Saturday 27 April 2013

The Creeping Seawall

Or, Novel II: The Headscratcher

Turns out, feedback for The Life and Loves of Jet Tea has been extremely positive, so I've decided to write another one.  The Creeping Seawall is the title (for now) and I'll say a few things about it.  It is categorically NOT a sequel to Jet Tea, there is an oblique link between the two in the shape of a character who may well be related to one of my first novel's leads, but that's it.  I very much doubt that I've put these characters to bed just yet; there's more to tell there, but it won't be any time soon.
TCS is my first proper attempt at a ghost story.  I've written a few excerpts on this blog, just to develop my ability to creep out the reader, now I think I'm ready to shove my effort into the elite of timeless horror novels.  Research has been well and truly undertaken; I've gone on myriad 'Ghost Walks' all over the country, just to really identify what that chill when faced with the possibly bollocks unknown feels like.  I've read as many of the classics as I could get my hands on; MR James, Dickens, King, Poe, Susan Hill... Jeremy Dyson's recent The Haunted Book was rather handy too.
The novel is something of a stream of consciousness told by the main protagonist; he's a bit of a dick, he's definitely not in tune with the mundane and he says what he thinks on every occasion.  There's a bit of me in him, but he's definitely no Hayden.
The book can also probably considered Part II in my 'Places That are Special to me' Trilogy/Quadrilogy/Quintology/Saga.  It's set on the sleepy Kentish Coast, which is a region I've known all my life and where my mum and brother still live.  For the record, the North London/Highgate chapter of this series is already planned, so I'll have at least three novels to my name before my imagination dries up, although Christ knows how I'm going to tackle Berkshire...
There's not much else I want to reveal right now.  I'm rather proud of the uniqueness of the ghostly threat, I genuinely don't think it's been done before, and the socially-dubious, booze-orientated humour of Jet Tea remains to a degree.  I'll keep you posted.

Oh and in case I forget to remind you between now and the book's eventual release; Please read it at night.

Wednesday 24 April 2013

Evil Dead (2013): A Review



It's no surprise, the excited chill I felt when saying "Two tickets for Evil Dead please" at the cinema on Monday.  Despite being a huge fan of the original Sam Raimi horror classic and its sequels, age forbade me from being there upon its original release.  To be present at and old enough to appreciate a new installment in the geeky franchise is simply a joy.
But that's just being there.  What about the film itself?
Evil Dead is both a remake and, as a familiar old car and a much-anticipated post-credits scene demonstrates, a loose sequel to Raimi's original.  Five young friends travel to a remote cabin in the woods with the intention of helping one of them overcome a severe drug addiction.  Unfortunately, after stumbling upon a sinister old book in an equally sinister old cellar, one of them foolishly unleashes an evil, demonic force that begins to overcome each of them one by one.  Cinema-goers unacquainted with the blisteringly graphic original would raise a skeptical eyebrow at how familiar this premise sounds, and they'd be right in doing so.
A horrific prologue in which a group of demon hunters capture and execute a possessed girl (the girls' father being among the executioners) serves as a promising start to the film, and it doesn't abandon its promise; Evil Dead continually outdoes itself on the gore front, veering constantly between slasher cliche and surprisingly inventive ways of torturing our protagonists that the original trilogy would be proud of.  Many of the demonic set-pieces are among the most delightfully sickening images committed to film in a long while.  Despite this, there is the constant, nagging sense that we've seen it all before, and not just in the parent series.  1981's The Evil Dead has been so influential toward the zombie/slasher sub-genres of horror, the end result is that 2013's effort is at times its own worst enemy.  There are echoes of other films, not least last year's terrific Cabin in the Woods, that prevent Evil Dead from being a truly original horror event.
Also surprisingly, for a film with such a simple premise and small cast of characters, is just how meandering the narrative is.  Aside from a third-act character twist that will no doubt surprise fans of the original, the film never seems completely sure of where it's really going, who the characters are and even what it's building towards. 
The late-to-the-party finale monster is surprisingly underwhelming and a somewhat tired effort, given that they bring nothing to the table that the possessed teens throughout the film haven't already achieved, so the end result is more of the same.  The long-overdue acquisition of the iconic chainsaw will undoubtedly illicit a rousing cheer from long-term fans, but the casual viewer is left in danger of wondering what the purpose of this film is; director Fede Alvarez wears his fondness for the original on his sleeve, but one feels he could have made a better effort of treading the line between nostalgia and originality.
That's not to say Evil Dead is a bad film; far from it.  The characters, while mostly one-dimensional and familiar to the genre, are refreshingly unobnoxious, particularly brother/sister protagonists David and Mia.  The absence of Bruce Campbell's legendary Ash serves to up the horror stakes; there is real peril in the knowledge that he won't be barging through the door, shouting "Groovy" and effortlessly gunning the monsters down any time soon (though he may turn up eventually).  The protagonist has to earn the right to 'be' Ash, and it's going to hurt.  The demonic entity is perhaps scarier than it's ever been, as are the possessed, with makeup that simultaneously pays homage to the original and has shades of The Exorcist.  Jane Levy's Mia is particularly unsettling, especially when taunting her captors from the confines of her basement prison.
Overall, Evil Dead is a mixed blessing; it is doubtful that the wider audience will remember it in years to come, while fans of the original will see it as a nostalgic, unsettling but ultimately pointless chapter in the horror franchise.  

Sunday 21 April 2013

The Nazis also coined rhetoric laws regarding invalid arguments.

Godwin's Law, the purported inevitability that, during a debate someone will eventually bring up Hitler or the Nazis in order to make the point that something isn't good, is always smugly declared when said reference is made, as if to say "Ha, you've just committed a Godwin, your argument is invalid."  But why is it invalid?  Just because a man named Godwin turned these prolific comparisons into a law with his name on it?  I gave up eating meat a couple of weeks ago.  I've stopped ignoring the unethical, mass slaughter of animals purely to satiate my own personal desires.  It's been common knowledge for a while now that a diet including meat is not essential to the body's well-being, so we eat meat purely for pleasure.  Just as we smoke, drink, listen to music etc.  My way of thinking is 'if it's bad, or if I can do without it, it goes.'  Meat, as far as I'm concerned, fits both of those criteria, so it's gone.  If there isn't much incentive to give up things that are bad for us, we tend not to give them up.  That's why people that smoke and snort cocaine give up chocolate for lent.  As meat isn't just damaging to me, it's easier to give up.  Anyway, I'm going off topic.  Do you know who else committed mass slaughter purely for their own personal desires?  The Nazis.  Is my decision to not eat meat now invalid because I've "Committed a Godwin?"  No, of course it isn't.  Therefore it isn't enough to just say something is invalid, the invalidity has to be proven.  Sometimes there are huge gaps in logic when Committing a Godwin, for example a staunch carnivore could tell me that 'Hitler was a vegetarian' or, as I'm an atheist, 'Hitler was an atheist' (although interestingly neither of these were true) and that would be an invalid usage of the trait, because me not eating meat doesn't suddenly turn me into a Roman-worshipping Jew-hater.  But by and large, this is not the case.  In the majority of arguments I've heard, Godwin's law is applied justly.  Once again I find myself returning to that age-old topic that continues to fire me up on this blog and on that addictive blue and white mini blog thing everyone uses; people not thinking.  This has been the theme of my rant about Thatcher's-dead-parties (Would I lambast people for celebrating Hitler's demise, were I alive at the time?), Soldier hero worship (Does that mean the Nazis were heroes?) etc.  This instance is a bit more trivial, but it's obviously grating enough for me to pen a blog about it.  Short answer; next time I bring up Hitler in an argument and somebody calls me out for Committing a Godwin, I shall reply:
"So?"

Wednesday 17 April 2013

Ways in Which Opinions are Like Arseholes

Or, 'I See Where you are coming from, Goatse, but this is what I think.'

The mere exposure of one can outrage
If you side with someone else's, often someone will call you 'Gay'
They are more active when under the influence of alcohol, and less articulate
The more shit you willingly take in, the more shitty they become
Everyone has one, you'd be unable to function as a human being without one
People keep posting them on the internet and despite how much we are disgusted by them, we can't help but look
In certain cultures, displaying them can land you in prison
Using them for anything other than what is considered 'the norm' will raise an eyebrow or two
The overwhelming, media onslaught of those that differ from ours makes the less secure among us question whether ours is right
Expressing them in public can be embarrassing
We pay for magazines just so we can see them, then pretend that we don't
Bottling them up can be harmful
They begin as hereditary, but are fashioned by the environment as we pass through life
If you stick two fingers up to one, expect a violent reaction
Really look into one and you can learn a lot about that person
They are shaped and manipulated by the papers we purchase
A friend's can be really offensive, but if you ignore it the relationship can be sustained
The media has convinced us that we should cover them up
Sit on them for too long and they go numb
It is ill advised to keep them contained when you really need to let them loose
They can disrupt meetings
Expressing them in enclosed, crowded spaces can cause upset
Calling someone 'opinionated' is as offensive as calling them an 'arsehole'
If you keep prodding someone else's, you're probably a dick
If a loved one suddenly expresses one during an intimate moment, it may lead to an awkward conversation
If you dedicate yourself to the science of studying them, your career choice will be mocked
Writing long lists about them is childish and pointless

Ways in which they differ:
Nobody ever says 'thank you for your arsehole'

Saturday 13 April 2013

The Pigeon

Sleep took me, and for a blissful, unfathomable few hours of absent consciousness that was all that could be conceived of the world.  But then I regained regrettable awareness as I reawoke and reeled around glaring at my surroundings.
It was a watery, semi-present stream of images in my bedroom.  I was where I should be but I was elsewhere.  Nonetheless I could identify everything, and something was horribly amiss.
From a terrible, darkened corner something stirred.  The scenery didn't overtly change but the most eerily delicate of manipulations happened among those walls, somehow.  I jolted up with alarm at what I'd not seen, and it appeared, as I frozenly beheld that horrible sight, that something was emerging from it.  Something shapeless, something evil.  Shadow bled out of the corner and infected the dull light of the room as it made its ungodly, silent approach.  It had no face but I knew it could see me.  And I could see it.  I didn't know what to
CRACK
A noise from the opposing corner.  I instinctively flipped over under my duvet; my television had been turned on.  The immense shock of it stole me from my gaze at the horrid thing and even allowed me to momentarily forget it.  There it was, bright and ugly, pulsating its glare and trebly noise at me.  Had Jade turned it on?  It is a habit of hers.  I checked to see if she was awake.
She wasn't there.
Where had she gone?
Had I turned it on?
No.
I felt a terrified grimace form.  Defying my paralysing fear, I swung for the remote control and switched the intrusive thing off.  A low, dull giggle sounded I think from the previous corner.  I looked around; the shadow was still in the room.  But it was a shadow that should have been there, and it ceased to unsettle me.  Nothing was approaching anymore, nothing was gazing malevolently at me from that darkness.  I was certain of
CRACK
That bloody awful TV again.  I would do well to hurl it into the street.  It was on again.  How?  My hand still gripped the remote and where was Jade?  Why was her side of the bed empty?  I'd set to working that out later.  Off went the TV again, at my command.  I huffed and slumped back onto my pillow and closed my eyes.
That dull giggle again.  A shiver abseiled down my spine.  I opened my eyes; a horrid, contorted face; inhuman and animalistic, stared deeply into mine.  It had dead, empty eyes and a murderous grin of a thousand black fangs.  It giggled again and leered into me.
Gasping in terror, I cowered into my pillow.  It laughed again and lunged further at me.  I shut my eyes tightly and turned away.  The TV cracked on again.  A grisly, morbid giggle filled the room.  The blackness I'd force-fed myself was not comforting.  A terrified voice beside me bellowed;
'JOE!  JOE!  OH MY GOD IT'S IN THE ROOM!  OH MY GOD! JOE!'
My eyes sprung open.  Daylight reigned.  The yell was Jade's.  She had returned!  My senses were clear.  A dream!  All of this came to me in a nanosecond.  Now, why was she screaming?
I turned my head to the window; a blur of cold, round eyes, the furious flap of black wings, the indescribable screech of bestial terror; something ever more dreaded than what I dreamt up before had entered my sanctuary and roared bloody terror at me from its winged, demonic form.
I sat up and screamed.  I screamed for so long, I didn't know what to do.  My macabre nightmare was simply a foreshadowing for this infinitely more unimaginable and terrifying ghoul.
My scream lingered on.
The pigeon cooed with fright and continued to flap its wings as a pathetic act of defence.  It scuttled back through the opened window and took flight into the morning sky.
'It's gone' Jade sighed, breathlessly.  'I think it's gone.'
'It's gone' I said.

Monday 8 April 2013

The "Witch" May be Dead but the Monsters Live on.

That was 1939.  I always assumed human morality had achieved a bit more nuance since then.  My mistake.

I awoke today with a hangover and the news that Maggie had passed away.  The sun was shining and my hangover didn't last long at all.  It really was a beautiful day.
But not for the Thatcher household.
My first instinct, being the useless social-media slave that I have no qualms about admitting to being, was to post a status about the news, as did everyone.  For the record, mine read 'Thatcher is dead.  RIP someone else' and you'd be forgiven to assume that I'd quickly hopped on the celebratory bandwagon for my choice of words.  But, despite everything, not least my hatred for class-minded, right-wing politicians, I'm not one to find glee at the passing of anyone, especially an elderly woman suffering from dementia.  My ill-advised, drunken rants about soldiers are proof enough of that.
I was understandably dismayed to learn that many of my friends are cheering and celebrating (and even directly quoting the aforementioned musical number) at this news.  Why is that, exactly?  A hatred of Thatcher is largely based on deliberate class-divide, aggressive military tactics and her strive for a return to Victorian values.  A fondness for any death is not extraneous to those ideals at all.  Thankfully I have friends who, like me, were bemusedly questioning this monstrous response.
Everyone has values, everybody loves to think they sit comfortably within a collective way of thinking, marginal or otherwise.  Few, however, are reflective and meticulous enough to question why they believe what they believe.  Why is this woman's death good news?  Has it undone the things she did to the country before you were born?  Has it made the current state of life in the UK any better?  Go away and think up answers to these questions, think of why on the Flying Spaghetti Monster's green Earth you'll be watching the televised footage of her weeping loved ones with a grin on your stupid, uneducated face.
I wrote 'RIP someone else' because lots of people have died today.  I wasn't alive for the majority of Maggie's reign, although much of her leadership caused ripples that bled into my lifetime.  She had a hand in banning and criminalising some of the films I love; I never received a glass of milk at school (nor did I lose much sleep over that ommission); and Northerners still hate me.  Am I sad that she's dead?  No.  Am I happy?  Of course not.  I'm not a monster.

My hangover has already passed.  What a day!