Charles Purcell's Blog, page 9

The day I had my sweet revenge on the Mosman dog poo bandit

There she was again: the well-heeled woman of a certain age from my neighbourhood, walking her toy poodle. There to let her beast “do its business”. And madam without a plastic bag on her person to pick up the mess. (Or is it madame? I was never sure if it was Madam Butterfly or Madame Butterfly … or even Madama Butterfly?)

Anyway, our Madama Butterfly and her dog had been befouling Mosman for years now and no one had ever called her up on it. Yet we had rules in society … one was that you cleaned up after your pet. If everyone did what she did, we’d have anarchy. The streets of Mosman would resemble Paris, the boulevards festooned with dog merde. Someone had to make a stand. Heroism was on the line, Mr Templar – would I accept the charges?

I popped on a shirt and jeans and raced down to the lawn just as her poodle stopped shaking its leg, a satisfied post-crap look on its tiny face. The haughty madam looked at me in alarm … perhaps almost guiltily. Because she was indeed guilty.

“Hi there,” I began. “I noticed that your dog just crapped on our front lawn. I was wondering if you were going to pick it up.”

She looked down her nose at me in disdain. “I beg your pardon?”

“I mean you’ve been letting your dog soil our grass for years without picking up his business. I was hoping that one day you’d do the neighbourly thing and bring along one of those black plastic bags and collect the crap. You know, like everyone else does.”

“You’ve been watching me?”

“Both of you, actually. Not in a creepy Sting ‘I’ll be watching you’ way, but in a neighbourhood watch way. And I have to say, it hasn’t been a pretty sight, what with all the lawn defilements. But your poodle has an excuse. I can’t expect little Cujo there to pick up his own mess. That’s your job. So … ummm … next time you come by here, please make sure you’re ready to clean up after Mr Tiddles there.”

“How dare you talk to me like that!” she gasped, taking a step back.

“Hey, lady, how would you feel if I came and took a crap on your front lawn? I can’t imagine you’d be too pleased. I’m sure the rest of the people in my block don’t appreciate you treating our nature strip as a public toilet.”

Alarmed, the dog owner started walking away. I followed her slowly as she led the poodle up the street. “I hate bringing this up as much as you do having to hear it. I didn’t wake up this morning and decide to play the role of dog faeces enforcer.”

“Get away from me!” She walked away quicker, dragging little Cujo on his leash.

“Sure, I’ll give you and your pet your space. Just remember our little talk. Or who knows what might happen to your own lawn.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” But of course she really didn’t know me at all. If I’d posed nude in an art class, worked as a Santa at a shopping mall, tried to marry a sex doll and completed any number of daring and foolish tasks in the name of journalism, a bit of DIY lawn brownscaping wasn’t beyond me.

Let’s hope it wouldn’t come down to that.

Awkward neighbourhood encounter aside, the other big business of the day was a night-time story shadowing a young rogue who worked for one of the big music promoters, affixing posters around the Sydney CBD at night. He’d contacted me and said it might be an interesting story to see the promotional aspects of the music industry. No doubt his boss had put him up to it. Curious, I’d said yes. I’d always marvelled at those posters everywhere and wondered about the tireless souls who glued them up.

Anyway, after that had wrapped up, I’d enjoyed a few cleansing Strongbows with the lads.

Then I staggered out of the pub at 2am in search of a taxi … and maybe a kebab. My journey took me down a darkened cul-de-sac off George Street. A rather large, nattily dressed, fair-haired white dude hove into view. I went to move past as I listened to my iPod. He moved to block me.

“You’re in my way,” I said as I came to a halt, removing the headphones.

“Not really – this is my profession,” the stranger intoned.

“Getting in the way of slightly inebriated townsfolk?”

“Nah. Mugging people.” He flexed his fists, which resembled hammers. As Scoobie-Doo might say: “Ruh-oh.” I clutched my satchel possessively as I felt a frisson of fear. But also curiosity.

“You’re … mugging me? I thought they didn’t have inner-city muggings any more.”

“No one told me.” He didn’t appear drunk, so maybe he really was a mugger and not one of those binge-drinking steroidal assholes who cruised the city late at night looking for teenagers to king hit. He reached towards me with a meaty hand. “Now hand over the iPod.” I paused. Flight or fight, I asked myself. The mugger professionally eyed me over. “Don’t mess around. I can tell what you’re thinking. You’re a big man, but you’re out of shape, and this is my job.”

“A Get Carter reference. Well done, sir.” A significant part of me was alarmed by this encounter. Yet another part of my mind thought it might make a great story. That’s journalists for you: they’re ready to turn any personal calamity into a front-page story. I handed over the iPod. Rather than immediately pocket it, he scrolled through my song selection. I watched him scroll for a few seconds.

“What’s all this eighties crap you’ve got on it?”

I felt strangely offended. First he was mugging me, then he was criticising my taste in music. “I like the eighties. The New Romantic period was great.”

“The New Romantic period was balls,” he declared, continuing to scroll.

“I defy anyone not to be moved by Ultravox’s Vienna.”

“Never heard of it. I’m surprised you even have an iPod. You should have a Walkman. Or a collection of eight-track cassettes. Hmm, Nana Mouskouri, Flock of Seagulls … let me just check one final thing … yes, you have 99 Luftballons. I thought so.” The odd interloper stopped scrolling through my list of artists. “That’s it. I’m afraid I can’t take this. Your musical selection is too embarrassing.” He promptly handed the iPod back to me.

“What are you talking about?” I croaked.

“They call me the Discerning Mugger. That’s because I’m discerning about the tastes of the people I rob. I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to mug you tonight. Good night. Sorry to bother you.” He turned around to leave.

“Wait! I’m a journalist from the Clarion. I’d be interested in interviewing you.”

The mugger stopped, then turned around. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“No, I’m not. Think about it. It would make a great story. The annals of the Discerning Mugger. Or The Guy Who Mugged Me.” The mugger laughed, joy twinkling around his eyes. He paused, thinking. He was intrigued.

“I don’t know about that. But you just might be weird enough to be worth having a drink with, as long as you don’t bear a grudge about what just almost happened.” He handed me a card. It read “The Discerning Mugger”.

“Nice card.”

“Like the colour? That’s bone.”

“Swanky.”

“Give me a call sometime and we’ll go to the pub and talk about your dubious musical choices.”

“I might just take you up on that.” I looked down at his card again.

“Don’t worry – people think I’m just being ironic and postmodern with that card. They never really believe that I’m a mugger. Anyway, must dash. Those discerning victims won’t mug themselves.”

“Happy hunting DM,” I said to his retreating back. “I’ll be in touch.”

What a strange man.

It had been a full day but not without its rewards. As the taxi drove past the house of the poodle faeces offender I had a sudden idea. Perhaps it was time for justice after all. And I did need to go to the bathroom somewhat urgently.

“Mate, let me off here,” I said to the driver. Once on the street I crept up to the middle of the lawn and eased down my trousers. Yes – it was time for revenge, for all the times Madam Mosman and her poodle had befouled the lawns of the neighbourhood. I grunted as the noble path of justice took its majestic course.

If you woke up early enough in the morning, had your window open and your ear cocked at the right location, you could just about hear it: “Nooooooooo!”

 

Musings at the Melbourne Cup

I discover to my surprise that I’m the youngest person at the RSL.

These people are so old they’re still buying newspapers.

Which makes me wonder – if only there was some way of “monetising” RSLs online like newspapers.

A brainwave hits me: maybe they should sell newspapers in RSLs?

I congratulate myself on just having saved the newspaper industry.

I choose my horses according to the time-honoured way – by name.

Did I ever tell you about the time I almost put $50 on Oxford Prince to win and it won at like 200 to 1?

It’s like the time I almost invented Post-It notes, except that I forgot that when you make glue first you need to thermoset your resin and then after it cools you have to mix in an epoxide, which is really just a fancy-schmancy name for any simple oxygenated adhesive … and then you raise the viscosity by adding a complex glucose derivative during the emulsification process.

I order the first of several Strongbow Ciders.

Did I ever tell you that I drank cider 20 years before everyone else suddenly did?

You’ve heard that story already?

Pipe down, Judgey McJudge.

There is a bowl of nuts at the table.

Just how many different types of urine from unwashed hands do I want to sample today, I wonder.

The correct answer is none.

I am served my chicken schnitzel.

I tell the waiter that the pepper grinder isn’t big enough and ask for a bigger one.

Only one person will get this joke.

I think it’s unfair that horses aren’t given a representative at the Melbourne Cup.

They should have a spokesperson to speak for them at the podium.

And that spokesperson should be a horse.

And someone should be there to translate their horse words for them.

I may have possibly had too many ciders at this point.

Dami Im sings The Power Of The Dream.

She has an amazing voice – but there is something about the lyrics, the idea that with the power of belief that anything is possible, that bugs me.

In particular these lyrics annoy me: “It’s the moment that you think you can’t/You’ll discover that you can.”

For example, you can’t suddenly afford a house in Sydney just because you BELIEVE you can.

I start rewriting the song as “The Power Of Inheritence”.

“You’ll find your fate is all your own creation/

As long as you have a wealthy relation,” I sing in my head.

I wonder how many jockeys have been held by their ankles over hotel balconies the day before the big race.

An urban myth, surely?

Dami Im returns to sing Advance Australia Fair.

Did you know that this song was chosen as our national anthem by plebiscite in 1977?

I presume it also cost $160 million in 1977 dollars to hold the plebiscite.

“Boom!” I think. “Cutting-edge satirical humour!”

I cheer on my outsider Japanese horse until it becomes clear that it won’t win. Once again my foolproof scheme of betting has failed.

I suspect tonight that more than one jockey knows he’ll be allegedly spending the evening being dangled over a hotel rooftop by his ankles.

I still around for the speeches afterwards.

There are too many humans talking.

It eventually becomes clear that there will be no horse spokesman – or horse translator – to speak for the horses.

Disgusted by this speciest behavior, I leave.

At the doorway, I leave a tiny origami unicorn.

“It’s too bad she won’t live!” I shout. “But then again who does?”

Only one person will get this joke, too.

My ebook military thriller The Spartan is out now on Amazon.

How to bake a redundancy cake

First, decide whether it is a voluntary or involuntary cake: for involuntary redundancy you need more sugar to disguise the bile.

Mix together flour and eggs in a large bowl. Add chocolate or vanilla essence according to the style and taste of cake required.

Add two cups of sugared words to hide the taste of the mandatory cup of HR bullshit.

Stir and then bake in the oven for however long the redundancy round is open.

Serve cold, like revenge – or when management has the numbers.

Add lots of garnish (i.e. cash) to make it go down sweeter.(In the case of mandatory redundancy, add gin.)

Serve in one cake or lump sum payment to the bank to be consumed as necessary.

And don’t forget to save the recipe … because you’ll be going back to it every two years.

From my unpublished book, The Last Newspaper On Earth.

New satire: the day Cate Blanchett introduced mixed-martial arts into the Sydney Theatre Company

I’d agreed to meet Cate Blanchett at the Sydney Theatre Company’s HQ in the Rocks.

She had promised me that the STC was about to take a bold new direction based on new trends in theatre.

Intrigued, I told her I’d meet her there with my note pad.

“Bring a mouth guard too,” she quipped intriguingly in that Oscar-winning voice.

I grabbed my tape recorder (and said mouth guard) and arrived five minutes fashionably late at the STC.

The site that beheld me was incredible.

The main stage of the Sydney Theatre Company – home to Chekhov, Shakespeare and god knew how many Michael Gow productions (I still have the psychic scars from my HSC days) – had been demolished.

In its place was a giant fighting cage.

And in the middle of that, dressed like a prize fighter, was none other than Cate Blanchett.

“Get up here,” she rasped.

I nervously entered the cage and offered her my hand. Instead, she punched me firmly in the breadbasket.

“You’re late,” she said.

“Oof,” I quipped , winded.

Had Cate Blanchett, winner of two Academy Awards, just struck me?

And did this have anything to do with why she had summoned me here? Or did the Carol star simply want to beat on some journalists today, which was a very laudable and understandable impulse?

As I regained my bearings, Hugo Weaving, naked from the waist up, stepped into the ring.

“I suppose you’re wondering why we’ve replaced the stage with an MMA octagon,” Cate said, eyes blazing with determination.

“I was wondering that,” I managed to reply.

“Me too,” chuckled The Matrix star beside me. “Everyone’s talking about it. The phone are running hot.”

In a flash, Blanchett knocked Weaving out cold. She was a hell of a southpaw. Either that, or Weaving had a glass jaw.

Two minions quickly entered the ring and dragged Weaving away.

“Bring me another actor,” barked Blanchett, bobbing and weaving on the spot.

Then she turned back to me.

“I suppose you’ve seen the new Sydney Festival program,” she said, her voice a delightful blend of Sydney drawl and New York insouciance.

“No,” I said.

Her gloved fists came at me again, pummeling me in the stomach.

“Ooof!” I cried.

“Call yourself a theatre critic!”

“Actually, I don’t,” I wheezed.

I was rewarded with another strike to the belly for my philistinism.

“Arghh!” I said, having said “ooof” twice already.

“Anyway, their new show Prize Fighter will apparently feature live boxing along with incendiary storytelling. That got me to thinking,” she said, rubbing her glove comically against her temple to emphasise the act of thought, “sometimes just showing Hamlet or Macbeth by themselves just isn’t enough.

“In this world of divided attentions, where people play with their iPhones at the same time that they watch Pinter, audiences just aren’t content with watching one thing.”

I quickly stopped tapping on my iPhone as Blanchett went on. “They need more. They need live spectacle. They need …”

“Live boxing?” I offered.

Enraged, Blanchett hurled me against the ropes. Her delicate foot that had tread the hallowed boards of Broadway found my face.

I crumpled like a poorly composed street newspaper theatre review.

“NO, NO! Not live boxing! Then it would look like we’re just copying the Sydney Festival. No … what we will have will be live mixed-martial arts with each show. MMA is far more popular than boxing, anyway.”

“But will our audiences take to mixed-martial arts while they’re watching The Wharf Revue, for example?” asked a greased-up Richard Roxburgh, who had somehow snuck into the ring. “Are they ready for it?”

In reply, she kicked Roxburgh in the head. The Rake star kissed the floor. His mouth guard gently exited his mouth.

I took the chance to quickly insert mine.

“That’s the problem fighting people who haven’t won Oscars,” she said as her minions removed his limp torso. “No stamina.”

“Anyway, I’m thinking of introducing the concept into our latest show, Speed-The-Plow. I’ll do the fighting while Rose Byrne can do the acting.”

My heart leapt. The chance to see Cate Blanchett on stage! It was the white whale of all Sydney theatre, the one show everyone wanted to catch.

Dare I ask her for some “review” tickets?

“Mamet goes with mixed-martial arts, don’t you think? All that quick-fire, brutal dialogue. ‘Coffee is for closers.’ Bam!” she said, punching the air. “‘My watch costs more than your car.’ Bam!”

Cate paused. “Mmm … where is Rose anyway?”

“She’s out,” replied National Treasure Noah Taylor from beside me. Cate responded by kneeing him in the balls. He waddled out of the ring like a comical crab, trying futilely to steal focus away from Cate all the while.

“Shame,” she said. “Rose looks like she’d be a good scrapper.”

“So,” said Cate, turning to me at last, “what do you think?”

I was afraid to talk.

I was afraid NOT to talk.

I was just afraid.

How long could this interview go? How long could I stand up to Cate Blanchett’s MMA fury, a discipline she had clearly studied as hard as any Mamet script?

Fortunately, the Gods Of Theatre smiled upon me.

“No matter how daring your new direction, you’ll never top me, Cate,” said a voice behind me.

We both turned.

It was none other than David Williamson.

Dressed in the garb of a mixed-martial arts fighter.

And he was blazing with the strength of dozens of successful productions.

“I am Australia’s favourite playwright, Cate,” boomed Williamson. “If there should be any radical new direction in Sydney theatre, it should come from me!”

He began bobbing and weaving. At some two-metres tall, his reach was incredible. He was clearly born to the brand-new genre of theatre-luvvie-slash-MMA fighter.

“I’ve wanted this for so long – ever since I studied The Removalist in high school,” Cate said, suddenly bobbing and weaving in turn. “Now come at me!”

The immovable dramaturg was about to collide with the unstoppable actress.

This was no fight for mere mortals to witness.

Plus I had 600 words to write.

I left to contemplate this exciting new direction in theatre – and instantly regretted that I hadn’t asked Cate for some front-row tickets to her new show.

My ebook military thriller The Spartan is out now on Amazon.

About last night’s The Walking Dead premiere … aka how to react when a beloved character is killed off

“I feel so numb.”

“I had to call in sick today I’m so traumatised.”

“I’ll never love or trust anyone again.”

“NOOOOOOO!”

The Twittersphere is up in arms over the fate of a certain character in last night’s The Walking Dead.

Not even TWD producer Gregory Nicotero’s warning about how brutal the season 7 premiere was could prepare us for its shocking events.

It was that disturbing. And hundreds of thousands of tweets about it can’t be wrong.

Which raises the question: what do we do when someone whose adventures we have followed for years – devoting precious hours and binge-marathons to – is suddenly killed off?

There is a certain amount of trauma involved when heroes and heroines we’ve invited into our living rooms – and spent many a rainy day or long afternoon getting to know – disappear from our TV screens.

These characters become more than mere pixels on the screen: they become real in a way. At least, the emotions they evoke are real. And we, in turn, become invested in their fates.

We know from long experience not to get too close to any character from The Walking Dead or Game Of Thrones. Go to one Red or Purple Wedding and you know someone is going to cop a crossbow bolt/knife to the throat/poisoned chalice. Sometimes it’s King Joffrey (yay!). And other times it’s Robb and Catelyn Stark (why, George RR, why?).

Still, the heart wants what the heart wants. We can’t help but hope for the best and love them anyway.

So when they end up at the business end of Negan’s bat we still feel all the feels. (Am I being perverse by loving Jeffrey Dean Morgan as Negan – even if I condemn his monstrous cruelty?)

And it’s not like there’s a club for Survivors Of Unexpected Major Character Deaths or anything.

The only therapy we have is venting with our fellow netizens online.

Yet perhaps such emotions are not such a bad thing. When a major character dies, it just goes to show the stakes involved … that this is serious, people. As serious as real life. To believe that fictional characters never die is perhaps to believe in the prolonging of adolescence: to put off the grim realities of adulthood, to believe that Lassie or Skippy or Flipper or the Lone Ranger always arrive in the nick of time to save the day.

If our appetite for the grittier series and boxsets has proved anything, it is that we as an audience are ready and hungry for more adult drama.

All of the top tier shows – The Sopranos, Game Of Thrones, True Blood – feature major character deaths. And we still love them anyway.

To be fair, the writers usually do their best to soften the emotional blow. After all, they’re emotionally invested in the characters, too.

As a fellow writer, I understand how writers can become attached to their creations. In a way, their lives become our lives. We imagine what they say and do, their words and actions coming to us at all hours of the day. They become our friends and confidantes. Fictional characters can sometimes occupy as much headspace as a treasured friend.

And no one wants to kill a treasured friend.

Personally I think the best way to end a TV show that potentially features the death of major characters is to be ambiguous. For example, I love the much-derided ending of The Sopranos. Now I can go back and watch the whole series again, believing that Tony lives at the end.

Then again, I also like to believe Thelma and Louise and Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid survived at the end of their respective movies.

After all, you don’t actually see them die – there’s that little wiggle room in the imagination for other outcomes.

But back to last night’s shocker.

Perhaps George R.R. Martin was right when he wrote “valar morghulis”.

All men must die.

And occasionally major characters must die, too.

And perhaps that’s how it should be in the world of adult drama.

My ebook military thriller The Spartan is out now on Amazon.

The horrors of moving house

Jean-Paul Sartre once said: “Hell is other people.”

But of course what he meant to say was “hell is moving house” – because whether you’re moving into a new house, rental flat or hobbit shack by the beach, the act of sorting, packing, editing, binning, transporting and rearranging all your belongings is a devilish endeavour that should be rarely attempted in one lifetime.

And it doesn’t matter what gender you are: packing your gear and moving stumps is no less than a referendum on your past achievements, hopes and future ambitions, box-sized parcels of dreams held precariously in the hands of clumsy student removalists.

First of course comes the cleaning. It is amazing how much filth one house can contain (surely the claim that dust is actually human skin must be a myth?).

And just where do all those 5c pieces come from? They’re everywhere, breeding like tribbles from Star Trek, getting into the bottom of cabinets, drawers and even shoes.

The spiders in the house immediately arc up once your bring the vacuum cleaner up to their corners on the ceiling: “What are you doing? I come in peace, human. I mean you no harm. I … I … argh!”

Like counting tree rings or carbon dating peasants found in peat bogs, you can measure the time line of your own archaeological dig by the detritus you find on the ground.

If you find old K-Tel products (such as the classic album, Difficult To Strip To Hits), a slinky, a fondue pot, a Rubik’s cube or a shoulder pad, you truly are a long-term couple. Chocolate bars gone out of fashion (Texan Bar, Space Food Sticks or Scorched Peanut Bar) similarly mark your progress.

Perhaps you’ll find a Tang label affixed to the kitchen floor and crushed can of Tab behind the fridge. Maybe a tribble trapped in the washing machine. Old TV guides with Big Brother circled and later crossed out mark your evolving taste in entertainment. You could even find an old tape with Austen Tayshus performing Australiana and wonder how you ever found it amusing.

But the real test of the relationship is deciding what, to paraphrase Elaine from  Seinfeld, is “packworthy”. Here you might find your opinions differ wildly from your partner.

You might think that giant stone mortar and pestle is a waste of space, but your wife insists on keeping in just in case the in-laws visit and want some specially ground black pepper … perhaps followed by an after-dinner board game of Risk given to you as a Christmas present (and gathering dust untouched in the bottom of a cupboard for years).

But you can’t object too much, because you have to argue about the merits of keeping that giant pig club from your trip to Vanuatu, the Wii console you never opened but suddenly can’t bear to part with, the croquet set you never used or the leather pants from four sizes and two decades ago that you still dream of fitting into. (Menfolk, it is pointless arguing that you only need one set of dishes: every well-breed person knows that you need both your daily dishes and the good china, just in case the Queen decides to visit.)

Once most of the grunt work is done, the vacuuming is complete (destroying civilisations of bacteria mere generations away from becoming sentient), the packing boxes purchased and the essential items packed away, the nostalgia phase sets in.

One of you will inevitably find an old photo album. You’ll sit down and cast your mind back to your youth. Didn’t you look so glowing and optimistic back then, despite the hint of teenage acne, King Gee boots and bad ’80s hair? What would your younger self think of you now, your achievements, your progress in life?

Would they pat you on the back and say, “Well done, sir/madam”? Or would they regard you like one of those unhealthier doubles from those creepy health care ads and wonder, “What the fuck happened to you, man?”

Perhaps it doesn’t matter. Here is your chance to edit your life according to your new beginning. You have a chance to keep the memories you want and the objects that reflect them. The bins will fill up and new life will spring up in the freed-up spaces. You will have room to conjure new memories together.

Just remember to keep enough tokens of your best youthful dreams. And choose your battles over space wisely. Because maybe keeping that lifesized Bruce Lee statue or pair of jousting sticks in the living room is a battle best lost.

And no relationship is worth jeopardising over those old K-Tel records.

My ebook military thriller, The Spartan, is out now on Amazon.

Ten guaranteed ice breakers for any interview

In my 20-plus years as a journalist, I have collected a selection of questions and techniques that more often than not deliver gold for the interviewer.

Here I share them with you.

“If you weren’t a director/actor/iconic children’s mime, what would you be?”

This hypothetical always brings a smile to an interviewee’s face (unless it’s a phoner, in which case you’ll have to imagine the smile).

Even the famous dream of the path not taken. I made Woody Allen laugh – a career highlight – with this question. FYI: he thought he’d make a good messenger.

“Why are you a director/actor/iconic children’s mime?”

A good journalist friend gave me this one. It’s amazing how many interviewers fail to ask this basic and obvious question.

Most of the greats are driven by a singular obsession: painters who have to paint, dancers who have to dance, singers who have to sing, children’s mimes who have to make balloon animals for ungrateful brats for $20 a hour.

“What are you up to right now? Where are you?”

Some stars will state the obvious: “I’m sitting in my lounge, talking to you, a journalist from Owl Fancier’s Monthly.”

Or they might, in the case of when I interviewed David Duchovny, tell you that they’re on the phone at the intersection of Montana and 11th Street at Santa Monica in Los Angeles: “I’ve just given you these co-ordinates in case you want to send a missile.”

“Why are you lying to me?”

Got the balls of a brass monkey and the hide of a rhino? Maybe you should go to the doctor and get that checked out.

But if you do have the balls of a brass monkey and the hide of a rhino, this approach could work for you.

”I reject your hypothesis.”

One of the 10 interview subjects you will meet in Heaven (or maybe Hell, considering that you are a hack) is the word miser. The word miser never uses 100 words when five will do.

They’re not necessarily rude – just economical with their language.

You can loosen them up by suddenly pronouncing “I reject your hypothesis”. Keep repeating it like John Malkovich saying “it’s beyond my control” in Dangerous Liaisons and soon you won’t be able to shut them up, desperate as they will be to discover which hypotheses you are rejecting.

“I read that it was a gruelling shoot.”

It is a badge of honour for actors to describe their shoots as gruelling. Most weren’t exactly gruelling as they are long, the stars spending 12-hour days on set before shuffling back to their luxury caravans. They aren’t squatting in the jungle waiting for the Vietcong to take a pot shot at them or having heart attacks on set like Martin Sheen in Apocalypse Now.

Still, this approach occasionally delivers a good anecdote.

Prop comedy

Wearing a pirate’s eye patch to an interview lends an unmistakable air of mystery and is bound to be a conversation starter.

If it’s a phoner, simply tell them to imagine you’re wearing a pirate’s eye patch

“What makes you happy?”

Simple, yes. Obvious, yes. But it occasionally delivers gold – and can lead to deeper discussions about life, the universe and everything.

Here’s Woody Allen again when I spoke to him, discussing the role of “distractions” to ward off thinking about death.

“It’s like what Auden said about death being the distant sound of thunder at a picnic: that’s what [life] is, you’re at a picnic but there’s a distant sound of thunder. You know some day you’re going to die. Your loved ones will die. It’s not a nice thought. If you can get lost in the distractions, it’s great, but if you’re one of the people who can’t . . . you’ve got to find some way of coping with reality without denial.”

Platinum-level copy.

The gold-delivering segue: i.e. “You said you spent the last 20 years sitting in a room, taking crack and watching the Alien films: which was your favourite film?”

Former ’80s star Marilyn admitted as much in a fantastic recent interview.

There is always an opportunity in any interview to steer its course towards a great line of questioning. The trick is to recognise it when it comes.

In this case, the interviewer failed the ask the obvious question: what was Marilyn’s favourite Alien film?

Because anything other than the first and second one would be sheer madness.

The “tortoise” hypothetical from Blade Runner

Basically, this is used to discover whether the person sitting opposite is a real person or a replicant incapable of empathy.

It’s amazing how many Hollywood types fail this question.

My ebook military thriller The Spartan is out now on Amazon.

Top 10 things you should be doing on International Talk Like A Pirate Day

Saying “arr”.
Thinking of puns involving saying “arrr”.
Saying “me hearties”.
Saying “arr, me hearties”.
Wenching (or, if you’re a female pirate, “menching”).
Pirates Of The Caribbean/Black Sails marathons.
Learning your pirate history. What was the Golden Age of Piracy? Why was Sir Francis Drake considered the “Queen’s Pirate”? Why were pirates early examples of democratic capitalism? Where did the modern pirate accent originate from?
Driving while wearing an eye patch as a talking parrot screeches on your shoulder.
Debating the ultimate question … Who would win in a fight, pirates or ninjas?
Rum shots.

My ebook military thriller The Spartan is out now on Amazon.

My experience bingewatching the entire first season of Mr. Robot

9am: Meet Elliot Alderson: vigilante hacker extraordinaire. He’s the perfect hero for our times: anxious, nervy, clever, fully aware that the system is rigged against him. I like him already.

9.07am: He’s using his awesome hacking skills to take down a coffee shop owner. Too bad it’s for something sleazy and not for the terrible coffee they serve in those big chains (next time I go into one I’m going to say my name is like one of those gigantic titles from Game Of Thrones, like “Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons”).

9.25am: Wow, Elliot’s crying in his apartment. We’ve all been there. I wish I could give him a big hug.

9.30am: I love how Elliot talks straight to the camera. It feels like he’s talking straight to ME!

10.10am: Dude greets Elliot by saying “bonsoir”. How classy is that? You just know anyone who speaks French can’t be a villain.

10.30am: Treat myself to an Iced Vo Vo. I feel like I deserve it. Plus no one eats Iced Vo Vos any more (why is that?).

10.45am: Elliot has a bestie called Mr Robot, kind of a sketchy older dude played by Christian Slater (loved him in Heathers). Wait … what? Did Mr Robot really just do that? Spit out Ice Vo Vo crumbs across the floor.

11am: Back to Elliot and his hacker collective, F Society (wonder what the “F” stands for). They want to launch the hack from hell against E Corp … or, as Elliot likes to call them, “Evil Corp”. Hack the evil corporation, save the world … kind of like Heroes with “save the cheerleader, save the world”. Only there’s no cheerleaders here … just more socially maladjusted hackers.

11.15am: So Elliot’s got a whole “will they or won’t they” thing going on with his friend Angela. Kind of like Sam and Diane from that other bingeworthy series, Cheers.

11.30am: Tyrell’s wife is kind of hot. I keep that thought to myself and don’t tell my wife on the opposite couch.

11.45am: Turns out people who speak French CAN be villains.

12am: Do I really have to go to the bathroom? I guess so. But it’s a good sign to how addictive Mr. Robot is that I’ve held out this long.

1pm: Lunch. Time to discuss what I’ve seen with my wife. I’m learning new things, such as what the IT phrase “honeypot” means. Maybe I could be a hacker vigilante, too. She doesn’t think so. Feel offended.

2pm: My buttocks are slightly sore from sitting rigid in the same spot for so long due to the excitement. I have a hard life.

2.30pm: Elliot is starting to get paranoid. His paranoia is infectious … I glance over my shoulder to see my wife looking at ME. Maybe she senses that I find Tyrell’s wife hot. She knows these things.

2.35pm: Don’t want to give too much away, but the following hours include hacks, beatings, shootings, Dark Armies, darker deeds … and even murder.

4pm: The big reveal. I did not see THAT coming. Kind of like the big reveal from The Empire Strikes Back. I’m still getting over that one.

4.15pm: My bladder complains. Maybe TV shows should be rated by how long you hold off going to the bathroom while watching them … the implication being the longer the hold-off the better the show. Maybe shows should be ranked between 1-5 Bladders. In that case, Mr. Robot is definitely 5 Bladders.

4.16pm: Reluctantly answer the call of nature.

4.30pm: There are two tragedies in life … not getting what you want AND getting what you want.

Spoiler alert: Elliot gets one of these.

But me and my wife definitely got what we wanted: hours and hours of quality viewing courtesy of one of the best new series on TV.

My ebook military thriller The Spartan is out now on Amazon.

Why Ryan Reynolds is the most likeable man in Hollywood

I interviewed the most likeable man in Hollywood once.

His name? A Young Ryan Reynolds.

Actually, his name was just Ryan Reynolds, but he was indisputably young. His youthful good looks were on display as I sat with him, his co-star Jessica Biel, a cameraman, a PR woman and what seemed like five other people in a hotel room in Sydney in 2004.

We were there to talk about their new action movie, Blade: Trinity, and we’d begun the interview by discussing someone who was making a reputation for himself for not being particularly likeable, or at least for being “difficult” – the movie’s star, Wesley Snipes.

Jessica Biel – aka the future Mrs Justin Timberlake  –  was also an actress on the rise, gaining fame for her role in drama 7th Heaven.

Yet it was Reynolds who had most fascinated me that day. His charisma on screen was undeniable. It was also undeniable meeting him in person. He answered my questions with agreeable wit and good humour, even the one about then-girlfriend Alanis Morissette.

I didn’t know much about him, but even back in 2004 his name had been mentioned in connection with playing Marvel anti-hero Deadpool (remember, this was long before capes and costumes began to dominate Hollywood). I told him he’d make an excellent Merc With The Mouth – he had the sly wit, the cheeky, knowing grin and the athleticism that would be perfect for the role – for which he thanked me.

Close to a decade later Reynolds did indeed unveil his Deadpool to critical and box-office acclaim.

To paraphrase Sally Field, it looks like we like Reynolds … we really, really like him.

The subject of Reynolds’s likeability came up this week as I watched the movie Self/less, which starred Reynolds.

“There’s just something really likeable about Reynolds,” my wife said.

And I found I had to agree. I’ve interviewed many Hollywood stars face to face – including Will Ferrell, Robert Downey jnr and Jon Favreau, all likeable and charming chaps – but there’s something about Reynolds that makes him special, a certain je ne sais quoi.

Maybe it’s the fact that he can play a tough guy yet still be in touch with his emotions. Maybe it’s because he can play both action movies and rom-coms with equal aplomb. Maybe it’s because he’s Canadian (and everyone likes Canadians).

Maybe it’s because he’s kept his smooth good looks. Maybe it’s because his physique is perfectly dimensioned between Jesse “not buff enough” Eisenberg and Arnold “condom stuffed with walnuts” Schwarzenegger.

Maybe it’s because he’s both a man’s man – the type of dude you’d like to share a trench with or a drink with down at the pub – and a woman’s man, having dated some of the hottest actresses in Hollywood including Scarlett Johansson and now wife Blake Lively.

But we like him. And his charm has stood the test of time, from Van Wilder: Party Liason to Deadpool.

We even forgive him for Green Lantern.

Perhaps we don’t really need to dissect his appeal. Maybe we should just appreciate his je ne sais quoi for what it is rather than quoting Q Scores and the like.

If I had to name a rival for the title of The Most Likeable Man In Hollywood, it would probably be Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson.

I’ll let you know who wins if I ever get to interview The Rock.

Until then, give us more Reynolds … and bring on Deadpool 2.

My ebook military thriller The Spartan is out now on Amazon.