Pick Up Your Dreams

Said pick up your dreams,
And take them with you,
Because if you leave them,
Then it just makes room,
For the inevitable.

Full of your own thoughts,
Of what it might bring you,
Getting ahead soon,
This ones not quite through..

And when you get older,
You realise you know none,
And it will surprise you,
When you say look son,

Just pocket your dreams,
And don’t dare tell them all,
Because once they have seen it,
They’re planning your downfall.

They don’t really mean it,
They’ve just gathered their moss,
And once they have seen it
It reminds them of their loss,

So pick up your dreams,
don’t let them out of your sight,
and don't worry about the times when your downtrodden
They later keep you upright.

When you’re in the darkness,
At the edge of your mind,
Remember winter's just a way of telling us
That we should light a fire inside.

So pick up your dreams,
And take them with you,
No use to leave them,
No need to make room.

Short Script: "67a"

INT.DAY. GEORGE’S FRONT ROOM

An old man in his late seventies is sitting in a scruffy
brown armchair, thick brown curtains block out most of the
light coming through the window and the television
illuminates the room, giving everything a green tinge. The
flat is decorated in the fashions of the 1970s, the
wallpaper, carpet and ceiling are all peeling at the edges
and it is obvious it has been a long time since anybody
decorated. Despite this the flat has a homely, if slightly
ramshackle appeal to it.

NARRATOR V/O

George was a man of simple
pleasures, he liked what he liked
and didn’t what he didn’t. He liked
to watch a bit of sport on the
television. Bowls was his
favourite. He liked the way the
players danced and moved trying to
influence the bowl long after it
had left their hand, futile yet
nonetheless very entertaining. He
liked to have a smoke of his
tobacco. He kept it in the same tin
he’d had since he was a lad of
thirty. It made the tobacco dry out
much quicker than if he’d just left
it in the pouch. George didn’t much
like this but then that’s where
he’d always kept his tobacco so
there was little that could be done
about it. He especially liked
finding unusual matches in his
matchbox and kept them in a special
place next to the tea, coffee and
rainy day jars. He even gave them
little nicknames; though he
wouldn’t like to admit this should
anyone ever ask him. George rarely
ever ventured into his bedroom
anymore. He had shared the room
with his wife and now that she was
gone it didn’t seem right to sleep
there. The bed was far too big and
his feet were prone to getting a
little chilly. Instead he had taken
to sleeping in the downstairs
armchair. George didn’t mind this
too much, he rather enjoyed the
fact that he never had to get out
of bed to have a sit down in his
favourite armchair, a luxury few
others could lay claim to. He was a
man of modest means but was able to
survive very comfortably on his
pension thanks to rent control
keeping the price in the 1970s.
However these were troubled times,
this hadn’t escaped George and his
landlord had been finding more and
more unusual ways of making his own
ends meet.

INT. DAY. GEORGE’S KITCHEN

GEORGE’S LANDLORD is standing in GEORGE’S kitchen waiting
for GEORGE to fetch his rent cheque, while he is out of the
room the LANDLORD takes some teabags out of the pot and puts
them in his pocket, He then pours some coffee granules into
the breast pocket of his shirt. The LANDLORD then goes to
take an apple from GEORGE’S fruit bowl but accidentally
drops it. The apple rolls out of the kitchen, into the hall
way and finally stops against the cupboard under the stairs.
The LANDLORD hurries after it and when bending down to get
it notices the cupboard. Slowly and with a furrowed
quizzical look he opens the cupboard door and peers inside
for a while. The LANDLORD shuts the cupboard door just as
GEORGE is walking into the hall, he looks flustered hands
the apple to GEORGE and leaves with the rent money. GEORGE
looks at the apple for a while, and then walks into the
front room.

INT. DAY. GEORGE’S FRONT ROOM

GEORGE is asleep in his old armchair, his hearing aid is
turned off and he is oblivious to the noise going on around
him. Drilling, sawing and hammering can be heard coming from
the hall just outside of GEORGE’S front room.

INT. DAY. GEORGE’S FRONT ROOM

GEORGE wakes up from his sleep turns his hearing aid back on
and gets out of his chair to go and make a cup of tea. When
he reaches the hall he sees something that makes him stop
suddenly. He stands in the doorway for a while with a
bemused look on his face as if he’s mulling something over
for the first time. He finally lets out a bewildered chuckle
and walks into the kitchen allowing the audience to see for
the first time what it was that stopped him in his tracks.
The cupboard under the stairs now has ‘67a’ emblazoned on it
with brass numbers, a welcome mat and doorbell have also
been attached to the cupboard.

NARRATOR V/O

Now this was indeed a very
intriguing sight and though George
was anxious to meet his neighbour
he understood that a person needs
time to settle in to a new home.
He’d never had any previous trouble
with neighbours and was sure they’d
get on famously, keeping out of
each others way and exchanging
morning pleasantries. Not wanting
his new neighbour to think him a
busybody, he thought it best to
forgo the welcome cards and
greetings casseroles at least until
everyone had had their tea.

INT NIGHT GEORGE’S FRONT ROOM.

GEORGE is asleep in his armchair, with a blanket over his
knees. Drum and bass music and youthful drunken laughter can
be heard coming from the neighbour’s ‘house’, the noise is
extremely loud and it is hard to believe that GEORGE can
sleep so soundly through it. The audience are made aware
that GEORGE has his hearing aid turned off and the music and
laughter suddenly and dramatically reduce in volume to an
almost inaudible muffled noise as if the audience are now
hearing what George can hear.

NARRATOR V/O

It has been quite a few weeks since
George’s neighbour’s arrival and
while they hadn’t met officially,
George could not fault this new
arrangement. George’s neighbour
kept himself to himself during most
days and as such George imagined
his new neighbour was a night
worker, probably a security guard,
nurse or air conditioning engineer.
George tried to keep the noise down
during the days.

INT DAY GEORGE’S HALLWAY. FLASHBACK TO PREVIOUS DAY.

George silently and with pained elaborate movements, creeps
past the front door of 67a, gentle snoring can be heard
coming from inside. Moments later George returns with a cup
of tea, walking in the same elaborate manner.

INT NIGHT GEORGE FRONT ROOM. RETURN TO THE PRESENT.

NARRATOR V/O

George didn’t mind this, after all,
his neighbour had shown him the
same courtesy, keeping himself to
himself and rarely having any
daytime visitors.

Through GEORGE’S doorway a line of teenage boys and girls
can be seen drunkenly making their way through the hall and
into number 67a.

INT DAY GEORGE’S FRONT ROOM

GEORGE wakes up in his chair, carefully folds up his blanket
and places it on the arm of the chair. He slowly wrenches
himself up out of the chair and walks into the kitchen to
make himself a cup of tea.

NARRATOR V/O

Now, George didn’t know it yet but
there was something deeply
unpleasant waiting for him in the
kitchen. Something that would test
his every nerve. A scene so vile
that even the nastiest amongst us
would not wish it upon their worst
enemy.

INT DAY GEORGE’S KITCHEN.

GEORGE fills up his whistle kettle and gently places it on
the hob, everything in the kitchen appears to be normal.
George gets his usual tea cup from the cupboard and places
it on the kitchen table. He turns around to fetch a teabag
from the kitchen shelf and stops suddenly, his mouth falls
open and his eyes bulge with shock. GEORGE’S collection of
unusual matches have all been struck and now lay in a sad,
burnt pile on the kitchen shelf. After staring at the scene
for some time GEORGE jerks his head away from the pile as if
he can no longer bear to look at them. Upon doing this he
notices a trail of burnt out matches that lead across the
kitchen floor to the door of 67a. The whistle kettle is now
boiling ferociously, shaking on the hob and letting out an
almighty whistle.

INT DAY THE FRONT DOOR OF 67A/GEORGE’S HALLWAY

GEORGE hammers loudly on the ‘front door’ with his fist. He
has a wild, angry expression on his face and is slightly
foaming at the corners of his mouth. Needless to say, his
face has gone all red. The front door opens but we cannot
see GEORGE’S neighbour. GEORGE is gesticulating wildly, his
arms flailing in the air. He is shouting at the top of his
voice but we cannot make out what he is saying as his words
are lost under the whistle of the kettle. Finally he gives a
last dramatic gesture, pointing towards the kitchen and
slams the door shut. He then walks into his living room.

INT DAY GEORGE’S FRONT ROOM.

GEORGE slumps down onto his armchair clearly worn out from
his first expression of rage for almost fifty years. He is
catching his breath and appears to be feeling a little
better although still clearly upset. Still trying to catch
his breath he takes out his old tobacco tin and a fresh
pouch of tobacco. He is about to pour the tobacco into the
tin but stops at the last minute. He slowly looks from the
tobacco pouch to the tin and then back again. He takes a
deep, thoughtful breath, discards the tin and rolls a
cigarette straight from the pouch.

INT DAY GEORGE’S KITCHEN

GEORGE walks into the kitchen carrying two shopping bags
full of groceries. He sets them down on the kitchen table
and goes about putting his shopping away.

NARRATOR V/O

Of course George thought about
making a new collection but as
anyone who has ever lost something
dear to them will know, it is never
quite the same the second time
around. And George had spent many
years building up his collection.
Finding unusual matches takes a lot
of time and patience, and at
George’s age, he wasn’t sure if he
had much left of either.

INT DAY GEORGE’S FRONT ROOM

GEORGE walks into his front room and sits down in his
armchair. He notices a parcel, gift wrapped with a silk bow.
He approaches the parcel tentatively, inspecting it for some
time before unfastening the bow. A curious smile slowly
creeps over his face as he turns his head slightly, looking
in the direction of 67a. He lets out a chuckle lifting the
object out of its box and setting it on the table to admire
the gift. Over fifty unusual matches lay mounted upon a two
foot varnished wooden base, each match has its own unique
brass plaque proudly proclaiming the date it was found and
the reason for its uniqueness. GEORGE is obviously touched
by this gift and lets out a hearty chuckle. He reaches for
his tobacco pouch to make a roll up but stops suddenly. He
gets up and walks over to the living room cabinet removes
something and sits back down. The object that he has just
fetched is his old tobacco tin. He pours the tobacco from
the pouch into his tin, after all that is where he always
kept his tobacco.

Short Story: "Paper Round"

I was not much of a first jobber. I can remember getting a paper round when I was about 12 or so, not because I really wanted one or because my parents pushed that I should have one, or even because I could use the money. I think mostly it was because it seemed like the thing to do. It was the con of the day, “Paper boy/girl wanted”, not an hourly wage of course but based on how many papers you dropped. I think I probably stuck it out six weeks or two months…maybe. Probably not even that long. And now I only remember three or four instances from it. I think, and my memory is hazy of the whole affair, that the papers where dropped off in bundles to my house. The leaflets. That was the first hidden chore. They’d drop off papers and you’d put leaflets into each of them. Maybe three bundles. All different leaflets into three or four hundred papers. You got paid for how may papers you dropped. And then there were the dogs. I seem to remember a particularly savage one right at the end of Tudor Gardens, just to the left. Tudor Gardens, an all the more upmarket road, even though it were just a few streets from my house, but it had an air, it had no life, it was peaceful, it was stagnant, it had ornaments and dogs barked ferociously through letter boxes. One friend in particular, well a few friends had paper rounds but they were just things they talked about sometimes at school. I remember staying one night round a friends, up till the early hours, or as early as it can get for a kid, checking the clock, competing and eating sweets. We all went out in the morning and did the paper round with her. I probably thought, yeah I could do this, walk around with friends, push some papers and eat more sweets, or perhaps an older friend had bought us some beer that night. I forget. But of the three things I remember once I’d got my paper round, well Number one. It was the free paper I delivered and so there were houses which had specifically asked not to receive it. About ten or eleven houses in all. Trouble is I could never remember which houses. I could remember vaguely. Was it one hundred and thirty seven or one hundred and seventy three? One hundred and twenty four or one hundred and forty two, thirty four or forty three, fifteen or fifty one and so on and so on. None of the above ever got their paper. It seemed to me that it was better to not give someone something that they may very well not miss than to give someone something that they had specifically asked not to receive. It was therefore a lot safer this way, and though even at this stage I cared little for the job or indeed employment I still had an irrational fear of getting fired. So then that brings us to number two. I remember setting off having done the leaflet filling (no doubt with the help of my mother) to drop these pieces of crap through the letter boxes of people who would doubtless ever read them. It seemed like a perfectly calm afternoon, if a little cloudy and I had already done one road so was now at the very least a third of the way through. Torrential rain isn’t a particular pick me up for any outdoor worker, least of all I imagine, if you are working for pay per paper. Another road down, I was sticking sodden news through angry doors when I saw my dads car, blinking headlights through the all too thick downpour. I can’t remember if we finished the rest of it together. I dare say we did. And I dare say if we did I had both feet and arse and almost teenage head planted firmly in the car while he dashed about and dodged dogs. All I remember was that I was glad to see him and his covered transport. And so the third and final thing I remember about my first dart into employment and independence, well I had no part in it whatsoever. It was the eve of my thirteenth birthday. A party planned by me and hawked around the school, my parents knew just enough so that it was their plan too. A party for mostly friends and our few formative romances, all due to arrive to look scared and awkward yet expectant at each other. And of course I was to be thirteen. Teenage. Not to give a fuck-age. Angry and analysing. My dad did the paper round that night. It didn’t rain, 137 didn’t get their paper, 173 did, It was a pleasant night. I kissed a boy. I stayed up passed two and I didn’t eat any sweets. I was never much of a first jobber. I earnt £11.26 a week. And I don’t think I ever thanked my Mum or Dad.

Dancing

Please,
My dearest, Just adore me.
I'll adore you,
What else will we need.

Because I can't do it all on my own.
And neither can you,
We will both take the lead.

And we'll dance through the same shit as everyone.
Our Mothers and Fathers before.
And when the Night is all said and done.
We'll bribe the band to strike up just once more.

Though sometimes we'll focus on the bad times.
Or our focus is shifted to other sights.
I'll still save you a piece of my mind.
And if I've got yours too then we'll be alright.

Sometimes my mind commits terrible sins.
And my soul can get blackened by other things, Will the deamons reprieve?
But with you it's all in context, the lines and the subtext.
So let both of us lie here and just breathe.

In
Out
In
Out
In
Out
In
Out
In
Out
In

And we'll dance through the same shit as everyone.
We'll dance till our beauties redeemed.
We'll dance through the night, it will bring up the sun.
Then let both of us lie here and breathe.

In
Out
In
Out
In
Out
In.

That's how she goes, she walks on her own,
Singing the songs she picked up before she left home.
Who knows where he is, no one can keep him,
but he makes sure to leave the light on,
So she knows he's in.

They knew that their eyes where the window to their souls,
so they shut the blinds, kept windows closed.
And of all the folk who saw their houses, only a few,
Would be invited inside to the parties they threw.

They'd take glass framed paintings and use them as mirrors,
People looked in scorn, they're just non-believers,
They knew when an artists' inspired beyond wealth,
They're simply creating a version of them self.

That's how they go, they walk on their own.

Teachers wondered what made him stare at the ceiling,
he'd got the feeling they wouldn't want him looking at the ground,
And they always said she's such a student of conviction,
But the truth is she'd worked out different ways to make them proud.

In time they met each other, saw through their smoke and mirrors,
They tapped into the shivers of their spine,
And said "I was never very good at breaking down my walls,
But for you I'll build a door from time to time."

Because thats how they go, they walk on their own,
But she provides falsetto to his baritone,
And who knows where they are, it's not all that far,
Who'd bother to measure in meters the beauty of stars.

load o garbage

I am going to make a documentary in which five overpaid and underfamed celebrities become bin men for the day in order to enlighten the Great British public on what it actually is to be a bin man. They will of course be working with bin men. These Bin men and their opinions will be largely ignored, save for their quips and "toofy grins" at the quirks of their celebrity colleagues. The bin men will doubt the resolution of him/her off the telly and him/her off the telly will ultimately show resolve, but not before breaking down at the realisation that she/he was not "stronger than this" as was previously thought. The celebrities will share a new found respect for bin men across the world.

OR- I could just stop watching rubbish telly.

2010 New Year: New Post

2010 I say to you...keep your gym queues, your nicorette, your guilty livers and starving tums. Creativity will be my New Years resolution, starting with a post on here, I haven't posted anything for ages and while I'd like to say this has been due to too much living out there...in the real world...you see it...that window just behind the telly...this probably isn't the case. 2009 was a pretty good year, with a lot of change and many many good days and nights spent with wonderful friends and ever-supporting families. Highlights of the year include; wild deer watching, Royal warehouse parties, secret lagoon(shh)kite flying, coastal paths and rock scrambling, carnival going, Prince Charles cinema finding, pier photographing, guitar teaching, beach BBQing, Chalkwell park festivaling, polish food and music appreciating, Picnicing in the park, Candle Light visits to Hadleigh Castle and many many more.

I've a good feeling for this year, it has already started wonderfully with the stroke of midnight falling in a beautiful cottage in the middle of the countryside. Friends, open fires, flowing drinks and Jools on the telly. This year I intend to write more scripts, take more photographs (trying to use my ancient SLR a lot more), I want to start painting again also and to keep strumming away writing more songs and playing more gigs. There are so many things I want to do this year and I will not let shyness, apathy or my old friend cynicism get in the way. So 2010 I say to you "why not?" and then hopefully 2011 might be "what's next?"


A View From The End Of 2009