Sunday Thoughts

Well, here I am sitting in the glorious sunshine in our back garden having a spot of brunch in a bid to fend off the ‘pre lunch energy crash’ that I’ve been experiencing a lot recently (probably due to the nightly Heinekens (I bought four cans for the slugs and drank three myself (these days the slugs in my garden have two choices: salt or beer; some of them wisely choose the beer))))

I haven’t done much gardening of late and I’m not sure why. They say, “Spend time not money on your <insert valuable thing here>” and I haven’t been doing much of that at all. Sunday mornings were traditionally my gardening time but to be honest I haven’t been bothered. I’ve planted the spuds but the brassica and legumes patches lie empty. I guess I could move the broad bean saplings to the outside now we’ve hopefully seen the last of the frost. Why has my gardening spirit deserted me? I still don’t really know what brassicas are, but I have a feeling I don’t like them. Are they the green leafy veg like kale and Brussels sprouts? Sounds like ideal food for slugs to enjoy with beer and salt.

I read an article in last week’s Times Magazine by Rachel Riley of Countdown fame (she’s now 35!) and she said some of the best advice she’d ever received was: Decide what would be a good outcome of a project and if you achieve that, be happy with it. She also wrote: Only concern yourself with what will be important in five years’ time.

Rachel Riley in 2011. Source : Wikipedia CC by 3.0
https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/

This got me to thinking. Where will I be in five years’ time? What will be important to us then?

Well, I’ll be 51. I can’t even relax enough to imagine what that will be like. Probably just be exactly the same as now, except hopefully we’ll be closer to paying off the mortgage. Too much time wasted on social media. Failed half-empty writing promises. Not enough money. Unachieved goals.

I remember in 2008 I wrote a five year plan and it involved becoming self sufficient. IE we’d own our own house, have our own homestay business. Teach English at home and tour people around Scotland. Sounded like a pretty good goal.

And to some extent we approached this. We had guests coming in with AirBnB and Homestay. We had a refreshing home. People came and went. They stayed in the spare room. We even had a lodger at one point. Admittedly the first night was always a bit nervy because we never knew if they’d kill us all in our sleep, but after that didn’t happen it was fine.

I mean we could grow more food, it’s just a case of me being arsed.

The dandelions are out in full force today, and so are daisies on the lawn. I’ve put fatballs in the bird feeder and the house sparrows are tweeting merrily. Currently no neighbours are playing radios or shouting at dogs. Things seem momentarily peaceful. In the distance someone’s mowing their lawn and dogs are barking their indifference at each other, but that’s at a distance so completely fine. No fitness company is shouting orders via a PA system at their clients, which even at a distance is insufferable. 

It seems I’ve become a cantankerous old man, which must have snuck up on me in the last five years...

So back to Rachel Riley. Where do I want to be in 2026, because there’s a fair to middling chance that it will come around eventually.

I don’t want to be 51 - that’s a start. That’s the main one.  I'd rather be 25.5. But that’s ridiculous. I’m going to be 51 whether I like it or not. The question is, what kind of 51-year-old do I want to be? 

Looking at people younger than me lamenting their age I always think, “Hmm, they should just be grateful for what they have.” So perhaps that’s how I should be. Grateful for what I have. I should be grateful for being 51 because five years after that I’ll be 56. More pain. More hardship. Further from the truth. Or closer, depending on how you look at it. 

Okay, can’t do anything about that, but I can presumably do something about my situation. Me and my books and my writing and my wedding videos and my car and my music. I want to be an ageing hippy, smoking dope and giving lectures. And my dog. I want to enjoy the twilight years of my life. 

I want to live in a small house near the sea in St Andrews, with a garden in a quiet place. 

And all I’d need to do that is £135 grand...

Better get writing!

Trappings Of A Gem Stealer - Short Story

Artok checked the harness one last time before slipping over the edge into the cave. Above him, the storm-filled but rainless sky began to recede as he let himself down into the cooler darkness below, which threatened to swallow him entirely. 

He didn't want to go into the Black Heart this late in the day, when dusk was already approaching, but if Enock's men came back in the night, as they'd threatened they would, and found no more stones, it would be another flogging for Artok. The pain was terrible, but the look on his wife's face and new born son's wails would be worse.

Damn Enock!

Lightning fired above, quickly followed by thunder so loud it numbed Artok's ears. Grimacing, Artok lowered himself into darkness.

Some moments later he felt his feet touch down. He detached one of his three torches, poured a little oil on the head, and struck it alight using pieces of flint from his pouch. That done, he released himself from the harness, held up the torch, and took a second to look around. A few black beetles scuttled off the crudely erected platforms away from the light, but apart from those, nothing else moved. The cavern stretched up overhead and its surface was covered in jagged shards of rock, which necessitated the building of these platforms for flooring, branching off in various directions and leading into the various tunnels and recesses throughout the maze of the Black Heart.

Artok made his way cautiously along one of the platforms, which creaked under his weight. A noise off to his left above his head made him pause. He hadn't heard that kind of noise down here before. It was three gruff snorts. Artok continued. Get in, get a few stones, and get out fast, he thought, dropping his free hand to the crossbow hanging at his hip. 

He wondered briefly if the stories the villagers were telling had some truth to them after all. About the hideous creatures down here. No. Just made up by some greedy folk to keep people out of the Black Heart and away from its precious stones.

Nonetheless, Artok's grip on the crossbow tightened.

Shortly the ceiling became low and the platform came to an end, forcing Artok to stoop and begin carefully navigating the crevices and knife-like rocks using his hands to steady himself. Occasionally he felt some downward jutting rocks scrape the thick protective cloth wrapping his head, and was glad of it. Sometimes the stone sliced through his mittens and caused his hands to become sticky with blood, or a beetle might crawl over the back and up his arm before he shook it off with a gasp .

Artok stopped for a second to catch his breath. While he regained his strength he waved the torch ahead of him, straining to see through the gloom. At last he saw the flickering reflections up ahead of a deposit and his heart warmed in his chest.

Then came the sound of another husky grunt, followed by a shrill noise that sent a shiver through Artok's bones. After that the flapping of many wings. Then nothing.

He swallowed, but his mouth had gone dry.

Artok started moving again.

The deposit that he'd seen was set beyond a tight narrowing of the cavern, where the ceiling came down to within a couple of feet of the floor. Artok found the widest part and as carefully as possible, eased himself through. A small stalagtite jabbed him sharply in the back, but otherwise he made it to the other side with little trouble.

Raising up the torch he examined the deposit. It was a good one, with a number of large gems that looked easy to remove. He set down the torch leaning against a nearby surface, unhooked his crossbow and laid it, too, down. Then, taking a smallish hammer-axe, began carefully chipping away the surrounding rock. He worked that way for some time, enthralled, alone in his little bubble of light, enclosed on all sides by leagues of darkness and earth.

Suddenly he realised something was watching him. He snatched up his crossbow and spun around in a flash.

Whatever it was disappeared.

He picked up the torch and waved it in front of him, trying to cast the light further than it would go.

Nothing. Except the sound of his own hard breathing.

A couple of beetles scuttled into the cracks.

Artok grunted, his veins flooded with adrenalin but nothing to shoot.

A shiver rolled through him, and he lowered his torch. His crossbow arm went limp, and he sighed. But the sensation of being observed wouldn't leave. The idea of something watching him as he quietly worked away in his own light, the view of himself from behind as he sat engrossed, made him shiver yet again.

He swore gently, and turned back to the deposit. He'd removed four gems from the rock, which now sat on the soft gem-bag to one side, and he examined them once more, enjoying their cool jagged surfaces in his blood-smeared hands. Would these four be enough? he asked himself. The desire to leave, now, as fast as possible, was quick and overwhelming, and laced with panic.

There hadn't been any more of those strange sounds, he noticed. Who knew what lay sleeping, dormant, hidden away in the unexplored depths of the Black Heart?

He looked again at the source of the deposit. Maybe three more stones could be extracted without much effort, he decided.

With shaking hands, Artok again laid down his torch and lifted the small hammer-axe up to the gems. He took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves, and began chipping away again at the rock around one of the precious stones. Once, twice, three times. He stopped. His hand was shaking so much he had shattered the gem with his third strike.

A noise came from behind him, a gruff snort.

The little hammer-axe dropped from his fingers.

Artok turned, slowly, his body trembling so much that he barely had control of it.

There, beyond the narrow gap, was a huge, grinning snout filled haphazardly with jutting, broken teeth, and above it, yellow, glowing eyes set hungrily on Artok. Slowly, it eased a long taloned claw through the gap towards Artok, who, frozen with shock, saw both the hairy, muck-covered humanoid arm and its eerie shadow thrown by the torch, and stumbled back against the gem deposit.

I'm going to die, was the only thought in Artok's mind that made it through the fog of terror.

Unable to reach Artok, the thing suddenly gave a brief flap of great black wings, changed its position, and tried to reach further into the space. The glint in the thing's eyes wasn't hunger, Artok then realized, but wrath. Wrath like molten lead. The creature was still unable to get at the small, quivering form of Artok, no matter how hard it pushed into the crack. The talons snapped together five inches from his face

It can't get me, Artok realised.

The thing gave a low growl of effort and pushed harder into the crack, breaking off pieces of rock, top and bottom.

Oh God, Artok's mind stuttered. Please don't come any closer.

But it was. It gained a little progrees, was stopped by the rocks, charged forwards with a grunt sending pieces of broken stone showering over Artok, and then was stopped again.

Artok's hand rested on something and he looked down. The cross bow. He aimed it directly at the creature's head and set his finger on the trigger, but the back of the thing's claw lashed out and sent the weapon flying against a wall. With a cry, Artok picked up the torch and jabbed it forwards, but the creature grabbed the end between its giant fist and extinguished the flame with a crunch as if it was nothing but a match.

Darkness.

But still sound. Sound that wrenched the core of Artok's being apart with fear. Falling pieces of rock. Grunting and slavering. Snapping of fangs. Wings moving in leathery foldings and unfoldings.

And then silence. The thing had paused before making its final lunge, Artok realized. And with the silence came calm. This is the end, Artok now understood. All men died, it was a universal truth.

Wordlessly, Artok said goodbye to his beautiful wife and precious son, gave the last sigh of his life, and closed his eyes to the darkness.

He waited for it to end.

A moment later, he found that he was still waiting.

“Artok!”

It was someone calling his name, echoed and distorted by the cavern walls.

There was a low growl, followed by the sound of dropping stones and scraping rock, and a gust of musty air, as the creature stole away, back to whatever dark recess it kept.

Artok tensed, waiting, listening, and then nearly fainted with relief.

“Artok!” came the voice again. “Can you hear me, down there?”

He breathed air deep into his lungs, savouring it again as if for the first time. The sensation of the rock under his hands. The ability of moving arms and legs without pain or discomfort. The miracle of existing again, in the here and now.

Almost overcome with gratitude, Artok rose shakily to his feet, feeling around for his other torches and flint pouch and listening to someone climb down into the cave.

“Well? Are you in here, Artok?” said the voice, a little louder now. Laughter followed.

Artok, about to speak, paused, trying to remember the owner of that voice. Frowning in the darkness, he poured a little oil on a fresh torch head.

“Maybe he's fallen down a crack and split open his dirty, thieving fucking head.” A second voice. Laughter.

“Probably all the better for him,” muttered the first.

Flints in hand, Artok paused in mid strike. Something about the tone of the man's voice had opened up a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. He waited, listening.

“Artok! This news is important enough for me to come and deliver it myself!”

Realization dawned on Artok. This was Enock. In person.

What news?

“We've just come from your house!” called Enock. The voice sounded closer. “As you weren't there we had to wake up your family. I'm sorry about that, we had no choice.”

Artok's grip tightened on the flints.

“But to kill them.”

The world dropped away from Artok when he heard those words. It was as if the world had become a rock, falling down a well, away from his oustretched open hand.

“You owe us some stones, Artok. You're overdue again. Floggings are not enough to beat sense into you, it seems.” Enock cleared his throat. There was the click of a cross bow being charged. “Now where are they?” Artok watched the world drop, drop away, with what felt like indifference.

My beautiful wife, he thought. My boy.

He gazed at the vague outline of his hands, holding their flints. They seemed to belong to someone else.

“How can that bastard see down here without having a torch lit?” mumbled Enock's man. “We're never going to find him.”

I don't need a torch, Artok thought. Or what used to be Artok.

I can see without it.

He moved his fingers over the softness of the flints.

“He can't stay down here forever,” Enock grunted. “Isn't that right, Artok, old friend?”

Friend. The word ignited Artok's gaseous soul.

Something flew from the darkness at the two men - some terrible distortion of nature - with talons outstretched and fangs bared. A claw clipped the man next to Enock, knocking him over and sending the torch flying. Enock raised his crossbow and fired a bolt into the thing's wing. The creature recoiled a little, but while still airborne, and with one talon, tore the crossbolt out and cast it to the side. Enock stumbled backwards, his face like chalk, crossbow dropping from his hand. He was muttering nonsensical things when the thing swooped at him. It grabbed Enock by the throat in one huge claw, wings raised high over the man's head in a death veil, and thrust its snarling snout up to his face.

“Artok!” cried Enock. “Artok! Help us!” and he strained to hear any sound from where the gem-stealer might be hiding in the darkness.

The thing opened its jaws with a growl.

“I am Artok,” it said, and gnashed its fangs.

High above the Black Heart the rainless storm clouds continued to rage.

© Chris R Young 2021

The Dead Broad - A Short Story

This popped out of my head one day in 2001 when I was living in Japan. I was frustrated by my inability to stop smoking, and how in the grand scheme of things whether or not someone smokes is not really that big a deal.

"Okay, fine!" I said, and grabbed my jacket.

   As the door slammed behind me, I stuck a cigarette in my mouth and lit up, pausing only to shove open the gate on my way out the garden.

“Manipulative bitch,” I mumbled to myself while striding down the empty street. She had a nerve, she really did. Talking to me that way. I couldn’t believe it! After all we’d been through together. After all I’d sacrificed for her. I shook my head in disbelief. 

“The world is a dark, dark place,” I spat, to no-one in range.

As luck would have it, it was dark, the time being a little before 11 pm. And here was I, yet again, scouring the streets like vermin, searching for scraps, leftovers, of respect. Because that was all it seemed I was worth.

I puffed and raged, raged and puffed, and it wasn’t long before I could feel my anger begin to subside.

At last I came to rest, sitting on the low wall of a churchyard. 

It could be worse, I mused, gazing round at the headstones before the church building. I could have croaked. I could have been born in the nineteenth century, kicked the kettle nigh on fifty years ago and now be fodder for maggots and beetles buried six feet under in an old, wet, rot-bitten coffin, grinning through lipless, nicotine-stained teeth.

I blew smoke through my nose. I knew my method of obtaining optimism wasn’t the same as other folk’s, but it seemed to help me feel a little better when I was down.

Then it occurred to me she might have a point. Had I not gotten rat-faced last night I probably wouldn’t have slobbered all over the nearest bit of cream puff I could lay my saliva glands on. Still, one night of debauchery is no excuse for giving up alcohol entirely, now, is it? That’s just ridiculous. Where did she get that Jekyll and Hyde syndrome bollocks from? Hello? She spends too much time reading those magazines, and watching those goddam afternoon TV shows for the dead, or mentally dead, or at least some part of their brain must be dead to sit in all day glued to that fucking box watching people in tall hats show them how to spice their sardines and juice their lemons.

I flicked the stub into the graveyard where it bounced off a headstone sending a satisfying shower of sparks out into the grass.

Then I sighed and sat with my head in my hands.

Perhaps she was right. Maybe I do drink too much. I’m no spring chicken any more, that’s for sure. I patted my paunch. More like a Christmas turkey. All right then, I decided, for the sake of my wife, and my liver, I will give up alcohol for ever. No more nights out with the lads — more quality time at home playing scrabble with her indoors and expanding my intelligence reading, what were those things again, oh yeah, books. And no more hangovers. Thank God! Those are some things I will never miss. 

This is it. No more beer. Here begins my NEW LIFE!

That’s when I heard a noise behind me. 

It sounded like a sandcastle being kicked over by an old man  coughing up his insides.

I turned round. And there, dragging itself out of its grave — the one I’d flicked the cigarette butt at — was a corpse.

I watched it make its progress, myself unable to move a muscle, as the cadaver laid one knee, and then another, on the ground next to its grave, before rising shakily to its feet. Dressed in what had no doubt been its favourite red dress during life, the corpse staggered in my direction. It — she — no, it — was perhaps three years gone. It was hard to gauge, having never actually seen a dead body before, least of all one walking around the land of the living like it owned the place. As she approached me, I saw my unfinished cigarette butt between her teeth.

She stopped just short of the wall, placed one semi-skeletal hand on the small of her back, used the other to remove the cigarette from her mouth, leaned back and disgorged a terrible, lung-rattling cough up into the starlit sky. Then she looked at me.

I tried to think of something to say, but could not.

“Fancy a drink, deary?” she spluttered.

“A-All right,” I replied, clearing my throat. “Think I could use one.”

We went to the Ship and Anchor pub, just down from the church and on the left. 

It crossed my mind how churches and pubs had been common features of towns and cities throughout the ages, but failed to make any other connection. Perhaps people needed God and beer.

She was slow at walking. Bits of her kept dropping off as we made our way downhill. As we passed the opening to the park, a couple of stray dogs threatened to take her leg off. A few people stopped and stared. One woman screamed. Someone, amusingly, shouted that we should call for an ambulance.

We sat at the bar, which had quickly emptied when we’d opened the door.

“What’ll it be?” asked Mick, glancing sideways at the woman-corpse-thing.

“I’ll have a large whatever comes to hand first,” I said.

“And for the,” he paused, “lady?”

“A G and T, my darling,” the corpse said, grinning. “Ice but no lemon, thank you.”

We consumed our drinks. I drank mine, she spilt hers everywhere. Mick wiped the bar.

Suddenly the door burst open. I turned round and saw my wife standing there, her face full of love and forgiveness. “Danny!” she cried, and ran towards me. “I’m sorry! I should never have told you how to live your life. Please come home, I hate it when we fight. I’ve got something for you.” 

She smiled that smile, and gave me a huge hug.

I'd tried to block her view, but she saw over my shoulder.

“Who’s THAT!” she yelled, jumping back, her face drained of blood.

I swallowed and shrugged. “I dunno. Just some broad I gave a cigarette.”

This and other daft stories and poems will appear in the anthology 'Hidden In The Old Stone Wall' coming soon (hopefully).

© Chris R Young 2021

The Missing 'Old Mice' Ratty Chapter

I had a feeling I was on thin ice, so I skated gingerly over to where Ratty Rathbone was standing near the edge of the rink selling dope to teenagers.

Scraping to a halt I showered them with shavings.

“What the —” Then he saw me and all the blood drained from his furry, narrow face.

“Hello, Ratty,” I grinned. “Betcha didn’t expect to be seein’ me here?” 

“J-Jake!” he stammered. “No, yeah, well, I didn’t know you could skate!” Ratty’s whiskers twitched sporadically. His long nostrils flared. A thin, pink tongue flickered over his protruding front teeth. Crumbs of cheese fell from his stubble when he ran a scrawny claw over his chin. His long, tan overcoat was crumpled and stained in contrast to the shiny new skates he’d rented, upon which he tottered precariously. For balance, his other hand was hooked on the barrier rail surrounding the rink.

The teenagers drifted away as soon as they saw me. Some of them were already pretty high. One as high as a kite.

“Whatcha sellin’ these days, Ratty,” I said, peering up at them. “Helium?”

“No, Jake, j-just the usual mix, ya know. Herbal really, for relaxation purposes. Helps them study. Some o’ these kids have stressful home lives.”

“Aww, you’re a real do-gooder community figure,” I said, patting his jowls.

“W-what can I do you for, Jake?” Ratty sniffed, his eyes darting hither and thither. “The usual?”

“Nah, I’m here for some intel.” I watched the skaters of all ages, speeds and creeds whiz by in a clockwise direction. “What’s the lowdown on the Bayview Hotel?”

“The B-B-Bayview?!”

“You seem kinda nervous,” I growled. “Maybe you should take some o' your own medicine.”

“Aw, naw, Jake, I’m fine. It’s just that … every time you come around askin’ for info … well, somethin’ bad happens.”

“Come on, Ratty,” I said, gesturing around at the ice rink. “We’re in a wide open public space. What could possibly happen to you here?”

“Well,” he said, his tiny eyes like grains of salt burning through ice. “Okay. I guess. The Bayview Hotel is a hotel overlooking the bay.”

“No shit.”

“It was built in the 60s back in the boom years when racing car drivers and the like came down the coast rolling in dough. Then it got taken over by some shady new management and went downhill. Rumours of guests going missing didn’t help.”

“Rumours?”

“Yeah, nothin’ was ever proved but—”

“You sayin’ it’s haunted?”

Ratty sniggered, unable to hide the tone of hysteria which had crept in. A bit like the acrid stench of body odor his cologne was futilely charged with combatting. I could almost see the vapors rising from his tattered, ill-fitting garments. My eyes stung. “Naw, Jake, ha ha, that would be ridiculous.”

“You mentioned a take over.”

“I did?”

“Yeah, some shady new management, you said.”

His eyes darted about in a pitiful rendition of how they darted about a few minutes ago, except even more so. His tongue flickered over his dry, chapped lips. “It was a business venture run by a guy. Big, powerful. Dangerous.”

“Guy got a name?”

“Yeah,” Ratty gulped at the air like he had trouble breathing. “You’re not gonna believe this, it was Roger —”

We were interrupted when a huge, muscular slab of beef in a dark business suit shoved between us. He grunted, “‘Scuse me, ladies,” in a gruff voice and skated off, disappearing into the crowd.

When I returned my gaze to Ratty I found his expression had altered. 

His scrawny face, which had been flushed with the excitement of disclosure, had become ashen and drawn. He was looking down, one hand covering his abdomen. Red drips seeped through his fingers and dropped onto the white ice.

“Ratty?” I said. 

One knee buckled and I grabbed him by the shoulders, and then the other skate shot out from under him and he went down.

“Ah, shit.” I scanned the skaters but there was no sign of the hulking form that had pushed between us.

“Jake,” he muttered.

“Ratty,” I said. “The name. You were about to tell me the name. Roger who?”

“Jake,” he mumbled again. “Why? Life is so … futile …”

“No it ain’t Ratty, life is great. Now tell me the damn name!”

His head tipped sideways and his eyes half closed.

“Hell.” I stood up. “Medic!” I shouted. “We got a medic here?”

The skaters near us stared, gasped and cleared a space around us. A guy in white came running towards us from the direction of the office.

I knelt down. “It’s okay Ratty, it’s gonna be okay.”

“Cold,” he whispered. “So cold …”

With my number one informant and drug-dealer safely wheeled into an ambulance and whisked off to St Mary’s, I was free to continue my investigation. 

I figured the next stop was the Bayview Hotel.

Guests going missing? Guy called Roger? And who was the muscular giant who’d stabbed Ratty to shut him up? Was I being followed?

Ratty had given me more questions than answers.

And a desire to wash my nose out with disinfectant...

Many thanks to the team at West Lothian Writers for their valuable feedback on the above last night.

Read more of Jake Jones' 1st case The Old Mice Killer available on Amazon.

Dracula Untold : Film Review

Today I'd like to talk (write) about the 2014 Gary Shore film Dracula Untold (2014), written by Mark Sazama and Burk Sharpless, starring Luke Evans, which I stumbled upon while trying to get the taste of another film out of my head.

Fantastic performance from Luke Evans

I had heard nothing of Dracula Untold. It sounded like another trashy vampire film or even documentary, but popped up as a suggestion, and I was eager to find some way of watching something - literally anything - else that would take my mind off the last 90 minutes of my life I would never get back after watching - let's call it Film X - which has quite a lot of A list stars in it.

I thought, "I'll give this one five minutes and if it doesn't grab me I'm going to bed."

But to my surprise, it did. I found myself swept up immediately in a strange colour paletted world of heroism, tragedy and darkness. Something akin to the style of the film 300.

And then there was talk of Vlad the Impaler fighting Turks and I thought, right, okay, wasn't expecting Turks, but go on.

The main character, played expertly by Luke Evans, was a prince who had his head on his shoulders. But who was he? Was he Vlad the Impaler or the 'son of' narrator? He was leading an exploration with his soldierly mates on the rocks of a river that could have been the Clyde at New Lanark Mills, and I thought, "Right, a down to earth prince who has the smarts to figure out there's something nasty in the cave up there, and that corpses flow downstream, but what's the connection between him, Dracula of legend, his castle, and the Turkish threat?"

Something about Luke Evans, who I'd never seen before, suggested that he was a good man who didn't like doing bad things to save his family and people, but might if push came to shove, or so we, the audience, hoped. He had the consistent look I must have whenever I have to do something unpleasant but must be done for the greater good, like clean the bathroom, or wake up early.

And then it turned out he was going to give away his only son to become a child soldier of the Turks even after explicitly promising not to! What!? No!? Tell me it ain't so, Luke! If he does this, I'm going to bed right away in disgust!

And then they're on the hill and he's just on the verge of handing his own son over and lose him forever, and I thought, "No! He can't do that!" and the Turk laughs, "To be honest, we thought you would offer a little more ... resistance." And the prince kneels down and whispers to his son, 

"Go back to your mother ..."

It's that moment, that precise second, when a certainty descends on you and you know things are going to get interesting.

Gary Shore's Dracula Untold does not disappoint. Especially if you have kids of your own, you will be on the edge of your (in my case) hammock every second from that point on. So much at stake (pun not intended but I'll take it). If you've seen the equally excellent Maleficent (completely different writer and director) which tells a popular tale from a totally different angle that spins your head around 720º, you'll have an idea what I'm talking about.

I asked myself, "These two films - Dracula Untold and Film X - are absolute polar opposites. One is amazing, starring a host of (to me) unknown actors, writers and director, and the other has all the big names but is a complete damp squib. What happened? What went wrong?"

Here's what I came up with.

• It goes all the way back to Concept. Even before Script, there is Concept. Dracula Untold is just a good idea from the get go. It's an original dark love story which turns the classic tale upside down. That's a huge strength, because it will always surprise us.
• Film X borrowed a lot from other films like Highlander, Batman etc. In many ways Film X was an 80s film made in the 2020s.
• Dracula Untold was a labour of love for the writers. The two obviously spent many hours drinking coffee and/or alcohol together bouncing ideas of each other and the wall thinking to themselves, "This is gonna kick ass."
• The writer(s) of Film X seemed to be thinking, well, we need a vehicle for these A List stars to do their thing, and we need it by this deadline. So what should we do?
• The director of Dracula Untold was on a whole other level from the beginning. He loved the script, he loved vampires, he loved messing with people's heads, he had a love of cinema and liked to take risks. He was a fan of 300. It was a passion project and will probably be his own favourite creation for years to come.
• The director of Film X seemed like he turned up on Monday morning and worked 9-5. He (or she) put in the required hours. But maybe the script didn't inspire. (S)he probably also thought, 'this sounds like it's an 80s film in the 2020s.' But I'll do what I can with it, because of the A listers.
• There's a big plot hole in Film X which at some point, someone reading the script should have raised a red flag. "No, this doesn't work, sorry," they should have said. But they didn't. Or they did and no-one listened. Possibly due to the fear of the A-listers being on board.
• Dracula Untold has all new faces, save one, the original vampire who I recognised. Film X, had several huge names, all of whom were unable to shake their previous roles adequately to convincingly portray these ones. But I get it. They need to work like the rest of us. But do I need to watch?
• During a snuggle scene between Luke Evans' character and his wife, there was a bit of a spark. I actually thought, "Ooh, that's nice, it's almost as if they fancy each other." No sparks in Film X. Unless you get turned on by awkwardness and plot holes.
• The special effects and make up were good in both films. Better in Dracula Untold, though, if I'm being honest. But they were also used more effectively. In Film X, the SFX were like: "Look! A monster!" whereas in Dracula Untold, they were like: "Holy shit! Look what that fucking monster is doing!"

Yeah, that's about all the facets of these two films I can analyse at the moment. One a diamond; the other only glass.

To sum up then, I'd recommend watching Dracula Untold.

But not Film X.

Adrift

I thought I’d treat myself to a bit of writing this morning because I feel that my life is lacking something. I find that when my imagination is not working on something constructive, it works instead on something maybe not quite so good.

Last night I watched Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon again. It’s such a great film. I couldn’t believe how affected by it I was the first time I watched it in Japan on my laptop - it was one of those films that just blew me away. Watching it again with the English voiceover I was struck by how good the voice actors were too. Of course the first time I saw it I wasn’t aware that the reason Chow Yun Fat puts his hand behind his back while balancing on the ultra-thin bamboo branches was to support himself on the wires. I fell in love with Michelle Yeoh all over again.

Now it’s a classic, as are many films I still consider relatively new. I guess that’s what happens when you get older.

My life is a spinning compass. I’m adrift. I have no direction. I wish I had a job at least, so someone could shout at me if I went astray. But no. Working for myself I can spend hours on social media doing ‘marketing’ and researching the ‘market’ or in other words ‘dicking about’.

Let us chart a course then, my friends, and hold fast! And use big ass bullet points for emphasis!

• I need to continue working on my videos.
• I need to prepare for some English lessons
• I need to wrap and return a present
• I need to prepare for West Lothian Film tonight 7-9pm
• I need to practice and prepare for the January Saltire Zoom Open Mic tomorrow night 8pm-11pm
• I need to stop saying 'need' so much
• I should write some of 'Travels in Japan' and 'Jake Jones & The Puppy Master'

Yes, if I can get these things done I’ll be satisfied. 

 

White Christmas, Green Year?

It's a brand new decade! I hope you all had a great Christmas & New Year and wish you a safe, healthy, happy and green 2021.

   Why green? You mean like the Grinch? Not exactly. With everything that's been going on, the fight against carbon has kind of taken a back seat. But the climate is still changing. We used to call it the Greenhouse Effect back in the 80s, before someone decided that was not a very politically correct phrase, and after all, who could prove for sure that the climate didn't just change of its own accord? Of course it does, just a lot faster with our help.

Click to enlarge this graph from Climate.gov

   As you may know, I like to record our monthly energy usage data, put it in a spreadsheet, calculate the CO2 emissions associated, and draw up a graph. Because I'm a bit of a nerd like that.

   How? It's simple. On the first of each month I go round and record the readings from our electricity, gas, and solar meters, and record the mileage of my car. Next I put them in a spreadsheet. Then I do the same the next month, and subtract the difference. After that I researched on various websites how to convert electricity and gas into kg of CO2 emissions (CO2e/KG)*. Finally, in the last column, you add it all up. Looks a bit like this:

   Nice, eh? Red represents winter, green summer and blue is spring and autumn. 

   Here are our CO2 emissions for the past two years from 1/1/19 to 1/1/21.

   The orange line is our electricity, green our car usage, blue is gas, yellow is solar and brown is total.

   The CO2 emissions for car take into account the mile per gallon reading (56.3) and CO2 emitted during the car's manufacture, spread out over its projected lifespan per mile. Because cars don't just grow on trees.

   The electricity usage 'should' be lower than if we didn't have solar panels. But since we've always had solar panels since a couple months after we moved in, this is hard to gauge. 

   The solar reading is negative because it represents the energy we put into the grid (50% after what we use in the daytime) rather than take out. 50% is pretty accurate I guess. (I have no idea really. The guy who put the panels on told me, so that's the best I got.)

   As you can see for the graph, our total carbon emissions are dropping year on year. Electricity and gas remain relatively unchanged, but car emissions are on the decrease. This is because in 2018 I often drove into Edinburgh for business meetings, which ceased in around spring 2019, bringing it down to normal levels in winter 2019. Then 2020 brought Covid-19 and with it lockdown and working from home. 

   This is all moot anyway now as we take our electricity and gas from Bulb, which is a renewable energy company providing either gas from anaerobic digestion, or offset by supporting carbon reduction projects around the world. This just leaves our car. But happily Bulb provide a carbon footprint calculator and payback scheme which allows you to offset your additional carbon emissions using a monthly payment. We pay about £3 per month on top of our energy bills. 

   Why just £3 per month? I guess because the electricity and gas is all carbon neutral to begin with being from Bulb, and the car is a hybrid which we hardly use that much due to lockdown. We hardly fly any more and don't eat much red meat. Don't get me wrong, I like a long-haul flight to Japan to eat steak as much as the next person. Just haven't done it since 2018. (Technically I should have added that on here, but I've also planted a tree or two since then so I'm hoping they cancel each other out).

   Try the Bulb Carbon Footprint Calculator here. Go on. I dare ya!

   I know this is beginning to sound like an advert for Bulb, but it's not product placement. It's in our species' own interest to record, reduce and offset the CO2 emissions we produce. The more people who do it, the better the effect on our planet, the better future our kids and their kids will have.

  My Personal Plan for 2021: Continue to reduce emissions by:

•    Improving home insulation
•    Switching from hybrid to electric vehicle
•    No flights
•    Working from home
•    Increasing plot size and growing more vegetables 
•    Charging batteries in daytime to use at night
•    Going to bed earlier? Would this help?
•    Accelerating and braking gently while driving
•    Wind turbine?

   Any other suggestions welcome.

   Here are some other ideas on how you can have a green year:

• Switch to Ecosia search engine who use their profits to plant trees.
• Switch to a renewable energy provider such as Bulb, Good Energy or Ecotricity.
• Set up a direct debit with WordForest.Org, a charity which plants trees and helps communities in Kenya.
• Fly less
• Use your own private car less
• Move away from red meat to a vegan diet
• Sign & share petitions
• Write letters & emails to politicians 
• lobby private companies that engage in dirty energy practices or investments.

   You could argue, "I'm just one person in billions - a drop in the ocean. What difference will it make? Why should I bother?"

   But we are all drops in the ocean...

*These are the formulae I use, but don't ask me where I got them as it was two years ago now...

Formula to convert electricity (Kwh) to CO2 emissions (CO2e/kg) : CO2e/kg = Kwh x 0.2773

Formula to convert gas (ft3) to gas (kwh): gas (kwh) = gas (ft3) x 31.513

To convert gas (kwh) to CO2 emissions : CO2e/kg = gas (kwh) x 0.18

Gallons of fuel spent = mileage/mpg

Car emissions calculated by Car CO2e/kg = (0.051+10.6/mpg) x mileage + (1.968 x mileage/mpg)

Please let me know if you spot an error. 

Thanks, and happy greening!