Think of any horror story you have ever read. Got one? Good. Was there a jump scare in it? No, there wasn’t. By definition, any horror story you *read* cannot have a ‘jump scare’ in it, no matter how cleverly the author is crafting their words. The best you can do is ‘Suddenly…’ followed by a description of the scare you are trying for.
Suddenly the picture fell off the wall. Suddenly nobody made tea.
Suddenly, the latest movie adaptation of IT has hit the cinemas and is a mixed bag of old tricks.
I first read IT in 1986, at the age of fifteen. I had always had an interest in horror, ever since reading The Omen when I was 10 years old (and spending the rest of the summer grooming my friends heads, wondering if I’d find 666 on any of their scalps). Although I did find IT a little slow to begin with (the book is nearly 1,200 pages after all), with a whole chapter given to the backstory of each of the seven members of The Losers Club in the first hundred or so pages of the book, I persevered and slowly but surely was drawn into the world of Derry, Maine. Since 1986 I have read the book at least twice more, that I can recall, much to the consternation of Tolkien incidentally, who never understood why anyone would read a book more than once. Quite ironic considering he wrote a book that everyone that I know of has read it at least three times or more.
But I digress. I’m good at that.
So when I discovered that a new movie version of IT was to be released this year, a vague trembling, quivering feeling came over me, not unlike the sort of feeling I once had when waking up, after a hard night’s drinking, on top of the Arc de Triomf. Anyway, being the sort of movie fan that gets influenced by reviews, I was aware that IT was garnering very good reviews indeed so, when an opportunity arose to finally watch it, I settled into the movie seat (at the VUE in Paignton no less) to watch IT on the big screen.
Firstly a thing about spoilers and this is the complicated bit. Anything I say in this review is only a spoiler if you have *not* read the book. Because if you watch the film without reading the book then you’re not really going to have any meaningful grasp of the plot elements they removed. Agreed? Then carry on.
I shall continue like Rob Fleming in High Fidelity, with a list. I’m a bloke and I like my lists.
1. They have changed the timeline in the movie. In the book The Losers Club (which is the name the seven children give themselves, who encounter and battle IT) takes place in the 1950s. In the movie the kids story (which is the whole of the first movie – the second movie will take up the story when they are adults) takes place in the 1980s.
Here’s why I think this is a mistake. The 50s was the golden age of horror B movies, such as Creature From The Black Lagoon, The Blob, It Came From Outer Space, Attack Of The Giant Leeches, and many many more. This is significant as IT preys on the fears of the members of The Losers Club and transforms (or manipulates their dreams) into creatures from those movies – that’s why Eddie sees Dracula or Mike gets chased by a Werewolf or Patrick is killed by giant flying leeches.
The 50s had relevance.
By changing the timeframe to the 1980s, yet keeping true to the monsters the kids encounter, the story loses much of its impact. In the 1980s we had far fewer ‘classical’ monster movies and more Gothic horror (such as the Hellraiser films or From Beyond – movies with clear Lovecraftian influences rather Bram Stoker or Mary Shelley).
So changing the timeframe was a no-no as far as I was concerned, especially regarding the other crucial point that IT only awakens every 27 years to spend roughly 8 or 9 months ‘feeding’ before going to sleep again. So the revelation regarding IT’s previous waking times during the American gold rush, for example, becomes skewed and a little confusing now that they have brought the children’s segment of the story into the 80s.
2. In the book, each chapter jumps from the 1950s, to 1980s, to 1950s etc. This makes for some beautiful and engaging transitions regarding memory, where, for example, Beverly as a forty something woman is walking along a road and hears a school bell, and begins the thought ‘school is…’ and then you turn the page and it’s a new chapter and we have the twelve-year-old Beverly finishing the thought with …’out!’ And then we follow her point of view in that particular chapter. Not the best example but please believe me that this was a wonderful, warm and engaging technique in the book and worked very well. I missed that in the movie.
3. Okay, this one could be a genuine spoiler and it’s also the cause of my greatest disappointment. It’s also going to be difficult to explain and you may think I’m on drugs (I’m not, just whisky).
So, in the film, the climatic scene between The Losers Club and IT is basically a physical punch up.
That’s it. A fist fight. I was sorely disappointed with this.
In the book… oh fuck it. Here goes. This is gonna be a long ‘un.
In the book, it is clear that there is some strange external force that is intervening and giving the kids a mystical power from time to time. That power is more to do with their own belief in ‘magic’. For example, Richie Tozier, known for his impersonations, particularly an ‘Irish cop’ voice, uses this voice against IT during one occasion, but for that single moment the voice that comes out of Eddie is like an amalgamation of all the cop voices ever heard, coming out of his mouth with a burning intensity which buys him some time as IT is chasing him. Or another example is with Eddie, who is asthmatic and uses an inhaler, and during another one to one encounter with IT, in desperation he turns and squeezes his inhaler at IT, and again, something comes out of the inhaler that shouldn’t have been there, a vapour that contains the essence of ‘good’, causing IT to falter and buying Eddie some time. Again, for people who have already seen the film, this will mean nothing as you won’t even have the barest hint that any scenes like this were omitted. For those who have read the book, you will fully understand the dramatic and strangely touching moments that these scenes (and the other similar scenes featuring the other five Losers) had upon you.
4. The above is what makes IT wary of them and that causes IT to suspect that the Turtle is still alive.
Okay, the Turtle. None of this is even vaguely hinted at or visualised in the movie’s final climatic battle with IT but in the book, the following happens.
The Losers Club encounter IT deep within the sewer system of Derry and then invoke the ‘Ritual Of Chud’ where their minds ‘clamp’ onto the mind of IT and their spiritual bodies get thrown into the ‘Deadlights’ which is the macro universe – the world between worlds. As they fly through the Deadlights they encounter a Turtle, a huge turtle as big as ten football pitches, and they soar gently over him. They sense the Turtle is omnipotent and the Turtle wakes and just tells them, in a kind and loving way, that they are doing the right thing, and then goes to sleep again. They also sense it was the Turtle that gave them powers earlier in the story (Richie’s ‘voice’, Eddies inhaler etc).
The Turtle appears to represent some incredible power of ‘good’. It’s written in a very enigmatic way and the backstory regarding the Turtle and the origins of IT (save that IT crashed on Earth millions of years ago) is never explained, nor should it be. Some things are best left to the reader’s imagination. But the way it was written in the book was beautiful and the Turtles importance is apparent (the Turtles voice is heard sporadically throughout the whole novel, as the symbol of some higher being of ‘good’, though of course they don’t realise it is a ‘turtle’ until the end of their first encounter with IT).
Yeah I know, the above all sounds like a mind fuck, but I would urge you to read the novel.
So the fact that in the movie the final scene is just a fist fight left me feeling cheated. Would an audience who have never read the book enjoy it? Clearly they do, going by the latest box office receipts and reviews spread across the internet. To me, however, the movie has completely dispensed with the ethereal and slightly spiritual aspects that keeps drawing me back to the book.
5. Okay, some good points. I did think the children acted their guts out. Only one was 16 when the film was made. The others were 15 or younger (and all of them did look the 12 years old they were supposed to be). Sophia Lillis, as Beverley Marsh, gave a particularly fine performance, considering the difficult sub-plot of her character. Finn Wolfhard as Richie Tozer was also excellent, giving a fun and engaging performance. There were scenes that touched me, scenes where the seven kids would be on their bicycles, cycling beneath the hot summer sun along the streets of the town, laughing and carefree. Because you see that was the real message and power of the book – it’s depiction of the strength of friendship in childhood and the power that can have. Stephen King was particularly good at writing about childhood as The Body (filmed as Stand By Me) was also exceptional regarding that. So yes, in IT, there were some beautifully realised scenes focusing on the simple pleasures found in childhood friendship.
‘I never had friends later in life like the ones I had when I was twelve. Jesus, does anyone?’ – Stephen King, The Body.
After all that, will I go and watch part 2 when it’s eventually released? Of course I will! I’m intrigued as to how they will deal with the adult part of the story (and the actors cast in those parts).
The thing about IT which makes it unique is the fact that it’s children who overcome the monster. There have been children’s horror books featuring children and aimed at children of course, but as far as I know Stephen King’s IT was the first time that children had a major and significant part to play in a horror novel that was written and aimed at adults. That makes it unique and remains the biggest appeal for me.
If you have watched the film but not read the book, please leave a comment and your review below as I would be very interested to hear from you.
My Sainsbury’s online order was delivered this afternoon. Due to me not checking my current stock levels, I now have 47 x 1 litre cartons of milk. If anyone would like to help relieve me of milk, please meet me at The Red Lion pub in Avebury this evening at 8pm. I’ll be wearing a raincoat, fedora and sunglasses. Under my right arm will be a newspaper. We can make the swap in the pub car park and after that, I never want to see you again.
Anyway, sorry for that digression. Here, now, is part two of the account of Marcus’s 21st birthday celebrations.
He began, of course, with a riddle.
“My first is in Weather but never in bed
My second’s not blue but always in red.
My third is in tea, but never in coffee.
My fourth is dessert – tart or banoffee.
My fifth is a dialetical analysis of a priori conjecturing, that postulates a transgression.
My sixth is a blancmange…”
“I need to rethink this,” he said.
It was The Riddler. And yet…I knew it wasn’t. I knew that lurking beneath that plush green suit with the strange hierogrlyphics was a certain Theo Wethered.
I am sure that name conjures just as many images and scintillating tales of wonder and delight as it does with me. Many a time I have regaled an interested thong with stories of Theo’s derring-do. Tonight was no exception as –
Hang on a minute.
Yes, yes, I see that.
That should read ‘throng’.
Anyway, as I was saying. Theo has inspired many people throughout is brief time on Earth and so, in homage, I have put together a video in which I feel perfectly reflects this.
I circled around some more, raising my glass occasionally and smiling. Alcohol is a funny thing. You can go for minutes without taking a sip and then, the next time you do, it feels like the first sip all over again. I gazed at the milling people, just…milling. In my alcohol-fuelled detached state of reality, I wondered if any of them were actually millers. I wondered if millers would mill together, at a party, or just huddle together swapping stories of wheat.
And then –
“Ahoy there!” came a voice I recognised.
It was Orlando, dressed as a miller.
This was my stock greeting for people I liked. People I didn’t like were subjected to “Sorry but I’m closed today.”
“Are you enjoying yourself Riaz?”
I found this question a bit personal. In fact, it was downright audacious. We had only met a handful of times previously and yet, here he was attempting to understand my psyche, to probe my ego, to reveal the tempestuous fires that burned within my heart.
“Yes,” I said, playing it safe.
“Ahoy! Jim lad!” he said playfully.
My name wasn’t Jim, I wasn’t a lad and I had never been to Hanoi. Apart from that he had everything else right.
We talked for a while. Outside, flashes of light intermittently lit up the dark study. The wind howled against the window, and the sound of gunfire could be heard in the distance. Tomorrow I would visit Horsell common once more to try and discover more about the Martians, but for now most of London was asleep, and the real terror was yet to begin.
The night wore on. My ageing decrepit body constantly argued with my young fertile mind, pleading with it to be taken to a place of safety, such as a bed. At the completely unsociable hour of 11pm I stepped out of the tent and slowly walked back to my flat.
Very slowly, as it happened, as there was nothing to light my way, save for a glimmering beacon of hope.
But I found my flat, kissed Joni goodnight, and fell into a deep sleep.
The next morning I was advised to meet everyone back at the tent for breakfast, so at 10am I moseyed on down to the bottom of the field again. I had drunk a fair bit the night before and had trouble coordinating my many complex and trustworthy simian appendages. I reached the tent and an orderly queue had formed in front of an orderly table that had a selection of breakfast goodies on it, arranged in order. I chose scrambled eggs in a bun, with some bacon and a large paper cup filled with hot steaming coffee.
I sat there, contemplating my existence as I chewed slowly on strips of crispy bacon. The party had been a success, I felt. Marcus’s father, Adam, had given a rousing and very witty speech at the close of the night. There was much dancing, fun and laughter. All in all a fantastic night and I’d like to thank everyone who made it possible.
Okay, I have a bit of space left now, so here’s some classified ads.
LOST & FOUND
Found – one needle. It was in a field near my home, right in the middle of a haystack.
To claim, ring 01633-999888111.
LIBRARY CARD – Only done two hundred books. This year’s registration. One previous owner. Will be accepted at most Libraries in Wiltshire. £30 o.n.o. Contact Mr R. Ealie-Phunee on 01799-977611
Cladistic taxidermist wanted to accompany time-travelling proletarian salesman.
Late last week I noticed a pavilion being erected in the field outside the barn that I rent. It irked me, because I was planning to pitch a tent in the very exact spot the next day, along with a shrubbery, but now a pavilion was being erected. As I stood watching I felt a strange stirring in my loin. Can one become aroused by a pavilion? As pavilions go, this one was as seductive as Ally Sheedy when she eats a crisp sandwich in The Breakfast Club.
It turned out that the pavilion was actually for the 21st birthday of Marcus Wethered. I had got to know Marcus a little by this time (see my previous blog ‘Man Of Steel – Not a Movie Review’) so was honoured to receive an invite from my illustrious and gloriously kind landlady, Diana™
I enjoy parties but have always had trouble mingling. ‘To mingle’ as the great philosopher Socrates oncee said “Is to subjugate the masses and produce a corporeal dystopian reality.’
Which probably explains why he hasn’t got a Facebook fan page.
Even so, I am drawn to parties. The socialising, the networking, the drinking, the flicking peanuts into the plant pots, the dignified vomiting. I am not a huge party-goer mind you. I remember the first adult party I went to was when I was 17 years old. It was at my sister’s, in honour of her surviving a cesarean section. It was full of people a lot older than me – surgeons and foreign diplomats. I can’t quite remember the guest list, but it was on pink paper with a floral border.
So next – what should I wear? I picked up an interesting Dickensian shirt from a charity shop in Devizes the other week. Should I wear that?
Nah. Maybe not. I found a pair of jeans and a red fabric shirt I had bought in a Nepalese shop in Newport some months ago, and walked down to the pavilion.
I had been watching the cars pull into the farm for the last hour or so and there were already a fair number of people there. I felt nervous. I was a lot older than them. These were all healthy, vibrant twenty-somethings at university. I was only 16.
42 physically but let’s not dwell on that.
I reached the glorified excuse of a tent and peered cautiously inside. I knew no-one. Coincidentally, no-one knew me either. Also, everyone was in fancy dress. I saw Superman, Hannibal Lector, Spiderman. I even saw Catwoman arm in arm with a Roman Legionary.
And then, thank goodness, I spotted Marcus.
“Marcus!” I said. “I guess I am gatecrashing.”
“Not at all,” he said. “Let me introduce you to some people.”
And he did. If only I was a suave and as debonair as him when I was 21. He exuded confidence like a sieve from Asda. I could barely say hello to the girl behind the counter in my local library without turning bright red when I was 21.
But in all seriousness, Marcus, Orlando and Theo had always been polite, pleasant and friendly towards me and I was grateful for that. However, they had an older brother and that is who I was introduced to next. Although they introduced him as ‘Tog’ which confused my tiny brain. Diana had told me she had four sons, naming Tarquin as her eldest. How was I to know their pet name for him was ‘Tog’?
I shook his hand.
“I’m Riaz,” I said. “I didn’t realise they had another brother. They never mentioned you.”
“They didn’t? The bastards!” he said.
I felt a bit awkward.
“Maybe I just forgot.”
“No,” he seethed. “They probably just didn’t mention me.”
Suddenly, in the tiny recesses of the thing that I call a brain, two synapses that had previously hitherto been enemies, suddenly became friends.
“Oh hang on a minute. Tog…are you Tarquin?”
“I am,” he said. And order in the universe was regained once again.
We chatted for a while and he introduced me to another of his friends, George. George introduced himself as a sort of dogsbody within the world of investment banking. Now investment bankers were the butt of many a Monty Python sketch and as he talked to me, I couldn’t help but smiling inanely. I think he picked up on my inaneness and general inaneability, but was too polite to mention it.
“And what do you do?” asked George.
“Well my day job is a support worker in a mental health rehab unit. But really, I am a writer.
“Oh yes,” said George.
“I’ve written a memoir. It’s called My Life With Kate Bush. It’s about me, growing up in a welsh town in the nineteen seventies and eighties.”
“A memoir?” said George. “Is it all true?”
“It’s not completely true,” I conceded. “I have embellished parts of it of course, purely for reasons of entertainment. And the conversations I had thirty years ago are, well, approximations of the truth.”
George nodded. “It’s a writer’s prerogative.”
“I mean, if I write up an account of this party, most of the conversations that I will put down on paper will be embellished. Do you realise I was once married to Sandra Bullock?”
George nodded and began to rise slowly into the air. “Anything to entertain the reader, I guess,” he said, and then exploded.
The food was free. The drink was free. And I took advantage of that – what author wouldn’t? I drank a few cocktails of something or another – I’m not quite sure what they were. As a direct result, my confidence suddenly knew no bounds and I went up to a girl dressed as Caligula’s best friend and began chatting with her.
“Hey!” I said. A bit of an opening gambit but its worked for me in the past.
“Hello,” she said and we began chatting.
“I am studying history and politics,” she said.
“Ah. They compliment each other,” I said knowingly. “History and politics. The two last bastions of the empire, aloof and yet not alone. Have you ever heard of Mark Knopfler?”
I realised that my confidence had now began to work against me and I was beginning to sound like John Noakes.
There was a pause. Possibly an uncomfortable one as her eyes started roaming around the room.
“Nice talking to you,” she said, “but I am just going to get a drink.”
This could be interesting…
TO BE CONTINUED…
Saturdays were always magical to me. These days, being in my mid-forties, most Saturdays I am working. I've been a shift worker since the late 90s in an assortment of jobs. My current job allows me two weekends off a month so I still get to enjoy the Saturday experience, which mainly comprises of me waking up around 8am, switching on my laptop, staring at the screen for an hour while I think about the bleakness of my existence, throw some clothes on and go out and start drinking until I encounter oblivion, which usually happens to be a hedge along a quiet lane at 2am.
But in 1980 I was nine years old and already had dreams of being ten. I knew that once I hit double figures I would have to give up reading comics and start saving for cigarettes. It would be tricky as I only got 50p pocket money each week, which was enough to buy two comics and an assortment of sweets and chocolates. That money came from my grandparents. After school on a Friday my Bamp's car would be waiting for me, a red Vauxhall Viva which always reminded me of the General Lee, the car in the Dukes Of Hazzard. I would hop happily inside and be whisked off to a beautiful kept house on the outskirts of Cwmbran, spending the weekend with my Nan and Bamp, only returning home on Sunday evening to my alcoholic and promiscuous mother. The alcoholism and promiscuity was a badge she had earned, working hard at it weekend after weekend since my dad left some years earlier. That badge should have become a trophy, by all accounts. Saying all that, she was still my mother. She died in her early fifties in the late 90s and I miss her.
So, on Saturday mornings I would wake, often around 8am due to the call of my Bamp. The call would usually be 'Breakfast!' which often comprised of two soft boiled eggs presented on a plate with an array of 'soldiers' – toasted bread slices into thin strips, spread with butter and sprinkled with salt and pepper. I loved the simplicity of that breakfast and all it represented to that ageing man with love in his eyes. They had both lived through the war when such things as eggs were hard to come by and even in 1980 they still seemed to be so thankful for the simple things in life, like eggs and cars.
We would then visit town and my Bamp would slip 50p into my hand and I would make a beeline for Martin's The Newsagents, running inside and then standing and salivating in front of the four tier rack of comics that I remember so well, picking out my favourite.
Whizzer & Chips sounds like something illegal that you would first snort up through a straw and then eat with salt and vinegar. But it was nothing of the sort. It was a comic that I treasured above all others. A smarter and cooler friend of mine swore by 2000ad which was a comic full of science fiction and fantasy stories. It was adult in tone, the Judge Dredd strip in particular being quite violent and graphic in many ways. For some reason I was never into that when I was ten. I just wanted to read about boys who loved sweets (Sweet Tooth), a girl with a pointy nose who had a range of very specific opinions (Fuss Pott) and a mother who had extraordinary strength and speed and looked after her kids in a perfectly loving way (Super Mum), amongst many other equally vibrant and memorable characters that graced its pages.
Then I would choose some sweets, pay for it all, and slip my hand back into the large, wrinkly, liver-spotted hand of my Bamp and we would walk around the town for a while as he looked for this and that, before returning to his house.
And then the second wonderful part of the Saturday would commence. The two children's shows on at that time were both three or four hour epics – Noel Edmunds Multi-Coloured Swap Shop on BBC1, or Tiswas on ITV.
Swap Shop was middle class, not that I knew what middle class meant back then, but it was quite reserved in many ways. It featured Noel Edmunds sat at a desk taking telephone calls. Sometimes he would switch to a sofa accompanied by other people who would all take telephone calls too. Often though he was sat behind a desk with a phone in his hand. The whole phone thing was quite exciting back then, as my grandparents had a trimphone, which produced a shrill and attention-seeking warbling sound whenever someone rang. It was the only one in the street, as my grandparents were quite well-off.
So I would often ring Swap Shop in the hope they would call me back so I could fling open the front door and all the neighbours would hear the annoying trilling of this plastic beige brick and would bristle with envy.
It never happened.
Tiswas, on the other hand, was a different kettle of fish. Or should that be 'bucket of custard'.
Tiswas was chaotic, anarchic, zany and stupid. Oh it also had the Spider-Man cartoon which made it much cooler than the Godzilla cartoon that Swap Shop would show. But Tiswas fitted my personality far better and I would become mesmerised by the two or three hours of zaniness that unfolded before my eyes each Saturday morning as I munched on packets of Monster Munch while simultaneously flicking through Whizzer & Chips. I could multi-task back then. These days my concentration is so poor that I can only multi-task being asleep and dreaming.
By around noon the shows would both be over and it was then the turn of my Bamp to hog the television as World Of Sport hosted by Dickie Davis would begin, featuring an hour or two of the wonderfully homo-erotic sport of wrestling. Those muscular, sweaty men who kept trying to grab hold of the other man's shorts kept my Bamp happy and out of my Nan's way as she cooked dinner. I would sit on the sofa, reading my comic over and over again, nurturing the autistic child within by examining the detail of every single pane of every single cartoon strip.
And that was my Saturday, or the morning at least. But it was often the mornings where all the magic happened.
It’s Tuesday the sixth of December 2016. Yes, I know. The first five parts of this ’12 Blogs Of Christmas’ series was published in December of 2015. In the words of Patrick Solitano in Silver Linings Playbook, “I got stuck.”
But here I am, a year later. I could say ‘And what a year it’s been!’ for dramatic effect, but in fact, I don’t feel it has been that dramatic. January to late September had it’s fair share of fun moments and only one or two dramatic moments. My mood, despite being unemployed (broadly speaking), was fairly stable. I only had two blips, one in January if I recall, which is completely usual for me after the Christmas festivities, and one in May when a friendship I had broke down. The term ‘broke down’ is quite funny really isn’t it when describing the ending of any sort of relationship. It makes you think you’re supposed to call a plumber or an electrician or someone from the RAC to help put things right again. “Oh, my relationship broke down, so I called a flooring expert specialising in carpet underlay and now everything is fine again.”
Anyway, it’s nearly Christmas. I have a new job, am hoping to move in the next few months (to be closer to my new job) and have already eaten one Marks & Spencer’s chocolate log, all to myself. My Nan and I started buying them back in the early 90s I believe. They weren’t covered in ganache back then, but were incredibly delicious nonetheless. When they first introduced the chocolate ganache on the outside, which I think was sometime in the mid 90s, it was challenging initially, due to our belief that a proper chocolate log should have a thick layer of hard chocolate on the outside, not something that was the consistency of fudge. However, after a while, say fifteen of the new breed of logs, we got used to them.
That’s all for this blog. Just needed to say that.
I was messaging my friend Charlotte. She knew how low I felt after my previous weekend and invited me up to see her. North Yorkshire is a long way away from Avebury and I knew that financially I had little hope of scraping together the train or coach fare.
“We can do the touristy thing,” she said happily (insofar as happiness can be ascertained via messaging through the strange digital world of social media).
“I’d love to visit, but…” and listed all the obstacles in my path, including lack of finances, a strange skin tag that had developed on my right cheek, and my concern about the fluoride content of toothpaste.
I had met Charlotte through Facebook a couple of years ago. It’s how I make most of my friends these days. I turn my nose up at actually chatting to strangers in pubs, gyms, clubs or Waitrose. That’s way is far too dodgy. It’s much safer to interact with someone on social media, hoping that they are who they say they are and not some forty stone bald-headed man in a string vest sat in front of a computer somewhere near Barry Island.
In a tent bought from Aldi’s.
Our friendship formed sometime in June 2014. She was a writer too – her book Simon’s Choice is still available on Amazon – and was and still is intelligent, beautiful and funny. She had visited me in November 2015, a rather spontaneous visit in which we had great fun and since then, had spoken several times of meeting again.
So here was an opportunity but I just could not afford it – until another friend intervened. She offered to send me money to go and visit Charlotte as she knew how much of a knock I had taken regarding my encounter with *name deleted*, and the money she offered was a lot – enough for me to get the train and to have a little spending money too. I ruminated over this for sometime, torn between accepting the offer and the weight it would bear upon my shoulders, knowing that I would not be able to repay it easily. But I also knew that visiting Charlotte would be good for me. A healing visit, where my mind would be able to repair itself a little. Because us sensitive folk have fragile minds. And it’s funny because Charlotte herself is very similar to me, her sensitivity creating conflicts in her mind, both of us fighting battles, some imaginary and some real, with our hopes and dreams.
So in the second week of July, six days after returning from Leicester, I set off on my travels again.
I love train journeys. Coach journeys aren’t bad either, but there’s something about being on a train. That huge feeling of throbbing electrically induced motion between your legs. There’s nothing in comparison. Except maybe Marmite on toast.
I changed trains at Bristol Parkway and then began the three hour journey to Leeds, where I would have to change once last time to reach Harrogate. On arrival at Leeds I took this photograph.
And then, shortly thereafter, I arrived at the beautiful town of Knaresborough. I am kicking myself for not taking a picture of the town as the train trundled across the viaduct, for the vast expanse below me not only revealed a green and lush valley, but also an undulating vista or roads and ancient houses, all rickety and twisted, that looked as if they had been drawn on to the landscape by an artist of prodigious imagination and an impressive cellar of wine.
Gosh, I’m quite pleased with that previous paragraph. I’ll be a writer yet. Just you see.
So the train arrived at Knaresborough and there was Charlotte, with her two children, waiting to meet me. I was expecting her to run towards me, maybe shouting “Daddy! My Daddy!” just as in the closing scenes of The Railway Children, which wouldn’t have made any sense but boy, it would have been a funny sight for the onlookers. We smiled, laughed, hugged and chatted amiably as we walked slowly into the town. After a brief stop for some provisions, we arrived at Charlotte’s house.
That afternoon and evening was wonderful. Relaxed, comfortable and serene. We watched a movie or two, chatted, drank wine, enjoyed a take away and laughed and chatted some more. It occurred to me that I felt comfortable with her, more so than I did with *name deleted*, and that all of us give a little and take a little something different from each friend we have. For each friend that has passed through our lives, we gain something and lose something.
The next day we visited York. Well, what can I say. York is truly beautiful and I absolutely loved our stroll around this ancient city. It was, apparently, founded in 71AD, making it nearly two thousand years old. Nearly as old as Swindon.
Barley Hall is just one of the many museums in York. It was originally a medieval house, the earliest parts dating from around 1360. They have turned it into a delightful exhibition of life in the 15th century, when it belonged to William Snawsell and his family. Like Avebury manor, visitors can interact with everything – from the fake food on the table to dressing up in replica costumes from that period, as this delightful photograph shows!
After leaving here, we strolled around some more, making our way merrily through the streets, becoming slightly lost, becoming slightly found and just having a swell day. I’ve always wanted to use the word swell like this, but without the ‘gee’.
We also visited a street called The Shambles. Surely this was the inspiration for Diagon Alley in the Harry Potter books!
And that was York. I had nowhere near the amount of time to see everything but I know there will be other opportunities in the future.
That evening, my last evening, we chatted some more. I sipped on a vodka and cola and Charlotte drank wine, and she listened patiently as I spoke about my fears and insecurities regarding my previous weekend with *name deleted* and how that had all gone terribly wrong. Sometimes, all you need is just to talk to someone and then the answers to your problems come from within. I had a few light-bulb moments (and I’m not talking about how my 6’4 frame occasionally collides with ceiling fittings) and realised that actually, I’m an alright person. Like anyone, I have my flaws, I struggle with my doubts and lack of confidence, but I’m pretty much okay and mean well. It made me realise that the loss of a friend that I felt so acutely just three or four days ago, didn’t matter as much as I thought it did. It made me realise, as corny and cliched as it sounds, who my real friends were.
Here’s to you Charlotte. Thank you so much for your kindness and hospitality. May we meet again soon X.
“Let’s start at the very beginning,” sang Julie Andrews once upon a time as she sat by a lonely goatherd.
Well, sometimes beginnings are boring. Sometimes it’s fun to start in the middle and then work backwards (or forwards) as your whim dictates.
So this is just another memory snapshot. In the course of writing my memoirs, I can refer back to these posts and reproduce them and expand on them as I write about my life. I feel a bit like Marcel Proust! If I can replicate just some of his success, I would die happy! Instead of the six volumes of his In Search Of Lost Time, I would run to seven volumes. Just to, er, show my competitive spirit!
So this is just a little reflection of my brief but happy friendship with Amphelia Strange, with me wrestling with my thoughts, making sense of what happened and just pondering over something that was loved and lost.
On the Saturday morning we weren’t sure what to do or where to go. Leicestershire is a gorgeous county but without transport – and neither of us drove – then our choices needed some forethought and planning. We both liked castles and stately homes and so initially I did a little research into nearby attractions such as Belvoir Castle and Rockingham Castle.
“Rockingham!” Amphelia smiled. “Just the sound of that one makes me think…of rocks!”
I nodded. “Right.”
To get to Rockingham was tricky but doable. It involved a bus to Leicester, then a train to Corby followed by a taxi to Rockingham itself. Sorted. We could do it. Amphelia was still pottering around upstairs and so I was doing my usual thing of pacing up and down her living room, going over the plans in my head and the timing of it all. Then, something made me think of actually ringing them. I don’t know why. I think just to confirm the opening times. So I tapped in the number and waited.
An answering machine and a recorded message began.
“Thank you for ringing Rockingham Castle,” the female voice began. “We are open Sundays, Tuesdays and Bank Holiday Monday’s…”
What? Hang on a minute. This was Saturday! I listened to the message again and, with a frustrated air, passed on the information to Amphelia, who was now in the kitchen, making wooden spoons dance on the worktop.
“Oh well,” she said. “Market Harborough it is then!”
We had spoken of Market Harborough a few times and I was certainly open to the idea as I love small rural towns rather than large cities. Then again, Leicester city centre was quite nice, full of nooks and crannies and wonderful shops. Basically, what I’m saying is, I’m easy going and love everything!
So we got a bus to Leicester and then a train to Market Harborough. Amphelia had been there before but briefly, so I understood, and she did not really recall much of it. We arrived and started walking towards the centre of town. It was one of those sunny showery mornings – bursts of hot sunshine followed by brief smatterings of rain. Oh and wind! Quite a breeze was blowing and it was something else I discovered about Amphelia – she wasn’t too keen on the wind, bless her!
We then passed a shop. Not an antiques shop. It was a sort of emporium – a mix of the arcane, the modern and the archaic. A strange collection of cuddly, fluffy toys and these, wot we spotted in the window.
The one on the right she fell in love with. It was £135. We went in, had a look at it, got into a good rapport with the shopkeeper and then continued on with our day. She said it would be perfect for her online shop. She could dress its antlers with her homemade jewelry, bracelets, beads and earrings, photograph it and then those images would make great pictures on her online shop.
She loved it.
So I bought it for her.
I used my haggling skills with the lovely shopkeeper of course, and managed to get it down to £110. Er…okay, so maybe my haggling skills aren’t the best as some of you lot, but I thought a £25 reduction wasn’t to be sniffed at!
So I bought it for her.
I am unemployed, scrimp away every month, but I had fortunately come into a £500 windfall, by way of a tax rebate, and it was that amount I took with me to Leicester.
She is constantly in dire straits financially as she has no job either, for various and genuine reasons, and relies on benefits like myself. So I left her £20 for taxi fare too, to take her cat to the vet, as he is poorly and her only constant companion and she loves him to bits. So I left her taxi money to take him to the PDSA.
And I left her another £20 which I hid in a book in her living room, just for food.
And I bought her £60 worth of shopping from Tesco – cat litter, toilet rolls, food – some food and alcohol for both of us too, during my stay.
I bought us breakfast, dinner, lunch. Paid for all her train fares.
So I spent just under £300 on her, at a guess.
And you know, I think many people would be swearing at this point. Cursing and berating themselves for being so silly in spending so much on someone they hardly knew. But she was vulnerable and had led such a troubled life. I thought I could just sprinkle a little sunshine upon her, for those couple of days.
And I can’t even bring myself to be annoyed at giving so much. I feel I’m *supposed* to be. That money could have been for my own bills, my own cat. I could have given it to a friend I have known longer, and has been there more for me, whose washing machine broke down recently so I could have helped her instead. But I spent it all on someone who, within 72 hours, decided they never wanted to be in my life again.
So how come I can’t feel angry? I only feel love. I only have tears in my eyes now, wanting to give her a hug and tell her that things don’t have to be so heavy. That these differences, these misunderstandings, aren’t as serious as she thinks. They could, if she allowed, just drift away on the summer breeze and be forgotten about. Everything could be so light and easy and we could just laugh again. I guess some people find that so hard to do, for many different reasons.
I miss my friend, but life goes on. And when people say ‘life goes on’ it gives an impression of a strong, stoic stance and a hardening of the heart. ‘Oh yes!’ you cry. ‘Life goes on!’
But I think what people mean is that you can’t do anything about the hurt. You can’t make things better. For now, at least. In time? Who knows. But for now, you just have to miss the person you cared for and try your best to carry on.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Hidden in shade
my dreams and desires
hanging in the cloying air of July
as the Earth, weighed by doubt,
lets out a sigh.
Soft river footsteps
linger, unhurried memories
I seek to understand.
The sun rises over a sweet
Her silhouette, slipping
free. A cherry blossom spring
and water, blue.
I sit upon a bank
beneath the willow and stars.
Small pockets of desire
swell in my guarded heart.
I stand on the shore, listening,
Sometimes, everything is just scary.
Talking to people.
Touching, glancing, eating.
The brood of summer souls
lying listlessly in the stalks of sunflowers.
All about me are lives.
I offer my words as clues
And I don’t know
how the story ends.
I’ll make that up if I ever get there.
And I think about you too much.
I’m not sure why.
Maybe it’s just that half-remembered touch
and the kindness in your eyes.
But I love too quick
and too soon
like the pale milk-white gaze
of the conquered moon.
I love movies. I’d like to think I love movies more than most people, because that makes me feel important and special and that I may have a crack at hosting a movie review show one day. But I guess the truth is I like movies just as much as the next person, only I enjoy writing about them. So I thought I would try and write about my earliest memories at the cinema because, well, it’s a Sunday and all the porn sites are down for some reason.
One of my earliest movie memories and possibly the first movie I was taken to the pictures to watch, was Kingdom of the Spiders, released in 1977. That would have made me six years old. Hmm. Would my parents have taken me to see this sort of film at that age? Well, the thing is this. The fairly small Welsh town I grew up in, Cwmbran, had just two tiny cinemas back then. One had a single auditorium that seemed to screen Ray Harryhausen movies and nothing else. The other, situated in the town centre, had three auditoriums, each sitting maybe a hundred people, and it seemed to be about six months or even a year behind when it came to showing the big movies like Star Wars or Emmanuelle.
Kingdom Of The Spiders starred William Shatner, of Star Trek fame, although again, at that age I didn’t know he was mostly famous for sitting in a chair on a spaceship looking awesome. I don’t recall him at all in the film actually. What I do recall is a scene in a barn and in the corner of the ceiling, between the wooden beams, was a big furry spider, its eyes all gleaming and glistening and saying “Hey look! I’m a spider! And this is my first movie!”
I’ll have to try and track that spider down one day, to see if he made anything of his life.
I also remember being taken to see Logan’s Run. This is another film released in 1977 and I’m now beginning to think I actually was six years old when my father took me to see all this depravity.
Because you see, Logan’s run had a fair bit of nakedness in it, and most of that nakedness came in the form of the delightful, delectable, delicious Jenny Agutter. I think she put the ‘x’ in ‘foxy’, because without it, then people would just be ‘foy’. Which is an interesting word but I don’t think it means anything. Logan’s Run was about this chap, Logan, who started running. He lived in a future where everyone had to die when they reached 30, and he sort of had this task to find out if that really had to happen or not, or whether it was just the governments method of crowd control. Anyway, he goes on the run with scantily clad Jenny Agutter and all in all, it’s not a terrible movie and worth a watch today. Mainly for…ahem…Jenny Agutter.
Then there was Sinbad and the Eye of the Tiger. Another film featuring the stop-motion magic of Ray Harryhausen, released in 1977. Actually, 1977 seems to be a key year here. The other connection is that, being six years old, I was the same age as Damien, in the first The Omen movie, who was supposed to become self-aware of his destiny as the anti-christ at the age of six. I wonder, if by taking me to see all of these films, my parents were trying to show me that my destiny was as a spider killing, running away with Logan, saving the princess from a minotaur, kind of guy?
I went to see Sinbad in the old, dilapidated, dark, gloomy cinema in Old Cwmbran, with my mother, grandmother and sister. I have one clear memory of a group of kids in the front row, being rowdy and throwing sweets at the screen, particularly when Jane Seymour’s breasts floated into view. My grandmother, always quite stern and to the point, stood up and shouted “You kids shut the fuck up!”. Remember, this is 1977 and nobody ever said ‘fuck’. You’d actually have to go to the cinema to watch The Godfather or Pete’s Dragon to hear the word ‘fuck’. But it did the job as those kids actually did shut the fuck up.
“When I grow up I want to be able to do that,” I thought, gazing in love and admiration at the old lady sitting next to me. My nan was sitting on the other side and had to remind me that the lady I was looking at was a complete stranger, but hey ho.
Next on my list, in this whistle-stop tour of movie memories is
Yes. The first superhero film I was taken to see. I have no memory of being taken to see Superman, a couple of years previously. But this film I do remember. It was released in 1981 and so, being ten, I still wasn’t allowed to go to the cinema on my own, so begged my mum to take me to see this because the trailer on television looked so much fun. It was a superhero film where the superhero didn’t actually have any super powers. He relied on gadgets, such as a walking stick that could shoot bullets, and a speedboat that had guns and…and…I loved it! At that age, I didn’t really understand the convoluted plot about defecting spies. I didn’t know what defecting meant. I wondered if it was like defecating, but in a more refined way. Anyhow, the exciting bits for me, as I have already mentioned, was the walking stick scene and the speedboat chase. I’ve never watched the film since.
And so this brings to a close my brief first account of early cinematic experiences. In part two I will cover the years from 1982 to 1989, when I went to see films such as E.T, Spacehunter, Ghostbusters, Back To The Future and of course, Love in 3-D.
I had a message from a friend the other day. The tone was a little plaintive. Somewhat distressed, in fact.
“Why didn’t you respond to my post? About my problem?”
She had posted something on Facebook. A problem, in fact. I didn’t respond for a number of reasons –
1. I didn’t see it initially. Facebook keeps altering the algorithms of what you see in your news feed, we all know that. In fact, they came in for some criticism roughly a year ago for deliberately altering the algorithm so that people would only see sad and negative stories in their news feed. Of course, we all have the option of marking a person as a ‘close friend’ and so even if their post doesn’t appear in your news feed, a notification will appear to inform you they have posted *something*, regardless of what it is. Not a perfect work around but useful I guess. Maybe I should use that option more.
2. I regarded this person as a genuine friend, not as a “I’ve never spoken to them, never met them in real life, but boy, they’re my best friend on Facebook!” type friend. I had met the person, chatted to her a lot and felt I had a good, strong friendship with her. She has my mobile number, my home address, my email address. So if she genuinely wanted my input, my feedback, my thoughts on her pressing concern, she would have contacted me directly, by either of those three different methods. By posting the problem on Facebook, and so canvassing the opinion of her nearly one thousand Facebook ‘friends’ (the post setting was ‘public’) then to me, it wasn’t the sort of problem that required my personal intervention. She didn’t need me for support, in the context of the online virtual social media world of Facebook.
2.a (because it’s not quite a point 3, but is worthy of being separated slightly from 2. A bit like placing a block of butter on the shelf down from the margarine in your fridge. ). You know that oft quoted example of human nature regarding being the spectator to a car crash? That if you witness it and ten or twenty people reach the scene before you do, you are far less likely to offer to help or to become involved, as there is an assumption that those twenty people know what they are doing. So you become a bystander. Whereas if there is nobody else around then you are most likely to act on what you have witnessed – calling the police, going over to see if you can extract the occupants from the car if needed, and so on. So I find that it is the same on Facebook a lot of the time, that if someone posts something and you are a little behind on the replies, then you are far less likely to reply because “everyone’s said what I would have said anyway.”
3. I don’t really have a point three, but as the number three is seen as quite a spiritual and significant number to the followers of Alistair Crowley and The Golden Dawn, not to mention fans of the Back To The Future TRILOGY, then I thought I would make a third pointedly pointless point here.
But hey, back in the land of Seriousville, I just don’t know if I’m right or wrong. Was she justified to be hurt? Am I supposed to validate her feelings by way of being contrite and humble? We all have different internal rules for processing each different social interaction. What one person may term as etiquette (“You are a friend, you should have interacted with me”) another may term as impropriety.
But really, I would rather not have Facebook as my central hub, where all my Friends gather to post their problems, hoping that I (or another friend) will become involved and reply. It’s fine of course, for certain types of issues. But I’d like to think if someone actually needs me, then they would contact me personally, speak to me directly, add to the bond of friendship we already have by taking me into their confidence. Because we all like that feeling of being needed. That special feeling that we are trusted, away from the superficial world of social media sites.