Charlie Bray's Blog, page 23

6 Dos and Don’ts for Lord Grantham to save Downton

What I don’t get is that when Lord Grantham explained to his wife that he’d blown her entire fortune on some obscure Canadian stock, and Downton Abbey was doomed, she put her arms around him lovingly and told him not to worry.

Now either this emphasises the wide gulf between the ethos of the classes or I, Charlie Bray, have married a wrong ‘un. If I raided her Post Office Savings and placed them on a dead cert at Sandown, I wouldn’t be guaranteed a warm reception if it lost. I’d more likely be searching the yellow pages for testicle implants.

The reasons for this difference in attitude could be the fact that we’re from Barnsley where ‘there’s nowt wrong wi’ right folk’, or that a bookie is not as acceptable as stock broker, or that Lady Cora is an idiot, or that my wife lied when she took me for richer or poorer. Either way, Lord Grantham and his castle are in the doo-doo.

And if you and your stately home are in the doo-doo, all you can do is embark upon a journey of damage limitation and either flog it or save it.

And here I can help. Having written ‘Open House’, the start of a family saga based at the fictitious Cove Castle, which suffered similar difficulties, I racked my brains for many months for ways to save it and its family and staff from extinction. So I now know what works and what ends in disaster. Here we go Lord Grantham, get your notebook out.

Do:

1. Erect an enormous marquee in the grounds and let it out for sundry events such as dog shows. I’ve already got visions of a tall, lithe blond haired bloke mincing at speed whilst parading his Afghan Hound.

2.  Host Ghost Tours. A place as old as Downton is sure to have the odd ghost knocking about. If it doesn’t, hire some from Chillingham Castle in Northumberland, they’ve got scores of them there.

3.  Hold an open day, sit Lord Grantham in a deck chair on the Great Lawn, and let him conduct a surgery where random peasants doff their caps and seek his advice. He could tell them how to be on ‘a promise’ by nicking their wife’s life savings.

4.  Allow a period drama to be filmed at the castle. Choose a day when Downton Abbey is actually being filmed and you’d have the glorious vision of a film crew filming a film crew filming life at a pretend Downton Abbey in a pretend Downton Abbey – or something.

5.  Hold a shoot in the nearby woods and, whilst earning money for the Abbey, arrange for a couple of surplus staff or family to be taken out, thereby cutting down on expenditure. A good way of killing two birds with one stone. See what I did there?

6.  Tap your future son in law up for a few million, and re-assure him he can always get it back by swindling his missus later in Downton’s history.

Don’t:

1.  Grow marijuana in the vegetable plot section of your gardens. It will spoil the balance lovingly created by old Capability himself, and doubtless lead to a police raid and spoil your open day.

2.  Allow activist squatters to occupy the best three staterooms in the house. It will cut the number of rooms available for house tours dramatically.

3.  Allow guests in the house to engage in smuggling. It’ll upset the ghosts.

4.  Pay all your bills by giving away family heirlooms. It leaves horrible gaps on the walls.

5.  Aggravate the general public. They will try to assassinate you.

6.  Throw gargoyles from the roof. It will damage the family Roller.

And how do I know why the Dos work and the Don’ts don’t work?

Because it’s all in the book.

What book? ‘

‘Open House’! Click on the link and buy it. It’s less than a dollar and less than a pound.

Shameless promotion I know, but I really want you to read it.

Go on, have a laugh.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Downton Abbey Cast is Buried in Time

If the family saga that is Downton Abbey were to complete its lifespan up to the present day, a different Downton Abbey cast would clearly be needed for the later years. Characters die, characters are born, and new actors have to step in.

If you fast-forwarded Downton Abbey to the present day, Dan Stevens would not still be playing Matthew Crawley, because Matthew Crawley would be one hundred and twenty. In fact, every one of the characters would be dead and a complete new Downton Abbey cast would be required.

We all know that stately homes throughout the country are not the same now as they were between the wars. They’re still there, the aristocracy is still there, but life within them is not the same as it was ninety years ago.

The irony is that we don’t really know how different it is now. No such drama is set in the present day. Upstairs Downstairs, Downton Abbey, Brideshead Revisited, even Blandings Castle, the Wodehouse epic due to be shown this autumn, are all period dramas.

The third series of Downton Abbey is to be broadcast this week. It is set in 1920 and many people can’t wait for it to start, but I bet there are a lot of people out there who would love to fast forward and see what’s what at Downton in 2012.

Hands up if you’d like to pop into the fictional Downton Abbey this afternoon? Now hands up if you’d like to pop into a real stately home owned by the National Trust or similar organization. I’d put money on more people opting for Downton Abbey.

Why, because we know the family and staff that lived there in the twenties. We knew the Downton Abbey cast then and we’d like to meet the Downton Abbey cast now. We feel a continuing bond with the Grantham-Crawleys.  So, how good a catch up would that be?

“Knew your mum and dad, m’lord. Knew them better than you, probably. Used to be a fly on the wall here, every week for an hour. Would you like to hear about it?”

You never know, Julian Fellowes might well keep the saga going until we reach 2012, but in case he doesn’t, I’ve come up with my own synopsis of life at Downton Abbey in 2012.

**

Lancelot Crawley, Matthew Crawley’s eldest son, is now the 85-year-old patriarch of Downton Abbey. His mother and father both died in 1974. He is married and separated from Hermione, who now lives in France with a French Count. She makes the late Dowager Countess of Grantham seem like a pussycat, and the whole household is in constant fear of her occasional visits.

Lancelot is a bumbling, lovable eccentric, who does not have an awfully tight grip on reality. This is probably the main reason Downton is struggling and expenditure is exceeding income. He has no son and is toying with the idea of buying a Thai bride to act as a ‘breeder’ and provide him with an heir to the dynasty. A problem the Earl of Grantham we know and love solved less dramatically, by finding Matthew Crawley, a cousin of the Granthams, to be his heir. However, he did enjoy a bit of rumpy pumpy. Not with a Thai bride, but with a chambermaid.

Lancelot’s only child, Caroline, a divorcee, has come to Downton’s rescue and seized the reins from Lancelot. Against his wishes, she realizes she has to open the house to the public and explore every possible revenue stream. Caroline has inherited the beauty of her grandmother, Lady Mary Crawley, together with a passion to keep Downton going from her great grandmother, Cora, the Countess of Grantham.

Caroline has two daughters, Athena and Imogen.

Athena, the eldest has inherited the rebellious genes of her great aunt, Lady Sybil Crawley. She has set up an activist commune in woods overlooking Downton and is captivated by a member of staff, who is known by the unlikely name, Hedgehog. This fits perfectly with Sybil’s history, running off with Tom, the family chauffer and I.R.A. supporter. She has an illegitimate son, twelve-year-old Che Guevara, who lives with her in the commune and melts the heart of everyone who meets him.

Imogen is a Cambridge undergraduate who toys with young men’s affections. She is totally uninhibited, copulates with friends in the grounds and follows her friend Prince Harry’s penchant for stripping naked at the drop of a hat. Not quite following her great grandmother Mary’s example of killing a Turk by shagging, but getting there.

Obviously the Downton staff, which we knew and loved, has also passed away, but has been replaced by an interesting, if quite motley crew.

Barnes the butler, Hollybush, the cleaner, Disgusted Freddie, the handyman, Julian the camp chauffer and Mrs Murphy the cook all play their part in keeping Downton ticking.

**

I hope I have whetted your appetite by taking Downton Abbey back to the future.

The bad news is that I cannot see Julian Fellowes commissioning my synopsis and using it for Downton Abbey 2012.

The good news is that I’ve used it instead as the basis of my new novel, Open House, the first of a series of Cove Castle Comedies, set in the present day.

You can follow Lord Lancelot, Lady Hermione, Caroline, Athena, Imogen, Che Guevara, Barnes, Hedgehog, Hollybush, Julian, Mrs Murphy and Disgusted Freddie at Cove Castle. It is always Open House there. Just click on the link and you’re in.

How the British Aristocracy is Making Ends Meet

Open House

Spare a thought for the British aristocracy. Some of them have fallen on really hard times, and are being forced to open their doors to the likes of us. They don’t want to, because the likes of us gawping at their treasures goes quite beyond the pale. But needs must and it is their only way of making ends meet. Do I hear sighs of sympathy. I don’t think I do.

If you heard about a working class family being threatened with eviction, would you afford yourself a smug chuckle? What about a middle class family being forced into hard times and having to accept council accommodation as a straight swap for their mock Tudor dwelling in the suburbs. A bout of raucous laughter? Not really. Not many people would find humour in either of these misfortunes.

My brand new novel, Open House, sees the funny side in a family being threatened with re-possession. But not a working class family. Not a middle class family. Oh, no, that would never do. Oh no, nobody would laugh at that. But a castle, owned by the aristocracy, and forced to lower its drawbridge to the great unwashed? Well that’s a totally different kettle of fish.

So why, I wonder, is it acceptable to laugh at the misfortunes of the British aristocracy?

Well, maybe their share of the country’s land is still a trigger for the peasants’ resentment. More than a third of Britain’s land is still in the hands of a tiny group of aristocrats. 0.6 per cent of the population own 50 per cent of all rural land. Not for nothing have they always been referred to as the landed gentry.

Or maybe it’s because of the disdain shown by many aristocrats to the rest of us.

Here are a few aristocratic quotes culled from  Sky Atlantic’s recent documentary on how the British aristocracy is making ends meet.

“It’s much easier to marry into your own bracket.”

“I consider myself in a certain gentrified bracket and I’m happy with that.”

“I’m trotted out like the prize bull at the Highland Show to deal with people like you.”

And my favourite, when asked how he’d feel if he had to move into a small terraced house, one aristocrat instinctively admitted that he’d probably top himself.

There does still seem to be a pretty wide gulf between them and us, despite them having to face reality these days.

I don’t feel too guilty at taking a lighthearted swipe at them in ‘Open House’. They’d probably laugh along too. Trouble is, at 77p, they probably can’t afford it.

It's still tough at the bottom, JK

It’s Still Tough at the bottom J.K.

I am, of course, delighted for dear old J.K. After years of scribing in greasy spoon cafes to save the heating bills at home, followed by a rejection slip pile higher than the Empire State Building, her Harry came good and set out to do the business for her. Decent job he made of it too by all accounts.

Thousands of others have followed the same yellow brick road and never been accepted. Some carry on, like a hamster on its treadmill, until they die, some give up. But I bet they are all delighted for J.K. because, basically, most people are nice.

However, even though we’re basically nice, and I can only speak for Brits here because I’m a Brit, we have this ingrained support for underdogs, as long as they remain underdogs. As soon as an underdog beats the system and becomes an enormous success, and just a tad cocky, in the manner of the one and only Subo from Britain’s Got Talent, a fairly strong dose of envy blows our support out of the water. We’d never admit that though, because, basically, we’re nice people.

Now retired from gainful employment and entering my seventieth year, I quite fancied ‘doing a J.K.Rowling’. The trouble is I’m running out of years and probably do not have a decade or two left in which to wile away my time in Starbucks, write potential blockbusters and painstakingly build a rejection pile the height of the Empire State Building.

So I decided to fast track myself. Save time. Send my Harry into action quicker than hers. Mine wasn’t really a Harry obviously. Even though it would give me a good start, people, even nice people, wouldn’t like it if I named my hero Harry Potter. No, mine’s a castle. Cove Castle. A series of books about, yes, you’ve guessed it, a castle. The fact you’ve guessed it won’t spoil it, it’s not a mystery.

So, learning from J.K.’s mistakes, all I had to do was stay out of greasy spoon cafes and avoid a high pile of rejection slips. Easy.

First thing I did was write the opening book in the series, Open House. You have to do that first, obviously. I gained a distinct advantage over the Harry Potter series, because I wrote it at home.

The second thing was to publish it myself, and thereby avoid rejection slips. So I did that, published it myself on Kindle Direct Publishing, and waited for the gold rush.

Well, I’ll be honest. I didn’t just wait. I joined Twitter, I joined Facebook, I joined Goodreads and set about the dark art of networking. A year or two ago, I never dreamed I’d be doing that. More likely I’d have been dreaming of joining a Bowls Club or booking Saga coach trips.

Anyway, J.K.Rowling, eat your heart out, young lady. Charlie Bray is now in the game.

In week one I’ve sold six books in England (including one to myself and one to my daughter) three in the States, and one in France. That’s double figures already, so I’m clearly on J.K.’s tail. I guess I feel much the same as she felt when those huge queues developed for midnight launches around the world.

And, guess what? Not one rejection slip!

So good luck all you underdogs. J.K. and I are flying high.

It’s Still Tough at the Bottom, J.K.

I am, of course, delighted for dear old JK. After years of scribing in greasy spoon cafes to save the heating bills at home, followed by a rejection slip pile higher than the Empire State Building, her Harry came good and set out to do the business for her. Decent job he made of it too by all accounts.

Thousands of others have followed the same yellow brick road and never been accepted. Some carry on, like a hamster on its treadmill, until they die. Some give up. But I bet they are all delighted for JK because, basically, most people are nice.

However, even though we’re basically nice, and I can only speak for Brits here because I’m a Brit, we have this ingrained support for underdogs, as long as they remain underdogs. As soon as an underdog beats the system and becomes an enormous success, and just a tad cocky, in the manner of the one and only Subo from Britain’s Got Talent, a fairly strong dose of envy blows our support out of the water. We’d never admit that though, because, basically, we’re nice people.

Now retired from gainful employment and entering my seventieth year, I quite fancied ‘doing a JK Rowling’. The trouble is I’m running out of years and probably do not have a decade or two left in which to wile away my time in Starbucks, write potential blockbusters and painstakingly build a rejection pile the height of the Empire State Building.

So I decided to fast track myself. Save time. Send my Harry into action quicker than hers. Mine wasn’t really a Harry obviously. Even though it would give me a good start, people, even nice people, wouldn’t like it if I named my hero Harry Potter. No, mine’s a castle. Cove Castle. A series of books about, yes, you’ve guessed it, a castle. The fact you’ve guessed it won’t spoil it, it’s not a mystery.

Learning from JK’s mistakes, all I had to do was stay out of greasy spoon cafes and avoid a high pile of rejection slips. Easy.

First thing I did was write the opening book in the series, Open House. You have to do that first, obviously. I gained a distinct advantage over the Harry Potter series, because I wrote it at home.

The second thing was to publish it myself, and thereby avoid rejection slips. So I did that, published it myself on Kindle Direct Publishing, and waited for the gold rush.

Well, I’ll be honest. I didn’t just wait. I joined Twitter, I joined Facebook, I joined Goodreads and set about the dark art of networking. A year or two ago, I never dreamed I’d be doing that. More likely I’d have been dreaming of joining a Bowls Club or booking Saga coach trips.

Anyway, JK Rowling, eat your heart out, young lady. Charlie Bray is now in the game.

In week one I’ve sold six books in England (including one to myself and one to my daughter) three in the States, and one in France. That’s double figures already, so I’m clearly on JK’s tail. I guess I feel much the same as she felt when those huge queues developed for midnight launches around the world.

And, guess what? Not one rejection slip!

So keep trying, you underdogs. JK and I are flying high.

Watch Where You Tread

Open House – Charlie Bray’s first novel. Click on image for more info…

My last post called for a rebellion against the snobbery of certain readers, a snobbery which derides any form of humour. ‘They’  believe it to be substandard and bereft of any quality and positively discourage anyone from enjoying such frivolity.

I first suffered at the hands of such a person sixty years ago, when my headmaster refused  to award me a book of my choice for a prize I had won. I wanted an anthology of humorous poetry. He, in the manner of Captain Mainwaring, of Dad’s Army fame, responded with the admonishment, “Stupid Boy!”

Was I tainted for life, did he destroy my blossoming self-confidence, did I relegate the humour genre to the bottom echelons of my reading wish list?

No. I loved it then and I still love it now, and I hope the following poem will go some way to explain why.

Showhome by Liz Atkin

She went on a Tuesday afternoon

to the new estate, built on the

once glorious cowslip meadows

and entered the pristine sanctity

of one of many family showhomes

each with a pretentious name,

she put on the blue plastic overshoes

like elongated shower caps, provided

to prevent her dirt walking in.

A single, middle aged nullipara

who had never gone upstairs to bed

in a life of rented rooms and flats

now shuffles around bedrooms one to four

all double  glazed and white painted wood, 

looks down upon the garden turf square

with standard cherry tree, whose

fallen blossom the new occupants

will be sure to call pink snow,

then, thumbs hooking down under

skirt she squats in the middle

of fitted oatmeal carpet and evacuates

her bowels of three substantial meals

in a warm stinking pile, tapered off

with a triumphant trumpeting note.

This wonderful poem would make a fitting epitaph to my old headmaster, who deprived me of a book full of such wonders.

NEVER BE ASHAMED TO LAUGH

My First Comedy Novel – click for more info…

Sixty years ago I was in whatever the equivalent of Year 4 was in a large council estate primary school, in the fair city of Nottingham. The school was named after the founder of the murderous company that produced the dreaded weed that so many people still enjoy today. In those post-war years there was no stigma attached to being associated with the name John Player, and I, and my mates, were quite comfortable being educated at the John Player Junior Boys School.

I can remember winning a prize there for something and being called in by the headmaster, an elderly Mr Elcombe, to indicate the book I would like to receive as a reward for my endeavours. To this day, I can’t remember what I won a prize for. But I can remember my request and the reaction that it prompted.

I asked for an anthology of humorous poetry, because, even at that age, I enjoyed humorous books. I was told rather forcibly not to be stupid, and because I was clearly incapable of choosing a sensible book for myself, the great Mr Elcombe would choose one for me.

I was duly presented with a rather weird science fiction novel, which I didn’t enjoy, and felt no pride in. The moment had gone.

So here we are now, sixty years on. I now enjoy reading most genres, even science fiction, but, you know what, the genre I still really love is humour. I didn’t feel the need to apologise for that then, and I don’t now.

And, not only do I not feel the need to apologise for it, I intend to celebrate it. Celebrate it by dedicating my blog to funny books from now on. I’ve even changed the title of my blog accordingly. I want this blog to be a meeting place for lovers of funny books. I intend to review and recommend funny books, I’m busy writing funny books, I want you to be able to buy funny books here (I’m currently developing the page), even swap funny books here.

Let’s all shout it out loud,”I LOVE FUNNY BOOKS AND I’M PROUD!”

Mr Elcombe will not be around to witness this rebellion, because he would be about sixty then, and that would make him around one hundred and twenty now. But I still remember you, you Philistine!

How ‘The Other Half’ live

I, and millions of others are well versed on the way the aristocracy used to live. A whole trench of period dramas, together with blockbuster TV series such as ‘Downton Abbey’ and ‘Upstairs Downstairs’ have left us in no doubt as to their privileged life style and the way a whole industry was set up to serve them.

We’ve looked at it seriously, and come the autumn, we will be able to look at it laughingly, when the cosy, humorous world of P.G.Wodehouse is portrayed on the box, featuring how life was at Blandings Castle.

What is much less publicized is how ‘The Other Half’ lives now.

We know that just about all of them have to open their precious world up to lesser mortals.

We know that they don’t have such an iron grip on their staff, most of who are no longer forced to live in their dungeons.

But what we don’t know is how they are coping with the nitty gritty of real life now that they, well a lot of them anyway, are stony broke.

Do they have to pop down to Aldi on their own?

Do they have to drive their own cars, and are they ageing Bentleys or newer Ford Fiestas?

Do they still dress formally for dinner every day and sit in their grand dining rooms?

I’m busily researching the answers to these and many other questions. Not only because I have always been interested in the mystery which tends to surround the nation’s nobs, but also because I am writing a novel, ‘Open House’, which takes a humorous swipe at them. (Please visit my page, ‘Your Cove Castle’ to find out more)

Actually, the more I get to know what makes them tick, the more I love them. Our country would be much less colourful if they all got sick of the endless struggle to maintain their follies and buggered off.

My guess is that most of them will be around for a good few generations yet.

While they’re still here, still managing to be the same as us but different, I’ll just keep digging and reporting back on what I’ve come up with.

If any of you hear anything, please spill the beans and leave a comment.

Keep smiling.

Larger than life

I love old men with long grey hair, sporting a couple of earrings.

Before you  ‘unfollow’ me and snap your laptop shut, hear me out.

What I really love is any form of eccentricity, anything slightly off beam, a tad off centre.

When you drive along any main road, you come across hundreds of jelly moulds driving towards you, so unmemorable that you’re hardly likely to spend time discussing any of them at the water cooler. But come across a gleaming red Morgan and, guess what, it has your attention.

If you’re a footie fan recalling the glorious days, do you reminisce about Ian Storey Moore or Georgie Best. Both as skillful, both from the same era, both from Manchester United, but one of them famous for doing everything you shouldn’t do, and doing it ever so often. Nice one Georgie!

I once saw a little fat man walking around Verona dressed as a bee, for no other reason that he enjoyed walking around Verona dressed as a bee. He made me smile – he was interesting. I couldn’t describe anyone else that had been walking around Verona that afternoon.

Variety is the spice lf life. Some people stick like glue to the archetype, some vary dramatically. Who do you tend to remember? And don’t answer, “The nutters!” They’re not usually nutters, although I do accept the fact that nutters are specially equipped to excel at such activities.

Hooray for the head turners, I say. But they’ve got to be real. Tim Healy plays a transvestite on the sit com ‘Benidorm’, but we all know he’s not really like that – because his estranged wife say so, umm. I met the real thing on a week’s holiday in Rhodes last week, and he was far more interesting. There with his wife, who I should think helped choose his wardrobe, he strutted his stuff around the hotel for seven days. Lovely gear but I’m guessing he didn’t turn on many guys because he was so obviously not a woman. He knew that, we knew that, but he held centre stage all week. He was happy and I suspect most of his captive audience was happy, because he showed them something different. He was on the same return flight as me, now a very normal, grey haired sixty odd year old man, who would easily get lost in a crowd. In a way the guy proves my point perfectly.

Have you also noticed that females are starting to appear with more and more colourful tattoos. Saw one the other day, of ample proportions, who was absolutely covered in them. As a small kid at the fair I used to pay money to go and see the ‘Tattooed Lady.”  I’m now getting it free and it’s just as interesting.

The problem is, we can’t all become eccentrics. If we did, then that would be the norm and it would be the ordinary little grey people that stood out.

There’s probably room for a few more though, so I’m thinking of growing my already grey hair and buying a couple of earrings. Then again, it’s probably more fun watching.

Keep smiling.

Them and Us

Is anyone else enjoying the new series, ‘The Guest Wing’, on Sky Atlantic?

It’s fantastic to watch the nervous interaction between the classes.

One of the aristocrats truly believes that the aristocracy is far more likely to succeed at anything, because their gene’s have been interbred for generations and their choice of partners has been crucial to ensure that these pure strains have not been tainted by underlings. Webbed feet are perhaps a small price to pay for such an advantage

One of the terrace dwellers can’t believe that the lord he is talking to is just like a human being, wears real clothes and everything. Bet he doesn’t use a tin bath in front of an open fire though.

The aristocrat responds by treating us to his belief that two up-two downs are fabulous, he’s always loved them very much, and what really matters anyway is whether or not you’re happy where you live.

This reminded me of a large poster stuck on the back of an eccentric headmaster’s door. It featured a white Rolls Royce in front of a huge stately home, and carried the caption, “I have been rich, I have been poor. Rich is better!

I’m about a month from publishing my first novel, Open House, where the aristocrats have to open their doors to the terrace dwellers. This series is providing me with fabulous little gems to sprinkle on it.

It’s making me laugh writing it, but then again I laugh at most things.

Keep smiling!