Finally it’s here. The writing was quick. The shooting was even quicker. But the editing. OH. MY. GOD. One year and two hard drives later. This is largely because our chief editor Dawn Kurtanz – who may or may not be fictional – was teaching herself to edit at the same time as editing, And then the dopey wee flipper got a little bit “woo” with her back up system. And had to start again. Yes. Start again. Oh Dawn you silly billy numpty hole. It sounds strangely like exactly the sort of thing I would do… I will now attempt to “embed”. Scary. But watch it, share it and subscribe to our youtube chanel – FAIRY JOB SERIES 1. It’ll hopefully make you laugh, is very very silly, Should have a swears bucket disclaimer and is sent to you with love.
I could pretend that last night went well and that I made a good job of describing the film, my experience and passions. But it didn’t. Or I didn’t. I had cobbled together a slide show from my last couple of films so folk could have something to see and because I didn’t want to talk for ten nimbuses. But it just went on and on and for some fucking reason (mainly because it was exactly the right length) I stuck Hushabye flipping Mountain under the Our Ordered Lives slides which made it look like a bad episode of Home and Away.
I met a some great lasses who want to work on WE SHADOWS. And the angel lady – that’s how I remember “Gabriella”- told me about her great SS feature idea (Shakespeare’s Sister not The Gestapo). And beautiful Alice who looks like she has just stepped out of a water nymph painting but smokes roll ups and swears (good combo) illuminated me as to the importance of the crowdfunder video. And now I’m really afraid. I need to get Toby in a room with a camera but he’s so busy I can’t even get him on the phone just now. Pippa is filming in Sheffield. Perhaps I’ll just post this photo of her instead, with a bit of Ken Burns effect … and then just get Bernadette Russell to do an impersonation of Toby. I can only do Steve McQueen so that’s no good.
I also tripped and fell outside the venue on the way in and – as my mate’s mam says – “I fell me length”. In retrospect I can see how this may have been the Film God doing a bit of foreshadowing as they say in story land. I shall try and pay a bit more attention to small things that occur and read meaning into trivia. Because that’s absolutely not the first sign of madness.
Lent Count: I didn’t have any fags. I didn’t have any biscuits. It is NOT making me a better person.
According the last night’s Archers it is now Lent. And due to a couple of incidents that may or may not have happened yesterday (they happened) I have decided to give up 1) FAGS and 2) SUGAR. Here’s why.
First off. A painful trip to the dental hygienist who has become particularly aggressive of late and loves to tell me all about how if I don’t get into my massive gum pockets with the floss, them pockets will get bigger. And bigger. Now those of you who know me will be unsurprised to hear I do not want anything getting bigger in my mouth. There’s far too much massive stuff in there already (c.f. a seventies racing horse of your choice). By the time I was swilling the blood out she asked if I still smoked? No, I lied. And are you flossing every day? Yes I lied. The only other relevant and shaming question she didn’t ask was: would you ever consider making an entire batch of raspberry buns at 10.30 pm and then eating them all yourself?
Which brings me to the second thing that happened Making an entire batch of raspberry buns at 10.30 pm and then eating them all myself.
Ah I just remembered a third thing. I went bra shopping.
So I didn’t last long at the emotional overeating group. The very nice lady had a quiet word with me after the end of the session and we decided that food may be the least of my problems… After a bit of a binge fest over the last few days I have been thinking about how throwing up a litre of ice cream rather than leaving it to digest could, if one struggled, be seen as an act of optimism. No, hear me out. So. If you are far behind the thick and cloudy perspex which separates congenitally miserable cunts from the rest of humanity, you will not bother being sick because a) you cant be bothered putting pants on let alone sticking your head down the toilet and b) being sick implies that you have some thought for the future and for your future self. It is your preservation instinct. You are aware that tomorrow will come and you try to give yourself a helping hand/finger. Yes, I realise it may come across as a little far fetched, but it is to some extent a theory empirically spawned as the thought occurred to me after four days of non stop binging whilst feeling really rather melancholic. Why had I not said hello to any of that food a second time? Because I could not/would not conceive of a future self. Ergo: bringing it back up is a signifier of one’s faith that life will continue. It is a peg stuck into the rockface of life. It is an act against deathliness. It is also, I concede, completely fucked up. Cake, anyone?