Jimmy Page’s Trousers

As my last month of leave beckons, I will steadily find myself growing more and more angry and despairing. This I know. This I welcome as I wouldn’t wish to return to the spirit-crushing drudgery of Perdition Inc. in a good mood. That would just be asking for trouble.

I have enjoyed my time off enormously and have gained sufficient experience to back up my, already strongly held, belief that the nine-to-five working day is not a healthy state for man. Well, this man anyway. Maybe there are those that fall into it like a comforting embrace and wallow there, contented. Perhaps they wear a slight smile, dribble trailing from one corner, as they go about their working life. Not me. I am destined for greater things and it’s going to be much harder to achieve them while trudging around in a nine-to-five.

Others, however, seem to have different ideas on my imminent greatness. My more attentive reader will remember that I sent a sitcom script, complete with its requisite treatments and the like, to a well-known UK production company. In their wisdom, they have declined to take it further. I’m actually ok with this. You see, I too have wisdom, and I had resolved not to worry excessively should it be rejected. They were my first choice but I am now free to try peddle it to others. Needless to say, I am not being completely sanguine about this rejection however, and have begun sending jiffy-bags full of faeces to said production company on a daily basis (or whenever I can manage it - I am fairly regular though).

A friend in the comedy game has kindly read my scripts and suggested one or two tweaks. As, in the main, these make sense I will make some modifications to my work in the next week or two and try to hawk them elsewhere. I haven’t been sitting on my hands however. I have almost two new scripts for another sitcom idea (what a fecund little bee I am, if you don’t mind the muddled metaphor). I’ll whore these around a few places here in my native land as they’re quite specific to Ireland.

Much of this will have to wait however as I am about to embark on some adventures in DIY. New kitchen arriving early next week. I’ll turn my hand to fitting that as I’m a bit of a Renaissance man. A proper builder bloke will be coming on Monday to knock down the dividing wall between my kitchen and dining room. That job’s one for the big boys but I’ll redeem my DIY pride by laying a new floor (some nice wooden stuff and tiles in the kitchen). Combined with painting, new sockets, tiling and such, I’m going to have my hands full over the next fortnight.

I bet Ben Elton never had to fit his own kitchen, and look what he’s made of himself. Oh, wait…

That’s me, that is. Well, only when it comes to blogging to be fair. I’ve been beavering away at my little sideline work for the last while. I don’t want to go into too much detail for it is specialised enough to threaten my hard-kept anonymity. I have enough reporters and P.I.s trying to figure out the riddle: who is Jimmy Page’s Trousers. No point in giving out clues.

Suffice it to say, demand for one of the many talents to which I can lay claim is picking up and the old word-of-mouth thing seems to be doing its job sufficiently for me to be kept reasonably busy in the practice of that talent.

That, combined with the fact that I have actually continued writing, has meant that I’ve been busy with things, far more important things, besides this blog. Should that upset my loyal, regular readers, who I understand, now number into the double figures at the busy times, I’m deeply sorry. At least until I actually sell a story and make a wodge of cash. Then I won’t give a toss.

I’ve submitted a, erm, submission to a production company. It’s an extract from an episode of the sit-com I’m working on. I am sure I will never hear anything about it again but I figured it was worth a punt. I’ll also whore it around some others but, for now, I’m leaving it at one company as they would be my first choice to work with. That said, if anyone reading this works for a production company, that’s probably the one I mean and, if you haven’t actually got my script, it’s obviously some sort of postal thing. Let me know and I’ll pass it on. All the other production companies are wankers. Really.

I should also state that, as not returning to the hellish drudgery of my day job hinges on my actually selling this thing, I am willing to go a long way to secure that deal. I don’t know if there is a writer’s equivalent of a casting couch but, if so, consider me bent over it. I’ll take a bumming if it means a commission. I’ve been practising relaxing my anal sphincters but, as I believe that the inner one is involuntary, I’m at a loss as to how to manage this. My anus, stubbornly, remains a one-way system.  I’m worried that this will affect the decision of any commissioning editor.  I would ask for advice but I fear the responses.

Were I to believe in a god or supreme being of some kind, the sort of deity that watches over us and controls all around us (except, I understand, for our free will), I would be justified in thinking that said god was taking the piss.

It’s July for Christ’s sake (and yes, I recognise the irony of invoking the name of Christ given my opening paragraph but it’s more of a swearing thing than a religious one). What’s with the weather? I’ve been on my career break for over two months now and the last time I saw the sun for any length of time was out of the window in work. It’s rained for pretty much every day of the last two months. I had dreams of breakfast on my deck. Of expeditions to peculiar places. Of doing some work in the garden. Instead, I sit inside every day, looking at the rain dash off the window-pane, growing paler and paler until, some time in the near future, I’m sure I will resemble one of those weird white animals that live deep in caves and never see daylight. It’s not on.

I understand that even the Tennis has been vastly delayed by the rains. I’m guessing that it’s also been held up as the players sit, crying in their dressing rooms and discussing their Seasonal Affective Disorder with highly-paid sports psychotherapists.

Just a few minutes ago, as it seemed like there might actually be a few hours without rain, I dispensed with some of my house-husbandry duties. Out with the washing. Mmmmmm. Nice line-dried clothes, I thought. I ventured out, blinking nervously, to actual sunlight. Started popping the clothes on the line and, literally, before I was finished it started to rain. I didn’t even get them all on the line before the rain started. If that’s not taking the piss, I don’t know what is.

Give me a break, will you?

.

* I hate Mundy

Right, so I haven’t posted since my last rant a week ago. It’s not like I’ve been sitting around drinking tea all day though. I’ve been a busy boy of late. I said I’d like to do some writing and do some writing I, errm, did.

Have popped out a couple of radio sketches. Just short ones but you’ve got to start somewhere. They’re submitted so I’m crossing my fingers on that one. I am remaining practical however, and am expecting crushing defeat, complete loss of self-confidence and a lot of weeping and hugging my knees.

RockMother and some chums decided, through a red wine haze, to start a ‘Blovel’. This, apparently, is a Blog-Novel and is a sort of participatory novel in which each of the contributors writes a bit and then passes the reins to the next. It’s an interesting idea as, by the time it gets back to your turn, the whole thing is quite likely somewhere entirely different to where you saw it going. The thing seems to have started as a sort of Noiry type of thing. This wouldn’t normally be my cup of tea but I’m looking on that as a good thing as it will give me a chance to flex my writing muscles, weak and feeble though they may be. If you’re in any way interested, you can check it out. I did the second bit, by the way.

Busy little bee that I am I have also been working on a sit-com. I’ve an episode already penned that I’ve secreted in a drawer and will leave there for another week maybe. I’ll then have at it with a red pen and, likely, do some serious rewriting/revising. Second episode is in progress too. I feel it might have some legs and, should any of my, small but faithful, readership work in the televisual milieu, now is your chance to get in on the ground floor. Think of the fame and riches that await us (mostly me in fairness but I’ll mention you in my BAFTA acceptance). Feel free to contact me to discuss enormous advance payments and merchandising rights at pleasedontmakemegobacktomyrealjob@jimmypagestrousers.com.

Now I’m off to have a beer. Despite the fact that I’m on a career break and can, therefore, drink myself senseless any night I wish with no consequences, I still have a special spot in my liver for Fridays.

I have returned from a small holiday on the west coast of this (sometimes) beautiful island of mine. Not literally mine of course. If it were, there would be far fewer people here and those that were here would mainly be pretty girls. I would only allow a small number of males and only those who were astonishingly ugly (far more so than me). They would perform those menial tasks that prove too strenuous for the pretty girls although this doesn’t mean that the girls will have an easy life. They too would work but would do so in hot pants and heels.

Anyway, I digress. I’ve been on holiday for the last week or so. Popped to Westport. Never been, oddly enough, but it’s a very nice place indeed. Some spectacular scenery along the coast there and some nicely impressive mountains. One of these mountains, Croagh Patrick, has some sort of religious significance and one day in July every year, thousands of religious nutters climb the thing as a pilgrimage. The more mentalist of these nutters perform the climb barefoot. There is a little chapel on the top and they have some sort of ceremony before hobbling back down and, no doubt, getting off their faces on pints of Guinness in the nearest pub. I didn’t climb the thing but I can report that it looks high and steep and rocky and that I believe anyone who climbs it barefoot to be in dire need of some more common sense. Crazy religious people.

So anyway, the holiday was as relaxing as any holiday with a two-year old can be, especially one that, although potty trained until recently, has decided to fall off the poo-wagon. Unpleasant underpants abounded. To make matters worse, Baby Trousers has decided that she will sometimes hold the poo in until it becomes, ahem, pressing. At this point, it becomes a bit uncomfortable for her and she expresses that vocally. You haven’t been embarrassed and scared until you’ve tried to manhandle a toddler from a playground she doesn’t wish to leave as she shouts, “my bum is sore, my bum is sore” at the top of her voice.

But, now the holiday is over, it’s back to the grindstone. Did I say grindstone? I mean the doing-whatever-the-hell-I-please-stone, for I am Career Break Boy. How great it is. Since the holiday, I can now find a routine. Bit of reading. Bit of writing (more of which later, perhaps). Bit of bass playing (I’ve played guitar since I was a kid but never really dabbled in bass, a fact that embarrassed me every time a bassist friend handed me his). Bit of surfing. Bit of sitting. This is the life I’m meant to lead. That ‘working’ thing is for the birds. Four more months beckon. Hurrah!

I am not in work. It is Tuesday and I am not in work. I do not need to go to work for five months. How joyous.

It is Day #1 of my career break (as yesterday was a bank holiday, I would have been off anyway and so I’m not counting it). So far today, I have not worked. I have slept until 10AM and have arisen and partaken of a leisurely breakfast of Superquinn’s very tasty smooth white pudding (lumpy bits in pudding are the work of the devil) mashed up on some toast with a little ketchup. I have read some of my book and have done very little else. This afternoon, I am contemplating some sitting and perhaps a magazine, but I don’t want to set any rigid plans.

I made it through my last day of work relatively incident-free. I had a regular monthly meeting scheduled for 9:30 with my boss and some colleagues. I looked disinterested and annoyed all through, as I have for all previous iterations of these meetings. Had a nice long lunch with the few people there that are actually like real people instead of the myriad tossers that occupy the rest of the work population. I handed in my badge and gun to Dolphin Skin and he reminded me that, should I return, my work would be rich and rewarding and would not be the mindless drudgery that has occupied me for the last six months. Then, to my colleagues for fond, if slightly awkward, farewells. There were some hugs and some manly handshakes.

And that was it. So begins the next five months. A new chapter. A glorious, glowing, incandescent chapter, full of hope and smooth white pudding. A stress-free chapter of lie-ons and good books. It’s going to be great.

So where’s the fucking sun gone? Bloody Irish weather.