Shit My Dog Says

When John Grogan wasn't sure what to write about in his column for the Florida Sun-Sentinel he wrote about his dog Marley and that turned out pretty well for him. So I figured I'd give it a go and share with you the adventures I have dog-sitting my parents' three hounds Grace, Jeanie and Reece for a week.

Day 1: Death & Destruction

Mum warned me that the dogs are accustomed to getting up early as she starts work at 7am. Sure enough, I wake at 5.15am to find Grace staring at me like the girl from Paranormal Activity.  I try to get them to go back to sleep, but fail. At 5.20am I find myself standing in darkness on the lawn pleading with them to pee. I promise them the world if they'll just let me go back to bed.

At some point in this process I fail to notice that one of them has devoured a ball the neighbour's kids have kicked over the fence. I hold the deflated football carcass for a moment, it seems like a kindred spirit. I fling it back over the fence and decide that if asked I will blame it on a rabid fox.


By lunchtime they realise that they're stuck with me for a while and of course this depresses them immediately. So I take them for a walk. Lots of other dog walkers say hello and greet me warmly. I've got just enough energy to grunt in response. Jeanie gets over her depression my rolling in something. Like a scene from CSI, I trudge over to see what the offending item is and decide it's probably a decaying vole.

I decide to bathe Jeanie as a punishment, allowing the other two dogs to watch to increase her embarrassment. Turns out she loves being bathed and wags her tail merrily as I gently sponge off the rodent entrails. It's only Day 1 and the dogs already have the better of me.

Day 2: The Belly of the Whale.

Another 5.15am start. I consider leaving them in a basket outside the local RSPCA centre with a note insisting they be put down. Barely have enough energy to scribble notes for today's diary entry. Whilst I make myself a cup of tea, Jeanie eats my post-it. Forget it.

Day 3: Hurricanine

Decide to embrace the 5.30am start to the day and get lots of writing done. Discover I'm actually very productive before dawn.

After lunch I take the dogs out into the fields opposite our house. We get caught up in high winds, apparently fallout from the hurricane. They're so mystified by the winds they behave beautifully. I even stop to chat to a fellow dog owner with a very nice Dalmatian. I'm starting to get the hang of this.

Day 4: Incisors Incident

An actual disaster has occurred. Grace was attacked today.

Now I should prefix the explanation of what happened by explaining that Gracie has always been my favourite. The folks bought Jeanie and rescued Reece whilst I was living in Bristol. However, I was still at home when we got Gracie. When she was a tiny puppy she got sick and as it was the summer holidays I took charge of nursing her back to health. Ever since she's been my faithful friend, she follows me around and sleeps on my feet under the desk whilst I'm writing.

As a result of my blatant favouritism, I always let Gracie off her lead first when we're out walking. Which is exactly what I did today walking them with Max. She merrily runs off into the field and seconds later we hear a terribly cry. We run over and see a huge Alsatian has her pinned down and is biting her, his owner half a mile away. Luckily Gracie manages to break free and runs behind me, Max manages to put himself between us and The Beast until the owner finally gets to us and puts the length of chain that he uses as a lead around its neck. Grace is shaking as we check her for injuries, but don't see anything.

The owner of The Beast mumbles a "sorry" and wanders off. I see little Gracie shaking and get into what Max refers to as 'Page Rage'. I run after him screaming that he shouldn't have such a dangerous dog off the lead and I even take his photo threatening to report him to the police if I see him again with The Beast running loose. We spend the whole walk debriefing what happened and scrutinising Gracie for injuries. She seems fine, we're the only ones in shock.

We get home and I check her thoroughly and...oh God, there's two puncture marks on her back from The Beast's teeth. I spend an hour googling Dog First Aid and consulting Vets' advice. We bathe the wounds and have to monitor her carefully for the next few days to check for any sign of infection. As I'm writing now she's sat on my feet under the desk, she seems to be ok.

That night Max breaks his own rule and suggests that Gracie sleeps at the end of our bed.

Day 5: Rest & Recovery

After all the drama of yesterday the dogs sleep in until the gloriously late time of 6.30am.

Max is off work today and so as a treat we take them to Bradgate Park. We have a picnic in the hills, watching the newborn fawns in the deer herd hopping about, yesterday's problems seem like a distant memory. Reece makes friends with a peacock, Jeanie rolls in a stagnant ditch and Gracie learns about the history of the ill fortuned Lady Jane Grey's life. Everybody's happy.

Day 6: Rock & Roll


Reece found a really nice rock today in a stream. (He asked me to mention it). He also broke wind so violently whilst watch the X-Factor he scared himself and made Tulisa start crying, a lot.

Day 7: Goodbyes

I woke THEM up today at 5.45am to watch the England match. They were horrified.

Max and I are off to join my folks in Spain tomorrow so today is our last day dog-sitting before my Grandma (and fiancé) take over the duties.

Their little faces drop as they see the suitcases in the hall.

Took them for an extra long walk, merrily chatting to other dog walkers. I'm going to miss this life as a country lady.
 
We'll be sad to leave them, but have learnt much about life this week and not just what the inside of a vole smells like.

I'll take your brain to another dimension. Pay close attention.

My first incident with the third dimension involved a packet of cereal when I was about six years old. Inside the box was a mysterious pair of cardboard spectacles which I cautiously put on. Suddenly there was Captain Rik, the greatest (and only) cereal based superhero flying towards me in all the glory that three whole dimensions afford.  After this there were sadly few notable forays away from 2D. In the nineties 2D was very in vogue, like the Spice Girls and casual racism. 

And then, the noughties brought us Avatar. Which, along with everyone else on the planet, I went to see in 3D. Not just that, I went to see it at the IMAX. I collected my special glasses, not caring that the whole lot of us looked like the love-child of Elton John and a house fly. Suddenly it was as if I was six again- and this time not only was the screen in 3D, but it was the size of my parents’ house. Did I notice the film had no discernable plot whatsoever and included such gems of dialogue as “Shut your pie hole” and "You mating with this woman"? Sure. But I was immersed in Pandora nonetheless. 

Almost overnight it seemed everything was in 3D. Alice in Wonderland was next, then Toy Story 3 had grown men weeping through their special glasses and soon there was hoards of Harry Potter fans queuing up to see their favourite wizard flying towards them like Captain Rik. The next wave of blockbusters all threaten 3D and there's a rumour that George Lucas plans to re-master all the Star Wars movies (sacrilege!). I started to feel sorry for those films in regular 2D trying to catch filmgoers attentions. 3D is like that girl at school who developed breasts first. How could the flatter films ever hope to compete?

Not all genres of film suit 3D in the same way as Action & Adventure. My Bloody Valentine seemed to prove that horror fans enjoy the blood and gore soaring straight at them. But as many women have said before me: What of Romance? And it's doing nothing for period films. I’m going to get more out of Pride & Prejudice if the bonnets are popping out at me. And dear lord, I fear the day when guys can steam up their special glasses to 3D porn.

 

Just as I was pondering the thought of where the power of 3D ends I saw a poster for a new show at Madame Tussauds which ambitiously promises to be 4D. Yes, the FOURTH dimension. Now I loosely understand that 4D involves vectors of time and space and I’m pretty confident that they are unlikely to recreate this. Unless the wax works and I somehow travel through time I’m fairly sure it’s still just 3D and lots of hype. 

Nope, Madame Tussauds aside, the third dimension is where all the fun is happening. And to those two-dimensional dissenters I shall quote the words of that great master of 3D, James Cameron: Shut your pie hole.

Reality Bites

I mourned the passing of Big Brother with the same emotional level as I might mourn the passing of one of David Cameron's turds. Yet like an irritating phoenix from some very depressing flames Channel 5 have decided to resurrect it. Whether you like it or not, television has gone reality mad once more and now it has spawned the new craze of 'scripted reality TV' that I like to call The Only Way is Chelsea Shore.

And I have a confession to make. I'm into it. It's the TV equivalent of masturbating, it's entertaining but you feel a bit guilty doing it, don't want to let your partner know how much you enjoy it unless they're happy to join in and would be mortified if your Mum saw you at it. In my defense, when you live next to a field and you're supposed to be writing a play anything will distract you.

At least I'm not alone in my shame. Our fair Nation has a fondness for scripted reality as evidenced by The Only Way is Essex recently winning the People's Choice Award at the BAFTAs. The media onlookers slack jawed as the fake tanned creatures tottered up to collect their award pushing past the apoplectic team behind Downton Abbey who were probably already on their way up to the stage. Having missed out for Sherlock Martin Freeman doesn't even attempt to hide his distain.

As a writer I've always previously hated this type of TV primarily as it makes the screenwriter redundant. I'm sure it's not much fun for the rest of the professionals either. Spare a thought for the cameraman on Made in Chelsea who has to sit in a shoe shop on the Kings Road for eighteen hours filming Sloane Rangers contemplating what Spencer is thinking (not much yah). Or for the editor working on Geordie Shore: "Did you want the shot of her throwing up in the toilet as a two shot with her friend holding her hair or a close up on the putrid spew itself?".

So friends, if you've never watched these shows then well done you'll live a long and happy life. And if you have then it's probably too late for you and you'll be stuck until the series is over. It is a terrible addiction, far less exciting than drugs and alcohol and you won't even get to meet anyone famous in rehab. You're in good company; MTV has completely succumbed to the trend. Ironic really that the 'M' stands for Music yet there's no time for a single note between the teen moms and following the Kardashian Klan devastate various cities.

The only positive thing I can see is that the 'stars' of banal reality TV are willing victims of having their privacy intruded upon. Perhaps the public will be so busy watching them that actual celebrities' personal lives may be given a brief hiatus from the media focus.

Take a deep breath Ryan Giggs...

Sienna Miller pick up your phone and call whoever the fuck you like.... we're too busy watching some big fat gypsy get married.

The Gap Year

When I started at Bristol University in 2003 you could spot the students who had been on a gap year from fifty paces. It was a typically drizzly autumn and yet they were all tanned, constantly wore flip flops and their chests were festooned with beaded necklaces (particularly the boys). If you ever found yourself next to one in the Wills Hall common room they'd tell you about how they smoked weed in New Zealand prior to saving a baby panda in Mongolia before finally finding themselves in Vietnam. If you haven't already seen it (and you should have) this superb sketch Gap Yah from The Unexpected Items is an accurate summation of the type.

 

The Gap Year is usually slotted in before university (and paid for by your parents) or right after University (paid for by a bank). I had gone straight from school to Bristol, then I went straight to London where I worked part-time in two theatres whilst doing a Masters, then immediately into full-time work and I never even considered a year out....until now.

Yes, slightly later than is the fashion, I am taking a Gap Year.

This idea first came about when my Dad inherited a house in Leicester. Knowing I was fed-up of the 9to5 lifestyle, catching colds off weary commuters and the fact that my landlord had just bought his third car (a Porsche) whilst I struggled to pay the rent each month; he offered for Max and I to live in this lovely house rent free before he put it on the market. And I kid you not, we decided to go for it.

And so this very weekend we will be packing up everything we've accumulated over the two years in our flat, getting in a very large moving van and escaping to the country.

But what does the future hold for me now I'll be swapping the Big Smoke for Evington Village? Truth be told, I'm not sure. I'm working part time for a new writing theatre company and I know I'll be writing myself a lot more. Definitely promoting my sitcom (watch the trailer here) and writing a play whilst completing the Royal Court's Young Writers' Programme. And when I'm not doing any of those things I'll be pottering in our new garden or wandering over the fields at the end of our drive.

Of course Max and I will also be saving up for the compulsory travelling. Although I'm not sure about finding myself in Vietnam (I watched Apocalypse Now yesterday and I'm not sure it's for me).  But soon enough, I'll be in the Leicester branch of STA discussing my gap year plan with some tanned graduate in flip flops and a beaded necklace.

I'll let you know how I get on. Like, totally. Yah?

Nickers Teaser Trailer

Dial M for Movie

Detective dramas are like crack to my mother. As a result of this I must have watched a zillion episodes of Midsomer Murders, Frost, Morse, Lewis (which is apparently exactly the same series but Morse has snuffed it), Sherlock Holmes, Poirot and a dozen others. My parents' home in Leicester has witnessed more grisly crimes than Libya. My mum and I could work for Scotland Yard, such is the forensic knowledge we have accumulated.

Recently it occurred to me that the British staple of Detective Dramas was ripe for a spoofing, and so I set about writing it. And thus my sitcom Nickers was born.  Nickers is a comedy series that each week spoofs a different detective TV show whilst following our odd couple heroes DI Bobby and Detective Large as they endeavour to catch the villain, get the girl and try to not kill each other in the process. This summer I decided to film a trailer for the show to help gather interest from producers.

I'd never directed a film before and I had absolutely no spare cash to make it with- what could possibly go wrong? Well, I'll tell you......

Getting a fabulous cast on board was actually the easiest part and all our first choice actors were free at around about the same time. And the fates shone on us once more as one of the best cameramen in London was available. After bribing Dan with beer and a curry he was on board too. Easy! Actually the first awkward moment came when sourcing props with my producer and partner in crime Max Davis:

We needed a policeman's hat, uniform, handcuffs and a truncheon so obviously we headed straight to a sex shop in Soho. I went up to the counter with some furry handcuffs and enquired if they had any that weren't fluffy. His colleague then took me to see the 'rougher stuff'. What I saw in that room still gives me nightmares and I fled to Ann Summers where I felt safer.

Feeling more comfortable there Max and I went up to the counter and asked for metal handcuffs, the sales woman quickly obliged us. Carried away, Max excitedly unfurled our whole shopping list of props. "We need loads more," he said smiling. The sales woman seemed a bit shocked so Max corrected himself with the slightly misleading, "Oh, it's not for us two, we're making a movie!"



Soon enough we had arms full of pornographic material and we were only missing one prop. But that prop was a big one. A Car. We needed an estate car as it's the top choice of TV coppers and it could also carry around all the filming equipment. But having zero budget meant we got the dodgiest KIA from the dodgiest rental place. I say rental place, it was actually a caravan in a car park. 

Notice the petrol cap held on by, yes, tape....



The KIA, which we nicknamed 'The Beast' was actually held together by selotape. We couldn't flatten the back seats to get the lights in. When we tried we discovered under one of the car seats a mouldy chip and a fake passport. However, by some miracle, it managed to both get us from A to B and take a leading role in the film.

The filming process went swimmingly. Max and Vicky were on hand to assist whenever anything looked like it might go wrong. Max managed to tame The Beast and indeed Vicky had to put out a small oven fire when we were too busy getting a shot and forgot the lasagne for our lunch. 

The cast too were awesome. The filming period was short but also the only few days of 2010 where it was hot. Katherine was hilarious and gorgeous despite the room being at least 40°C. She and Jen had to play it straight whilst surrounded by sex toys. Jen even braved a fight with my neighbour by throwing 'wine' (grape juice so the cast don't get drunk by take 5) over his car and lawn mower.

Roger and Brooks missed the first half of an England World Cup game and bravely ran around in suits and ties in the baking heat leaping over cars and fences whilst dodging dog poos (or not) without a second of complaint. Nadia and Claire gave up a Sunday morning to help out, with Claire spending an hour in the baking sun covered in fake blood under a sheet of tarpaulin with a pair of garden shears stuck in her chest.

All that was left was to edit the footage. In stepped super-cameraman Dan who, it turned out, was also the editor from heaven. And not just because every time Max and I went to see the edit we'd end up drunk as his beautiful girlfriend Aneta plied us with vodka to 'aid' our creative process.

Several months and bottles of booze later....Nickers was born. Now all there is to do is try and get a production company to make it. So watch the film, give it a 'like' and help all those who gave up their time to make Nickers by showing your support.

And who knows, some day, I'll be sitting down with mum to watch my own detective show. Unless Poirot is on and she changes the channel.

See the teaser trailer here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3-HxMomMufg

Want more, the full 8min thrill ride is here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lEW-owe0GlY

Enjoy.

It's definitely not safe to go back into the water....

On the 1^st December news broke of a shark attacking and maiming four tourists in Sharm el-Sheikh. A couple of days later they caught a particularly large oceanic white tip, re-opened the beaches, and two days later another woman was killed by a shark. From this information I have decided two things:

One- The Police in Sharm el-Sheikh have not watched Jaws. It’s Shark Trickery 1/01: Chill for a day or so, let the fuzz catch a smaller shark, wait for the beaches to re-open and attack immediately. The authorities simply need to head out to sea in a bigger boat with a bounty hunter, Richard Dreyfuss and a few gas tanks.

Two- Package deals to the Red Sea will be much cheaper next year, so in these difficult times of recession it’s now top of my holiday destination list.  I will investigate the feasibility of diving in a suit of armour or trying to get through Egyptian customs with a speargun. Only foreseeable problem is that my boyfriend is terrified of sharks- so much so that if I hum the Jaws theme tune while he’s in the bath it upsets him.

I’ve actually had a couple of run ins with sharks myself. My first was on the Gulf coast in Florida. My Mum and Gran had waded out to their waist (probably for a wee) and were chatting. Suddenly Mum saw a fin behind my Gran and before she could say anything the shark hit her so hard in the back of her legs she fell over. Luckily my Mum was holding me in her arms, or I think 6-year old me would have been a delicious snack as they fled back in.

It wasn’t a great holiday all told, it later emerged that the shark had come inshore because Hurricane Hugo was building in the  Gulf. I spent the rest of my first holiday abroad in a hurricane shelter. And I was already heartbroken from seeing Mickey Mouse take his head off and smoke a fag at Disney World.

My second altercation was in the Dominican Republic where my dad and I decided it’d be a clever to go snorkelling in this dark cave - no one else was snorkelling there, not even the locals, what could go wrong?

We were in the cave for about half a second before I looked down and saw a huge shadow move below me. I looked at my Dad- his pale face and expression of abject terror let me know he’d seen it too. I glanced down again and saw that tell-tale fin.

Being an only child I’ve always been overprotected by my father - He once got me a can of weapons grade tear-gas “to keep in my purse for nights out”. But when there’s a shark near you, it’s every man for themselves, it's more terrifying than the acting in Jaws 3. He swam out of that cave so fast he was on the beach having a beer to get over the shock before I’d swum a stroke.

But have I learned how to avoid shark attacks? Yes. Make sure there’s a weaker swimmer with you at all times, and if you see a shark don’t say a word, just swim away quietly and let it eat the other person. And if like me you’re going to Sharm el-Sheikh next year; learn the word for ‘shark’ in every language. So if a Ukrainian or Russian tourist swimming near you starts screaming, you know what’s up.

Now to end on a more festive note, yet keeping to the theme of ravenous beasts that need feeding, I’d like to use the power of blog for good and draw your attention to the Hungry Mouths campaign at the Wood Green Animal Shelter http://www.woodgreen.org.uk/how-to-help/hungry-mouths/. Give money to feed the kitten…or the sharks will come and eat you.