500 beautiful postcards printed onto 350gsm uncoated matt card coming tomorrow. All artists involved listed with the posts they have already done and contact details. Again, my sincere thanks to Ursula McLaughlin for making these happen. If we hit our target, the second half goes into production and we’re looking at September for the print run. Everyone who pledges, however much, will be listed in the acknowledgements and will be a part of something quite unique. You know what to do x
In what has become more French farce than reality, everyday objects have conspired against the launch of Amateur of Life and Death in a way I could not possibly have conceived. If I could only stand back and laugh (and maybe I will sometime in the future), perhaps I’d get some kind of perspective. But when you’re living through an implausible nightmare, the absurdities get so polarised you just can’t help but take them personally. I’ll try to boil it down. Firstly, the iMac went haywire. Right at the point I was editing in the last bit of footage for the Kickstarter promo, the screen strobed at me like an Eighties disco and then presented ugly green vertical stripes across everything I tried to do. At which point, I lost it:
Me: Not now, bubba, not now.
iMac: PARTAYYY!!!
Me: Listen. We’ve known each other for almost four years. I dust you, I defrag you, I clear out that ugly crap you accumulate on a regular basis and all that I’m asking is that you work with me for the next four weeks. It’s important. It’s why I bought you in the first place. Now is not the time. Capiche?
iMac: PARTAYYY!!!
Me: No. Not Partayyy!!! You can go wild after this is all through. But not now. I’m trying to do something that really matters to me. In fact, the rest of my life hinges on it. So just play ball or you’re out with the recycling.
iMac: PARTAYYY!!!
Then my shaver packed in; I ordered another. My watch stopped dead; one of those Russian ones that pride themselves on longevity in the field of conflict suddenly went AWOL. I took it off, and as I did, two of the lights in the living room blew for no reason at all. I turned them out at the dimmer and then, I kid you not, our lavatory started to overflow. I knew something was up because the flat below had just started building work and they’d been crashing about for God knows how long, but when water starts pissing its way into your hallway, words have to be said. Next up, two builders appeared:
Builder 1: Awright, mate? Sorry about that, didn’t know youze was on the same ring.
Me: It appears we are. Can you stem the tide? It is rather unfortunate timing.
Builder 1: Bloody cheap stopcocks, that’s your problem. Who fitted this craphound?
Me: It was done by an emergency plumber four months ago. The parts are new. And they worked this morning.
Builder 2: Tone. I gotta be in Dalston in fifty. Can you sort this? I need the van, mate.
Builder 1: What am I supposed to do?
Builder 2: To be honest, I don’t give a monkeys. Either come with me and deal with this clown tomorrow morning, or sort yourself out. Your choice.
Me: Excuse me. I have a book campaign going live in 48 hrs, a toilet that badly needs sorting, and you two are debating whether to leave now?
Builder 2: Another job, mate. Life, innit?
The phone went. An automated someone chose this exact moment to offer me compensation for another accident I’d supposedly had. And as I was screaming blue bloody murder into the void, both builders left the…er…building, leaving me with a secreting loo and a flat teeming with broken stuff. There was no-one around to scream at, so I screamed at the iMac:
Me: You jumped up, poncey piece of crap! I hate you, I hate everything you pretend to be and I hate how you come across all slick and cool when actually, you’re nothing more than smoke and wires. SMOKE AND WIRES, do you understand me? Of course you don’t! Because you can’t do jack shit without me. Nothing. NOTHING!!! And when I’ve got you fixed and you think this is all business as usual, let’s see how you feel when I wheel in a Gates. Because I’m through with you, Apple. Really, I am. Jobs would be turning in his grave if he knew the shit you’re trying to pull now. So I’m out. Fuck you!!!
iMac: PARTAYYY!!!
To be continued…
A disappointing setback. We shot the remaining footage for the book launch pitch film last week. This was to be edited into my existing film and uploaded to the Kickstarter site so everything was ready to go for the 17th. But my computer had other ideas. Probably because I’ve been cramming it to bursting with film, photos and all manner of power hungry data, the graphics card packed up, rendering it totally unusable. So the last 48 hours have been spent frantically trying to get an appointment with an Apple ‘Genius’, and carting a 27″ iMac across central London until someone would see me. They did yesterday. The card issue is a known one, specific to the exact year, make & model that I have. So it’s a free fix, but I’ve lost a lot of time and I’m on the verge.
Because of all this, I’m putting back the Kickstarter launch date by a week. It will now go live on Friday 24th July for 30 days, and if you’re wondering where you need to go to pledge or even just follow the campaign, all details will appear next week on the site, on the Facebook/Twitter pages and, if I have your details, via email. My apologies for the slight delay, but in this case it’s genuinely out of my hands.
As far as the party is concerned, it will happen as planned at 3 Dorchester Drive, Dorchester Court, Herne Hill, London SE24 from 7.30pm this coming Friday 17th July. If you can make it, please drop by. We’ll film the whole thing and, as long as I’m not sectioned into the Maudsley, it should be a lot of fun. This will be more of a general awareness night as opposed to a book launch per se, but you’ll get to see close up what we’ve been doing since January. All washed down with a few pinots. Nice x
Cyberfilth. Protecting you from your revolting selves 24/7
https://theidleeye.wordpress.com/2014/07/17/idle-eye-114-the-tyranny-of-sex/
For the last 48 hours, I’ve been at war. However placid I may be in my natural state, when invaded by germs hell-bent on turning my internals into that green goo from Dr Who, I tend to kick off. For a while there, it looked as if they had the upper hand: First, they came for my voice, next for my nose and lungs, and then, while I was rushing about tending to these, they came for my bottom. However, what they hadn’t banked on was my British resilience in the face of extreme adversity. That, like any great military strategist, I could and would play the long game, feigning weakness and ineptitude when, in fact, I was building up to a mighty show of strength which would conclusively put them to rout. Something like this:
Germ A: He’s going into the bathroom, men! Weakest to the fore!!! WEAKEST TO THE FORE!!!
Germ B: It’s ok, sir! He’s only having a huey in the sink. No great loss.
Germ A: Right. Get a message over to Nasal Production without delay. We’re going for a massive push in ten.
Germ B: He’s got a new loo roll by the bed! They’ll be toast in seconds. If Bottom Bay gets cracking now, we stand more of a chance of catching him off guard when he goes back in.
Germ A: How many rolls?
Germ B: Not sure, sir. Maybe we should send a few privates up to the throat? They can have a quick butchers when he’s bent over the khazi.
Germ A: Too risky. We’re down on mucus and we’ll need everything we have for when he starts necking the Benylin.
Germ B: Benylin, sir?
Germ A: Yes, bloody Benylin!!! It was on the sideboard.
Germ B: That changes the rules somewhat. How long do you think we have?
Germ A: Long enough to play merry hell with his bottom. Now get on with it!
Germ B: Germ B to Bottom Bay, Germ B to Bottom Bay, open all sluice gates now. I repeat, open sluice gates now!
Bottom Bay: Bottom Bay to Germ B, Bottom Bay to Germ B. We have a problem. The gates are wide but there’s nowt coming out. Urgently request reinforcements from Chest and/or Throat Depts. She’s dry as a witch’s tit, sir!
Germ B: MAYDAY!!! MAYDAY!!! ALL MUCUS ZONES TO PROCEED TO BOTTOM BAY AT ONCE. THIS IS AN EMERGENCY!!! DO NOT HANG ABOUT!!!
Germ A: He’s got quilted!!! Bail out now!!!
Germ B: Too late! I’ve instructed all departments to head south.
Germ A: Oh my good God! It’s done. He was too good for us this time. Give my regards to your wife and family and should we survive, perhaps a drink at the Criterion when it’s all over?
Germ B: Indeed. And may I say it was an honour to serve under you?
Germ A: You may. Goodbye, B.
Germ B: Goodbye, sir.
As we march headlong into a Brave New World of consumer shed meltdown and the human travesty that is modern telecommunication, Idle Eye deconstructs the madness so you don’t have to.
https://theidleeye.wordpress.com/2015/03/11/idle-eye-143-the-vox-machina/
The evergreen L. Ron Hubbard is back in town, despite having died in January 1986. Dude!
https://theidleeye.wordpress.com/2014/03/07/idle-eye-105-the-ron-solution/
It’s Glastonbury week again. Huzzah! So just to kick things off, here’s a timely reminder why people like me should stay indoors and do something more appropriate instead. Like reading the pink paper or fixing a lawnmower. Kim who?
https://theidleeye.wordpress.com/2015/03/17/idle-eye-144-the-kanye-conspiracy/
Right. Three quotes in from the printers, time to do do some costings and make a film. Yes, a film. Apparently if you do a straight-to-camera pitch, people feel sorry for you and are more inclined to donate. Like on Facebook when they show you those wounded puppies with pleading eyes. So I’ll have a go at that then.
I didn’t really want to put up any of the artwork just yet, but these spreads are just too good not to give you a quick peak. Illustration here by the disgustingly talented DNA Factory, more to come when the campaign goes live. Looking like 17th July. There will be a launch party in SE London which everyone’s welcome to attend. Message me for cheap flights/hotels/personal peccadillo limitations etc… Or just to find out where it is.
Massive thanks to Ursula McLaughlin for getting these done x
Impending death kind of makes you get your skates on. All that time you spent dicking about doing nothing of consequence will eventually appear at your door tapping its watch. Which is no biggie if you happen to have chalked up some of the stuff you set out to achieve, but if, like me, you’ve tried and failed too often to even care about, you have to ask yourself two pretty searching questions:
Do I keep going, or do I shackle myself to the yoke of submission and admit defeat?
The death thing is quite a major pisser, but when you boil it back to basics it’s not actually life-threatening; just an expedient reminder for you to get off your arse and get on with it. If it bothers you, you can always hop over to deathclock.com (the internet’s friendly reminder that life is slipping away), where they kindly work out how long you’ve got until you are reclaimed by the Grim Reaper. I did briefly consider this, but thought better of it after browsing the search criteria and calculating for myself that I was already living on borrowed time.
I weighed it up. Yes, I could go back to a job that looks good on paper to those who don’t really understand what it entails, or load my bollocks back into the wheelbarrow of endeavour and run with it/them once again. To where there’s no safety net if things go a bit tits. Where the odds are stacked against you because you should have done it twenty years ago. Where the contenders are younger, media-savvy and hungry for that rapidly diminishing slice of the pie. And then, just as I was beginning to cave, someone introduced me to Jonathan Ames.
If ever an ageing, unpublished writer needed a tonic, it came then in the form of this man’s work. A self-deprecating, pushed alter-ego, doing (and penning) things most of us would ordinarily shun, in the tradition of the great American humourists but with a filthier edge, Ames was pushing all my buttons. The greater irony being that the exaggerated failure he casts himself as is, in reality, exactly who I am now. Although I too am writing as an exaggerated failure, and shall continue to do so despite any inconvenient impending success. It’s a headsmoker, make no mistake, but a glorious one nonetheless.
So where does that leave us? My newfound admiration for Mr Ames will almost certainly draw comparisons, the most apposite being that despite sharing a birth year, I am in South-East London writing drivel for 350 people and he is about to launch Blunt Talk (which, from the trailer, appears to be the sharpest comedy to come out of the States in decades) and is probably rather busy. But it is comforting to note that we have been singing from the same hymn sheet for quite a while. Independently, I swear.
Doubt, get thee behind me.
Idle Eye 