes with disastrous results for Billy.

At Mrs. Harris’s, Tony meets Americans, Lee and Penny Duran.

“You work at the airport. There was an almighty kafuffle going on July 13th. The cop said it was murder.”

He meets another guest, Mrs. Francis-Prior, who plays piano before going to her room. Later, he hears her leaving.

Lee and Penny agree to help Tony escape, but they never rendezvous. Tony discovers the source of the metallic noises. On the other side of the hill, is Carse Plc.

“The cranes supported a gigantic seated robot that towered over the site like some kind of outmoded old Labour local authority.”

There’s a search on for Mrs. Francis-Prior. Tony thinks he’s found her at the Kirk, but it’s just Connie with Billy. Inside, Tony discovers Jim hiding. He shows Tony his photograph.

“I looked at Jim’s wet-mouthed, boyish gaze.”

Jim’s a former model.

Next day, Paterson and McKong break the news that Jim is dead. Tony vows to find out what happened.

At Mrs. Harris’s, the TV attracts Tony’s attention.

“…the accident happened at the height of the hurricane. The man has not been named and only worked at oilrig manufacturer Carse Plc for two weeks.”

Paterson says nothing, and a man in a suit leaves. Tony assumes he’s a Jehovah’s Witnesses.

“That’s no Jehovah’s Witness, Tony. That square cat is the man from the Civil Aviation Agency, and he’s here to take me off the runway job.”

Sad, but Jim’s replacement arrives on the mixer. They fight when the new man gives Tony a lecture.

“McCreedie don’t want unwanted attention. Someone might notice they always win contracts.”

Tony resorts to military action, and accidentally kills North.

“The Civil Aviation Agency summoned another replacement. Life went on. I got over it.”

Tony shows Freeman the test results.

“So glad you decided to join us in our project to build the new, modern, streamlined runway, Tony.”

Tony sees a body on the beach, but Connie shows him it’s just a plastic manikin. She tells him Billy is trying to escape from his father.

Freeman gives Paterson an ultimatum about the runway, so Tony and Paterson go to the Blue Bell to commiserate.

“Do you remember Mrs. Harris’s sister telling me to get out of the Kirk? Well she was married to a man who worked at Carse. They had a big row, and she was discovered, injured. He was the man from the Faroes, the man who stole the petrol, and now he’s a fisherman. His real name is Christian Sorensen, as in Sorensen Marine Processors.”

The man from the Faroes interrupts Tony. He wants him out, but Paterson protests. Tony rescues him. On the way back to Mrs. Harris’s, they’re picked up for questioning by CID about the disappearance of Mrs. Francis-Prior. Tony tells them everything.

Finally, a letter arrives from the Civil Aviation Agency: McCreedie have been making false offers of employment. Tony has to return home immediately.

“Did nobody tell you? Win some lose some, dude. The Civil Aviation Agency sends its full apologies for this regrettable incident.”

Tony’s at the airport, about to leave, but he remembers his diary, and the incriminating evidence. He goes back for it, and sees two people fighting on the runway, McKong and Freeman.

“Keep out of it, Blair.”

“The show’s over don’t you think, sir?”

Mrs. Harris appears with an apple pie for Tony.

“You’re off without saying goodbye to your old friend, and I’ve a small leaving present for you.”

Mrs. Harris accuses McKong of ruining her sister’s life.

Mr. Ferguson and Paterson appear. Ferguson and Freeman want the runway broken out. It has no cement. Paterson and McKong disagree.

But a man from CID arrives and arrests McKong for the abduction of Mrs. Francis-Prior. McKong reveals that Mrs. Francis-Prior is Billy’s mother, and she wants him back.

“If Tony hadn’t been looking too closely into what didn’t concern him, he wouldn’t have gone into hiding in the first place, and he’d be with me.”

Mrs. Francis-Prior appears, and says that Billy is safe. But Tony remembers Jim. Nobody cared about Jim.

“Concerned for Jim Baird? Be serious. You’re out of touch, Tony.”

McKong unfolds the picture from Jim’s modelling days. He thinks Jim is homosexual, and therefore not worth concern.

“Not that it matters. Money is being pumped into this region, and McCreedie have a slice. That’s why the Civil Aviation Agency wants to take direct control of the runway.”

At that moment, floodlights light the site. Men crawl out looking for Tony’s diary.

“You cost us the contract, Blair.”

McKong strikes the runway with a metal bar. The runway disintegrates.

Tony hears a jet. A plane, the engine screaming reverse thrust, closes in on Tony.

But it’s Lee and Penny Duran’s car.

“We were told you might need a lift, by a man called Brown, Gordie Brown, The Chancellor.”

My novel is available now at Lulu. It’s blogged at Blogster, and it’s downloadable for free. See My Novel.

Friction Fiction 37

Here is the latest Friction Fiction podcast featuring music from Ghost K, Steveless, Meg, Sammy Ault, Valentine, A Singer Must Die and The Hexyl Circle, and poems from my collection What You Will See at Gattopublishing.com.

New Satirical Post

I just posted a satirical news item in Hold It Up For Ridicule, my satirical blog which I hope is funny and balanced. Check out My Satire above. I’ve been seeing and hearing news and web reports all morning about the CBI’s instruction to “target sickies”. Their timing coincides with the first day back to work in a short week after a record breaking warm Easter. No doubt a clever HR consultant told the CBI what anybody could tell them for free, that people take a day off when the weather’s good and the cricket World Cup is on TV, ie a sickie. I wondered about mixing the item with last year’s item about Fat Cat pay, and came up with the instruction to target fat cats. My satire is about holding up for ridicule the people who make the news, in this case the CBI made and timed the news cynically. Many people will equate the cost of sickies to their own low pay. I’m saying what the media could never say. It’s worth going that extra step and asking myself if it could ever be The News. Of course not. It’s pointless to do something that can be said, because that’s not satire. The original item needed some perspective. All the figures are accurate. I would love it if someone calculated the exact cost to British industry of fat cats, and came back to say it’s actually less than the cost of sickies, thus missing the point entirely. I was aware when doing this, that fat cats are no longer this year’s news. Maybe they’ve all gone away now, and boardroom pay is back to normal. Cough, splutter!!

Tony Blair in the Wilderness

Here’s a picture of me at Sandbanks on the south coast last week. The weather was just starting to take shape for a great Easter. But Easter is over, and I just posted another chapter of my satirical comedy thriller, Tony Blair: the Wilderness Years at Blogster. I started it in 2000, I finished it in 2003, and I published it in 2005. Check out My Reviews above, and My Novel.

My life and stuff

( 147 people are following me....thankyou )

Claudia Feitosa-Santana

Insights about Science and Arts

dlightblog

non potete fare affidamento sui vostri occhi se la vostra immaginazione è fuori fuoco (mark twain)

Broken Light: A Photography Collective

We are photographers living with, or affected by, mental illness; supporting each other one photograph at a time. Join our community, submit today!

My Days in Focus

A photographic journal by Dan Miller

BunnyandPorkBelly

life is always sweeter and yummier through a lens. https://www.facebook.com/BunnyandPorkBelly https://twitter.com/BunnyNPorkBelly

Tara Hanks

Author of 'The Mmm Girl' and 'Wicked Baby'

Doli Siregar

Photography

clotildajamcracker

The wacky stories of a crazy lady.

Brad Geagley

Writing Advice and More from the Best Selling Author

Cave Inn

The Xyiwa Poets Run Amok

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 122 other followers