I’ve got this great idea for a story. Well, OK. It was given to me – well, the bones of it anyway – but that doesn’t matter. It’s a great story. A man, a student, decides to pay his way through college by being a sperm donor. So he gives his sperm and gives his sperm. It’s all good. This bloke – we’ll call him Will – is studying to be a doctor. He’s tall and blond, strong and athletic. The sort of bloke who your mother would want you to marry. This guy offers his sperm and it goes to the top of the sperm charts. He’s the perfect physical speciment.
But he’s got a secret, a secret even he doesn’t know. He’s (and here we’ve got to work on it a bit) got a madness, a psychopathic madness – a congenital psychopathic madness.
Anyway, many years – well, maybe 10 – down the line, Susan is having trouble with her daughter Molly. Molly is very bright but she’s got an evil streak, a mean side to her that’s a little bit disturbed. And Susan doesn’t know what to do. She can’t ask her partner because she doesn’t have a partner. She never has had. A few lost loves, the usual catalogue of losers and chancers, nearlys and almosts. When Susan was 31, she met the man of her life, the Big Love. But – and we don’t need to go into the detail here – he was a twat, a lying, cheating, no-good dirty low-down hound dog. He wrecked her life and she swore – she absolutely swore – never to fall for a man again. She’d have a baby.
Anyway, back to the main story. Susan tries all sorts of things and, in the end, she goes to a parent-child therapy class because – obviously, she thinks that it’s all her fault. While she’s there, she meets another woman, like her the mother of a 10 year old girl. They start talking.
Can you guess where this one’s going? OK, let’s spell it out a bit more.
This other woman, her story is remarkably similar to Susans. She’s a lesbian but, that apart, it’s the same. Lost love, disappointment, betrayal. Refuge sought in a baby.
Now you know what’s going to happen. They start talking, realise that they both got pregnant after going to sperm donor centre in Gradham. Now then – you and I know the next question: how many other babies were born between 1980 and 1985?
So OK. That’s the pitch. It’s like a cross between The Boys From Brazil and maybe The Midwitch Cuckoos.
How many are there? Does something happen to them to ‘kick-start’ the inner madness that propels them? Shall we turn them into an army?
Poppy
Wednesday 27 February 2008
The Perfect Job
Today though I’ve been in beautiful downtown Newport. Not even Newport in south Wales where, for sure, there’d be plenty of other room services on offer. No, this was Newport in Essex, a town guaranteed to garner the response “There’s a Newport in Essex?” The NCTJ has its headquarters in Newport, Essex. What does it tell us about the NCTJ that it has its HQ in Newport, Essex? Maybe this: that it operates in the modern world, that it doesn’t have to be in thrall to the London tyranny of see and be seen, that it is confident and independent, that it is so sure of its position it doesn’t have to spend squilions on a flash address to impress. Maybe that’s what it says. To be honest, being a shallow kinda guy, I’d have preferred it if they’d had an office in Soho and I could have sat and been really interested for maybe five hours and then had a bit of a mooch. As it was I went to Newport in Essex and was really interested for maybe five hours and also spent six hours on various trains. “Change at Tottenham Hale”. What the blimmin is that all about?
Don’t know why, but I’ve been listening to the first Siouxsie & The Banshees album. Fantastically nihilistic - “I’m sorry that I hit you but my string snapped, I’m sorry I disturbed your cat nap. But whilst finishing the chores I asked myself ‘What for?’ then something snapped I had a relapse…” - which always ticks a certain box, “Should I throw something at the neighbours, expose myself to strangers…” If I could guarantee they wouldn’t laugh, it might be something to consider.
My job. It’s a curious thing. Sometimes I think it’s great. Give something back, encourage the next generation, after all those cynical journo years of take, take, take.
You didn’t buy any of that? No, probably not. OK, how’s this. A full time job where you get Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday morning and Friday morning off. A full time job where – when you go in – you talk about who is the best drummer in the world, where you pretend to be interested in sport…
“Are you going to the Cup final?” they say to me.
What am I going to say? That actually what I really want to do is the gardening? What’s wrong with that? Do the gardening in the afternoon and listen to it on the radio and then – if it sounded OK – watch the highlights at night. What’s wrong with that? I’d do that, given the choice.
I don’t know. It’s like some great celestial gag. After all those years of hating bloody journalists and what they did and where they worked… I get the perfect job that allows me the time to write a book, that allows me the time and space – and money – not to have to try and be a journalist and what is that dream job? Training bloody journalists. Frankly, it’s the sort of thing I’d do if I were God. Jed Almighty, that sort of thing.
Don’t know why, but I’ve been listening to the first Siouxsie & The Banshees album. Fantastically nihilistic - “I’m sorry that I hit you but my string snapped, I’m sorry I disturbed your cat nap. But whilst finishing the chores I asked myself ‘What for?’ then something snapped I had a relapse…” - which always ticks a certain box, “Should I throw something at the neighbours, expose myself to strangers…” If I could guarantee they wouldn’t laugh, it might be something to consider.
My job. It’s a curious thing. Sometimes I think it’s great. Give something back, encourage the next generation, after all those cynical journo years of take, take, take.
You didn’t buy any of that? No, probably not. OK, how’s this. A full time job where you get Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday morning and Friday morning off. A full time job where – when you go in – you talk about who is the best drummer in the world, where you pretend to be interested in sport…
“Are you going to the Cup final?” they say to me.
What am I going to say? That actually what I really want to do is the gardening? What’s wrong with that? Do the gardening in the afternoon and listen to it on the radio and then – if it sounded OK – watch the highlights at night. What’s wrong with that? I’d do that, given the choice.
I don’t know. It’s like some great celestial gag. After all those years of hating bloody journalists and what they did and where they worked… I get the perfect job that allows me the time to write a book, that allows me the time and space – and money – not to have to try and be a journalist and what is that dream job? Training bloody journalists. Frankly, it’s the sort of thing I’d do if I were God. Jed Almighty, that sort of thing.
It’s all too much
It’s all too much. It’s two weeks since Maxwell went away and he still hasn’t come back. Every morning I wake – it’s a habit, I know – and every morning I look out at the area I euphemistically call Primrose Hill (we used to live in Primrose Hill) and every morning I think about Maxwell and think about the good life he had and the journey from Battersea and the rich tapestry and what it’s like and… and… and it’s all for nothing. Bloody dog’s not there.
It’s been a year for deaths and I hope this is the end. It started with Fluffy. Fluffy was a great bunny. I’ve not got a great deal of experience with rabbits and I don’t know that much, but one thing I do know is this: Fluffy was a great bunny. I’ll tell you a story about Fluffy that will show you just how great a bunny Fluffy was.
This is the story. The story is this. When we got Fluffy we decided that he was “a house rabbit”. No one asked Fluffy, no one told us; we just decided. We’d got Fluffy for LouLou for Christmas 2005, six weeks old, this little bundle of grey fluff. A lop-eared lionhead. We came up smart arse adult names like Starsky or Stew or, I don’t know, but LouLou had that clarity of childhood. LouLou took one look at him and called him ‘Fluffy’. It was, of course, perfect. Anyway, Fluffy lived in LouLou’s room – or more precisely under her bed. It was an unsatisfactory arrangement for everyone. Fluff hid under the bed, made a mess, poo’d everywhere. Ate all the wires and nearly killed me when I inadvertently touched an exposed end. He quickly became a nuisance, something that we never saw but had to clear up after.
We decided that Fluffy the house rabbit had to spread his wings. We decided to put him in the garden during the day and bring him in at night. I was, I’ll readily admit, concerned. The seagulls were huge and predatory, aggressive and not to be messed with. Fluffy was small, furry, not hugely streetwise and might easily have been seen not a Fluffy the Bunny, but as Sunday lunch. (Well, makes a change from bin liners). But we figured that there were sufficient bushes and places to hide… let him take his chances.
Later that first day, I remember looking out of the window and seeing Sammy The Seagull standing about a foot away from Fluffy. About another foot away, maybe in between them, was Fluffy’s food bowl. Fluffy and Sammy were looking straight at each other. Fluffy was standing on his back legs, his little arms raised high, like a smaller, fluffier version of a cartoon boxing kangaroo. Three months old and feisty beyond his years. In front of him, Sammy was looking frankly perplexed. Sammy was prepared to take on most things – seagulls are arch-survivors and not much phases them – but this was something else.
The next time looked out of the window, I saw Fluffy and Sammy standing either side of Fluffy’s food bowl, both of them taking it in turns to have a bite like a polite old couple. Sammy, not a bird to take fools gladly, had also recognised that Fluffy was a great bunny.
We had Nelson come to stay for a week and that was a blessing. Another old, deaf dog getting in the way and wanting to go out and come in and go out and come in and not eat his food but scoff down the cat food. It was amazing how many of Maxwell’s traits Nels had – the little skip before setting off for a walk – but in the end… he went back home and that was that.
Tomorrow we’re off to the RSPCA. Got to really.
It’s been a year for deaths and I hope this is the end. It started with Fluffy. Fluffy was a great bunny. I’ve not got a great deal of experience with rabbits and I don’t know that much, but one thing I do know is this: Fluffy was a great bunny. I’ll tell you a story about Fluffy that will show you just how great a bunny Fluffy was.
This is the story. The story is this. When we got Fluffy we decided that he was “a house rabbit”. No one asked Fluffy, no one told us; we just decided. We’d got Fluffy for LouLou for Christmas 2005, six weeks old, this little bundle of grey fluff. A lop-eared lionhead. We came up smart arse adult names like Starsky or Stew or, I don’t know, but LouLou had that clarity of childhood. LouLou took one look at him and called him ‘Fluffy’. It was, of course, perfect. Anyway, Fluffy lived in LouLou’s room – or more precisely under her bed. It was an unsatisfactory arrangement for everyone. Fluff hid under the bed, made a mess, poo’d everywhere. Ate all the wires and nearly killed me when I inadvertently touched an exposed end. He quickly became a nuisance, something that we never saw but had to clear up after.
We decided that Fluffy the house rabbit had to spread his wings. We decided to put him in the garden during the day and bring him in at night. I was, I’ll readily admit, concerned. The seagulls were huge and predatory, aggressive and not to be messed with. Fluffy was small, furry, not hugely streetwise and might easily have been seen not a Fluffy the Bunny, but as Sunday lunch. (Well, makes a change from bin liners). But we figured that there were sufficient bushes and places to hide… let him take his chances.
Later that first day, I remember looking out of the window and seeing Sammy The Seagull standing about a foot away from Fluffy. About another foot away, maybe in between them, was Fluffy’s food bowl. Fluffy and Sammy were looking straight at each other. Fluffy was standing on his back legs, his little arms raised high, like a smaller, fluffier version of a cartoon boxing kangaroo. Three months old and feisty beyond his years. In front of him, Sammy was looking frankly perplexed. Sammy was prepared to take on most things – seagulls are arch-survivors and not much phases them – but this was something else.
The next time looked out of the window, I saw Fluffy and Sammy standing either side of Fluffy’s food bowl, both of them taking it in turns to have a bite like a polite old couple. Sammy, not a bird to take fools gladly, had also recognised that Fluffy was a great bunny.
We had Nelson come to stay for a week and that was a blessing. Another old, deaf dog getting in the way and wanting to go out and come in and go out and come in and not eat his food but scoff down the cat food. It was amazing how many of Maxwell’s traits Nels had – the little skip before setting off for a walk – but in the end… he went back home and that was that.
Tomorrow we’re off to the RSPCA. Got to really.
Monday 18 February 2008
Monday
I think my brain is falling out. I keep making arrangements with people and then.... getting text messages to say "Where were you? I was in your office..." I don't know.
I blame Maxwell. Blimmin dog. Sitting there, taking up so much space in my head, I'm not sure what to do with him. Nelson's over there, sleeping. Tiger's upstairs, sleeping. Rosie is sitting on the railings, looking down the atrium. Princey probably has his head in a vase somewhere and Maxwell's everywhere.
I went trawling the rescue sites before because, well, I think we should get a dog. I like having dogs around and we've got a fantastic place here for dogs. Don't know how long we'll be here but for now? How many people can offer 25 acres? I don't know. People keep saying to me (us) that it's "too soon to get another one". What a very odd thing to say. Too soon to get another one. What's it mean. Another one? Another Maxwell? How could there be another Maxwell? Maxwell was blimmin Maxwell and if we get another dog, he or she will be them.
So anyway, I came across this: "Wendy is a young cross breed who arrived in an appalling state. She is thought to be under a year old and has had a poor start to her young life. Happily, she is now on the mend and is beginning to show some character."
Wendy. It was like stepping back in time 14 years. I don't think I could do that. It would just be too spooky. But she does look like he looked at that age.
I blame Maxwell. Blimmin dog. Sitting there, taking up so much space in my head, I'm not sure what to do with him. Nelson's over there, sleeping. Tiger's upstairs, sleeping. Rosie is sitting on the railings, looking down the atrium. Princey probably has his head in a vase somewhere and Maxwell's everywhere.
I went trawling the rescue sites before because, well, I think we should get a dog. I like having dogs around and we've got a fantastic place here for dogs. Don't know how long we'll be here but for now? How many people can offer 25 acres? I don't know. People keep saying to me (us) that it's "too soon to get another one". What a very odd thing to say. Too soon to get another one. What's it mean. Another one? Another Maxwell? How could there be another Maxwell? Maxwell was blimmin Maxwell and if we get another dog, he or she will be them.
So anyway, I came across this: "Wendy is a young cross breed who arrived in an appalling state. She is thought to be under a year old and has had a poor start to her young life. Happily, she is now on the mend and is beginning to show some character."
Wendy. It was like stepping back in time 14 years. I don't think I could do that. It would just be too spooky. But she does look like he looked at that age.
Saturday 16 February 2008
Maxwell C Wolf
“Either he grew to be like you or vice versa. I'm not sure which.” There were many messages we received after the news about Maxwell leaked out, but that was the one I liked the best. Maybe because I think it was true.
Maxwell C Wolf died at 2.50pm on Tuesday February 12. I can’t really say that it was a shock because it wasn’t. I can’t really say that it was unexpected because it wasn’t that either. But it was. It’s so difficult. I don’t even know where to begin.
I think it was Woody Allen who said “Only taxes and death are inevitable” but then Gill got a tax rebate for £1,800 and that makes you think. Then, about a week later, I got a tax rebate. £1,400. And that’s when you start to think “Well, maybe”.
Maxwell was a cross breed, but had about 80% German Shepherd knocking around I there – though not, he says pointedly, the sticky up ears – and for him to be alive and kicking at 14 was, in itself, a cheat. The canine equivalent of the taxman giving me and Gill over three grand.
His back legs had largely gone. We were thinking of getting a carpet to cover up the stone tiles because it took him so long to stand up. He was like Bambi on ice, he tried and tried and dragged his legs behind him until they were in position and then… he could go. He’d still drag himself to meet us at the drive as we arrived – though sometimes we had to slow down so as to allow him time to get to us. Sometimes it took him just too long to get to us but we all kinda waited and played the game. It was an important ritual.
I was worried about the coming summer. I had – have – a sneaky feeling that it’s going to be a hot one and I knew that that would be so uncomfortable for the old man. The whole thing was… a concern.
I knew Maxwell was going to die. I’d been building myself up for it. I knew it was going to happen. I’d known for years. I used to talk to him about it. Late at night when everyone else had gone to bed and he’d be lying at the bottom of he stairs I used to lie down next to him and stroke his head and talk to him, sometimes about him dying. We both knew it was going to happen and yet… I am so fucking angry. Why couldn’t he have hung around a bit longer? What difference would it make? Like Topol said, would it spoil some vast eternal plan?
I can’t be sad. Maxwell had the best life he could have had. From Battersea Dogs Home – and God knows where before that – to the vast acreage of Laughton Lodge via West Hampstead, Primrose Hill, Hampstead Heath and Brighton. Whatever way you look at it, it’s not a bad journey. They’re not just nice, comfortable places, they’re happy places. Places Maxwell made happy.
Maxwell C Wolf died at 2.50pm on Tuesday February 12. I can’t really say that it was a shock because it wasn’t. I can’t really say that it was unexpected because it wasn’t that either. But it was. It’s so difficult. I don’t even know where to begin.
I think it was Woody Allen who said “Only taxes and death are inevitable” but then Gill got a tax rebate for £1,800 and that makes you think. Then, about a week later, I got a tax rebate. £1,400. And that’s when you start to think “Well, maybe”.
Maxwell was a cross breed, but had about 80% German Shepherd knocking around I there – though not, he says pointedly, the sticky up ears – and for him to be alive and kicking at 14 was, in itself, a cheat. The canine equivalent of the taxman giving me and Gill over three grand.
His back legs had largely gone. We were thinking of getting a carpet to cover up the stone tiles because it took him so long to stand up. He was like Bambi on ice, he tried and tried and dragged his legs behind him until they were in position and then… he could go. He’d still drag himself to meet us at the drive as we arrived – though sometimes we had to slow down so as to allow him time to get to us. Sometimes it took him just too long to get to us but we all kinda waited and played the game. It was an important ritual.
I was worried about the coming summer. I had – have – a sneaky feeling that it’s going to be a hot one and I knew that that would be so uncomfortable for the old man. The whole thing was… a concern.
I knew Maxwell was going to die. I’d been building myself up for it. I knew it was going to happen. I’d known for years. I used to talk to him about it. Late at night when everyone else had gone to bed and he’d be lying at the bottom of he stairs I used to lie down next to him and stroke his head and talk to him, sometimes about him dying. We both knew it was going to happen and yet… I am so fucking angry. Why couldn’t he have hung around a bit longer? What difference would it make? Like Topol said, would it spoil some vast eternal plan?
I can’t be sad. Maxwell had the best life he could have had. From Battersea Dogs Home – and God knows where before that – to the vast acreage of Laughton Lodge via West Hampstead, Primrose Hill, Hampstead Heath and Brighton. Whatever way you look at it, it’s not a bad journey. They’re not just nice, comfortable places, they’re happy places. Places Maxwell made happy.
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