Jack Binding's Blog, page 5

Being A Man

This weekend I was told by an acquaintance that I wasn’t a real man because I didn’t have a driving licence.

I smiled it off, which was odd for me.

Later that evening, when observing my French Poodle, Lucifer, the same acquaintance told me that a dog like that was not, I quote, ‘a man’s dog’.

And I started thinking (amongst other things): well, what actually do you have to do to qualify to be a man? I mean, if there are such strict rules that disqualify a person from this esteemed club, then there must also be certain rules that guarantee their membership. Surely. Right? Isn’t that how these things work?

If I did learn to drive, bought myself a Bentley (or whatever the fuck) and traded my beautiful French Poodle for a snarling Alsatian, would I qualify?

Probably not. Because the other day, I was told how effeminate I looked in the workplace on account of the pink shirt I was wearing (thank fuck he’d not noticed my Vivienne Westwood diamante cufflinks, eh?). The Man in question this time was wearing a polo shirt that didn’t do much for his considerable figure.

So now, not only do I have to get myself a new dog, learn to drive, but I have to sort out my wardrobe as well. I need to trade all my nice, fitted clothes and dress like a builder. And does having a large stomach help? Both Men in question were portly. Does psychical proof of gluttony in some way show the world that I am a Man who will not take into consideration such petty concerns as eating healthy and exercise?

Is there anything else? I don’t own the place I’m living in right now. I’m renting for a year. Do I need a mortgage to prove to the world that not only can I eat lots of food, wear polo shirts and drive, but I can also EARN A SHIT LOAD OF MONEY ..?

Also, I listen to pop music quite a lot. Abba. Annie. Britney. Even Rachel fucking Stevens, when I’m feeling particularly unManly. What music do Men listen to? Country, I suppose (but not dear Dolly, obviously). Or maybe monotonous, thumping house music.

I had, until very recently, a beard. I thought that might inch me a little closer to being a Man.

If only it were as simple as having a penis or the right chromosomes.

And if I’m ‘Not a Man’, then what, exactly, am I? Am I female? Are these Men implying they want to fuck me? (Because Men – Real Men – will fuck anything.) I think the subtle implication is that I’m gay. Which, by extension, means that homosexual males are not actually Men, but some other breed of human. The third gender. (Are lesbians not women, I wonder …?)

 

And not that I need to explain it, but here’s a little background on the driving thing. I lived in London since my early twenties. Parking spaces are £50k and the only people who own cars are drug dealers and Uber drivers. But perhaps I should have learnt so I could join the Man Club, eh?

And besides, most of my time there was in Hackney. Would you like to park your car on Mare St in 2006?

Thought not.

And regarding Lucifer, here’s the thing: when you insult a someone’s dog, it’s like slagging off their child. (Although I suppose it wasn’t an insult at the dog, rather a passive aggressive dig at me.)

Anyway, when the guy mentioned to me about not being a Man because of the breed of dog I own, I turned to him and said, ‘I don’t suffer from those sort of insecurities.’ Which, in hindsight, was quite a cutting little comeback (and also true).

Anyway, here’s to not being a Man. Because Real Men. Men like Jeremy Clarkson or Piers Morgan or all those assholes are nothing more than children with bank accounts (and, of course, driving licences).

(Obligatory promo – PILLS: 18 SHORT STORIES out in less than a month. Pre-order the fucker.)

Running Order

Pills is out in a month and it’s up on Amazon for pre-order.

The contents (or ‘track listing’ as I like to think of it) is as follows:

Property
The Hookup
Dot Matrix
Happy Endings
Bit
The Scowl
Sleeping Pills
Perfect Anastasia
Sexting
FMM
Twenty-Seven
Rachel’s Body
Dog In A Suitcase
The Beekeeper
Cremation
Breeders
The Rocking Chair
Standing Ovation

 

It was always going to start with Property. It sets the tone for the whole thing.

I also thought there was a wonderful arrogance about ending it with something called ‘Standing Ovation’.

I’ll drip-feed more info over the coming month. Try to get this hype train rolling out of the station. Sell my soul etc. etc.

Right, now I’m off to fire the head of MI5 for investigating how fucking talented I am. #topical

 

Ghost Writer

Living in a city where the trains run on time is disconcerting, so it was quite a refreshing experience yesterday, when a fucked-up woman stumbled onto my carriage at Wolli Creek and called me a ‘Dog black cunt.’

What can you do, eh?

I thought maybe I could correct her and say that while I might occasionally be a dog, and while I am often a cunt, I was quite obviously white and that ‘Dog white cunt,’ would have been more appropriate. But I think it was wise I kept my mouth shut.

She then stamped up and down the train, swearing and shouting about how a man spat in her eye and called her a ‘fat slut’ earlier in the day.

She was like a character from one of my stories. I wanted to put her in box and take her home (albeit sedated).

The train pulled away from the station and eventually, the guard emerged from his nap room office. He tried to calm the woman down, but it was all a little half-assed and after five minutes of telling her to be quiet and her replying ‘Fuck off ya cunt,’ he shrugged, sidled up to me and said, ‘If she gets violent, hit the emergency button, yeah?’

Well of course, now the woman thinks I’m in collusion with the guard. Plain clothes Binding. She’s scowling at me and I think she’s going to go for me, when the train pulls in at Redfern and she runs off.

I’m used to that crap. 15 years in London. Although it was quite nice to be directly insulted rather than having some crackhead shove a bible in my face and tell me that I’d burn in the fires of hell if I didn’t give myself to the Lord Jesus Christ, or some twat who has their River Island satchel on the only spare seat in the carriage and then mutters passive aggressive nothings when you ask him to move it.

Anyway, a few minutes later, when the train stops at Central, the police wander on and ask if anyone’s seen an abusive woman. I tell them that she left the train at the stop before and that maybe the police would be more effective if they didn’t devote one of their officers to standing at a crossing at Bondi Junction and fining people who are crossing the road when the little man is red.

The cops around here do not fill me with confidence. They’re kind of like glorified school prefects. Not the hard brutes of London. Cultural differences. Swings and roundabouts.

Anyway, there are wars and shit happening around the globe, so I won’t harp on about the angry woman on the train.

Writing, that’s what this blog is supposed to be about.

Finishing this short story collection has given me so much space in my mind for other projects. I have finished the first draft of a novel and I have the outline of another one. These two do not contain any supernatural elements, but they do deal with my regular themes like fame, crowed tube trains, drugs and bad sex. If you liked my other shit, these new ones are uber-Binding. Rambling internal monologues. Death. Darkness. Heartbreak. All that good stuff.

A year ago all these things were just ideas. With Pills coming out, I feel that I’ve made a huge step forward. I really think you’ll like it. It stands up as a complete piece of work. Sometimes I can’t believe I actually finished the fucking thing and wonder whether some (literal) ghost writer just does all this stuff for me in my sleep. But I think it was 100% written by me. Yes, I think it was. Although you can’t really be sure of anything these days, can you?

 

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Pre-Order

It’s there, kids. And it has a blurb.

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Not to be taken lightly

Jack Binding’s Pills splices gritty realism with surreal imagery and otherworldly dread.

From the vicious high fashion horror of FMM (The Devils Wears Prada via Bret Easton Ellis-esque debauchery) to the stark, unsettling heartbreak of Sleeping Pills, Binding takes the reader on a journey through the secret parts of London that few people ever visit.

Influenced by writers such as Stephen King, Martin Amis and JG Ballard, there’s Cronenberg-inspired body horror, creepy kids (and their creepier parents), death, love (often unrequited), seedy massage parlours and late nights fuelled with lust and narcotics.

With overarching themes and characters, the 18 short stories in Pills can be read either as a whole enjoyed as stand-alone tales.

Dosage:

Adults over 21 years old take one Pill with alcohol. If necessary, consume the entire packet at once.

Not recommended for children.

Possible side-effects include:

Tension

Excitement

Rage

Sadness

Fear

Arousal

Elation

Repulsion

Laughter

Dread

Disclaimer:

The consumption of Pills should never result in boredom. If this occurs, please contact the manufacturer as soon as possible.

Feedback from the clinical trials for Pills has been strong:

“Wry, strong, cynical”



“Binding has a way with words that fills the reader with a growing sense of dread and fear for the narrator”

“Jack seems to take his observations from life and serve them to you with some sharp edge”

“Horrifying … too good not to read”

“Perfect balance in between real and otherworldly”

“Dark. Bleak. Grim … Binding has a writing style I can easily associate with, an imagination to match”

“The writing reminds me a bit of Clive Barker as he starts a story you think you know is unfolding, and then it spills out, unvarnished and splintery against your skin and senses”

“One part Stephen King one part Twilight Zone”

“Freaky and somehow hilarious”

“Utterly compelling”

“Debauched and nasty”

 

Good, eh?

I’ll furnish y’all with a list of contents in the not too distant.

Many thanks to everyone who has given me wonderful feedback. That sort of shit (along with bourbon and Netflix) is what keeps me going.

Love etc.

Jack

Short Story Collection

Done!

My first short story collection is out 13th June 2017. 

It’s called Pills (because there are lot of ’em in one package and they’re quite druggy). 

18 short stories all in all. 

I’ll be promoting the shit out of it between now and then, so keep your eyes peeled for promos on my individual stories and lots of exciting crap like that. 

Contents/synopsis etc etc to follow …

Thanks for all your support. I wouldn’t have made it to this point if not for all your kind words. 

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Almost There

Well that’s it. I have the setlist. Just one quick edit to go and then I’ll be posting the cover and the synopsis and the contents and all that good shit for my upcoming short story collection.

I’ve whittled the running order down to around 18 stories, each between 300 and 8,000 words long.

Can you believe Dot Matrix only came out in October?

Well I’m settling here in Sydney.

Fred and I have bonded over a common enemy (I won’t even get started on that asshole). I have finally discovered how to dress correctly for the climate (light smart/casual trousers with a tucked in shirt and big belt) – kind of Simon Le Bon-esque but (hopefully) without the complete cunt vibe.

I have found out the way to survive the extortionate booze prices is to order wine online (the wonderfully-named VinoMofo serves all my Shiraz needs).

And what else?

Lucifer’s much better. He has no bandage on his leg anymore. He’s bounding around happy and carefree, just as a puppy should. He is forbidden to chew Apple products, Alexander McQueen clothing or human flesh. He ignores all three rules. Like Adam chowing down on that apple, he just can’t help himself. #BiblicalDog

I have made a friend at work. A fellow pom (is that a racist word, by the way?). I haven’t told him I write yet. If I ever do, I’ll probably just say I write thrillers rather than miserable short stories about bad sex and council estates.

Still, it’s nice to be conversed with. To a point.

And that’s it. I think I’ll have a proper update in a week or so when I can finally show you what I’ve been working on (it’s good).

‘Til then, see ya.

(Oh, by the way, Property will be free from midnight Pacific Time 17th April 2017 for 24 hours. If you’ve not yet read my most miserable release to date, do yourself a favour any nab a copy. It kind of sets the tone for the upcoming collection.)

Dogs Are Everywhere

I have neglected my “brand” recently. Poor old Jack Binding has been ignored like a maths geek at a school disco. It’s not as though he isn’t in my thoughts. On the contrary. I think about Jack a lot, but sometimes life gets in the way.

Well, it’s Friday morning here (or at least it was when I wrote this in a minimised version of Word at my office desk) and since I’ve worked pretty hard this week, I thought I’d spend some of my time writing a little update on nothing in particular.

Australia is difficult. People rave about the food here, but I can’t find a decent burrito for love nor money (I have tried both). And there are certain strange things I miss about London.

I miss booze being cheap. You know it’s about $100 for a bottle of drinkable Scotch here? I thought I’d switch to Japanese whiskies to ease me into the place, but they’re equally as extortionate. So I’m drinking this shit called Cougar Bourbon. It’s $35 a bottle and tastes like washing up liquid. I have regressed.

And I’ve been pining for my posh gym in The City and Winston, my personal trainer who looks like Ving Rhames and Mike Tyson had a super-lithe lovechild. Modern luxuries.

And, I suppose, I miss my lovely friends. I was never Mr Popularity, but I did have a couple of very close mates in London. The sort of people you could call up at any time and they’d be there. I’m sure you have a few yourself. One has since fled London for the comparative tranquility of suburban England. I secretly hope that my departure from Blighty was the catalyst for his move, but I know he’s been planning it for years. Whatever keep me warm at night, I guess.

But London’s like memories of an ex. The exciting late nights and the gorgeous long mornings stick in my mind and I have conveniently forgotten that time when she shouted at me for not having enough cash in my wallet to buy a block of organic gorgonzola dolce from the snooty cheese stall on Broadway Market because I’d spent it buying her too many vanilla vodka and cokes in the Cat & Mutton the night beforehand.

I’ll persevere.

But the job is dragging. ‘Too many monkeys, not enough organ grinders,’ I said to the COO in meeting earlier in the week. Until that point they were considering taking me on permanently, but now I’m not so sure. Still, these things are mutual. Perhaps I’m underselling myself being surrounded by the likes of Fred. Ah Fred. He was demoted on Monday. It was always on the cards, but I helped expedite the process. It has not improved his demeanor. But to add to my 9-5 woes (or 9-4.30 if nobody’s looking), there’s a casual homophobe in the office. He’s a fat South African bloke who keeps shouting about ‘gayboys’ and demanding we all put our ‘assholes to the wall.’ I think he thought I was gay when I first turned up. People often do. Perhaps I should’ve arrived in a football shirt, swigging a can of Stella (or is it VB here?). Now, however, he has decided I’m a regular, ordinary guy and he keeps fucking talking to me. It’s dreadful. The other day the conversation turned to dogs. Some dude was on about his Staffie, another about his Alsatian. I thought it best not to bring up my cream, toy poodle puppy.

Lot of dogs in Sydney.

But it ain’t all bad.

I don’t have the horrific London commute. I sit on a clean, empty, punctual train and read my Kindle. I don’t work crazy hours. The money will keep Lucifer and me in dog biscuits for a while.

And maybe a little quietness is what I need right now. Last year was too busy.

I’m coming to the end of my first volume of short stories. It should be around 80k words long when (finally) compiled. That should tide you all over until I finish this novel. There’s just a haunted house story to finish off (which is a legitimately scary experience to write, so I hope it’s an effective read) and a tasteful wee tale about someone literally getting their brains fucked out.

On that note, I suppose I’d better open Excel and justify this day rate.

So long, friends.

 

Thumbnails & Factory Records

An unexpected byproduct of releasing my clutch of short stories has been some nice feedback on the artwork. Well, I’m no graphic designer, and my first thought was to use one of those companies (or Fiverr) to knock me up a few covers. But I soon found I was either a) bored by their results or b) they looked a little amateurish.

My natural default is music, so I thought of all the great album covers I’ve come across in my life, and you know what I really like? Bold but minimal. Like the great Factory records LPs of the late seventies and eighties.

 

Pretty soon, I realised this aesthetic tied in perfectly with my main goal: That shit has to look good as a thumbnail.

Do you think people get a huge image of your cover shoved down their face? Well, occasionally (in this blog), but not often. No, Amazon relies on little thumbnails and people scrolling through lists of them in the ‘You might also like’ sections.

That’s why my name is fucking huge (also, it satisfies my massive ego). And that’s why the title is big. And that’s why there are only a few colours on each one (when you make an image small, simplicity and clarity are key).

This weekend I finished the cover for my short story collection. It looks like a record cover ­– I’m very proud of it. It satisfies my DIY origins. I grew up listening to The Buzzcocks and Wire all these wonderful new wave punk bands. To me, indie publishing is the literary equivalent of that movement – it’s a huge fuck you to the establishment and the snobbery that goes with it. It’s very nice when the artwork compliments that.

I’ll do the generic cover reveal and all that crap soon, but for now, I’ll leave you. I need to move on and write a scene about stalking.

Laters.

New Life

‘The weather’s much better,’ they said.

‘It’s like being on holiday all the time,’ they said.

It’s rained in Sydney pretty much every day for the last month. And it’s not that refreshing cold rain like you’ll find back home in good old Blighty, it’s muggy, warm rain. Like having a lukewarm shower. My plethora of rain coats are impractical as they are too hot and heavy. Seems the regulation outfit for bad weather here is a see-through, disposable cagoule. Well, I’m not that type of asshole. I’d rather get wet or sweaty. Wet and Sweaty. Sounds like the names of two crap late night radio DJs playing lounge music.

I’ve taken a job, hence my internet silence of late. It took me two and a half weeks to make an enemy. He’s a very good looking, lazy, nasty chap called … well, let’s call him Fred. Now Fred’s one of those assholes who gets by in life by flashing a charming smile and lying. Inside he’s a bitter husk.

Unfortunately etiquette dictates that I can’t be my usual bullish self in this new job and I need to wait at least a month or two before I’m swearing and growling upsetting the applecart. For the time being I must show a little professionalism. Insincere gloss, if you will.

In the last few weeks I have become the proud parent of a 10 week old toy poodle called Lucifer. He has destroyed everything (his favorite food is expensive shoes). Initially I hated the little fucker. Yelping and pissing on the carpet and nipping my fingers with his baby teeth, but now I’m in love with the guy. He follows me around the flat and curls up in my armpit when I’m watching TV. Unfortunately he arrived with a broken leg (long story – the breeder’s fault). He has to have a plate in it. Goodbye $3k. Still, I’d spend the world fixing him up. He’s bringing out a strangely human side in me. Weird. Still, perhaps it’ll give a little warmth to my writing.

Ah writing!

Obviously with life constantly demanding my attention, I’ve not dedicated as much time as I wanted to it. (And not having the internet for 3 weeks didn’t help either – thanks TPG.) But I’ve made some good headway.

The short story collection is almost complete. One or two more first drafts to kick into shape and then I can look at releasing it. There will be about 20 stories in it. I’ll write a whole blog post on it later, but here’s the thing I’m excited about – THEY ALL LINK TOGETHER. Albeit from the tiniest Easter egg to overlapping characters to direct sequels. I have created a little universe to work with. In that way it feels less like a collection of short stories and more like a loosely formatted novel. I’m very happy with it.

The actual novel is rolling ahead, too. The first draft is completely planned and 70% of scenes are written. It will, however, require a massive rewrite. I’m thinking around five drafts. At some point I might be looking for beta readers. But I’ll let you know when I’m ready.

So yeah. That’s pretty much it.

In the last year I 6 months I have lived in 7 different properties. Busy times.

New country. New job. New dog. New projects.

It’s not been easy, but it’s been very fulfilling.

Sitting on a beach in Mexico, sipping on a margarita seems a long time ago now.

Happy In The Haze Of A Drunken Hour

Say what you like about Morrissey, but I’m sure most of you can relate to this:

I was looking for a job, and then I found a job

And heaven knows I’m miserable now

This sweet era of daytime writing is over. I have a job and it starts on Monday.

Everyone’s like ‘Congratulations, Jack. You must be so happy.’

You lot know me better than that.

It’s only a three month contract. Takes me up to June, when I have to fly back to the UK for a wedding.

I suppose it’s fine. And I suppose it’ll be nice to have a steady income for a while.

But, really, all I want to do it write. That’s all.

Well, I killed a bunch of short stories and took a sizeable chunk out of a novel first draft.

And besides, after June, if fortune smiles on me, I’ll be happily unemployed again.

Right, I’m off to do some daytime drinking.

Later.