A Little Something For Christmas

I've recorded a dozen carols.

Don't panic. It's only instruments. You can add the singing yourself. I've recorded some of them reasonably normally and had a bit of fun with the rest.

https://drive.google.com/folderview?id=0B3ly3C2V-fcYd2ZFXzM1aV9meTg&usp=sharing

Before you go, please read this.

I absolutely don't want any money for it. None.

But I would ask that you seriously consider making a donation to charity. Any amount of money that works for you.

If you live in the UK, maybe consider the Disasters Emergency Committee (http://www.dec.org.uk/). Elsewhere, find a cause that you feel passionately about.

(I'm not reserving any rights to these recordings so feel free to copy, share, remix, add instruments, whatever works for you. But please include the 'readme.txt' file if you share a copy, rather than just the link.)

Merry Christmas.

I'm sure it used to be funny... and other dreary complaints

I had no intention of referencing the wonderful Bill Bailey twice in two days. But then he wrote Why a Monty Python reunion is sure to be worth watching in today's newspaper.

Don't panic! I don't disagree with him. I'm not going to criticise him or them - or anyone else for that matter.

(I tried that once before - and it's not that it didn't end well, it's more that it was an interesting experiment, and I meant everything I wrote, but I'm not going back to that genre today.)

What do I think of Monty Python?

Who cares? It doesn't matter.

But the simple fact is that I was far too young to enjoy their programmes first time around. (Technically I wasn't even born when they started but I think that's included in 'far too young'.)

So I first watched their material on the umpteenth repeat. It wasn't new or fresh. I knew I was expected to find it funny and strange and original and breathtaking and freewheeling and so on. Sure, I didn't know the lines and the jokes and the punchlines (where provided) - but I knew to expect almost anything and so, when almost anything happened, it didn't feel unexpected.

That's not their fault. Clearly they were brilliant. I truly hope they still are. But I missed the chance to watch their shows when no one had any idea what was about to happen.

And, for that reason, they don't hold that special place in my laughter organ (whichever one that is - spleen?). No - Bill Bailey is in there. And Eddie Izzard. And Harry Hill. And Jo Brand. And Steve Coogan. I could go on.

Discovery

Bill and Eddie and Harry and Jo and Steve - these are the people that I saw when I first started watching live comedy in little upstairs rooms above pubs or smoky filthy basements below pubs or in rooms temporarily loaned out by the strip club that owned the building.

I didn't discover them (of course) - but I did discover I liked them, for myself, without being told by the huge crushing weight of acceptable public opinion that they were definitely to be liked.

I don't have memories of laughing at a late-night rerun of Monty Python on BBC2. But (I hope) I'll never forget the night that the headline comedian (whoever he was) failed to turn up and so Eddie Izzard, the compere, filled in with an extended set to close the show.

It might be all over YouTube now and almost memorised by some of the fans - but that night I heard his 'brought up by wolves' story for the first time and the tears were streaming and the muscles around my diaphragm were aching from pure, uncontrollable, wonderful laughter.

(No, it wasn't just me. Everyone was laughing that much. And it could also have been the night that Noel James set his hair on fire.)

And I couldn't even see Bill Bailey in a tiny, tiny room up a narrow staircase in a Soho pub when I first heard him sing 'The Leg Of Time'. It was standing room only and I wasn't as tall as the numerous (and probably fire-hazardous) crowd in front of me. So I didn't understand the laugh he got from his Dougal impression. But I remember the night and the show and the laughter.

This is the song, as recorded for his BBC2 series 'Is It Bill Bailey?'- still shockingly unavailable on DVD, despite my mentioning it yesterday.

Nostalgia

I admit it.

Original material

I can't criticise the new Monty Python project because I don't know what it's going to be and I probably won't want to criticise it once they announce it. (But I'm getting this blog post in now, beforehand, just in case.)

But, personally, I'm not in the right age bracket to go for a greatest-hits massive-arena tour. The thought of being in the middle of a crowd trying to simulcast Palin through the dead parrot sketch won't have me furiously refreshing my browser at 9am on whichever morning the tickets go on sale.

New material, in a venue where you can actually see the whites of their eyes - now that would be enticing. Then again, there are many, many comedians I'd see under those circumstances. Like Bill. But then, I did discover him*.

(* - see above. In case you've skim-read your way down here, I'm not claiming any particular skill or to have been involved in his success in any way except that I was one of the people who paid to see him and encouraged him by laughing like an idiot.)

Bananas with Bill, Barry and Raby

This is a true story about the utter joy in finding something unexpected, in a place that you know so very well and which, despite expectations, has concealed a secret over the decades.

But, since it is N's birthday, let's start a little earlier this morning. On the way to school, she was teaching us how to make bananas. This is a complex process, involving pre-heating your imaginary oven to precisely 304 (don't ask me which scale), gathering leaves (imaginary, and of various colours), beating them into a mould (I'm going to stop saying 'imaginary' now) with a variety of implements (wooden platter, sharp knife, etc), adding some gravel and weeds and then baking the whole thing for precisely ten seconds.

You might think this explains why she doesn't eat bananas whereas, in fact, the truth is far worse.

Let's back up a little further.

Raby

Many years ago, before N was even born, there was a sign. No, not that sort of sign.

There was a sign by the library in the Barbican inviting people to speak to a careers advisor called Raby Clingbine. Frankly, I didn't believe that name. Google doesn't seem to believe in it either. Hot news! Google has found the elusive person part-way down this webpage. (Yes, I appreciate that it's dated 2008 but I haven't been looking on a daily basis.)

Anyway, not thinking for a moment that it could be a real person - especially as the sign had gone by the next time I visited, making me wonder whether I'd imagined the whole thing, the name became the first choice when trying to put a random name onto a random person. (Everyone does this, right?)

So we had a little song, about a character (called Raby Clingbine) who ate a banana, which caused his ears to fall off and a variety of other complaints. The punchline was about bananas being made of leather. It made sense at the time.

The whole thing was sung in a demented-rumba style, complete with ching-chika-chika-CHING and chromatic bass riffs joining the lines and so on. A bit like this (from about thirty seconds, if you're short on time):

...but, clearly, with wholly original melody and lyrics.

Bill

We now need to go back (or forward - look it up if you're bothered) to Bill Bailey's wonderfully excellent BBC series entitled, one hopes rhetorically, "Is It Bill Bailey?". I believe it was.

(I also believe that it's a crime against comedy (and against his income) that people are still being deprived of the opportunity to buy a copy of the whole series on DVD, so the only winners are Google for selling advertising space alongside the many clips on YouTube.)

So, while exploring the contribution that cockneys have made to popular music, Bill considers the use of the classic turn-around, the 'have a banana'. And now you can give some clicks to Google:

Time permitting, I'll remove this sentence and tell you whereabouts in the clip you can fast-forward to if you're short on time.

He doesn't explain the origin of the 'have a banana' motif but does successfully discover it in all sorts of unexpected places. Speaking of which...

Barry

My parents own a copy of the vinyl album Manilow Magic, a veritable smorgasbord of thumping great Barry tunes which was part of the soundtrack of my early (and maybe mid) childhood. If this link still works, you can pick it up for a pound (plus £1.26 shipping).

We played that record a lot. Especially Copacabana which, although it's a tragic story of murder, alcoholism and wasted lives, is a groovingly splendid melange of disco, latin percussion and wailing backing singers.

I thought I knew the song thoroughly. I was wrong.

And so, this morning, at 8.45am, walking back from school, my MP3-playing phone scooped around its storage for random content and, wonderfully, produced Copacabana. And, at 8.48am, I heard this:

Yes, in the middle of the disco-tragedy-instrumental-wailing middle section, Barry got a bunch of singers (who probably knew better) to sing 'Have a banana'.

And this morning it literally (not literally meaning metaphorically - the real, classic 'literally' meaning, well, literally) made me stop in my tracks. I didn't quite punch the air but it was a close-run thing.

In conclusion

Look through the places and objects that you think you know well - for they contain many surprises that you may find quite delightful.


P.S. Legal disclaimer

If my appropriating fifteen seconds of Copacabana is deemed to constitute intellectual property theft, then I will, of course, be happy to take down the offending item. In mitigation, it will not satisfy anyone searching for the song and they would probably be drawn to the Amazon listing and therefore purchase the item. (I know, it's second-hand so only the seller will make anything from the whole sorry business but you can't have everything.)

P.P.S. Those aren't pyramids

They're the roofs of various blocks of flats. I couldn't figure out how to insert audio so I added a photo I'd taken and called it a video.

P.P.P.S. Join my mailing list

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How to fix everything

Yesterday, the head of MI6 (Britain's spying organisation), told a government enquiry that Edward Snowden's leaking of information about their spying capabilities now meant that:

"our adversaries are rubbing their hands with glee"

...while no doubt laughing an evil pantomime-style laugh and stroking their evil pointy beards (if that is possible while rubbing hands with glee).

It is difficult to argue with the contention that telling enemies about your spying capabilities makes it harder to spy on them because they'll stop doing some of the stuff they know you can monitor.

But why do we have so many adversaries in the first place?

Be nice to people

Imagine the scene in the playground. Big kid is hitting small kid. Occasionally he stops. Small kid then stabs big kid in the leg with point of his compass. Big kid adopts air of outrage and hits small kid again. Repeat ad nauseam.

Teacher steps in. "What do you think you're doing?" roars teacher. "It's him!" shouts the big kid, tearfully. "No matter how often I punch him in the face, he keeps stabbing me with his compass."

And, from the big kid's perspective, and the perspective of his friends, he's absolutely right and he'll keep on punching the small kid until he relents, hands over his lunch money and the status quo can be restored.

But when you're talking about global politics, maybe we could expect to look at it from the teacher's perspective instead.

How about, for every million pounds currently spent on bombing the hell out of people (even if they're evil - let's give 'our guys' the benefit of the doubt and assume some of the those killed really are bad guys), we instead spend half a million pounds giving them food, medical equipment and supplies, construction equipment, educational materials, etc, etc. Make sure it's all marked "A GIFT FROM YOUR FRIENDS IN THE UK".

And spend the other half million on domestic charities, just to keep the electorate happy.

We could try it for a bit. If it doesn't work, keep on doing it. If it gets stolen or destroyed or lost, keep on doing it. Something will get through eventually. Maybe spend two-thirds of a million and see if that's any better.

And before telling me that I'm hopelessly naive and that it wouldn't work, please try to produce at least one example of an occasion when it was tried.

This story would be better if I could use real names

Another week, another literary agency sends me a lovely and friendly but ultimately soul-destroying rejection. Yeah, I know, authors need to have thick skins and it's not you it's me and it's just personal taste and someone else might and there's a lot of good and we cannot enter into any further correspondence goodbye.

This one was a bit special. I'd read about this agency and thought it was the right one for me. I haven't contacted any of them in a few years because I thought it would be better to spend the time writing, rather than reformatting to some agent's personal preference and printing and packaging and taking it to the Post Office to queue and weigh and pay. I thought it was better to do some writing than to spend six to eight weeks (months?) waiting to hear back from the latest gatekeeper of the publishing citadel.

(I thought that might be too bitter so I struck through the last seven words. But I left them for those who would just nod and smile rather than think badly of me.)

So, I thought this one would actually be the one. And I was wrong. Maybe next time.

But I thought sending out a rejection email at 10pm on a Saturday was a bit unnecessary. Even a friendly one.

Here's a bit of it. Any identifying features removed. There was more - so if it seems brief that's my fault for trimming.

Part of the reason that I've taken a while is that I do keep coming back to your work, but I'm afraid that therein lies the problem:  I am finding it too easy to put it down in the first place.  You write very well, but I'm just not hooked, so I'm sorry to say that  I can't offer representation...[I removed plenty from here] ...I'm also really sorry that I just don't have the time to enter into correspondence about what's not working for me, but I do wish you the very best of luck.

This wasn't meant as catharsis, but I couldn't resist sending something back the next morning. Here's part of it:

I understand enough about the work of a literary agent to appreciate that you can't work with anything you're not passionate about... [content removed]
Personally, I find it ridiculous (if slightly amusing from a schadenfreude perspective) to read ... accounts of agents and publishers who turned down Harry Potter (or Fred Astaire or the Beatles or...). They're always written as though someone turned down a successful seven-book, eight-film, toy-range conglomerate - rather than an early draft of a single book about kids with magic going to school. No, I don't think I've written the next Harry Potter.
And I also discovered that you represent [famous writer that I really like]. I always wondered if I could get a copy of They All Die At The End to [him/her] - for some reason I thought it might appeal to [him/her] and that it would be a reciprocation for how much I've enjoyed [his/her] work over the years. I've never tried to do anything about getting [him/her] a copy before today. So, if [he/she] would like to read it (absolutely no strings attached, naturally), I would be happy to send [him/her] a copy - just let me know where to send it.
... [content removed]...

P.S. If I can be permitted one tiny critical comment... No one wants to read a rejection at 10pm on a Saturday night. I'd batch them up and send them all out first thing Monday morning. 

Maybe the P.S. was cheeky but I really thought I should flag it up in proactive defence of the next guy. Honestly. Not sour grapes - public service.

Turns out it was my fault for reading it on a Saturday night. Here's the reply:

Hope you don't object to a Sunday morning response! ... I guess we should all keep off screens at weekends.
I don't send unrequested books to [famous writer] as [he/she] gets so much I'm afraid...

Ben Folds wrote a song called Free Coffee ("And when I was broke, I needed it more, But now that I'm rich, They give me coffee") - so it's not just successful writers struggling with the problem of free merchandise. Although in Ben's case he can just drink the coffee and is unlikely to have it thrust into his hand wherever he goes - presumably [famous author] doesn't want the hassle of disposing of unwanted books which could well have been made with cheap glue in the binding, thereby making them impossible to recycle. Like these ones.

Another author told me about the problem of unsolicited books turning up in the post. And John Crace wrote a great article with advice for aspiring authors, including the salient point that agents and publishers really don't care what he thinks about a book - they'll make their own decision. At least, that's how I remember it. I can't find the article now but I did find this which is also good.

No sympathy required, dear reader. I am back on the horse and the next agent is, I'm sure, even as I type, even as you read, repeatedly picking up and putting down (or vice versa) my books.

***

If you've got this far, you'll forgive (won't you?) my adding that my four (count 'em!) books are available as paperbacks and would make excellent Christmas presents.

If you buy them direct from me, I'll even sign them and, if you like, write the dedication of your choice (as long as it's neither rude nor lengthy).

The creative process (that's a terrible title, with any luck I'll think up a better one and replace it)

Last night, in a small basement room under a bar in Stoke Newington (or The Waiting Room, to use its proper name), I saw three bands.

While that's technically true, the second and third had the same people. They swapped positions a little (lead vocal became backing vocal and vice versa) and sang a different style of song. Oh, and they had the same bass player as the first band.

I haven't seen anything like that since The Folksmen supported Spinal Tap at Wembley Arena. (The similarity begins and ends with the versatility. I'm not comparing performance, musicianship, song-writing. Obviously.)

I don't intend to review the performances - other than to say that I thought they were utterly beguiling and excellent. I'd love people to buy Devon Sproule's records because I think they'd enjoy them and it would encourage her to record more and tour more often.

And, for the first time in my life, I was on the guest list. It would have been well worth paying but there's that extra frisson of excitement (bear with me) at just dropping your name and walking in. (It was a perk for backing her Kickstarter project, which also led to a highly infectious new album.)

I am, of course, being highly unfair to Bernice and Batsch - the other two bands last night - by not naming them until the sixth paragraph. But this isn't a review piece.

It occurred to me that, every night, in basement rooms up and down the country (and around the world), excellent music is being played that would appeal to vast numbers of people if only they knew it was there.

And that, after all the creation that goes into writing the songs, rehearsing them till they click and flow and glide, recording them and mixing them - and after the administrative nightmare that must be the touring process - there's no way of making sure that everyone who would love to hear the songs will ever hear them.

This is no one's fault. Of course. I'm not suggesting that if [insert name of band I don't like] ceased to exist then all their marketing budget could be better spent on [insert name of band I do like]. My taste is no better than anyone else's. Well, it's better for predicting what I'm going to enjoy - but that's about it.

I'll leave you to draw the parallel to the world of publishing.

***

It also reminded me of the band I used to play in, all those years ago. No, we never recorded. No, we never toured. It was a pre-mid-life-crisis band playing to friends and family in tiny rooms above, below or beside pubs. And on a boat once - yes, that was surprising for me too.

We had fun (sometimes), made a loud noise (many times) and never stopped the audience from talking very loudly all the way through our set. Eventually it collapsed - many reasons - there were too many who thought they were the lead including, bizarrely, the singer. And our lead guitarist finally emigrated, thereby putting a few thousand miles between himself and the rest of us.

I didn't look at the bands last night and wonder about what could have been. I know what could have been. We could have carried on playing two or three gigs each year to the same group - which would gradually have thinned out as the demands of arranging babysitting, the exhaustion of working (yeah, all that typing, preparing powerpoint presentations and studying Gantt charts can really take it out of you) and having better things to do finally took their toll.

Instead, I looked at the bands last night, loved the music and felt nostalgia (the good sort, the wistful sort, the sort that gives you a warm glow from gut to shoulder blades) slap me about a bit.

No conclusion to this meander - but it's making me smile.

A sequel

Rather surprisingly (to me, if no one else), I've decided it's time to write the sequel to Timestand.

And, before you say it, people have asked when it's going to come out. Really they have. Clearly I can't answer that question but at least I've started writing the book which is a step in the right direction (and other cliches).

Unless I change things, I've decided to let Tim tell this story himself. It's all going to be written in the first person and, as far as possible, in the present tense. Because when you're mucking about with the timeline as much as I intend to, I think it's only fair to give the reader something to hold onto.

The broad outline is in my mind. The rest I'll make up as I go along. Then I'll iron it all smooth and fix anything that doesn't join together properly. It sounds easy when I describe it like that.

Extracts and preview chapters may appear online if I feel like it. Here's a taster:

“That’s not how I reacted when I was you,” he says.

And one final postscript before changing the subject

The post before last gained a very wide readership, sparked some discussions and resulted in my writing a follow-up. I think the subject is now closed.

But I couldn't resist one tiny final postscript.

The subject of that post is only four degrees of separation from me.

And those are proper links - people who know each other, share phone numbers, could call without it being odd or stalkerish.

(But no, I'm not going to say who those links are. Sorry. But believe me.)

...but the fans are charming

As a few of you already know, and the rest of you can read later, I wrote a little piece yesterday about an interview in the press.

I felt that the subject of the interview didn't come across very well. I tried to explain why I felt that, using a quote or two from the interview itself.

And in one place I acknowledged that the impression could have been created by the journalist cutting a paragraph short. Who knows? (Well, the journalist and the interviewee would know.)

The subject of the interview contacted me via Twitter - and I faithfully put his response at the bottom of the piece. He deserved the right of reply and there it is.

But that was yesterday morning.

Today I want to write about the fans.

I had some complaints, some arguments, some discussions on Twitter. I took some abuse. But it was polite, good-natured and generally charming.

Sure - some of the comments were cheeky. And I was accused of being nasty.

Some misunderstood what I was saying. They misconstrued my intent. But that's my fault for not explaining myself clearly enough - I have to say that since it was precisely one of my points in my original piece when criticising the interviewee.

Overall - a nice bunch of people. But then I'd have expected fans of an erudite, witty, hilarious comedian to be intelligent, measured, opinionated (in a good way) and occasionally rude (but in a cheeky, not vile, way).

Why did I do it?

It wasn't to sell books. Really it wasn't. And I didn't - if that makes you feel any better.

(Obviously if it makes you feel worse, then go ahead and purchase a copy of something or something else - that would be delightful.)

I wrote the piece because I read the interview and I was disappointed. I felt let down either by someone I'd followed for years (bought DVDs, attended shows, etc) or let down by the impression the journalist had conjured up.

And the third point I raised was the biggie for me - as an author you just can't tell your reader that they're wrong. I couldn't believe it was unchallenged in the piece. So I wanted to challenge it myself.

I didn't get any resolution, of course. The response from the interviewee was too short to answer the points I'd made - but then he's got better things to do and I'll probably enjoy watching or hearing whatever he's working on instead of replying to me.

But it felt cathartic to write it. No one was harmed. Did it do any good? Who knows. Probably not.

But it distracted a handful of people from facing life and all its bitter ironies for a few minutes and that can't be all bad. And any cognitive function helps to exercise the brain so it probably also made us all just a tiny bit more intelligent.

Never meet your idols

...or read their interviews either.

Tim Minchin: 'I really don't like upsetting people' from The Guardian, 28 September 2013

Okay, maybe it's a bit strong to call him an idol. I find his songs hilarious. I loved Matilda (apart from the crude and unnecessarily horrible depiction of the brother, but that's another story and probably irrelevant since the brother didn't have any songs so presumably Minchin had little or nothing to do with his characterisation). And his stand-up material is funny enough - but, let's face it, many in the audience are just waiting for the next song to start.

But why must he come over all thin-skinned, vindictive and petulant?

Exhibit A:

Phil Daoust gave him a very negative review in The Guardian (funnily enough), just before he really hit the big time. Did Tim shrug it off and move on? No, he wrote a song which included the hilarious line "I hope one of your family members dies".

Oh dear. Is it just me? (Maybe it is.) I don't find it funny. I find it unpleasant. But I find his other songs funny. Even the polemics. Okay, especially the polemics.

Phil Daoust, on the other hand, responded to that song by writing: "The song makes me wince a bit, though not because I've actually listened to it... Life's too short and I've already done my bit by sitting through that show in Edinburgh." Yes, he didn't reciprocate by wishing death on anyone.

Exhibit B:

"I've got a lot of red in my hair but I'm not a ginge."

Er... That means you've got ginger hair. Which is fine and lovely and natural - anyone who judges people based on their hair colour is clearly an idiot. But I don't even begin to understand how someone with ginger hair can write a song about having ginger hair and then deny having ginger hair.

Maybe the joke didn't come across in the article.

Besides, as all erudite BBC-watching people will have learned from watching QI, ginger-haired people were called red-heads because there didn't used to be a word for 'orange' until the fruit came to England in the year whenever-the-hell-it-was.

Hence the red squirrel (which is orange), the red kite (which is orange), the red deer (which is orange) and the red hair (which is orange, or ginger if you prefer).

Exhibit C:

The song If I Didn't Have You is about his wife and I won't describe it because I don't want to put my spin on it. Listen to it for yourself. Then consider this, in Tim's own words from the interview:

"Sarah didn't like it. She thought it was lazy. She said: 'You are better than that. You are doing a song about how you can **** other people now you are famous.' I told her: 'That is not what the song is about, darling, you are going to have to listen again' – and she did."

(By the way, I have absolutely no problem with swearing but I just don't want it on this blog. You might think that means I have a problem with swearing. That's your decision. I don't hope any of your family members die.)

Let's think about what he said, to his wife, about her opinion of a song he wrote about her. He told her that she was wrong and that she had misunderstood it. He told her to listen to it again. She did. He doesn't say whether that changed her mind. (I didn't cut that out - it's not in the original article.)

As an author there are more hints, tips, rules, etc than anyone can possibly process. But one important point, in my opinion, is that your audience is never wrong. If they haven't understood something it's because the author hasn't explained it properly.

Just because the author thinks what they've written has a particular meaning, that doesn't mean that everyone will agree. And if the author needs them to agree, then the author needs to write it better.

I think the song is clever and funny - but then I'm not the butt of the jokes in it. He might argue that she isn't either. I think he's sort of right - I think she's one of the butts of the jokes. We can debate who the others are - but that's for another day.

And I wish a long, healthy and happy life to Tim Minchin, his family and his friends. I look forward to the next tour. But I won't be hanging around for an autograph afterwards.

Peace.


P.S.  Oh, and by the way, I've got a book out.

Maybe I should have put that first to save you the bother of reading this far. Yes, I've got a book out!

I'd be delighted to get a review, even a one-star review from Phil Daoust would be fine. After all, there's no such thing as bad publicity. Maybe.



Proper postscript - right of reply.

Tim Minchin said the following to me via Twitter:

"not only is that blog really mean-spirited, it shows a lack of understanding of the subjectivity of those profile pieces."

"I didn't choose to talk about the things in that interview. The Journo did."

I responded:

"...but I still love your work. Maybe some criticism also applies to @guardiannews. Mean-spirited? Really?"

"If I'd really wanted to be mean-spirited, I'd have also criticised the Matilda songbook for putting page turns in awkward places"

...and that's it. I think this dead horse has now been flogged sufficiently.

Second worst possible ending for Breaking Bad

(No spoilers, naturally.)

FADE UP

Skyler is emptying out her closet. She notices a loose panel at the back. She removes it (camera views her from the panel's POV).

Inside secret compartment she finds Season 1 Walt, exactly as he was five years ago (i.e. moustache and hair), unconscious and connected by various tubes to a strange looking machine.

Machine beeps and has a large button which reads "RELEASE AND WAKE SUBJECT".

She presses the button.

Tubes retract from Walt. He awakes.

WALT: Oh hi, Skylar. What am I doing in here? Is it still 2008?

SKYLER: No Walt. It's 2013. What's with the hair?

WALT: What? Huh? Never mind hair - I've lost five years?!

Phone rings. Camera behind phone as Skyler answers.

SKYLER: What? But you can't have arrested Walt because he's here with me... Yes, really... You did what? ... You pulled off a mask and he's an alien?

WALT: I remember now. A strange creature, about my size and height, put me in the cupboard. Just before I went to sleep, I saw him pull on a mask. It was a mask of my face. What's he been doing these past few years?

FADE TO BLACK. ROLL CREDITS

Worst possible ending for Breaking Bad

SPOILER-FREE!


Walter walks into [whichever location], armed with [weapon].

Much indistinct shouting, followed by the sound of much gunfire.
The camera does not follow him and the screen fades to black.

During blackout, gunfire sound morphs into MRI knocking sounds.


FADE UP on Walter emerging from MRI tube. It's the season 1 Walter (hair, moustache, etc).

RADIOLOGIST: Well, good news Walter. It was just a chest infection after all. No sign of any cancer.

WALTER: Great! Because while I was in there I worked out what would happen if I DID have lung cancer and, oh my goodness, it doesn't go well.

RADIOLOGIST: You have a nice day now.

CUT to exterior. Street scene.

Walter is driving in his season 1 car (an Aztec). As he drives through Albuquerque, he passes pretty much everyone who has died in the show over the past five seasons. They are, of course, all alive and well.

Walter waves to the people he knows.

FADE OUT. ROLL CREDITS.

New experiment in publishing - SUCCESSFUL!

UPDATE - Kickstarter project was successfully funded.

I'm writing a new book. Of course I am. It's been ages since the last one and I'm sure my loyal reader is furious at the snail's pace.

But I organised this one a little differently. I tried to sell it before I finished it.

I set up a project on Kickstarter which you can find here.

It gave you the opportunity to pre-order the book, either as an e-book or a paperback and either on its own or as a bundle with They All Die At The End.

You remember They All Die At The End - it's a collection of short stories in which, er, they all die at the end. But with humour and flair and surprise and if I say any more I'll give away the ending (ha ha).

So this new collection is the antidote, the cheerful companion to the other book. And I'll make sure that the colour of the spine is chosen very carefully so that they look good together on the bookshelf.

People who wanted to chip in a little more money could get all sorts of extra treats, from naming a minor character to choosing a situation or location for me to write about.

Clearly I wanted to sell books. But more than that, I wanted readers. These books aren't for everyone - how could they be? The hope was that even people who didn't like the sound of the stories (surely not!) might know people who would. And that they might pass the word along? And then they could do the same. And before too long, people all over the world could have heard about my work.

And then, if even a tiny proportion of them pre-ordered a book, I'd be printing them and laughing all the way to the post office. Which is more than the person behind me in the queue will be doing.

And enough of them did! I reached 103% of my funding target! So I will print them. And I hope it's not you grumbling behind me in the queue.

Just because it's no longer possible to pre-order through Kickstarter, that doesn't mean that you can't get your hands on the first edition as soon as it rolls off the press and I get to the front of the queue at the post office. Contact me if you'd like to know more.

(P.S. I asked people to help me spread the message while the Kickstarter project was running. And here's an example of someone spreading the message.) http: