It seems that I am to be a finalist in this years Red Planet Prize (it’s quite prestigious, you know).
A month or two back, I submitted a ten-page extract and outline for a one-hour TV drama and a subsequent series. Today I received an email stating:
Congratulations Gerry Hayes!
Your submission “Over Sophie” has been chosen as one of the finalists for this year’s Red Planet Prize. Can you now email your completed script - as soon as possible - to this address, along with your synopsis and details. The script will then be considered by our panel of judges and the winner will be announced in the New Year.
All the best and well done.
Red Planet Pictures Limited
Hurrah for me. Hurrah, hurrah and thrice hurrah. I’m a finalist, selected from a thousand others. Even if I don’t win, that’s pretty cool. Still though, fingers crossed for the win.
So, a ramble up Sorrel Hill, with the brother, the other day. A little less gruelling than our last outing. Cold and a fog blew in for a few minutes but otherwise quite pleasant. A friend of mine told me recently that two years of rain seems to have kept people off the mountains and I believe he’s right. Many of the smaller trails were overgrown and difficult to follow. Larger trails were muddy and boggy - although that’s not really anything unusual in these parts.
I figured out how to mark a route on Google Maps so here’s our Sorrel walk. Beautiful views over the reservoir and into the Wicklow mountains proper. Rather typically, we had both forgotten our cameras so I was stuck with the crappy one on my phone. I won’t bore you with landscapes. Instead, have a skull (they’re oddly common in the mountains). I believe it’s a sheep but my ovine physiology isn’t what it once was.
And, the highlight of any outdoor activity: a brew. Boiling up some water on a little alcohol-stove burner (with improvised windguard to save carrying the whole thing around) for a cuppa. Scalding tea and lovely sarnies with a nice view - who could ask for more.
If you look carefully, you can see my reflection in the teapot. Steady, ladies. Steady.
My daughter owns a weird, decapitated head. Its purpose is to provide a blank canvas for all sorts of girlie make-up application practices. It has played this part for the last year or so and has worn many a combination of maquillage although, as a manly man, I am unsure of the exact classification of these cosmetics.
The head, eerie and frightening enough on a normal day, recently received an application of face paints (the ones used to make kids look like tigers at fairs). Daughter sat happily and carefully applied paints as I rustled up a nice Guinness and beef pie. When she’d finished, she called me over for a look.
Gaah! I mean, that’s beautiful. Wow, she looks great. Well done. I, erm, have to check the dinner.
I backed away slowly, muttering prayers to the god I don’t believe exists.
Brilliant, honey. Now, you clean dolly’s face and call me when it’s done. Not before, ok. When it’s all clean.
With closed eyes, I took a picture on my phone to prove it was real.
I see this in my nightmares.
A very good friend of mine is ‘active’ in the amateur dramatics scene. Over a sweet sherry recently, he suggested that I might write a play and he could present it to his colleagues for their delectation. Never slow on the uptake and with my intense creativity-muscle flexing like those of steroid-gorged body-builders, I immediately pitched him an idea. While obviously fearing the unimaginative plagiarists, I present the idea here in good faith.
I apologise in advance for the use of expletives but I can’t be expected to censor my artistic endeavours. Would you ask Russell Brand or Jonathan Ross to self-bowdlerise?
One last thing, this is a high-brow thought-piece. If you don’t understand what’s going on here, don’t start asking me to explain things. I’m not going to dumb down just to allow the slower members of the class to keep up. For those ahead of the curve, therefore, enjoy:
THE MAN WITH ONE EMPTY HAND
ACT I
SCENE I
Enter naked man smeared randomly with Nutella. He carries a flat-fish of indeterminate species. He stands centre-stage and regards the audience. He holds the fish aloft, revealing it to be a plaice. The plaice has an accusatory expression.
MAN: (SHOUTING) I am a cunt!
Repeat for 45 minutes. Lights down and end of Act I.
INTERVAL
ACT II
SCENE I
As per Act I for another three quarters of an hour, after which the man slowly lowers the fish. He pauses before:
MAN: (QUIETLY) Am I a cunt?
Lights down and curtain.
For those of you who use them, or even know how they work, there are social bookmark links hanging around the bottom of each post now. I don’t use them, but all of the cool kids seem to have them so, you know, peer-pressure and all that.
Please feel free to click at them. I’m sure they must do something.
I’ve tried to make them even darker and moodier than they might normally be in an attempt to keep them unobtrusive. Hopefully it’s worked. If you spot a problem or, if your favourite thing isn’t included, let me know.
Two loads of washing wedged tightly into the machine. Who says men can’t do housework?
In your face, naysayers. I’ve just doubled my productivity. Ha!
I’m off to hoover the dishes.
Is how my brother (who is among his biggest fans) refers to Peter Cushing. Partly because he read it somewhere, but mainly because, at six feet, he can lay claim to the, relatively dubious, distinction of being taller than him.
I can’t affirm the same fandomism (it’s probably a word) as he, but I do like a bit of Cush. Who doesn’t? I was, therefore, much hearted to find him, unexpectedly, on TV tonight. In an episode of The New Avengers called The Eagle’s Nest, there was Pedro, playing a mad German teacher, banging on about reanimating dead frogs and accidentally getting caught up in Nazi, world-domination plots. Brilliant.
Never really been a big New Avengers man. As much as I like Gareth Hunt and his coffee bean shaking, I’m afraid to say that Purdy is no Mrs. Peel.
The Cush certainly helps but I’m Mrs. Peel all the way.
…You can put it down. What’s the big deal?
My four year-old daughter is now giving me grief about leaving the toilet seat up. I can’t poo-poo* her views on it as flippantly as I do Mrs. Jimmy Page’s Trousers.
Bloody women.
*Poo pun not intended.
And down the tangled, boggy glen.
So Monday should have been a reasonable stroll of a couple of kilometers and an easy climb to get back into hiking shape. Park on the Military Road in the middle of the Wicklow Mountains, an easy walk to the top of Fancy Mountain (really, that’s what it’s called - also known as Luggala). Spot of view-looking from the top of the cliffs over Lough Tay and back down. That was the plan.
Couple of issues though.
Firstly, it was foggy. Really, really foggy. Proper pea-souper stuff. As there’s a trail of sorts to the top, I wasn’t too worried. It made for pretty poor viewing once we (the brother and I) got there though. Then, the greenhorn decides that he’d like to take a stroll down to the brook - in the valley to the southwest - and follow that back to the car. Reluctantly, I agreed. This was a mistake.
Now the fog made things difficult, but we were armed with compass and map so that was ok. The map was pretty much redundant as there were no landmarks to be seen but navigation back to the road was the easy part (any bearing roughly northwest would do it). The hard part was clambering over and through the heather and gorse and marsh and bog. Holes abounded - real ankle-breaking terrain. At one point, one of the brother’s legs disappeared down a hole and didn’t stop until his arse hit the ground. Wet boot - nasty. Glad it wasn’t me.
We made very slow progress. Stopped at a giant rock for a brew and a sambo. Then kicked off again. Eventually, we made it back to the road and the car. Tiring day, but at least the brother is unlikely to ever want to leave tarmac again. Looking over our route on the map, I’d estimate we spent three hours covering about five kilometers. Slow going. Good though. I enjoyed it immensely, although the fog didn’t clear in all the time we were there.
Here’s the area on Google Maps. Rough route: Car parked at A. Walked southeast to that lump overlooking the lake. Then a descent southwest before a scramble back northwest again. Not far - just difficult.
