Archive for 2010

04/11/2010

Inherent Tension

Ding!

“Going up?”
“Down.”
(Loser)
(Show-off)

Ding!

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13/08/2010

The Waggle Dance

My story “The Waggle Dance” has been published online at www.twisted-tails.com. It probably tries to cram too much in (which was partly due to trying to meet a word count), but the end always freaks me out when I think of it, particularly the nurse drying the tears. Does that count as a spoiler? Nah. Anyway, have a read.

www.twisted-tails.com

(Update: The site seems to have gone down. Such is the nature of online publishing.)

28/07/2010

Benedict Bloody Cumberbatch

As a first year undergraduate at the University of Manchester, I was flung towards a random collection of strangers and told that I had to share a flat with them for a year. Such is the fate of all those living in halls of residence and, for the most part, it worked out well. Despite being a hugely antisocial person, I got on well with people and in that time made several friendships that have endured over the years. One of the first people I met was a drama student called Boycie (yes, like in Only Fools and Horses), a first year drama student with a worldliness that I found slightly intimidating. He alluded to all sorts of colourful exploits and was the first man I ever met who cleansed, toned and moisturised. We had our differences, but we quickly bonded over a shared love of vodka and B&H.

As the year progressed, Boycie took part in many a student production and the rest of us would hear tales of his new, fabulously bohemian lifestyle. One evening, he told us about a young actor who had the lead in the production of The Front Page running at the Student Union.

“He’s great,” Boycie told us. “Very talented. Quite good looking, but not a pretty-boy. But he’s going to be famous. “

We asked his name and the rest was history.

From that point on, Benedict Cumberbatch became a mythical figure in our household. We knew, logically speaking, that he was probably the same age as us, but somehow the name felt like it belonged to someone older; a grizzled theatrical stalwart who had been around for yonks. We pictured him as half deaf, half mad, absolutely soused and forever dining off anecdotes about treading the boards with dear Larry. And he was always Benedict Bloody Cumberbatch, as in:

“BOYCE? IT’S BENEDICT BLOODY CUMBERBATCH! I’VE GOT TREVOR NUNN WANTING ME TO PLAY ESTRAGON AT THE NATIONAL. I TOLD HIM TO SHOVE IT UP HIS BLOODY ARSE!”

“HELLO? HELLO? IS THAT YOU, BOYCIE? IT’S BENEDICT BLOODY CUMBERBATCH. I’VE GOT PETER AND RICHARD COMING ROUND FOR TEA. I NEED YOU TO BRING ME A MALT LOAF AND A BOTTLE OF ETHER.”

“BENEDICT BLOODY CUMBERBATCH HERE. I CAN’T BE SURE, BUT I THINK I HAVE YOUR TROUSERS.”

And so on. It was nice to while away the hours, imagining this eccentric old ham shouting at all and sundry. Eventually, of course, we went to one of Boycie’s student productions and got to see the man himself. While he was obviously a fantastically talented actor, all of us felt a little disappointed to find out that he was only human, after all.

Now, of course, he’s now doing frightfully well for himself, having been on the telly and in proper films and everything. I can only hope that he has a long and fruitful career, full of incident, applause and no small dollop of bad behaviour. Hopefully, in forty or so years time, I can contrive a reason to speak to him and he, now as addled as he first was in my mind’s eye, can say the words as they were meant to be said:

“TOM? IT’S BENEDICT BLOODY CUMBERBATCH!”

04/05/2010

Classified Ads

21/04/2010

Message To Marta

“Message To Marta” is the featured story in Spike The Cat‘s anthology Adventures in Time and Space, Volume 1.

Available as a print edition and an ebook from www.spikethecat.co.uk. Very chuffed to be chosen and absolutely delighted by the cover, which is the work of Zoe Day.

05/04/2010

Tine

I love InDesign, even if it hates the things I do with it.  Things like this usually go straight to Twitter, but the sequence of Mime – Mine – Tine was too good to pass up.

Photo courtesy of winterofdiscontent, via Creative Commons.

30/03/2010

MINE

‘MINE’ is a small, unfolding story presented in A6 mini-map format.  The reader starts at the front and follows the instructions to go further.

Copies have been left at these locations in London:

Fix, Whitecross St, EC1.

Camden Lock Books, Old Street Underground Station.

Clerkenwell Tales, Exmouth Market, EC1R

Stoke Newington Bookshop, N16.

Artwords Bookshop, Rivington St, EC2.

It’s been released as Creative Commons, meaning people can redistribute as they see fit.

PDFs in a Zip: http://www.megaupload.com/?d=FF5CDFIM

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26/02/2010

Confessions of a Dangerous Mime

That facepaint I gave Pierre is lead-based.

I dumped a load of old newspapers in the back of our rehearsal space, in clear violation of the fire code.

I have given at least three members of my physical theatre group a staph infection from not properly cleaning the stage.

I spent the whole of last year’s Mimos Festival absolutely ripped to the tits on ketamine.

That bit I did at the school, where I pretended to almost drop the kid? Yeah, that wasn’t part of the shtick.  He. Wouldn’t. Stop. Talking.

I often fantasize about what I’d do if I had a time machine. Most of my scenarios involve travelling back to 1910 and killing Marcel Marceau.

I didn’t learn how to improvise at L’École Internationale de Théâtre Jacques Lecoq.  I learned how to improvise in prison.

I got my “man in a box” routine from watching my little brother climb into the tumble dryer when I was eight.

Whenever we warm up by throwing the invisible ball around, I always imagine I’m throwing Celine the severed head of her idiotic boyfriend.

Most of the routines I’ve been working on in the past six months are based around breaking into people’s houses and standing over them while they sleep.

I always tell people that my contributions to the Political Artists’ Picnic are completely nut-and-gluten free.  I have never once checked to make sure this is true.

05/02/2010

Why Not Be A Writer?

Click image for PDF

09/01/2010

Lubya’s Story

Lubya came to the UK from Cechnya, smuggled illegally in a freight container. Like many immigrants from the east, she found herself beholden to those that had brought her here and told that she must work off her debt. She was placed in a massage parlour, where she worked as a prostitute. Horrific enough, one might think, but from here Lubya’s story takes an altogether more sinister turn.

“They told me I wasn’t making enough money,” Lubya tells us, “and in order to get more, they want me to have surgery. I don’t like the idea, am scared about it, but what could I do? At first I thought they wanted me to have boob job, but then they tell me what it is really about. They want to turn me into an animal.”

In this case, Lubya is not speaking metaphorically. For some time, police and academics studying the sex industry have become gradually aware of a new trend in the sex industry – prostitutes transformed into other species by means of surgery. The transformations go beyond simple roleplay or dress-up fetishes and alter the physiology of the women at a core level.

“At first I thought it was a joke, like it was some sort slang word, but then they showed me other girls they had done this to. One of them was an ostrich, another one had been turned into a donkey. I couldn’t believe my eyes, but they tell me that this is what I must do if I want to stay here in the UK.”

Lubya never had a choice. The people she was working for intimidated her and threatened her family. Held hostage in a foreign country, Lubya submitted to the will of her captors and agreed the surgery.

“The place they took me to, it was not a hospital. It was dirty, more like a butcher’s shop than a place of medicine. The man they called doctor looked like a mechanic. He didn’t really talk to me. No-one did. They just looked at me like I was a piece of meat. I suppose that’s all I was.”

The surgery took eight hours. Lubya was conscious for most of it, apart from when the pain became too much to bear and she blacked out. The pain did not end with the surgery. For months afterwards, Lubya suffered the after effects of the haphazard procedure – debilitating pain in her arms, legs and body, severe headaches, nausea and blackouts. None of this, though, compares to the psychological trauma she suffered.

“After the surgery, I was in so much pain that I could hardly move. Even to lift my arm was agony, but I had to see myself in the mirror. I had to know what I had become.”

With the bandages removed from her eyes, Lubya was confronted with a reflection that she did not recognise. Lubya, a petite and attractive young woman, had been transformed into a bear. Her slim, 5’2” frame had been stretched beyond its natural limits and fur had been crudely grafted onto her skin. Her face had been extensively remodelled and she found herself unable to stand on two feet for more than a minute at a time.

“I hated it,” Lubya says now, still visibly shaken by the memory. “Every time I think of that first time, seeing what they had done to me, I want to cry all over again. They robbed me of myself and I hate the fact that I let them do it.”

Eager to capitalise on their investment, Lubya’s handlers gave her little time to recover. Within days she was moved from the massage parlour she had previously worked in to a specialist site outside the city, where transformed prostitutes are available to high-paying clients. These ‘sex zoos’ (Сексуальный зоопарк in Russian) are a growing problem, but no-one seems willing to act against them. One officer who wished to remain anonymous stated that the authorities were well aware of the problem, but that a territorial dispute between agencies meant nothing was done.

“It’s basically an issue of jurisdiction between the police and the RSPCA. Neither of them is wants to do anything about the problem, but they don’t want the other one taking charge, either. It’s a political mess and the real problem carries on unabated.”

Not, however, for Lubya. She escaped her captors and is now undergoing a programme of physical and psychological recovery. Slowly, she is learning to cope with the after effects of her ordeal and is undergoing physical therapy to reverse some of the damage caused by her bizarre and unnecessary surgery.

“I’ll never be the same,” she says now, “but if I only do one thing with the rest of my life, it’s got to be telling my story to the world. There are other women out there, just girls really, who may find themselves in this situation and I won’t let the world ignore them. If I can prevent it happening to others, then it will not have been in vain. I hope that we can end this stupid, barbaric thing. No woman should have to be turned into an animal.”

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