Rob Wickings's Blog, page 72

The Return Of The Dead Files

I’m pleased, chuffed, excited and all-over tingly to announce the release of The Dead Files, Vol. 2.

Bloody good cover, innit?

There’ve been some changes in the way we do things since Vol. 1. We are all about progress and constant improvement and aiming for the head.

So. Vol. 2 is twice the size of our launch volume for the same price. It includes stories from old friends like zombie Irish girl L.A. Hamilton and heavy metal monster Bart Sycamore, a new tale of the undead messiah from Jethro Jessop and a move to prose with a haunting tale from Anna Fruen. New additions to the squad David Heyman and James Hovey keep the quality high. The paperback looks great, and I’m happy to sign any and all volumes that come my way.

As for yr. humble author–yes, I’m in there too. I’m returning to the world of Aiken Ward, with a cliff-hanging multi-part story that should have you begging to be finished off. Hang on, that came out wrong. You know what I mean.

It’s been a real head-rush putting this one together, and the formation of an editorial team gives this and future editions both structure and the knowledge that we’re in this for the long run. Really, we want The Dead Files to get better with every new edition, and we want you there with us.

Much as I hate to push this one aside before it’s been on sale for more than 24 hours, I’d like to mention Vol. 3, which will be our Christmas Special. Submissions for this are open now until the end of November. We’re looking for Xmas themed stories, with a hard limit of 2000 words. If you’re interested, drop me a comment in the first instance, or email Sarge directly. No zombie Jesus tales, thanks. We’ve already got that covered.

For now, please to be enjoying The Dead Files Vol. 2. We think it’s the start of something big, and we hope you agree.

You can buy The Dead Files Vol. 2 from the UKZDL site in epub, Kindle, PDF and woodpulp versions.

A Tomato Sauce for Autumn and Winter

As the cold weather hits, I start to think about autumn food, and tweak my go-to dishes accordingly.

The basic tomato sauce is probably the cornerstone of my cookery empire. I base innumerable meals on it, and the surplus is dead handy to liven up midweek “can’t be arsed” pasta meals. But it varies with the seasons. The spring and summer sauce is a light and lively affair, bright with fresh herbs, quick to put together. I’ve even made a no-cook version that’s closer to a salsa. Sloshed over a steaming bowl of spaghetti on a warm evening with plenty of bread to soak up the juices, this can be a winner.

The autumn and winter sauce is a different beast. Slow-cooked, warming and earthy, the base for a ragu or a sausage casserole. Something to linger over, both when cooking and eating.

I start with the usual suspects. Onion (usually red), garlic, celery and bacon. Chop em up finely, using the lessons you learned at the Ludlow Food Festival at your knife-use course. Use a rocking, pushing motion to glide the sharp, sharp blade through the veg. Get distracted at just the wrong moment and open a flap in your thumb. Swear. Get TLC to kiss your owie, and get on with it before the blood soaks through the dressing.

Sweat off the bacon in a little oil (I use a decent English rapeseed oil for everyday use) and add the onion and celery once it takes on a bit of colour and gives out a little fat. Leave it for a good fifteen minutes over a low heat to get acquainted.

Meanwhile, chop up a few mushrooms (chestnuts would be good, but use what you’ve got) and if you can, some porcinis that have been soaking in a little hot water. I probably should have told you about those sooner. Sorry. It’s the blood loss making me a bit woozy. Anyway. Porcinis. Soak them for 20 minutes, then drain and chop them, hanging onto the dark brown broth they’ve left behind.

By now, your veg and bacon should be golden and smelling glorious. Tip them into a bowl, add a little more oil to the pan, and gently cook the mushrooms and garlic. Throw in some dried herbs at this point. Oregano, thyme, maybe a bay leaf. Be heavy-handed.

Once the garlic has softened and the mushrooms have taken on a little colour, return the bacon/onion/celery to the pan, and introduce everyone. It’s not a party without alcohol, so throw in a glass of red wine. Have one yourself. What the hell, it’ll take your mind off your poor throbbing thumb.

Let this bubble away until the wine has reduced to a red smear at the bottom of the pan, and then add a tin of tomatoes. Fresh will work, but I think you’ll lose a little of the deep autumn flavour. There’s something unquantifiable about tinned toms that’s just a bit more appropriate for this sauce. Plus, you don’t have to skin and seed anything.

The tin will have plenty of flavour left after you upend it into the pan. Don’t waste it. Sloosh the mushroom stock that you didn’t throw away into the can, and throw the lot in. There. Cookery and sorting out your recycling in one easy step.

That’s about it. Taste and season (bear in mind you’ll be getting salt off the bacon, so easy on the Maldon, cowboy) and let it cook slowly until it goes thick and glossy. About half an hour, give or take.

This went over meatballs and little cubes of roasted potatoes yesterday, with enough left over for later contemplation in the week. To be honest, it’ll go with just about anything that needs a rich, robust tomato sauce. You could even use it as a relish or dip. I’ve blitzed it and used it on a pizza base. It’s incredibly useful.

And eminently tweakable. Leave out the bacon, or replace it with pancetta or chorizo. Add carrots, peppers, maybe some courgettes and aubergine for something a bit more ratatouille-y. Some chili would be nice. Perhaps some cumin and coriander, added to the onion at the start of things for more of a Middle eastern vibe. Slosh it over burgers, sausages, a baked potato, monkfish…

Come the spring, you’ll be jonesing for something lighter and fresher. But as the damp and cold rolls in, you’ll need a sauce like this to help you hold the line. It’s so good, it’ll even help you forget about the wound you’ve gouged in your thumb.

(Image via Tomato Casual, who also have a great cold-weather tomato sauce.)

A Eulogy

It's quiet. Too quiet. There's a sonic hole in the house, and I'm straining to fill it and I know I can't.

There's no distant thunk of the cat-flap as it's butted open. No clatter and crash as stuff is knocked off a high shelf or the top of a drawer unit. Worst of all, there's no honk and wail as a small hairy object barges into the room and insists on some attention. Oh, you're writing, are you? Here, let me sort that out by sitting on your keyboard. Isn't that better? Now, let's talk about my needs.

I never thought I'd miss that. I never thought I'd miss that so much once it stopped happening.

She left us on Monday, but to be honest she'd been making plans for a couple of weeks. We came back from holiday to find she'd moved in next door and made herself thoroughly at home. She'd pop in a couple of times a day for a bite to eat and a place to kip, but otherwise that'd be all we'd see of her. Typical bloody 18 year old.

So, when our lovely next-door neighbour knocked on the door, and told us that they'd found her in their back garden, the shock was lessened a little as we told ourselves that somehow she knew, that somehow she wanted us to know instinctively what was happening. She went peacefully, in a manner of her own choosing, and made sure that we wouldn't come across her by accident. At least, that's what I'm telling myself. That's what I choose to believe.

I had one last job to do for her, one last duty, and for that I was supremely grateful that DocoDom was around (again, did she know? Did she time it so that when the time came to dig the hole and wrap her in her favourite blanket, I wouldn't have to do it on my own?). I held my nerve. I was a man about it. My voice barely broke when I said goodbye.

Now, for the first time in 18 years, the house has no-one in it to bang about and make stinks and smells and purr in our ears and sit on our heads when we're sleeping and scoff our leftovers before we've actually finished eating. She was stubborn, eccentric to the point of lunacy, and almost impossible to reason with. She could win over just about anyone to her way of thinking. I'm still not sure whether she was stone deaf at the end or simply not in the mood to answer when we called. She was a genuine one-off, a soppy, talkative, bloody-minded, annoying, adorable little flea-bag. We were lucky to have so much time with her.

So long, Bil. Sleep well.

Bilbo Baggins-Wickings, 1994-2012

 

If I Had A Pound: DocoBanksy Goes West

It’s been an interesting few weeks for the international art-seditionist DocoBanksy. A screening at the opening night of the Portobello Film Festival of his film was followed by a nomination for Best Documentary. Sadly, the bribes and threats didn’t work, but there are other festivals. Check here first for announcements of upcoming screenings.

Meanwhile, he has settled down a bit. The gypsy life has been getting Doco down, so he’s shuttered the base hidden in the caldera of a dormant volcano somewhere in Peru, sent the converted tanker that’s been cruising the South Atlantic down for scrap, and rediscovered the quiet life. He’s settled down with muse and constant companion Lady Dem in one of Britain’s great creative hubs.

DocoBanksy has moved to Bristol.

He’s already seen the advantages of the place. It’s buzzing with clever artists of all hues and skills, and nurtures a quiet yet fearsome independence. To that end, when he found out about the upcoming release of the Bristol Pound, a local currency designed to support Bristol businesses, he knew there was a promotional opportunity to be had.

Tell you what, let’s let the man tell it in his own words.

So what was I meant to say, no!? Simon Ellis, who runs a market stall in Bristol’s Saint Nicholas’ Market, said I could display some promotional items for the film on his stall.

I popped down to meet Simon and showed him my wares. He liked what he saw. I of course like the docoBANKSY promo notes and scratchcards. They look even better framed!

Of the three items I displayed my favourite has to be the uncut sheet of Banksy’s Di Faced tenner. Are they real, does it matter? How was I able to get them printed?

It did not take long to get set up. The council and people behind the Bristol pound had no problem with the dococam being there.

I wanted to capture people’s reactions to the Di Faced tenners. Simon’s idea was that we were presenting an alternative to the Bristol pound. Banksy possibly presented the first version of the Bristol pound with the Di Faced tenner back in 2004 when they were first produced.

The best reaction to the notes had to be two guys from Russian TV filming what they saw. What did they make of what they saw? Nobody asked any questions of what was on display. I placed a simple note inviting people to ask questions about what they were seeing.

 

The items I showed will be back on Simon’s stall soon, so if you are interested pop down to Saint Nick’s market in Bristol city centre and see what you make of them.

Here’s some pics of the day. And just a warning: DocoBanksy stickers are not yet legal tender, unlike the Bristol Pound. Next time you’re in the area, why not pick some up?

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Justice At Last: X&HT Saw Dredd

The big problem with adapting any popular comic book hero for the big screen is the huge amount of history that needs to be addressed–or at least acknowledged. Consider. Batman’s been around since the thirties. Most of the Marvel heroes have been saving the world on a monthly basis since the sixties. That’s a hell of a lot of back-story to cram into two hours. It’s one reason why comic-book films can come across as both bloated and rushed, as writers and directors try to cram in origins, secondary characters, nods to obscure back-stories and multitudinous costume changes. Look, look, we understand how important these characters are to you nerdy types. See? Here’s a reference to the 1978 Infinite Betrayal arc!

Meanwhile, people who know nothing and care less about the shocking events of The Infinite Betrayal turn away in their droves. Fanboys feel both patronised and short-served by the fact that a generic origin/threat/loss of loved one/other threat boilerlate script has been dumped onto their favourite character, and how dare they think we wouldn’t notice that they got the hairstyle of the Betrayer wrong? It’s a slippery slope leading to a greased tightrope, and I’m amazed anyone bothers with them in the first place.

Dredd is so successful because it’s aware of all the pitfalls, and works incredibly hard to make sure they’re avoided. Part of this is, of course, that the Judge has been through all of this before, in the 1995 Sylvester Stallone adaptation. Director Pete Travis and writer Alex Garland, along with the savvy production team at DNA knew that they had a chance to take a crack at the character that could finally wipe the stink off.

Giving a big drokking damn about getting the approach right was the important first step. The team talked to Dredd creator John Wagner, and got fan-fave artist Jock on board to do concept art. Garland spent a year on the script, discarding two stories that were adaptions of well-known Dredd multiparters (including a take on Judge Death that could really work as a sequel) in favour of a simple, sharp, day-in-the-life approach. Elements of a ton of different Dredd tales have been rolled into that script; the rookie’s appraisal, the fight in a locked-down block. Anyone that considers that Garland’s script owes too much to The Raid (and I’ve been assured by people that really should know better that Dredd was actually based on an early draft of Gareth Evan’s story) simply hasn’t read enough 2000AD. By spending time and giving respect to the source material, and not thinking they know better than the guys that created the character and made him a success, Travis and Garland have given themselves a fighting chance to get things right.

The low budget of the film also works in its favour. Because DNA and Reliance didn’t have the money to build Mega-City One at Shepperton, they started thinking creatively. Johannesburg locations, with a bit of CGI, stands in for the city-blocks, and gives the place the look and feel of a gigantic favela, a car-crash of Latin American and South-East Asian slum culture. Everything feels scruffy, jury-rigged, on the verge of collapse. Even the information technology on show is low-res and static-prone. No fancy holo-tables or floating displays here. It’s dot-matrix and scrolling LEDs all the way. This really brings home the need for the Judges and points out the imposible job they face. There are no flying cars, no moon colonies. This is all that’s left, and it’s falling to bits.

Making Mega-City One more explicitly post-apocalyptic, combined with its near-future, no-frippery setting cleverly gives the film much more resonance to a modern film-watching audience. There’s no room for the surreal, satirical edge that’s very much a part of the comics. Which is a shame, but understandable. There are plenty of nods and winks in Dredd for the fans, if you keep your eyes open. Check out the names of the city-blocks. Keep an eye on the graffiti.

Of course, none of this would be worth a brass cred if the wrong man wore the helmet. Karl Urban gets it spot on, considering that his acting all has to take place below the nostrils. He’s a beefy, solid presence, an embodiment of The Law. The voice is a throatful of gravel. The chin is a solid wedge of gristle and bone, unforgiving as a cliff. The one-liners are as good as the classics in the comics. The influence of Clint Eastwood’s Dirty Harry is clearer than ever. And of course, this time the helmet stays right where it belongs, glued in place. More on the reasons why that’s important here.

The casting throughout is right on the money. Olivia Thirwell makes for a fragile but determined Cassandra Anderson, less sassy than her comic counterpart, but this is, in effect, her origin story. Lena Headey is the queen of tough SF and fantasy females, and Ma-Ma is as regal, brutal and uncompromising as Cersei or Sarah Conner.

Readership, what we have here is the most successful comics adaptation of the year. Lean, hard, brutally, gleefully, absurdly violent. Ferocious, fearless, non-fuck-giving. Also, somehow, remarkably, it does nice things with the 3D and didn’t give me a headache. That’s a first. The slo-mo sequences andAnderson’s psi-interrogation both show that Pete Travis is a director unafraid to play with the format. There’s more here than simply bullets flying into the auditorium–although admittedly there’s a lot of that as well. It’s gorier than a lot of horror movies. This is not a bad thing.

I’m of the generation that grew up with Dredd, that wept at the Stallone film. He’s a defining character for me, one of my gateways into the world of comics, and a wake-up call that there was more to SF than Asimov and Heinlein. By engaging with that fanbase, with my people, not talking down to us and coming up with something that works both as a hard-as-plasteen action flick and a celebration of one of the most recognisable figures in British comics is a major ask that Travis and Garland have pulled off with aplomb.

This is one to see, Readership. A serious drokking contender for my film of the year.

 

Incidentally, the official soundtrack, a throbby, synthy powerhouse by Paul Leonard-Morgan, is nicely complemented by Geoff Barrow and Paul Salisbury’s unofficial Drokk, music inspired by Mega-City One. I’ve dumped both, plus a few choice cuts from the 2005 soundtrack, into a Spotify playlist.

Listen up, or it’s five years in the cubes, creeps.

News Bulletin

On my hols this week, so bloggery will be minimal. Howevs, I do have a couple of late-breaking news items. Leading Man Clive and Mighty-Moostached Stu’s brilliant office-noir short Out Of Hours gets its official big-screen premiere at the Raindance Film Festival next month, as part of the Drama Shorts Programme. It’s on Sunday October 7th at 5pm. Getcha tickets here. 

Meanwhile, I’m pleased as punch to announce that I’ve been invited to join (and scrambled like crazy to accept) Inkslinger Books. This is a collective that’s quietly doing great things in the e-book market–their Tortured Hearts anthologies are regularly top of the Kindle Short Story charts. There’s a lot more coming from the Inkslingers this year, and I’m grinningly chuffed to be a part of the revolution. Check out the website for news of future releases, and to meet the rest of the gang. Oh, and you can pick up copies of both Untruths and The Dead Files there as well. 

Right, that’s me done. I’ve been up Symond’s Yat today, so I’m more than ready for a beer and a sit-down. 

I can see the pub from here…

Livin’ La Vida Loca: X&HT Saw The Imposter

If you tried selling the story of The Imposter as a drama, people would never go for it.

It’s just too unbelievable. I mean, the idea of this guy, this 23-year-old, selling himself as a missing child and somehow not just fooling the authorities but the family that he infiltrated is simply laughable. In real life, people simply aren’t that gullible.

Right?

Bart Layton’s documentary with dramatic interludes, based on the 1997 story of Frédéric Bourdin’s impersonation of Texan teenager Nicholas Barclay, does a very good job of exploring the boundaries between the truth and how it can be twisted, confused and reinterpreted. The pivotal moment of the story–Bourdin’s discovery in a phone booth in Spain, and his claim to be a vanished schoolkid from America–is rewound and replayed several times, revealing new bits of the story every time.

Our view of the Barclay family shifts through the film, darkening as the story twists and wraps around itself. Initially they are noble victims, then gullible dupes, then as manipulative as Bourdin himself. How complicit are they in the disappearance of the boy? Are they gullible, or is there more to the tale? If you want a definitive answer as to what has happened to Nicholas Barclay, then tough. That’s why The Imposter would never work as a drama. There’s no closure, no villain is brought to justice.

At the centre of the story, of course, there is Frédéric Bourdin, breaking the fourth wall with every sideways look at the camera, with every snide little comment. How much veracity can you take from a man who has spent his life lying to everyone? How can you believe a word he says? Layton builds up the sense of distrust with every cutaway. It’s manipulative, certainly. But it adds another layer of fog to the story, another sense that everyone in front of the camera has something to hide. And every time you think you’ve found a crack in Bourdin’s armour, that he’s about to make a confession, then Layton cuts in a shrug, a look, that devilish twinkle. At the end of the film you know less about Bourdin then when you started.

The Imposter is a conundrum inside a question inside a riddle. It’s a puzzle-box without a key or a solution, and certainly without a Hollywood ending where everything is tied up in a neat little bow. I can imagine that for a lot of viewers, the flood of unanswered questions ending the film would be incredibly frustrating. As someone that runs a blog called Excuses And Half Truths, I thoroughly enjoyed the ambiguity and unsettling atmosphere that Bart Layton encourages. Sometimes, you need to leave a film needing to know more.

If that’s the case, then allow me to point you at the 2008 New Yorker article that brought Bourdin firmly into the public eye.

And while we’re at it, check out his antics following the release of the film in this Vice interview. The story of The Imposter continues, like the man himself, to mutate and refuse to be pigeon-holed.

The Grandstand Option: X&HT At The Paralympics

Readership. I have a dream. A dream in which we all come together, regardless of age, race, creed or ability, and celebrate the enduring tenacity of the human spirit. I came a little closer to that dream yesterday, and I can only hope that we all realise that we are on the brink of a whole new relationship with sport. 

Now, I am one of the many, many people that have become born-again sports fans thanks to the Olympics. Before then, I would have laughed in your face if you’d told me that the TV at Casa Conojito would barely move away from the sports channels. But that’s exactly what happened. TLC and I were hooked. We’d been lucky and spendthrift, and thus managed to get tickets for several Olympic events, as well as a couple of freebies that served up unexpectedly great views. 

Like a lot of evangelicals, the passing of the Olympics was felt like a wound. All of a sudden, the magic had passed on and we were back in the real world. As football moved back into the pages at the back of the papers, it felt as if something very special had simply evaporated. Had it all been a dream after all?

Fortunately, we had the Parlympics to look forward to. A day at the Athletics, in the amazing Olympic Stadium. 

It was an early start. Fate had given us a Sunday session, and I knew from bitter experience how infrequent trains into London are at stupid o’clock. It was dark when the alarm went off. I’m used to getting up that early. TLC isn’t. She kept the grumbles to a minimum, but I could see she wasn’t enjoying the sensation. 

The 06:22 train ground out of Reading station on time, and stuffed full of flag-toting families. That train is never quiet, as shift workers make their way into work. Add five times the custom from people heading to the Paralympics and… well, let’s just say it was cosy and I was very glad that I didn’t have to try and squeeze onto the train at Slough. As it was, the driver had to open carriages that were not supposed to be for public use. Someone at First Great Western had clearly underestimated the amount of traffic at that time on a Sunday. 

Apart from that minor issue, travel around London during the Games has been slick, quick and trouble-free. Free travelcards that come with the passes to the Olympic venues mean you can plan your own trip, and take advantage of lesser-used routes like the DLR. The smart money is on the Hammersmith And City or District Lines into West Ham, then a fifteen minute, very clearly signposted walk to the Park. Much easier than fighting through the crowds at Stratford.

The early rise was worth it. We were in our seats on time, and with coffee and sausage sardines in our bellies. We’d seriously lucked out with tickets. Here’s the view we had.

 

 

It was a full morning of athletics. There were events going on at three places at once. There were victory ceremonies aplenty (our personal favourite national anthem? Cuba’s jaunty little tune. You can almost dance to it).  Most importantly, and you’ll have to excuse me for being partisan, but there were plenty of Brits out on the track and field, which meant we had a chance to cheer our boys and girls along in a lusty fashion. Let’s make no bones about this: the home team get preferential treatment. It’s the same for every Games, of course, but it’s fun to be able to wave the flag and roar without feeling like a member of the EDL. The Olympic Stadium is set up to channel sound, and the roar of 80,000 fans rolling around the track, following the runners like an acoustic Mexican Wave is something that needs to be experienced. 

It turned out to be an astonishing morning for Paralympics GB. Silver for Stef Reid in the long jump, in a battle with her old nemesis Kristy Anderson that led to world and Paralympic records being set and reset. World champs Katrina Hart and David Devine cruised through their heats.

But all eyes were on the Discus, as Aled Davies set up a gold medal position with his first throw that no-one else could beat. They tried: Mehrdad Karam Zadeh, in silver medal position, threw mightily on his last go, and for a moment it looked as if Aled would have to respond in kind. Mehrdad fell to his knees and cheered as the result came up: it wasn’t enough, but he’d still succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. Silver for the jovial Iranian. The stage was Aled’s, and as he walked out to take his last throw, the Stadium erupted. It didn’t matter what he did now. But he threw as far and as hard as he could, shattering both his personal best and the Paralympic record.

We hadn’t believed that we’d see a Brit win a gold at the Olympic Stadium. It was as emotional and delirious a moment as you’d think, as Aled did his lap of honour, draped in a Union Jack, stopping to sign autographs and hugging his mum, who sweetly wiped off the lipstick she’d just planted on him. 

A victory ceremony for Stef finished off the day in style, and we left the Olympic Park feeling a little dazed, and woozy with the sheer joyful spectacle of it all. 

So what happens after the Paralympics? The football has again been on the back-burner, as the pubs show wheelchair rugby and the high jump. I’d be happy if this became the status quo, if when you went out for a drink on a Saturday afternoon there was something new and different on the box that didn’t include the same old crop of millionaires playing the same old underwhelming game. We’ve had our eyes opened to the huge range of sport that’s out there. This is a prime moment to get a nation interested in something new.

Apparently Sky will be launching a channel dedicated to so-called “minority sports” in the autumn. Frankly, I don’t think that’s good enough. Don’t stick these exciting, competitive events on a subscription-package ghetto. Let’s get them on the main broadcast channels, where they belong. If the Beeb or ITV won’t, then Channel 4 have a history of innovative sports programming–anyone remember kabaddi? And you can gripe about the adverts all you like, but let’s not forget that C4 put up nearly twice the budget and coverage as the BBC were offering for the Paralympics. Personally, I think they’ve done a great job and they’re in a prime spot to take that legacy and run with it. 

When I were a lad, Saturday afternoons were taken up with sports omnibus shows on both the BBC and ITV. Grandstand and World of Sport would highlight all kinds of activities, including all-in wrestling before the football final scores. Saturday afternoon scheduling is moribund now, full of old films and repeats of bloody Cash In The Attic and bloody Come Dine With Me. We can, and should expect better from our public service broadcasters. I’d like to see a modern version of World of Sport, pushing the best of what’s out there from boccia to baseball, sailing to shooting. What the hell, bring wrestling back while we’re at it. An omnibus show would give a real taste of the action. Let’s get some variety back in sport, and get away from the same old calendar of golf, F1, cricket and bloody football.

What do you say, Readership? Doesn’t your Saturday afternoon deserve a little Paralympic spirit?  

For more pics of the day, allow me to point you at TLC’s Flickrstream, from whence I ganked the photo of Aled Davies above. Fanks, darlin. 

Original Pirate Material: DocoBanksy at the Portobello Film Festival

“What do you mean, I have to introduce the film?”

Here we are, in my front room. DocoBanksy, calmly sipping on a cup of my finest espresso. Next to him, Lady Dem, his soulmate, muse and sounding board. She looks at me sympathetically, but she knows the score as well as I. What Doco wants, Doco gets. It turns out Doco doesn’t want to introduce his own damn film at the opening night of the Portobello Film Festival. Which can only mean one thing.

“Think about it, Twinkle. I can’t do it, can I? International art-seditionists don’t put themselves out in the open, do they? I have enemies. People are watching me. I have to stay in the shadows, otherwise I lose my sense of mystery, and then where would I be?”

He’s right, of course, godsdammit, but even so. The prospect of standing up and introducing a film in front of a packed cinema fills me with a cloying, syrupy dread that blurs my vision and clog my sinuses. I’m a self-diagnosed introvert, fer crying out loud. Public speaking is not in the remit. It’s as far away from the remit as I can possibly hide it.

“Aw, stop making cow eyes at me, Twinkle. You must have known this was comin’. Why did you think I got you to write the speech?”

“I… I thought that was for you. I mean, you said you’d be showing up at the screening…”

“And I will be. I’ll be right behind you. Hood up, shades on. Don’t you see, Twinkle? It’ll be perfect. The spokesman and the silent artist. The perfect duo.”

“You’ll look like The Pet Shop Boys,” Lady Dem murmurs, just loud enough for me to hear, and for once, as we both burst into laughter, we had the upper hand on the damn’d elusive DocoBanksy.

In the DocoMobile (which presents as a standard people carrier on the outside; inside, Tardis-like, it’s more like a deluxe apartment on wheels) I perform the necessary surgery on the speech. He might have thought it was perfect as was, but if I was going to deliver it, a lot of the subtleties and double meanings I’d woven into the text needed to go. Doco, as ever, drove and wound up the tunage. The Streets and The Sex Pistols. The right combination of punk and urban attitude. We hit West London  to the roar of Steve Jones’ guitar blasting out the ’76 demo to Anarchy in the UK. Quite possibly a portent.

Lunch, and a meet with a co-conspirator. EMP, shutterbug, artist, the coolest of cats. She’s 6’2″, half Japanese, half Finnish, smarter than me and several decimal points prettier. She takes tea while we scarf noodles, smiling at our latest find; a decent write-up in that day’s Metro, the London free paper that goes out to half a million people every morning. They’re calling us “the hottest free ticket in town”.

“I knew we should have charged,” Doco mutters around a mouthful of Massuman curry. I let that one slide, and nervously cut an adverb from the speech. Then put it back in a sentence later.

Mr. Brainwash, Banksy copyist and self-proclaimed street artist, has a free show on up the road, so we check it out. It’s … not very good. Imagine all the cliches you could level at street art in general and Banksy and Shepherd Fairey in particular,  and you’ve got an idea of what Brainwash does. Not that he does very much. He outsources the actual work to a team of artisans, who put together his half-baked concepts and mashups. There’s not a spark of originality in the whole exhibition.

Bizarrely, the man himself is in attendance. Doco strides up to say hello. He’s blocked by security. Apparently, Brainwash has an urgent appointment that simply can’t wait. He scurries off soon after, ringed by guards. Doco still manages to get through, and presses a couple of stickers into his hand. I didn’t hear what Doco said to Brainwash, but the smaller man was certainly in a hurry to leave.

Not that we’re concerned. The news had rolled in over lunch; a real street artist was going to be at the screening. None other than French legend Blek Le Rat. Doco is suddenly very excited. The word is well and truly out. And even better, outside the venue we found an Invader, one of Doco’s other obsessions. He does not resist to opportunity to pose, while Lady Dem, EMP and I snicker. He doesn’t care. DocoBanksy is in his happy place.

The Pop-Up Cinema on Acklam Road, W11 is underneath the Westway, a sheltered spot (from the rain at least, more on that later) that houses a bar, loos and a hundred-seat cinema. A funky mix of seats, everything from wooden benches to overstuffed picturehouse chairs in the front row. Lady Dem snags them. Base camp established. Doco and I prowl. He plants stickers, while I check the screen and projector. It’s a good, big projection space–no tablecloth strung up on a couple of sticks. The projector has a good throw, giving solid, vibrant pics. This pleases me. Doco and I are vibrating with nerves as the cinema starts to fill. Lady Dem sends us to the pub to take a 15 minute decompress and final briefing.

Outside the cinema, we have a syncronicitious moment. There’s a Banksy right outside the venue, and wouldn’t you know it, someone’s slapped a DocoBanksy sticker on it. “That’s fate,” Doco says, clearly pleased. “Fate wants us to succeed.”

Synchronicity continues to knock us about. The first film on the bill is Big Society, a nasty little tale by X&HTeam-mate Nick Scott on the nature of taking the law into one’s own hands. The grey area where community service turns into vigilante action. It’s a sharply written and acted piece that starts the show off right. In fact, the whole programme is strong and nicely balanced. Stand-outs for me include John Henry Owen’s bleakly funny tale of a seaside ventriloquist on the skids, Glick’s Last Tour, and Joey Skye’s The Spirit Of Portobello, an exploration of the people and places that make the area so special.

It’s amazing I can remember any of it, frankly, because I’m out of my skin with frantic worry at this point, trying to find any excuse to wriggle out of my responsibility. A sudden case of leprosy. Maybe I could lose my voice or have a sudden nervous case of terminal hiccups.

Doco senses the fog of panic smoking off me. He reaches over and pats my shoulder. “You’ll be fine, Twinkle.” Oh. Well, that’s all right then.

And then it’s time, and I have no more excuses. My game face snaps into place over the blubbering mess I’ve been wearing up to now, and we stride up in front of the screen. No mike. I have to bellow. No idea if anyone hears me or not, and I don’t really care. I just keep it slow and loud, and oh bugger me, I get a laugh in a place where I put a joke.

This is what I say:

Good evening.

We are not Banksy. Sorry to disappoint you. We have neither met, talked to, played pool or had a drink with Banksy. It would be great if we could, but that seems unlikely given the circumstances.

We did not make the film you’re about to see in order to enter into the trite and redundant conversation about Banksy’s secret identity. Which is a shame, as in the course of our research, we came across a number of really entertaining rumours. They are not in the film, as we have no way of proving them.

So, for example, we can neither confirm or deny that Banksy is a decommissioned military computer program that became self-aware following the Cold War, and paints using a swarm of remote drone quadcopters.

We can neither confirm or deny that Banksy is a gang of street kids working under the pay and direction of the shadowy figure known only as King Robbo.

We can neither confirm or deny that Banksy is in the audience tonight.

We are in the position to confirm that the film you are about to see is approximately 58 minutes in duration, will be projected in colour at 25 frames per second, and contains language that some viewers may find distressing.

 Enjoy the film.

Long live King Robbo.

It’s over in 45 seconds, and I stride offstage in front of Doco, who has been an impenetrable mystery in shades and hood. A guy in the second row gives me the thumbs up as I march past. At the back, Doco clinks his bottle of San Miguel against mine. “Nice work, Twinkle,” he says. I take a very long hard pull at my beer, and let out a deep shuddering breath. Holy Marconi, I did it.

As for the film–I think it went well. We had a sound issue halfway through, where the volume dropped by 75%. Could be us, could be the projection. I’m not laying blame. It was sorted quickly enough. The audience seemed to enjoy it. They were a bit confused by the lack of credits, but when two men have put together the whole thing, how much of a roller do you think you’re going to get?

But the temperature was dropping fast. The Pop-Up is effectively outdoors, and a breeze was kicking up. Staff started handing out blankets for the last film, Ricky Grover’s Big Fat Gypsy Gangster, but by then I was cold and brainfried. I made my excuses, left Doco gibbering at Blek Le Rat (seeing the prime art-seditionist as a tongue-tied fanboy is a whole new experience), made my excuses and lit out for the territories. Sorry, Ricky. The film looks great, but I was past ready for bed.

As the train rocketed back towards home, I mused on the extraordinary day. All the work, obsession, freakouts, tantrums and worry had paid off. The film is out there now. It’s out of our hands, and people will see things in it that we never could have imagined. We met a couple of people at the show that are very interested in helping us take it to a much wider audience. This is not the end of the journey for Docobanksy and I. We’ve barely started. Lock down your aerial.

Learn To Love Again: The Foo Fighters and The Reading Festival 2012

It’s the end of the 2012 Reading Festival. Past midnight, after an epic 2-and-a-half hour show by the Foo Fighters that was one of the finest gigs I had ever seen. We (for the purposes of clarity, we are TLC, DocoDom, new chum Groovy Geoff and yr. humble author) are backstage, sipping cocktails and hanging with the band.

An old Talking Heads song passes unbidden through my head as Geoff jumps up to get a picture with Dave Grohl and Ricky from the Kaiser Chiefs. I ask myself; well, how did I get here?

To say that I have a relationship with the Foo Fighters is to overstate the case by a factor of lots. It would be truer to say that I have a relationship with a relationship–a family connection that it’s neither polite nor politic to go into in detail. Let’s just say that every now and again, once every few years if I’m lucky, I get a chance to experience life on the other side of the stage door. The trick is to never take it for granted, expect the unexpected, and to make the most of the experience.

I was floored by what came over the desk at the guest checkin, then. The coveted Access All Areas passes, accompanied by a sticker that stated, in bald, bold-print letters:

PRODUCTION

DRESSING ROOM

ON-STAGE ACCESS

At this point in proceedings, it didn’t quite sink in exactly what that last phrase meant. I’d get the idea soon enough.

A note on Access All Areas. Getting into the guest areas is pretty darn cool, no doubt about it. It’s peaceful (or at least, as peaceful as it can be when a two-storey high main stage pumping out however many kilowatts of pure rock power is just off to your left), with a nice seating area, a paid bar and a couple of food stalls. Get into the artist areas, and things go up a notch. There’s free food and drink to be had, if you ask nicely. The loos get progressively nicer as you go up the social scale. I mean, we’re still not talking fur-lined loo seats or anything like that. The best you can expect is a clean, quiet portaloo. It’s hardly the lap of luxury, but your expectations do drop a bit when the choice is that or a trough full of wee in the arena.

The main thing is, backstage offers a refuge, a place to retreat and get your head together when things get a little overwhelming. That’s important. The day started off as a head-spinner, and just went up like a rocket from there.

After piercing the multiple layers of security, each more intimidatingly polite than the last, we entered Foo Central, a compound of portakabins that housed production offices, management, security, and the all-important Rock Box–the bar. We snagged beers, and chatted amiably to a girl on the production team who found us somewhere to stash our bags. She assured us that the Foos would be on site at 5, arriving by helicopter. She was yanking our chains a little, but we were already starry-eyed enough to believe it. We spent most of the rest of the afternoon pointlessly watching the skies for Dave Grohl in a whirlybird.

Let’s talk a little more about those AAA passes. We’d dicked around, snagged some beers and scouted out the territory. It was time to catch a band or two, and as luck would have it The Gaslight Anthem, a favourite of mine who were on fire with their new album, were up on the main stage. Time to see just how much access we had.

We wandered up to the ramp the artists used to go on stage, just out of idle curiosity really, when a security guard asked politely if we were looking for the viewing platforms. Why yes, kind sir, that we are. He ushered us through, and pointed us to a set of steps by stage left.

When we got there, I started laughing, and couldn’t stop for five minutes. Because the view from the viewing platform looks like this.

It was absurd. It was too much. These were the platforms I’d seen while watching the Cure on my telly at home on Friday night. I thought they were for family members and the deep inner circle. I peered over the edge. I could see the mixing desk. I could see the set list. I started laughing again.

The Gaslight Anthem came on five minutes later, paying no attention to the cackling loon up on the viewing platform, and proceeded to play the gig of their lives. Their music is heartfelt, beefy Springsteenean rock, melodic, boozy, raw and bouncy. It’s the sort of thing you’d hear in a bar in a Boston-set cop drama. Celtic-tinged, Motown-flavoured, roar-along choruses, the sort of thing that grabs a smalltown boy and gives him the guts to dream. Brian, the lead singer and main songwriter for TGA grinned throughout the set, unable to quite believe where he’d ended up. He wasn’t the only one.

It was time to move on, and check out a couple of other tents. My wish list was small, but it had to include Mark Lanegan at the BBC Stage. We broke open the airlock, and strode out onto the arena floor.

The festival ground at Reading is wide and very long. It feels like you’re walking for ages to get anywhere. You can’t go too quickly, though. There are people everywhere, sitting in groups, laid flat out, chilling, chatting, arguing, snogging, laughing. Reading is traditionally the post-exam/pre-college festival, and the young-skewed crowd use it as their last opportunity to do something really stupid before they have to grow up a bit. You end up walking through a hundred little dramas, a thousand mayfly love affairs, flaring up and dying in the course of a weekend. I’ve never understood why there aren’t more films and stories about festivals. They house our young’uns at the cusp of a new life, and the emotions are dizzyingly raw.

If you want a soundtrack for that feeling, then you could do worse than plump for The Joy Formidable, who were making a glorious racket at the NME Stage. They’re a threepieceguitarbassdrumband, fronted by the tiny, fiery Ritzy Bryan who thrashes her Fender Jag with the chops and power of a true queen of rock. It’s one of those big, joyous blasts of noise, delirious and swooning in a swirling fog of amp feedback. The album’s called The Big Roar. You’re not kidding.

Dom tells this story:

“Geoff and I wanted to see how far we could push our passes, so we left Rob and TLC to enjoy the show out front, and went up to a security guard. He took one look at our passes… and waved us through. We ended up in the photographer’s pit, right at the front of the stage. The noise was just incredible, like surfing in sound.

I’d travelled for 16 hours from France the previous day, driving my girlfriend to her new home in England. Lack of sleep and over-excitement, coupled with the fantastic noise The Joy Formidable were making, hit me all at once and took my legs out from under me. I had to run backstage and find a quiet spot, and I just let it all go and cried my eyes out. It was a massive release, after a year that’s seen so many changes for me. It felt like coming home, and The Joy Formidable will always be a part of that for me.”

 

After Ritzy and the boys had left, and we’d all given Dom a hug, it was time for Mark Lanegan. We found the viewing platform backstage, which didn’t really work. The sound was going the wrong way, and we were behind the band. Dom and I ran out, and took up position in the film trench, a perfect spot to see the band, as long as we stayed out of the way of the video cameras. I instructed Dom to start taking snaps. That got us thrown out of the pit, and the guard who let us in gave Dom a telling-off. I didn’t see the problem, which I guess has something to do with copyright and exclusivity (photographers normally only get three songs to take the shots they need) but, aware that access is a privilege not a right, we didn’t push it.

Instead, Geoff and I went into the photographer’s pit, within spitting distance of the stage. Mark Lanegan growled and rumbled less than twenty feet away. At some point, I realised that Geoff had vanished. It was just me, and one of my heroes, and for a couple of songs I felt that he was performing just for my benefit. It was bliss. Like the man says, I don’t want to leave this heaven too soon.

 

Giggling, giddy, still a little tearful, we retreated back to Foo Central, where the band had just arrived. By car, of course. We chatted for a while. Dave Grohl swished past with a plate of food, rock god incarnate, hair, shades and high volume. It was a family atmosphere. Kids were underfoot, mums and nannies floating serenely around. It did not, to be honest, feel like a place where excess is the norm. It felt more like a big family barbecue.

Let us consider access once again. We decided to check out the Kaiser Chiefs, about half an hour into their main stage set. We were politely but firmly turned away from the viewing platforms. They were too full. I could wave my pass as much as I liked, but health and safety trumped my petty needs. Sod it. We flounced back out into the arena, and caught the tail end of Ricky and Co’s bouncy, cheery set. TLC finally had a beer. The sun was out, and life was pretty bloody nice.

 

Let’s talk a little about security. They get a lot of shit for doing a tough job with, for the most part, grace and politeness. They are not there to cause trouble. Just the opposite. They pull people in distress out of the crowd, make sure there’s water if you need it, and prevent chaos and tragedy. I have nothing but respect for security at big festivals. If you still think they’re thugs and bullies, then you’re still in the stone age, my friend. Be nice to your friendly neighbourhood security operative. Give ‘em a smile. For god’s sake, don’t argue the toss if they prevent access. There are always good reasons, and they’re under orders from higher-up anyway. They’ve got a lot more to worry about than your petty concerns and sense of entitlement. They’ve heard it all before, and it’s pointless arguing. Again, with added guitars: access is a privilege, not a right. If you get blocked, or worse, exiled, then chances are it’s your fault.

Rant over. We took up position bright and early for The Black Keys, after learning our lesson earlier. Front of the platform, stage right, a perfect view. A blonde bloke in a forage cap and a beard slots in next to me, and nudges me over slightly. I move. It’s fine. TLC elbows me.

“You do realise who’s next to you?”

I sneak a peek. Oh. Hello, Simon Pegg. Hope you enjoy the show. Get me, quite literally rubbing shoulders with celebrity.

He certainly seemed to have fun, which isn’t surprising as The Black Keys played a blinder. Soulful, bluesy, sunset music. The platform, and the crowd, bounced and sang along. It’s amazing what you can do with a heavily-amped guitar and a drumkit. Anyone that tags The Keys as White Stripes wannabes has missed the point. They’re slicker, sleeker, a party band that can lift a crowd with the crook of a finger. And they have the best-dressed guitar techs in town, too. We were solid gone, man.

You’re probably sick of me blabbing about how great it is backstage, so let’s talk about the downsides. You are off to the sides of a performance that’s being pushed out to a huge crowd, and a lot of the big moments are a bit diluted as a result. Same with the sound. It’s muddy, and it’s stupidly loud. There are earplug dispensers everywhere, and with very good reason. I managed without for The Gaslight Anthem, and my ears were ringing for an hour afterwards. We were sensible after that.

 

I like to make an idiot of myself at a gig, jumping about, singing, screaming. You just can’t do that on the platform. You’re surrounded by people that have been there and done this too many times to do anything more than nod along appreciatively. The Black Keys had us bouncing, but I missed the opportunity to cut loose and go nuts. Curse you, Simon Pegg and your supercool demeanour, intimidating me into behaving like a grown-up.

After The Black Keys, the mood of anticipation started to spiral up hard. The viewing platforms were cleared; no chance of hanging onto a prime spot. A queue began to form, and we found ourselves behind (I wasn’t stalking you, honest) Simon Pegg. Geoff, always first with an opportunity, snagged a photo and chatted for a while. The queue began to grow, and nervously we considered whether it was worth breaking ranks and hitting a good spot on the arena. We held our nerve, and it was worth it. We were ushered onto the ramp, and found ourselves on a spot on the stage, behind the band. Let me just say that again. We were on the stage. Slightly off to the side, but within twenty feet of the band. In front of us, 100,000 people boomed and roared like the sea.

And then the Foos came on, and the crowd took off. There’s no other way of describing it. With the first chords of White Limo, the whole Richfield Avenue ground lifted three inches and started jumping. The blast from the sound system was immense, chest-filling, a physical presence that buffeted us like leaves in a storm. We hung onto each other and enjoyed the ride.

The Foo Fighters have history at Reading, dating back to Dave’s time in Nirvana and their legendary first performance at the NME stage that filled it beyond capacity. Since then, The Foo Fighters have always brought their A-Game to the festival. It’s their spiritual home, a fact that Dave was at pains to point out through the set. His first joyous shout of “Honey, I’m home!” set the tone.

There was the feel of a family reunion on Sunday. Dave gave shoutouts to an old sound-recordist friend who was retiring at the end of the night, his daughter and his mum. The crowd sang “Happy Birthday” before rolling a chant of “MRS GROHL” around the site. The scale of warmth and love that was pouring off the crowd was palpable, a sweet taste in the air, and sometimes the band would simply stop and bask in it. At times they seemed close to tears. As was I. I’d never been witness to a blast of raw love on this scale. TLC recorded a short vid that illustrated what I mean more clearly than I can say.

All of which would have been wasted if they hadn’t played out of their skins. The set at Reading 2012 will go down in rock history as one of the greats. I’m not exaggerating. The word “epic” doesn’t begin to cover it. The word “legendary” is small and lacking. This was everything you could wish for in a rock show, with extra whipped cream and a pork pie on top. Sheer, delirious, unashamed excess. Over two and a half hours, they covered all the hits, some rarities, extended breakdowns of classic numbers and even a Pink Floyd cover. It’s a rare band that can pull that off and not look like idiots. The Foo Fighters are that band. They took an iconic track, the opening track, from The Wall, and made it their own. Talk about the warm thrill of confusion. talk about that space-cadet glow.

Which brings us right back to where we started. Backstage, Foo Central, past midnight. Everyone is dazed and grinning. Dom cruises the comestibles, and brings over a cocktail shaker, rum, shnapps and Pepsi. The improvised and deeply unpleasant cocktail that we dub The Backstage Foo is the result. We switch back to beer.

Ritzy of The Joy Formidable appears, and Geoff and I snag a photo and gush about how good they were. She’s happy to chat, digging the easy, cosy feel. Off to one side, The Gaslight Anthem are in a huddle. Patrick, the Black Key’s sturdy, bespectacled drummer bops past. Mark Lanegan’s guitarist, a Johnny Cash lookylikey down to the impeccable sky-high quiff, glowers in a corner. It’s very cool… in fact, bugger me, it’s freezing. Nice as it would be to stay, there’s a warm bed waiting for us back up the hill in Caversham, and the twelve hours on our feet are taking a toll. Slowly, regretfully, we quit the site.

Family is the word that keeps coming to mind when I think about the Foos, and a connection to that family, however arbitrary, is one to be cherished. we had an eye-opening, heart-filling day, bulging with new, strange and wonderful experiences. I don’t expect it to happen again, but it’s got me right back into the festival vibe. We had let the world-class gathering that we are blessed to have on our doorstep slide out of view a bit. That’s a lot less likely to happen now, even if we never get backstage again. See you by the main stage next year!