Being Human - Type 4

The second episode of Being Human wot I wrote airs this week. Spoilers beyond this point, so go away and watch it then come back. Titled “Type 4” it was a blast to write and I hope everyone found it a blast to watch. I got to introduce zombies to the Being Human universe! Quite a responsibility. And I got Mitchell and Annie to make out. And I set George and Nina on the road to having a little hairy baby. All fairly big Being Human milestones.

Sasha the zombie's character came from a few places, not least of which was my past life as a stand up comic. I used to spend my weekends on stage attempting to talk over gaggles of drunken Hens, a fair few times in Cardiff. Little did I realise that my onstage fantasising about killing gobby women then digging them up would later prove creatively useful.

Being Human Series 3

I am writing the third episode in season three. I report this at this late juncture as they're begun filming my episode and paid me for writing it. Which in this business is this only point at which you can be sure it's actually going to happen. Probably.

As with my experience last year, the development and writing process has been a joy. And not in a 'DVD extras, fixed grin, let's not get sued' kind of a way, but in a real, 'deep joy, wow, didn't we make something good, let's all pat each other on the back until we bleed' kind of way.

For the curious, my episode is the one where the werewolf/vampire hybrid steals the Necronomicon eggs and pollutes the water supply of Cardiff with the ghost virus.

Some of that may be untrue.

But not all of it.

(The new series is set in Cardiff.)

"Being Human" Read Through

I got a train from Nottingham to Bristol, where Being Human is shot. The weirdness began at Bristol train station, when I spotted Kemp, or at least Donald Sumpter, the actor that plays him. I introduced myself and he revealed something of a history with Nottingham, (where I live) having performed at the Nottingham playhouse. He was a thoroughly nice man, which proves he's an actor and not evil.

Relax, I told myself. You're a professional. You're cool with this.

It turned out that several more actors were due to arrive by train, at which point they would all be ferried onto the read through in a mini van thoughtfully provided by Touchpaper. By chance there was a spare seat for me.

Now I am not by nature a superstitious person. Nor am I one of these writers that believes that I create people as I type, breathing life into my creations by will alone. I understand that these people are simply actors, paid to pretend, in the same way that I am a writer, paid to make things up.

But here's the thing: I soon found myself sharing a mini van full of actors, playing characters I had been thinking about and inventing words for, pretty much constantly, for the past three months. For them it was no big deal, some of them knew one another – there was gossip to catch up on, old jokes to revisit. For me, however, it was like travelling along in my own head.

There was Sam (Lucy Gaskell) who's romance with George I had kindled, there was Sykes (Brain Dick), whose first words on screen I had invented, and there was Lucy (Lyndsey Marshal), who I had written a nice little flirty scene for with Mitchell. I felt like leaping to my feet and screaming “I gave you life, do you hear me? Life!” and then leaping out of the window into the road. But I didn't.

Directly in front of me, in the passenger seat, sat Paul Rhys, the actor who plays Ivan. Now his character is dangerous, unpredictable and scary. The actor himself, however, is a thoroughly nice chap, who also professed a Nottingham connection, having lived in outlying villages as a child. He turned around in his seat and spoke to me during the journey. But between us was a head rest, one of those square padded ones, like a hoop with a hole in the centre. And he was talking to me through the hole. At any one time, I could see his eye, his nose or his mouth. But never all three at the same time.

And part of my brain was making conversation and sharing knowledge of Nottingham. Chatty. Light hearted. Professional.

And another part of my brain was going: “Oh my God. It's Ivan. He's talking to me through the back of a chair.

And he knows where I live.”

Being Human Starts This Sunday

I wrote episode four. That's the one where they all swap their abilities.

I josh, of course.

It's actually the one where they get infected by the horny virus. And dissolve into a pile of thrusting limbs. Surely the episode idea that many people secretly want to see.

I could go on. But I won't.

I've already seen episode one. It rocks.

Enjoy.

Hotwire

I am adapting the comic Hotwire into a film script.

Hotwire began life as a Warren Ellis outline, which Steve Pugh wrestled into life, doing pretty much everything else. I've met Steve and he's a lovely bloke. His site can be found here, with some pix of Hotwire.

The premise in a nutshell is a world where spirits can no longer cross over and hang around, like ectoplasmic pollution. The titular Hotwire is a police exorcist with an ass kicking attitude and a spiked blonde crop.

It's so far up my alley I'll need a doctor to get it out again. And odd – I have a shelf full of Warren Ellis stuff, have a bit of Steve Pugh, and hope one day to branch into comics, yet here I am, interpreting one of their nuggets into another form. Odd the way the business works. And very, very cool.

Being Human

BEING HUMAN
Originally uploaded by BBCTHREE

I am writing an episode of Being Human.

For those of you who don't know what this is, it's basically the current jewel in the crown of BBC 3 and you can read all about it here. In a nutshell, it's a flatshare drama with a difference, namely that the flatmates are a vampire, a werewolf and a ghost. And laughable though the premise sounds, it works. Very well indeed.

It was an honour to be asked. I'd auditioned for season one, failed, forgotten all about it, then got offered an episode of season two. This was partly, I understand, in response to another fantasy spec script that I wrote that was floating around the various production companies of London. It didn't get commissioned, but it's more than paid for the time it took me to write it in getting me this gig.

I've had a few meetings with the creator Toby Whithouse and the producers and was stoked when I discovered the plotlines they were entrusting me to execute. Big juicy stuff that I could really get my teeth into. And I was also stoked by the gaps in the storylines that they were entrusting me to invent.

Obviously, it's nothing that I can divulge here. But in the wake of my episode I'm expecting nothing less than a BAFTA. I also expect to be given Toby's job when he passes on the Being Human torch, in the manner of Russell T Davies passing on Dr Who to Steven Moffat. My episode will be that good.

And if it isn't, I will blame everyone else, from the actors to the tea lady on set. For I am a writer and that's what we do.

Alan Moore on the phone to Zack Snyder

Alan Moore
Originally uploaded by whatisanimagetoyou

Z) Hi Alan. Such a buzz to finally speak to you. I just want you to know we're going to do everything we can to adapt Watchmen as faithfully as possible.

A) I'm glad to hear it.

Z) Just a couple of things I wanted to pick your brains over.

A) Fire away.

Z) Who would win a fight between Superman and Dr Manhattan?

A) I'm sorry?

Z) It's just we got into a bit of a discussion in the production office the other day -

A) I think you're missing the point of the character. Dr Manhattan is more of a meditation on superhero as God, with limitless power but also a godlike moral detachment due to his quantum perspective -

Z) He'd so kick Superman's ass. I'm right, aren't I? I mean he wins the Vietnam war on his own! Blowing up all the gooks. Boom! He's like a giant blue Rambo.

A) Erm. Yes. I suppose so.

Z) And Nite Owl versus Batman? That's gotta be a close one.

A) Again, that's not what the character is about. He's a retired middle aged man with a pot belly who can only get it up when he wears his costume -

Z) Alan, Alan, Alan. You have seen 300? I don't do pot bellies, mo fo. I was thinking more of a kind of lean mean ass kicker. Pow! Like, I want to extend the Rorschach prison break-out sequence to give Nite Owl and the Spandex Spectre a chance to really throw some moves.

A) Sorry? Spandex Spectre?

Z) Yeah. We've renamed the Silk Spectre. See, her name didn't make any sense any more, after we took all the silk from her outfit -

A) What? Why did you do that?

Z) Marketing thought silk was too pervy. So we replaced it with spandex and leather.

“Click!”

Z) Hello? Alan? Alan?

------------

(All of the above is, of course, satire. I am no way implying that Alan Moore has ever spoken to Zack Snyder, nor ever will.)

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Parteeeee

Charlie Brooker
Originally uploaded by Your Humble Narrator.

Last week, I went to the “BBC Vision” party.

I went to it last year, wrongly assuming it was for up and coming writers and would be set in a scout hut with cheesy pineapple on a stick as a dozen writers milled awkwardly. It was, in fact, the total opposite of all of my assumptions, being in a hall the size of an airplane hanger, containing hundreds of celebs of all ranks, with stuffed quail. On a stick.

It was, in short, like stepping inside my own television. If my telly could only get channels beginning with “BBC”.

I am not famous. Not even nearly. But I have done stand up comedy for years, which is a kind of fame inoculation. Standing before hundreds of strangers, night after night, who clap cheer and laugh at your words, then sitting in a cramped crowded dressing room kind of takes the sheen off showbiz, of any kind. You've crossed behind the curtain and you can never fully go back.

So upon seeing David Tennant, chatting with a group of friends, my immediate thoughts were “Oh, there's David Tennant. That's cool. Nothing particular to say to him, other than 'Good job', which isn't really worth interrupting a conversation for. I'll move on.” And so on, around the room, with dozens of vaguely familiar faces.

I saw Charlie Brooker, acidic Guardian columnist, and considered saying “Hello, I've been a fan since you wrote for PC Zone.” but decided against it, as that would probably be the end of the conversation.

I did a few loops of the room, grinning at the bizarre nature of it all, then went home.

This year, I was determined to make sure there would be people there I knew. I asked around my small group of stand ups I still have links with, and lo, there were three who had also been invited. This year, I could have a posse.

I'm not going to name them, partly because they're my mates, and partly because I'm going to be doing enough name dropping in this piece as it is, and want to keep a little bit in the indulgence bank.

Rolf Harris was there. (Let's get the big guns out of the way first). And a lot of news readers, and a lot of makeover show presenters, and that shouty American bloke from The Boosh (Rich Fulcher) and Kenneth Cranham and Graham Norton and the bloke from behind the bar who serves Maggot Bhunas in the Old Gregg episode of Boosh, and that bloke, wasn't he in an ad for beer? And that news reader that I used to vaguely fancy.

At a certain point in the evening, I was at the perfect level of drunken playfulness to take advantage of serendipitous event. I spotted Tom Bell, stand up comic, on one side of the bar. On the other side was Rasmus Hardiker, who plays the vacant boyfriend of Jack Dee's daughter in Lead Balloon. Check out the linked pictures. I think you'll agree, especially if you're drunk, that they look very similar, close enough to be brothers. Obviously I would have to introduce them, despite the minor barrier that I knew neither of them.

And I did. And it worked like a charm. And it was a good laugh. And they both agreed that they looked similar and I left them chatting happily away. And I met Antonia Campbell Hughes, who plays Jack Dee's vacant daughter, and who was very nice.

Standing near Tom Bell was Isy Suttie, who reminded me that I had seen her perform years ago at try out stage in Nottingham – I had complemented her and recommended a couple of comedy writing books - which she had bought and appreciated. I was left with a warm glow about something I don't even remember doing, very much like wetting the bed.

I met Tim Minchin, who has a great brain under great hair. And I introduced myself to Morwenna Banks, opening with my anger that all the men talked over her on her recent appearance on the Jonathan Ross radio show, and ending with fanboy gushing about her part in Absolutely.

All in all, it was a great evening and as I staggered out into the night, I reflected on the fact that I hadn't spoken to Charlie Brooker again, but there was always next year. As I was pondering this, I noticed there was a man falling into step beside me as I left.

It was Charlie Brooker, who provided me with the perfect cherry on the cake for the evening.

I stuck out my hand: “Charlie Brooker! I've been following your writing since PC Zone.”

“God.” he said. “There must be something wrong with you.”
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What A Beautiful Baby

DSCF0131
Originally uploaded by mdhbarnes

I've just finished a new spec film script.

My first outline for the script was dated 13th January and I finished it yesterday, which means it took me roughly two and a half months, from sitting bolt upright in the bath shouting “Eureka!” to hitting “Send” on my e-mail as it wings it's way to my agents.

(mimes stirring invisible pot with both fists)

“Go Jamie, go Jamie!”

It's a paranoid science fiction thriller very much in the mould of Philip K Dick. And it rocks.

Of course I'm biased. I'm the father. All parents think their children are beautiful. But this one is. It really is. So when everyone peers down into it's cot and coos “Soo cute.” I'll know they're not lying.

And when those self same onlookers pull out their cheque book and say “You child is so cute, we want to take it to Hollywood, chop off all it's limbs, grow it new ones, give it a face lift. Oh, and comb it's hair.” I'll look at them, with their pens poised over the cheque and simply smile and say “It's Mathieson. With one 'I' and one 'E'...”
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Adam Bloom Is A Lovely Guy

Adam Bloom
Originally uploaded by Steve Best

Adam Bloom is a lovely guy. Don't get me wrong.

He's a stand up comic that I've bumped into a few times over the years and he's always friendly and nice. But he's hyperactive. And he's one of those comics that's never “off”. I don't think I've ever discussed anything with him other than joke structure, the strengths and weaknesses of his act, my act, other comedian's acts. At speed. With intensity. Which is fine for a few minutes backstage. But hours of it can become wearing. I've heard stories of comics losing it with him over the years. So when I read the headline:

“Comic Bloom is locked alone in a bunker for 48hrs”

I thought another comic had finally snapped:

Annoyed Comic: “Right! That's it! You dissect one more of my punchlines and I'm locking you in the dark in a nuclear bunker for two days.”

Adam: “But maybe you could make it a double punch – or a call back.”

Annoyed Comic: “You were warned...”

Turns out my “other comic snapping” was well wide of the mark – he volunteered. But the thought of it really made me laugh. If I had to pick a comic to lock in a bunker alone for 48 hours that really wouldn't cope with it very well, it would be Adam.

All the best if you're reading this, mate. Good luck with the recuperation.
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Writer's Strike Caused By Half-Life 2 Orange Box?

Sentry Gun
Originally uploaded by arsenionavarro

On October 10th 2007 a computer game, “Half-Life 2 – The Orange Box” was released in the U.S. to popular acclaim. On November 5th 2007 the Writers Guild of America went on strike. Two totally unconnected events.

Or are they?

A recent online poll by Valve software, creators of the game in question, revealed that an unprecedented amount of screenwriters in film and television were not only fans, they were spending vast amounts of their time playing the games contained in the Orange Box package in the days leading upto the strike and even more so since the strike began.

Through Valve software's online game system “Steam”, hours spent playing are logged, along with an option to indicate profession. Time and time again, Valve's staff were surprised to find the players racking up the longest stretches of game time were screenwriters.

“I suppose it makes sense.” commented Adi Shepherd, Valve's head of market research. “I mean a lot of these guys work from home, obviously on a PC. With no boss looking over their shoulder, I guess the temptation to just log on and start fragging is strong.”

These facts alone are interesting, but certain parties believe that the popularity of the game may have actually contributed to the strike itself. Certain members of the WGA negotiation team have been accused of “computer game addiction” in a spat that is threatening to draw attention away from the aims of the strike itself.

“Utter nonsense.” countered Cal Houn, one of the WGA's chief negotiators. “This is merely an attempt to cloud the clear issues at stake here. All we want is a slice of the online cake. A cake that at the moment, the producers are claiming doesn't exist. Well, we don't agree. That cake exists.”

“And when it comes down to it, the writers are the initial creative force. What is it exactly that the producers have created? Can they name even one thing?”

AMPTP representative Gina Cross countered bullishly “Cry some more.” going on to cryptically state “ A shepherd must tend to his flock, especially when they have grown unruly.” When pressed for clarification, she commented:

“I am sick and tired of hearing this whining from the writers for more money. We are their benefactors and they should appreciate that.”

On the issue of computer game addiction, she became defensive, believing that the accusations were directed at her union.

“I can assure you that no-one within the AMPTP even has a computer, let alone knows how to install mods, aimbots or wallhacks.”

“Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go and build a sentry gun. Overlooking the picket line.”

----------------

Yes, it's a spoof. And apologies if you haven't played any of the Half-Life family of games, and read the whole thing with the slack jawed frown of someone with the creeping feeling that they're missing out on in-jokes. Maybe go buy The Orange Box, play the whole thing all the way through, then come back. I promise you it will get much funnier.

I Am Quitting Myspace

Firstly, don't get me wrong. It's been a blast. You're all close personal friends of mine and I will truly miss all the partying we do. But I feel it's time to move on. Facebook maybe. Or I might even go outside. Stop crying, you'll find other friends.

Now I was planning to just slink away like a thief in the night. But here's the rub: Myspace won't let me. And it's pissing me off.

About a week ago I tried to cancel. Here are the buttons I had to press, each of which lead to a new screen with variations on the theme of “Are you sure, little boy?”;

Account Settings,

Cancel Account,

Cancel My Account,

Cancel My Account.

The last one read as follows:

“We're sorry you're leaving MySpace!
Please briefly explain in the form below why you're cancelling. You can really help us improve MySpace!”

By this stage I wanted to kill someone. But they weren't done:

“NOTE: You will receive an email from MySpace instructing you on how to confirm your cancellation request. You must follow the instructions in that email to complete cancellation of your account. Thank you.”

I went through this process at least three times. I received no e-mail. It's been a week. I've had enough. I want out.

Not only that, I want revenge. Revenge for being treated like a witless simpleton stuck in a call queue. Revenge for the transparent psychological ploy of trying to keep me in Myspace by making it too irritating to leave. Revenge on Rupert Murdoch for being Rupert Murdoch. And taking Sky One from my Virgin package, damn him.

And you can help me.

Here is my plan:

If you've been feeling a little lacklustre about the whole Myspace experience for a while but just needed that little push, I am here to shove you in the back.

I want to stage a mass exodus from Myspace.

I want to start a meme that swells and grows and hits Myspace where it really hurts; membership numbers.

Firstly, I want everyone who reads this to report me for abuse using the abuse button at the bottom of my page. Get me banned. I don't care how I get out I just want out.

Secondly, forward this to anyone you think might appreciate it.

And then, if you've had enough of Myspace, try and leave. Go on, try. Not that easy is it? Failing that, you might want to try making your pages hideously offensive, then report each other for abuse.

And then all move to Facebook. Job done.

(Update - it worked - just got an e-mail from Myspace - "Account deleted for violation of Terms of Service" It does my heart proud to think of all the unsung heroes out there who reported me for abuse. Thanks to anyone who bothered.)

Crazy on a Theremin

Will You Be My Friend?

Today I had a man on Myspace send me a friend request. He already has 24,000. I turned him down. It would have felt cheap.

I don't think I'll be missed.

To Spec or not to Spec

MONEY IS SHIT
Originally uploaded by cashmoney_4real.

I don't think I am unique in writing scripts on spec (for those of you not in the business, spec is short for "speculative" which essentially means no-one has paid you or asked for the script, you just thought it was a good idea and wanted to write it) but there seems to be a growing trend of writers pushing for commissions and payment before they write a word of anything, usually based on a few page outline or pitch document.

I am not keen on this approach for a few reasons. Firstly, the idea of trying to expand an "approved" outline brings along with it a whole set of pressures which simply don't exist if you're off on your own, plotting territory in the undiscovered landscape of a new script. For one thing, you've already been paid to finish the damn thing.

If you're working on something speculatively, the option always exists to just shrug and go "Screw it, this isn't working." and put it to one side. Not so if the money is already in your account. You're contractually obliged to hand something in, even if you have to wrestle the story to the finishing line.
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I have written a new film. Nearly

Gun
Originally uploaded by efo.

In the format of Final Draft, my screenwriting program of choice, one page equals one minute. I have just reached page ninety of a brand new screenplay that I began exactly one month ago. This blog entry is my limp virtual version of popping a champagne cork. The script isn't finished, not by a long chalk, but it's an hour and a half long, which is a film. And just to be clear, that's ninety pages that I am happy with, rather than ninety pages that need rewriting.

I tend to rewrite a lot, and habitually cut rejected sequences or dialogue and paste the rejected bits at the foot of the document. The current document is 141 pages long. The mathematically minded amongst you will realise that this means that I have 51 pages of trash stuck to the bottom of the "approved" stuff. I am telling you this merely to give an insight into my wasteful and ill-judged working practices.

I can't tell you what the script is about, but I am very excited by it. This was partly an exercise in pushing myself. I had the idea for the film on 10th April and just wanted to get the script written and the film out there as fast as possible. At this rate, it should be with my agents and encouraging ferocious bidding wars within the next month.

Hurrah!
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Happy Anniversary

Smashed Watch
Originally uploaded by mathieson_jamie.

Well, it's been one year since I did any stand up.

April 1st last year I stood on stage and announced my retirement to an audience who didn't even know my name. Not that this is that unusual. In comedy clubs up and down the country there are comedians wowing appreciative audiences, who then file out at the end saying things like "That Irish guy at the end was pretty good."

Do I miss it? Not really.

I always used to say that if I could teleport to the gig and then teleport home, gigging would be a lovely job. The laws of physics being what they are, it's a lot of travel and a lot of waiting around for half an hour of sweaty spotlight.

Some stand-ups thrive on the sweaty spotlight bit. I never did. I was never entirely comfortable being a stand up. I tended to stick to the script. I didn't improvise well. I could never fully shake the fear that I would fuck it up and jeopardise the mortgage. Especially playing at a big chain of clubs, where a couple of really bad gigs can lose you a lot of work.

I think the only way I could ever go back now is if I was so financially comfortable that screwing up on stage wouldn’t really matter. And I'm not there yet.

So now I'm a writer. I make things up to feed myself. Which I still find funny. I love the idea of cutting out the middlemen, of trying to pay for my shopping by waxing lyrical to the shop assistant on some bizarre topic:

"Four pound fifty? Well here's a fiver's worth of speculation about futuristic nano-armour. You can keep the change."
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My Lovely Lady Lumps

This is beautiful. For those of you too busy to press play, it's a satirical cover of "The Black Eyed Peas" "My Humps" by Alanis Morissette. It has been thoroughly shown up for the abomination right thinking people always knew it to be.

And how has Ms Morissette deconstructed this beast? What clever lyrical changes has she wrought to underline the wrongness at it's core? The answer: None. She's kept the lyrics exactly as they were. Only instead of being sung as a celebration of women using borderline prostitution to gain material wealth, the lyrics are now sung as a keening lamentation of exactly the same thing.

Fucking genius.

Bingo The Imaginary Dog

Bella2
Originally uploaded by kraftybkraft.

My wife and I have taken to walking in the local woods because we enjoy the exercise and being in nature. Basically, for fun. But here’s the thing: we never bump into anyone who hasn’t got a dog. And they always assume we’ve got a dog somewhere behind us in the wood. We’ve had people ask us “Where’s your dog?” and “Have you got a dog?” And worst of all, just look at us oddly, as if to say: “In the woods? Without a dog? You perverts.”

The other day, something in us snapped. We borrowed a leash from an understanding neighbour and whenever we bumped into anyone in the woods, we would shout “Bingo! Bingo! Come here boy!” into the woods, while slapping our thighs and shaking our heads and rolling our eyes as if to say “That Bingo! Always getting into trouble!” Anyone we bumped into also rolled their eyes and shook their heads as if they too had encountered Bingo and his unruly ways before.

To complete the illusion, we even carried a bag full of Bingo’s poo. We’re nothing if not responsible in cleaning up after our imaginary dog. Although judging by the size of his stools, Bingo is, in fact, a six foot tall dog-man.

I had suggested we call Bingo “Felcher” which as well as being a very rude word, is one of those lovely catch 22 rude words that people can’t actually get offended at without losing the moral high ground, as the very act of getting offended reveals that they know a great deal about deviant sexual practices and therefore have no right to judge.

However, it was pointing out that shouting “Felcher!” into a wood might feasibly attract a gay man with that proclivity, who would arrive very disappointed when he discovered that we were simply trying to attract an imaginary dog.

So “Bingo” it is.

When To Shove

101_2608
Originally uploaded by urban hermit $27.55.

When I was about ten or so, I developed an odd little game. A friend of mine would stand on the school playing field with their eyes closed. I would then stand next to them and explain that they were in fact standing on the very edge of the roof of an immense skyscraper. I would then describe in great detail their surroundings, the wind whistling around them, the dizzying height in front of them.

And then, at the very height of their absorption in the story, I would give them a good hard shove in the back.

Now, twenty six years later, I'm doing exactly the same thing for a living.

And now, as then, it's all about deciding when to shove.