Have you ever wondered what it would be like to have your writing made into a movie? Well now you can with the team of digital actors at www.xtranormal.com.

For those not in the know, xtranormal’s mission is to “bring movie-making to the people. Everyone watches movies and we believe everyone can make movies. Movie-making, short and long, online and on-screen, private and public, will be the most important communications process of the 21st century.

Our revolutionary approach to movie-making builds on an almost universally held skill—typing. You type something; we turn it into a movie. On the web and on the desktop.”

What this means is that (as long as you only have two characters in a scene) you can bring your screenplay or fiction to life. The process is simple. You type in the dialogue and the actors talk. You type in directions and the actors respond. There are limits however. For example, the actors cannot physically interact which affects certain adult genres. Nevertheless it is worth giving it a try to test your writing craft. In particular, it is a great way to work on your dialogue skills in a safe environment.

Here at The Twisted Web we see it as our duty to test this new technology. As a result we’ve been busy on your behalf and are pleased to attach some  xtranormal movies for your enjoyment:

from youtube

In the above example two world leaders lock horns and debate high level climate change issues. For more details click:  http://www.christian-yorke.com/2010/01/climate-change-the-truth/

from youtube

The above interview is based on actual recordings featuring Evelyn Waugh, although the interviewer is a work of fiction.

So why not give it xtranormal try? We look forward to seeing your movies very soon!

Most people in England like caravans. They are so versatile. You can literally have a holiday anywhere you like. Here is a short piece that is typical of conversations on caravan parks up and down the land.

Benedict took a short cut through a caravan park. He was entranced by the strange characters and stopped to listen to a small group standing near the shower block.

“We’ve always enjoyed camping, but when the nippers came along we traded up to a customised VW Camper. Changed our lives has Mojo. She’s always filled with tinned food and Pot Noodles ready to get out of Dodge.” Ignoring the abuse that Mike was giving her (as though such behaviour was not uncommon) Sarah Jane continued because, despite clearly being a touch backward, she loved her Mojo. “One minute we’re at home in Warrington,” she said truthfully, “next minute we’re away from it all at a lovely campsite in Morecambe or north Wales. We bloody love Tan-y-Don at Prestatyn, or even better, Pleasant View Park over at Rhuddlan.” Taking in the earnest nods of approval she added quietly, “Now Mike’s not working no more we sometimes take the kids out of school and head down to sites in Cornwall, like Pentewan Sands in Mevagissey. We feel like bloody movie stars when we go down there. Our friends can’t believe our lifestyle.”

“How many nippers you got then?” asked a gent with a pointed goatee and a ‘stars and stripes’ vest.

“Just the five. Oldest is 27 now and the youngest twins are just out of nappies. They can’t get enough of it. The envy of their friends they are. Normally Mike’s straight on the beer, and the kiddies entertain themselves. God only knows what they’re up to half the time but it does them no harm.”

Goatee beard piled in next, controlling his ticks and twitches. Despite hailing from somewhere unmentionable in East Anglia he refused to be restricted by arbitrary boundaries and roamed the length of England’s east coast in his 25 ft Tradewind Airstream. “I don’t know about you lot, but I just love the on site entertainment. Dead Zepelin, Powerwolf, Flowing Tears! And no-one minds the kids being up; a bit of rough and tumble and playing the chingers. My cousin got hitched at Warnstead Haven down Crowcombe a few years back. Great band on. Have you seen Razorpain? The best mid tempo ballads I’ve ever heard. If you close your eyes it’s just like listening to a Welsh Neil Diamond.”

“Oooh I love Neil Diamond,” exclaimed Patricia, who until now had seemed happy to listen quietly. “I’d love to see Razorpain one day.”

“What’ve you got Pat?” asked Mike threateningly.

“Well when Derek passed away a few years back I left my job as an administrator and bought a VV Rouleaux. She’s a little two berth so it’s perfect for me. I’ve been all over England and even over to Switzerland.”

“How exotic. We don’t bother with the continent. I’m no travel expert, but when the sun’s out there’s nowhere on earth more beautiful than Wales,” said Mike firmly.

“Would you go back to Switzerland?” asked Sarah Jane.

“I have to. I got my first tattoo out there and promised myself that I’d go back for another one day. You might spot it a bit later when I get some of this sun.”

“Come on Pat, show us now,” demanded Mike shuffling closer for a better view.

“Oh okay then, but nobody’s to laugh.” said Patricia standing gingerly. She eased down her elasticated ankle length skirt. As it fell to the ground her face flushed and she slightly adjusted her bikini bottoms. Then, sitting on the grass she raised her left leg and, cushioning it with her hand, pulled it wide to reveal a butterfly high on her inner thigh. This drew intense stares from the group, who all agreed on the beauty of what they saw.

Benedict kept away from Mike, but still couldn’t resist a look. Patricia was probably in her late fifties, or possibly a well preserved sixty something. Her grey hair was kept short, showcasing an elegant neck that enthused her with classic grace. She still wore her wedding band, and her little tattoo was indeed beautiful. Benedict struggled to understand how she shared any common bond with these bottom feeders. He imagined Mike’s gypsy sprogs sniffing glue on the fringes of a filthy camp site; abandoned by their joyless parents. He pictured their father, stupefied and remote, wearing Y-fronts and woe in his plastic pod.

Patricia held her legs apart for the group’s pleasure for far too long, her lips imitating a dumb grin. Her pale eyes, mournful and clear, caught Bendict’s and were held until he could stand it no more and went on his way.

Share on Facebook ]]> http://www.christian-yorke.com/2010/08/life-on-a-uk-caravan-park/feed/ 0 http://www.christian-yorke.com/2010/07/a-former-celebrity-in-career-suicide-an-extract/ http://www.christian-yorke.com/2010/07/a-former-celebrity-in-career-suicide-an-extract/#comments Tue, 13 Jul 2010 20:01:12 +0000 CY http://www.christian-yorke.com/?p=792 What follows is part of the prologue to a new work of fiction. It is set in the present tense and from Rocco’s point of view. Believe me, there’s some heavy shit about to go down.

‘She’s definitely got the wrong kind of eyes.’

‘I said you should’ve got us Puppy Monroe for this gig. She’s got class, four VNAs and a global fanbase.’

‘She hated your script Emilio. Most people did,’ says Rocco, snaking across the hard carpet, reefer steaming between his teeth.

‘Who did? Have you been talking to Freddie again? That bitch has been bumming around West Hollywood too long…Hey Rocco, is she still breathing? You might want to check her pulse.’

Rocco crawls closer, lifts his sunglasses and inspects the body, waving a light meter close to her head, chest and legs. Next door, or somewhere above, a heavy beat starts pumping again. Louder than ever. Ignoring it, and the laughter just audible in the bathroom, Rocco inspects the body some more but is distracted as Emilio keeps going on about Freddie and, for some reason, the gay community.

‘I think she’s got a fever,’ concludes Rocco after studying the body at length. He flops onto his back smoothing sweat from his moustache and watches Emilio in the kitchen rinsing syringes under a tap. ‘I think we’ll need to slam her full of nazi dope before we start shooting for real. You hearing me?’

“I’m ahead of you buddy boy,’ says Emilio rifling through the battered holdall on the counter. ‘I’ve got Storm bringing fresh supplies. And ice.’

Rocco draws hard on his joint. ‘Where d’you source this gungeon?’

‘It’s Hawaiin. Papa loco. Storm scored a trunk full after some casting over at Pasadena…’

‘And what’s all this fucking noise? You need to have words with someone about…’

‘It’s Guns n Roses. Original line-up. Still kinda cool.’ Emilio is headbanging and wiping sweat from his face with his sleeve.

The female body (that Rocco gropes lazily whilst analysing the damp on the ceiling) moves slightly. She is clawing at the leather premium-locking slave hood whilst trying to say something, almost begging, through the snap on leather gag. Rocco thinks about opening the zipper on her high collared, shiny black PVC discipline dress but is much too weak. Eventually she stops whimpering; just lies on the plastic sheets, as does Rocco who fully opens his kimono so that his gold necklaces can breath. He complains about the heat in broken Spanish.

‘Open a fucking window then you homo.’

‘Are you insane, it’s over a hundred out there. And we must keep the blinds shut. This movie demands darkness. All we need is the lava lamps, the glitter balls and those red bulbs for the casino scene. We’re going full old school, catching the nostalgia tip.’

‘Well I’ll have to ice these boys down then, they’re dying in here,’ warns Emilio, who has been antagonising the two horny dobermans by wafting hot air at them with his script on and off for forty minutes. The dogs, made unstable by boiling air and twilight gloom, strain their leashes until the studded collars cut their thick throats, tongues on the floor. ‘Where’s the ice Rocco? I need some fucking ice!’

It takes a while because Rocco can’t explain himself clearly and because Emilio can’t stop crashing into kitchen appliances, breaking more glass, but in the end he finds much ice in the old freezer; and a chilled litre of Ketel One as a bonus. After a massive swig he waves the bottle at Rocco who doesn’t notice at first because he is unfastening the slave hood and touching the emaciated face beneath. There is some blood on her top lip, but equally it could be thick sweat made red by the heat.

A large negro steps from the bathroom as Emilio pulls off his sweat drenched shirt. The negro is a famous British actor, a veteran of over 800 movies. He wears a leather corset cuff set with a black cock-ring brief. The cock-ring is also in genuine leather with laces and a glans hamper. Rocco spits in disgust and refuses to look at him.

“What’s up Lilt?”

“This is quite a shit hole you’ve brought me to,” says the negro, giving Emilio a high five.

“We. Are. Going. Old. School,” shouts Rocco as Paradise City shakes the walls, careful not to acknowledge Lilt. “Is Roxy almost done emptying her pipes already?”

“She’s almost done but I think she’s had a rough night so I wouldn’t go in there for a while.”

‘I wasn’t asking you, bitch.’

“I gotta do this,” says Emilio (who has now stripped to his jockey briefs and is rubbing ice over his shaved chest), “it ain’t fair on them.”

“She’d better get that big black ass out of my bathroom. After she’s cleaned up,” says Rocco who is now struggling to remove the mirror from under the body’s head to lick the remaining coke off it. There isn’t much left, and for a moment he nearly walks out. Emilio’s script is still unfinished and Lilt is obviously stoned. What really needles Rocco is that Lilt isn’t even wearing the safari suit, moustache or leather ball gag and head harness that have been provided. For the first time he also regrets hiring Roxy who had arrived late complaining of a stomach virus before smoking all his joints. Rocco had spent over $300 buying the purple rain (marijuana joints dipped in embalming fluid (formaldehyde and ethanol), laced with PCP) that Roxy and Lilt had almost finished off already; and he could tell that neither had appreciated it properly.

‘What time we kicking this thing off?’

‘Ten minutes, maybe an hour. Depends when Storm arrives with the supplies. And we’re still waiting for Chip (a nerdy black actor who looks like Snoop Dogg and has been hired to play the soldier for the Casino scene. He had refused to take an AIDS test but Rocco forgave that because Chip was so hot right now; he even had his own TV channel) and Vipada (a rising Thai actress; a skanky redheaded watersports expert who had agreed to dress as a prom queen to tick specific genre boxes).’ Rocco almost adds that Emilio was also supposed to have arranged for a pregnant Latino and a French midget with a micro penis, but can’t manage the words.

Lilt nods, striding into the large living room with Emilio’s Ketel One and asks who the Aerosmith fan is but nobody answers. Emilio applies ice to the dobermans, paying special attention to their testicles. As well as being a scriptwriter he knows a lot about managing animals in these situations. Once the dogs are howling, almost attacking each other, Emilio leaves the kitchen, avoiding a broken bottle of Wild Turkey and grabs his script for the movie that will never be made.

Snore Bitz is not just a song about a mountain rescue dog, it is a call to arms and Tiff’s urgent base patterns are certain to resonate with generation Y. When Ace’s unmistakable vocal joins the complex groove she proves her critics wrong yet again with a subtle vocal technique that is the perfect counter-point to Tiff’s crazy bass hook.

With the European club scene firmly in mind Funk’s nasty techno-meets-retro drum style takes the track to an early high. Those who have followed Funk (who has been playing hotels in Swiss ski resorts for some years) know that he likes to shock his audience. He has never respected boundaries and in a clear statement against authority a long piano section (in the style of Bruce Hornsby) takes the track to a new level of achievement.

Although Funk’s production is always assured, Ace’s vocals become less distinct as Funk lets the music express the lyrical themes of rage and salvation. As a result Snore Bitz has a deconstructed mood, particularly when tested against the polished pop of Snore This Way. One critic said, ‘Let me put it like this; if John Lennon had been in The Strokes, with George Benson on backing vocals this is the noise they’d have made.’

Praise indeed. All that is left is for the Twisted Web to wish Funk a swift and complete recovery and to invite you to click here to hear Snore Bitz for yourself: Snore Bitzz

Although Funk is currently in a Swiss hospital fighting for his life I have been authorised by his band members (Ace La Rouge and Tiff Pennisbrith) to publish the opening track (Snore This Way) right here at the Twisted Web.

When you listen to Funk’s music for the first time it is easy to forget that he was only 19 when he wrote most of Magnolia Glock. The musical maturity is almost shocking, right from the gently hypnotic opening bars of Snore This Way that tease the ears and hint at sexual abandon. Funk’s synth work is famously subtle and yet here it is impossible not to be reminded of New Order’s seminal album, Low Life and, in particular, the rhythmic nuances of Snore This Way closely echo Sub-culture and The Perfect Kiss.

Much has been written about Ace La Rouge’s vocal range. Undoubtedly she has a unique singing style and on Snore This Way Funk allows her fully to showcase her talent which has been compared to Joe Cocker, Norah Jones and Barry White. As Tiff develops the taught, punchy, bass line she never forgets the song’s spiritual message and the result is a ‘vortex of emotion, like driving fast on a brutal winter Sunday or skiing through a crushing avalanche.’

Funk is a known risk taker, and as Tiff’s driving bass challenges Ace to go for broke the track changes gear and unsettles the listener with its complex inter-play between powerful vocals, delicate melodies and musicians on top of their game. Some have compared the second half of the track with Bowie’s China Girl, and with good reason; but then Funk shocks us with a blistering tabernacle guitar solo. Funk’s production is so pure that you can almost feel each finger pick and the tears in his soul. It is a sound that critics have described as ‘simply beyond genre.”

If you want to learn more about Funk then you can read all about him at Das Moonbeam Ist Rocken

And finally, I am certain that as soon as he is out of the coma Funk will want me to tell you to crank up the volume, crack open a ‘cold one’ and enjoy the avant garde sound of Snore This Way by clicking here: Snore this way

Which brings me to Apple’s latest “must have” product: the ipad.

from youtube

This morning literally thousands of self-styled “Appleheads” stormed the Regent Street flagship store in an attempt to be the first to own Apple’s new tablet computer device. Hundreds had camped for up to three days to be towards the front of the queue which, at one point, had stretched almost to Hamleys. Frenzied scenes met the hardcore Appleheads as they breached security barriers and stormed the store at 8am. As the cash rolled in, Apple’s staff “whooped and cheered” each purchase.

Jake Lee, a 17 year old “performing arts” student from Essex was the first to get his hands on Apple’s hottest consumer durable. He had queued for three days and at one point was offered £500 to give up his place. Jake declined the offer even though it would just about have paid for an ipad which he could have purchased at leisure tomorrow. Notwithstanding this Jake felt “amazing” after having waited “for months” to own Apple’s latest creation. He explained, “I’ve been waiting for months but couldn’t believe it when everyone was standing there chanting…”

A clearly emotional Mr Lee added, “I’d been working 35 hours a week to afford the ipad.” He also admitted that he’d borrowed another £250 from his dad to buy the range topping version, which was fine because “…the atmosphere’s been great. I didn’t sleep all night (on a pavement on London’s busiest street) and I’m really tired. But it’s worth it.”

Other Appleheads voiced their approval for the ipad. Rhys, 48, an estate agent from Neath (who queued for twenty seven hours) summed up the collective mood as “…amazing. The ipad feels fantastic. It’s really thin and feels like it will snap in two but somehow it doesn’t. It’s solid and feels like fun to hold and use. It’s the future of computing!”

Emma, 54, a retired assistant research executive, added, “I know that it feels like it will crack at any minute, and that it’s like a less portable ipod touch but it’s still amazing. Yes, web browsing is slow, it hasn’t got a physical keyboard so updating blogs is hard and inaccurate and it lacks a high def screen; but to me they are just details. Okay, I admit that it won’t make calls either and Kindle is better for reading e-books. But for me that’s missing the point. I just love it. It’s the future of computing.”

Latest reports confirm that ipad parties are taking place throughout the UK tonight. Crack open the bubbly!

In other news, Apple became the biggest tech company on earth on Wednesday.

This short story was first showcased at the Miami International Literary Festival (as part of a larger anthology) back in the summer of 2008. It was inspired by a snippet of conversation overheard on an overcrowded London Tube. Beyond that it is almost impossible to explain how it evolved. All I know is that it deploys a minimalist style and provides the reader with a revealing insight into the lives of two diamond geezers before building to the (now traditional) tragic ending.

“So, your wife’s got over that business with the petty cash yet?”

“They never deserved her Les, she’s well rid of those scheming Arabs. You want to see the payout they offered her, rarely have I felt more bleeding insulted. And all because her boss had a problem with strong women.”

“The police dropped the charges then?”

“It’s only a matter of time. And don’t worry, she’s already got a Tribunal claim up and running.”

“Another? I bet she could represent herself by now. At least she couldn’t do much worse than the last mob who screwed up her claim against the Post Office.”

“Nah, you’re thinking of when she was working up the school. Anyway, her lawyer reckons we’ve got a better chance this time. Thinks we might win enough for a new caravan.”

“Good for her. After what that school put her through…”

“Damn near broke her heart that did. Educated people are always the cruelest. It’s all a question of being bitter on account of thinking all the time. The kids all loved her though. Well, most of them.”

“I remember you telling me. It’s amazing how the papers got it so wrong and how unfair those teachers were, ganging up on her for no reason. I was telling the missus just the other night how much I admire Belinda for how she tried to stand up to them.”

“That means a lot Les, I don’t mind telling you…Christ man, don’t tell me those suits are going to get on here, it’s disgusting enough tonight.”

“It always gets a bit rough at Holborn in my experience.”

“How many stops to Mile End?”

“Too many…”

“I’ll be honest Les, if that tosser with the specs elbows me again I’ll have him before we get to Chancery Lane.”

“I’d keep your voice down Keith…”

“He can’t hear, his head’s rammed so far up his mate’s arse he’ll be deaf for a month. God the smell Les, it’s too much. My balls are sweating like a black in a cotton field. It’s trickling down my thighs.”

“I know mate, but you’ve got to ignore it and tell me how your old girl’s job hunting has gone. What with you being laid off things must be tough.”

“Oh, Belinda’s dropped on her feet like usual. She’s just started as head of external marketing strategy for some electronics firm out near the trading estate.”

“That’s a step up the ladder…”

“Let me tell you Les, it’s all about contacts. Luckily her cousin Connor helped us out. You’ll know him, he runs the health and safety courses at Vodophone. By the time he’d finished tarting up her CV she could’ve run for Parliament. It was a work of a genius, all long words and mind boggling jargon. Seriously cutting edge with punctuation all over the shop. That’s four years at Brunel for you.”

“Good for her. I mean, where’s the harm. People lie on their CVs all the time from what I’ve read.”

“Don’t get me wrong, there were some awkward moments like when they asked her to bring in her qualifications. I managed to doctor our Vanessa’s GCSE certificate no problem, but coming by A level certificates, a Degree, an MA and an Advanced Certificate in Professional Sales Management Practice was a bit dodgy. Luckily my Belinda’s clever though. Told the personnel woman, who already has it in for her by the way, that she’s recently moved house and so can’t find a damn thing. Give it a week or two and they’ll forget all about it like Connor advised us.”

“I like Connor. He used to know our Sarah Jayne.”

“Well, we owe him big time. The only problem is that they’ve got my Belinda working her arse off already. It’s a pressure game see, running external marketing strategies for these multi-billion dollar companies.”

“I don’t know how she does it, I really don’t. She’s a tough one your Belinda. I wouldn’t know one end of my qualititive data analysis from my macromarket brand-storming, but that’s why I’m just a mechanic I suppose.”

“Yeah, but Les you aren’t listening to me. They’ve really got her under pressure; it’s that classic ‘taking advantage of the new girl who is a bit too eager to please’ thing.”

“Don’t they reckon it’s best to get stuck in?”

“Mate, what is it with these dogs?”

“Rise above it Keith. Everybody knows people behave like animals on the tube. Always been the same.”

“You’d think that greasy Austrian type would give up his seat for that fat lass wouldn’t you. Look! She’s practically about to die down here with the heat and the smell. Anyway, I’ve got to tell you Les, I did not appreciate your comment about my wife getting stuck in. I hope you’re not saying she’s a slacker.”

“No, it’s just that people like your Belinda thrive on pressure, don’t they? That’s what she’s always telling my Nadine.”

“Your Nadine wouldn’t understand Les, let’s face facts. This is a serious career opportunity and in some ways it hasn’t got off to the best start.”

“Nadine understands more than you think Keith…”

“They had hardly finished the induction when they dumped this massive pile of paperwork on her. The old cow she replaced had let things go apparantly. They call it document management in these massive companies. Then they said she had to run a big meeting that afternoon and that the document management had to be finished first and then they made her meet everybody in the office so she was under that much pressure that she didn’t even have time to nip out for a fag. She ended up hiding most of the filing in the photocopier room, which they call the communication suite because the internet stuff and some fax machines are in there. And then she was dragged away to run this big meeting with all the heads of departments and other top brass.”

“So what does running a meeting actually mean Keith?”

“Well, you see all that document management she’d hidden? She had been meant to photocopy it all and put it in files, or packs, for the meeting. Apparantly they were some important graphs or something, so that was a problem right there. When she phoned me I said, ‘that’s beneath you our Belinda, they wouldn’t even have had you doing that at the school.’”

“No, that probably wouldn’t have been in the job description for serving chips and pizzas…”

“So she was forced to go off and pull the papers out of the back of the photocopier and copy them a hundred times. She’d be the first to admit that she missed out all the pages from the middle, but like I said to her when she phoned me again to let rip a bit more, I said nobody ever gets to the middle of these things, so there’d be no harm in it.”

“Was that wise Keith?”

“Don’t give me one of your lectures Les. You can’t understand what we’ve been going through now your Nadine don’t got to work. You’ve got it easy pal.”

“Actually, Nadine’s still on compassionate leave. It’s not been six weeks since the accident.”

“Holy mother, do we really have to go over all that again? Yes, it was all very sad, I’m not arguing with you about that, but don’t you think it’s time to move on?”

“I’m not sure Keith, we still miss out daughter. Every day I think about Sarah Jayne and the fire; how I might have changed things, but…”

“Oh, that reminds me, you’ll never believe what happened next. They wheeled in a load of customers, that they refer to as clients. Only a gang of orientals. Well you’d expect it I suppose, being an electronics outfit. They’re not like us, they think in numbers. So anyway, the pressure was really on. Next thing that happened was that our Belinda found herself in charge of sorting out coffee and tea for the whole lot of them. Now this isn’t like boiling a kettle and bunging some Nescafe in a dirty mug like down your sweatshop. Oh no, it’s all big steaming jugs with buttons that you press to get the posh ground coffee out. Connor warned her about this, but it’s not easy preparing for something like that. So there’s everyone waving their cups at me missus, chatting amongst themselves and laughing at her because it was her first day and because she was already doing everybody’s job for them and, anyway, it wasn’t her fault, that was what they said, but with her sweating hands she messed up the tricky lid system and next thing she knew a very small oriental man and three other even smaller oriental men were wiping boiling coffee out of their eyes.”

“How on earth did she manage to do that exactly?”

“Like I said, you need a degree in science to work them lids according to my Belinda.”

“At least it could only get better from there.”

“You’re right. Except that my Belinda hardly had a minute to sort herself out before the big boss comes in and tells her to start what I think they call a power point presentation. Power point! Even Connor hadn’t seen that one coming. Now my Belinda is computer literate, she’s always on the net buying jewellery boxes from Argos or ordering dinner services with pictures of Elvis or exotic dogs on them from QVC, but this was a diferent league altogether.”

“There’s a limit to how far a lie can stretch Keith.”

“Belinda reckons they made her stand for ages at the front of the room near a laptop, whilst somebody they’d introduced as a keynote speaker stared at her. Along with about a hundred Rinky Dinks. What was she meant to do? Everybody just sat in silence until the big boss statrted insulting her by saying things like, ‘can somebody give her a hand, it’s her first day’ and ‘Bob, can you help her to sit down and take over please, our guests have flights to catch this evening’, that sort of thing. Now my Belinda is a patient old girl, but you can imagine how she reacted to that.”

“Violently?”

“She’d have been well within her rights to, but she’s a proud woman. A perfectionist in many ways. So she sucked it up because she really wanted to make a good impression and then tried to escape discretely. Unfortunately, the woman from IT, who obviously feels threatened by me missus, told her to hand out the packs that they’d made her make.”

“At least that must have been within Belinda’s skill-set.”

“Les, she did that task perfectly, everyone said so. Even her boss looked happy with her contribution to the meeting. The only problem was that this speaker, who was still stood at the front, asked everyone to turn to page seventeen…”

“But at least Belinda had done her bit and could get her breath after working so hard at running the meeting.”

“Hardly! That was one of the pages she didn’t copy on account of all the pressure. Luckily Belinda was always quick witted. She faked a coughing fit and cried a bit and said she had to get a glass of water from outside somewhere.”

“Well, sometimes running away from a problem can help in the short term. There’s usually somebody else who’ll sort the problem out so the likes of your Belinda don’t have to.”

“It’s the English way Les, there’s no doubt about it. So anyway, Belinda got out and called me on the mobile to let off a lot of steam. At one point I got my coat to go over there and see if that boss of hers would still be playing the big man with me in his face. Which is when me missus really let rip and I realised the full extent of how badly they’d been treating her. I told her to keep it down, or nip to the ladies for some privacy so that I could counsel her properly. To be fair, she calmed down quite a bit once she was safely in a cubicle with a fag on the go. The only problem was that she set off all the fire alarms in the entire building. And the sprinklers. All on account of her having a sneaky little fag. On my life I was almost deafened down the phone. Then I heard loads of other people screaming like they thought there was a real fire or something. So I decided that it was probably better to leave the old girl to it.”

“Hmmmmm.”

“What’s with the face Les, don’t you start giving me grief.”

“It brings back some terrible memories Keith, surely even you aren’t that insensitive.”

“What the…”

“My Sarah Jayne died in a fire, started by somebody who, now I think of it, sounds like she had a lot in common with your wife.”

“You want to watch your mouth Les.”

Pale with emotion, Les closed his eyes and said, “I am tired.”

And he leaned his head against the rail. 

The following short piece was submitted to The Twisted Web by Tony Jones, the talented British novelist and social commentator. The scene involves two lovers of nineteenth century Russian literature who spend a few idle moments debating the work of their heros. 

‘No, I wouldn’t say it’s love. More like a deep appreciation of the Russian masters. I got almost to the end of Crime and Punishment once, at only the second attempt.’

‘So you’re more of a Kafka man?’

‘Don’t be barbaric Derek, he’s not even Russian…’

‘Indeed.’

‘You’re right though in a way. Most decent critics agree that Kafka is much funnier than the Russians. Bit like with Shakespeare or Faulkner, his natural humour constantly  counterweighs and intensifies his overarching sense of lost hope.’

‘I concur. In fact, now you mention it I’d go so far as to assert that his humour also humanizes our own fated intimacy with what is grave by permitting life’s fullest, most actual context to be brought into view even as it points us to an approved method of acceptance.’

‘Not everyone would agree with that analysis old boy.’

‘Oh come off it Richard, The Trial had me chortling more than a few times. Imagine consulting a bed ridden attorney! No wonder Joseph K was knifed to death for no reason.’

‘Hmmmm, I see your point now. Although I don’t mind admitting that the penultimate chapter, In The Cathedral, gave me nightmares. And at the end as K dutifully awaits execution and reflects “Where was the Judge whom he had never seen? Where was the High Court to which he had never penetrated?” A provocative plea by which we sense that K’s suffering may yet extend infinitely.’

‘Yes, if nothing else Kafka had an extraordinary narrative and descriptive skill whilst still bringing to his task a visionary insight, a romantic verve and a grasp of human character that seemed uniquely his own.’

‘Now I must disagree. That sounds as though you are describing Nabokov…’

‘Hey, Dick, chuck us down an ‘ammer!’ demanded a new voice.

Richard peered over the scaffolding to his colleague three floors below. ‘I’m on me fuckin’ tea break you cunt!’

‘Fuck you then, I’m tellin’ the governor…’

Derek rubbed his hard hat and beckoned Richard to sit back down. ‘It’s like something out of Chekhov round here sometimes isn’t it. His later work that is.’

‘And look what happened to him!’

‘Tuberculosis?”

‘Yes, like the lot of them. Except Dostoyevsky. It was emphysema and epilepsy what saw him off.’ explained Richard as he launched a heavy mallet in the general direction of his colleagues who were now watching a rusted cement mixer spin round and round.

Isis roared, her decks shook and the sea boiled. Kemnebi’s muscles bulged his lean forearms as he opened her up from the flybridge. This proved too much for Knudd as a lack of focus tipped him over. He lay where he fell, oily puddles sloshing against his face, stinging his eyes. His gaping lips slurped the salty waste, and the vile taste returned him to childhood. 

In memory’s grip he once again felt autumn cold tearing through his thin vest. Misty breath plumed in shallow gasps. Dread had disallowed him time to jump into his boots and, as he fled, sopping undergrowth lacerated his feet. Knudd remembered the carbon sky beyond the gloomy canopy of trees, and the biting wind that iced his face, soothed only by hot tears. Strangely, in those early moments he had felt safe; a sense of peace punctuated only by cracking sticks, the swoosh of heavy grass and the thudding rhythm of footsteps behind. He glanced back more than once, almost falling, but was unable to penetrate the dark shadows. His tiny fists pumped harder, until he realised that soon he would have nothing left. 

Through trees ahead he noticed a swirl of grey light. Moments later, in the clearing, he fell to his knees crying quietly, each breath a trial. Exhaustion had robbed him of even one more step, whatever the consequences. 

His strongest memory of that afternoon was the arrival of his brothers, screaming his name. He remembered rough hands at his throat; the weight of a heavy canister punched into his back; a boot swung forcefully into his face. The  impact was so overwhelming that he slumped forward and lay motionless, cold dew mixing with blood’s iron tang.

His brothers had held him down and poured petrol in his hair and over his face. They took to their task with a shattering frenzy, spit flying as they threatened fire and violence. The thick fluid clung like a viscous mask. A lighter was produced and its flame flickered near Knudd’s eyes. Hopeless, Knudd breathed, swallowing the noxious petrol before vomiting. 

The brothers played together in this way until Knudd was told that the threat to torch him was just a big joke; a bit of high jinx that must remain their secret. Knudd really should have known better. He felt stupid, and angry and horrified in almost equal measure; and the sum of these feelings was gratitude, because although his brothers often teased him in this way, he felt at peace when they eventually ran laughing into the woods.

Back in the present, Knudd remained motionless until Ruben hauled him up.

Flight had observed Knudd’s attention seeking from a distance until he dropped into the pool of verrucas and broken toe nails that always seemed to congregate at the stern. His gaze was cold as he chose not to participate in the nervy chuckles and concerned groans. Flight regarded his recent acquisition as unruly and tasteless; all because Gabriel had needed something to pity (or bully) in the hotel lobby before they all shared a taxi on day one. 

from youtube

Evelyn Waugh is widely acknowledged as one of the greatest novelists of the twentieth century. Although he is known to millions for writing Brideshead Revisited, he devoted much of his early work to romping farce and brutally funny satire. A good example of this is Scoop; an exuberant comedy noir set in Fleet Street (back in the 1930s when it was London’s centre of journalism) and Ishmaelia. 

Before his death in 1966, Waugh gave a number of recorded interviews for the BBC; an institution that he considered then (as indeed now) to be staffed exclusively by self important functionaries. His 1953 appearance on Frankly Speaking caused him such offence that he remained traumatised by the experience for the rest of his life. Nevertheless, the interviews that he gave from 1948 to 1964 are essential listening (or viewing) for anyone requiring a glimpse into the world of a literary heavyweight.

The above animation is based on a small selection of these interviews. If you want more of the same let me know and it shall be arranged, although Mr Tennessee will be unavailable for future productions (as explained below).

Finally, I have been asked to point out that the actor playing Waugh is unexpectedly available for feature length rom-coms or TV crime drama. He can be contacted via The Twisted Web; please feel free to get in touch, his rates are very reasonable. In addition, the animation is in memory of, and dedicated to, Jersey J Tennessee who died in a horrible gardening accident late last week. May the Lord have mercy on his soul.