Time to Party

Back to the Future Day is finally here. Do you know what that means? People will finally stop posting memes with the wrong date. Also I’ve a decent excuse to write about what I consider to be the best film trilogy of all time.

Yeah, that’s right, forget Star Wars. It doesn’t have a dog called Einstein. Although Back to the Future does have Darth Vader…

Image copyright: Universal.

Yes, we are now in 2015, the year Marty travelled to from 1985, and whilst we have video phone calls, are working on hover boards, and did get a 3D version of Jaws, we still don’t have flying cars. We also, thanks to Robert Zemeckis and Bob Gale retaining the rights, have yet to get a new reboot or sequel to the BTTF series, thus allowing the franchise’s legacy to remain untarnished.

Thank goodness they’ve kept their integrity because, despite being thirty years old, these great movies are still inspiring people today. The band McFly and rapper Doc Brown took their name from the protagonists, a Bizarro World version of the central duo is presented in Rick and Morty, and there 'it's your cousin, Marvin' has become a popular setup for jokes on Twitter. There is clearly a lot of lingering love for this franchise.

And yet the original was never guaranteed to be a success. I mean, consider the pitch – there’s a stereotypical bug-eyed wild haired mad scientist, horny teen hitting on her own son, and that most cheesy of tropes, saying the title within the film. If the makers had misjudged the tone, this could have been the best Worst B-Movie Ever. Instead the humour’s just right, the caricature’s restrained, and it’s a brilliant piece. Indeed, that first film is as close to perfect as possible.

"Seriously, this guy's one of our heroes? Uh, we'll pass." - What some exec thankfully didn't say.

Picture copyright: Universal

As a writer, I massively appreciate callbacks and satisfying payoffs. It’s why I like improv, detective stories, and stand up. It’s also why I’m such a huge fan of Back to the Future. As with the other screenplay I consider exceptional, A Bug’s Life, every line in the first in the trilogy serves a purpose. Each bit of dialogue is a joke, foreshadowing, or back reference.  There is not an inch of fat on that script. It really should be studied in schools.

If ever you wanted further proof of the series’ power, I need only offer its continued ability to thrill. As I enjoy the movies so much, I have seen them all multiple times (in fact, they were the first films I saw in 2012) and yet I still get excited at the tinkly twinkly score that hints that something magical is about to occur.

I experienced the epitome of this euphoria these cult classics inspire on Saturday 30^th September 2014. Secret Cinema, an events company that shows famous movies within extensive recreations of the sets, had set up 1950s Hill Valley in a shopping centre car park complete with an in-character cast lip-synching and mirroring their counterparts in the first film. We were encouraged to dress in accordance with the era; I essentially went as The Fonz.

Just about hidden from view: the not-so-195s camera.

As we sat in the town square during the screening, the car chases happened around us , Doc zip-wired down from the clock tower, and we whooped at the debut of the DeLorean. That was all well and nice, but the moment at which I was convinced of the movie’s power, the instance I truly celebrated, was an old-fashioned demonstration of good triumphing over evil, brains defeating brawn, George smacking Biff.

The tension before he felled him was palpable. For one of the few times that evening, my eyes were firmly on the stage and not the frames I’d seen so many times before. To see the rivals stand-off in 3D reinforced the significance of what was at stake. It is perhaps this scene, more than any across the series, hammers home how a single split-second decision can change the outcome of your life.

When the punch came, we cheered. My friend besides me actually stood up and applauded. We got such a rush. It didn’t matter that this showdown wasn’t new to us – we were pumped.

And that’s the sign of an incredible movie – you can revisit it endlessly and still be moved.

Happy BTTF Day everyone.  Remember, your future hasn’t been written yet, so make it a good one!

Happy Birthday Train

As of 11th October 205, there has been a Late Train running for five years. And no, it's not National Rail's fault. The blame goes entirely to James D Irwin. Or, as I call him, 'Irwin'. Never 'James'. It is always the full name or surname. Or that inebriate with the voice like a dirty phone call.

Said inebriate.

Let me clarify. The Late Train is in fact a comedy night. It is on once a month in Winchester at a pub called the Railway. It has now been running for five years.

Who cares?

I do. I did a lot of fun stuff at that night. It’s where I recorded a radio play, gave stand up a serious go, recieved my first heckle, first tried live improv… I also co-hosted the whole thing for two years.

From Autumn 2012 to Summer 2014, the Late Train was run by me and my double act partner, Dan. In between comedians, we did sketches, most of which involved Adam and Eve or Santa (but never Adam and Eve and Santa), and Dan occasionally did solo routines. Which led to odd scenes in which I’d introduce him after we'd already been onstage together for five minutes. It worked. Well, even if it didn’t, we were in charge so…

Two excellent comedians. And two guys who do an okay job of introducing them.

We inherited the night from James D Irwin, the night’s founder and our friend (despite one of us once describing him as ‘that inebriate with the voice like a dirty phone call’). He’d started it as a student comedy night to give himself some stage time in a town with no open mic, but the free show soon grew until it was attracting acts from afar (and I don’t mean Southampton).

It’s not hard to see why the Late Train got such a good reputation. The small room is intimate, its cosiness reinforced by the stage décor of a rug and a lamp-stand. It essentially looks like someone’s lounge. The bar and bathroom is downstairs so there’s no punters wondering around looking for a pint or a piss. The audience is generous. Everyone wants to be there. The acts have fun. Plus, if you really hate the show, the train station’s across the road.

Hence why the bar is called The Railway…

Not the usual stage set-up - this is for my radio recording. Also, look, rugs!

Of course the night’s never been perfect. Dan and I once found we’d have to share a mic. One night there was a persistent heckler who it transpires was a wannabe comic who thought he was helping. A few of the open mic acts were drunk. Which is why we don’t put our friends on anymore.

That’s a joke. The Late Train is a safe friendly place in which to give stuff a go so where better for mates and acquaintances to see if telling gags is their thing? Some had smashing debuts whilst others stuck to their day job, but at least they had the opportunity to give it a go in front of a forgiving crowd.

This picture is misleading. We'd get at least three times this many people in. 

And what a crowd. I don’t know if a quaint friendly town inherently produces quaint friendly people, but Winchester’s audiences were never less than lovely. The front row were always up for a Q&A. The magician who now hosts is never short of volunteers. It was always a pleasure to perform at the Late Train. I only gave it up because I moved to London.

But not before Dan moved to Bournemouth. He duly came in once a month to host a free show for no money before rushing out during the second half to catch a train home. If that’s not a sign of how much we love The Late Train, nothing is.

After we left, the host was recast as often as Spiderman. It went from a satirist to a musician to its current ringmaster, magician Wayne the Weird. He’s presenting the anniversary show on October 11^th. Do go – it is, was, and will be the best thing in town. Besides, what else would you be doing on a Sunday?

NFFD 2015

It's National Flash Fiction Day again!

Which means I should

a) promote The Flashnificents AKA the story collective co-founded by me. I write at least one jokey piece for it weekly. The group was inspired by our lecturer's attempt to write a story daily for a year.

Said lecturer incidentally founded National Flash Fiction Day. Which means today I should also

b) Write at least one story. So here it is.


WHAT'S NEXT?

Well, I’ve finished watching everything on Netflix. Time to go outside…

Oh God. What happened? The world is a wasteland. The landscape is flattened. The horizon is endless. Man, if only Netflix had streamed The Ten O’clock News…

I shut my front door and the house collapses behind me. Shit. Looks like I’m going to need to a new place to sleep. And another laptop.

I walk for hours in seemingly unchanging terrain. I see and hear no one. Am I the only person left alive?

The sun reaches its peak so I begin to get thirsty. The dirt around me is bone dry. I can’t see an oasis. I try to produce some saliva to suck on. I fail.

I walk some more. Soon my legs go on automatically and my brain disengages. The journey becomes almost relaxing.

Night falls. I keep on walking. Dawn. I keep on walking. I lose track of how long it’s been since I left home. I keep on walking.

Finally I see something in the distance that breaks the monotony of my view. I run towards the mysterious mass in the sky. It comes into focus. No…

Giant letters hover in front of me.

Next episode playing in 10 seconds.

9

8

7

I fall to my knees.

6

5

4

I sob.

3

WHY?

2

I hate myself.

1.

Home Sweet Home

In September, my mum moved house. No big deal, right? People relocate every day! I’ve changed address four times in as many years. This occasion is a little different though. In September, my mum moved out of my childhood home.

Now, I prefer to look forward, not back (an approach which has ensured I don’t repeat my college feat of power walking into a lamppost). I am not one for nostalgia. Consequently, I can’t tell you what my earliest memory is (although that might have something to do with said lamppost).

It would be ridiculous though for me to have lived in the same village for twenty-two years and not have a single thing to recall about life there. After all, Peter Tavy was the backdrop to so many firsts for me. My first stand up gig was at the local variety night, my first job was at the pub, and my first pet tore into the neighbourhood’s shrubbery. Admittedly I can’t remember the latter but I’m reliably informed that Thumper was as violent as his moniker suggested and nowhere near as adorable as his Disney namesake.

Whilst I may never have finished learning how to drive around Peter Tavy’s narrow winding lanes and tight bends, I did explore all other forms of transport here (except, much to my mother’s consternation, the weekly bus into town). I have skateboarded down my hill, rollerbladed outside the village hall, sledged down my neighbour’s snowy banks, and blissfully floated around a river on a big black rubber ringer whilst chased by adults desperately trying to stop me from drifting out to sea. Ah, happy days.

Typical family photo.

I spent two decades in this eccentric little village and, as a result, have grown into an eccentric little man. It’s not hard to see why. Only in Peter Tavy could I have walked around a drained Mill Pond. Only in Peter Tavy could I have been followed by a cat called Smudge whenever I headed out to wonder in the woods. Only in Peter Tavy could I have been enlisted to play a Dalek. Twice.

I perform in London now but my first crowds were back in Devon. I danced all evening at Harford Bridge for them. They provided my first heckles (but fair enough, I admit the village quiz we Way boys wrote was alternatively too difficult and too easy).

And at this point, we come full circle to my first first. If I had to pick a key formative moment that sums up the fun of Peter Tavy life, it would be my inaugural spot as a comedian. That night in January 2009 was my first truly solo turn. Previously I’d written and performed humourous skits with my siblings but now I was to be onstage on my own.


Yes, another snowy scene. I only have access to Winter pics, okay?

I was waiting backstage ahead of my debut. The only other people with me were my previous collaborators AKA Kit and Joe. I’ve no idea why they were there but it’s great they were because they helped me relieve my nerves in the most novel way. We had a sword fight.

In retrospect, the clacking of wooden sabres would have no doubt been heard (we were, after all, only a wall away from the audience) but it really helped provide a welcome distraction from my imminent display of mediocre gags. This moment of silliness combines so many elements I love – family, joking around, and a good show. All of these are qualities I associate with Peter Tavy.

So yes, I may have to learn a new address and phone number but I won’t forget the old ones. They will remain as much a part of me as the former farm that was our home and the village which was occasionally the recipient of our post because our family name makes us sound like streets.

How, then, to sign off this farewell to my village? Well, as well as refraining from reminiscing, I’m also not particularly emotionally articulate so I’ll just keep it simple. Thank you, Mr Peter Tavy.

Can't Stay, Must-tache.

It’s ironic that, for the last few decades at least, the way teenagers have chosen to change their appearance in order to not conform has remained the same. People hit adolescence and how do they mark this significant momentous time of their life? By getting a tattoo, having something pierced, or doing mad things with their hair. My parents and their generation did it, and now my lot are too. Indeed, this summer, not wanting to waste this opportunity in which you have licence to go a little crazy, I too did something pretty radical: I grew a moustache.

Now, this may not sound particularly exciting or adventurous, but bear in mind that I’m a punctual nice middle class boy who used to play Badminton over the washing line in the back garden – this is the closest to rebelling or acting out I will ever get. Narcotics and motor bikes have no appeal to me and I’d rather have a little bit of cider on a Sunday afternoon picnic than go out and drink loads on a Saturday night. Trust me, it’s surprising that I’d even attempt to picture what I’d look like with a bit of facial fluff, let alone actually grow some.

Another reason I wanted to try it out though was that, since birth, I more or less have rocked the same look I always have: dark wide eyes, thick eyebrows, and a thin mop of brown hair. This means my appearance has not changed since 1992. Consequently, even though I’m twenty, I frequently get asked for ID in bars (yes, I do go to some occasionally; I’m a student. It’s what we do). A moustache would stop this happening by ageing me up a few years. For this alone, it would be worth it.

Of course, before it’s fully grown, the little straggly patches of hair above my upper lip actually create the opposite effect by making me look even more like an adolescent who’s not yet mature enough to be eating with the grownups. Alas, this is just an obligatory stage you have to go through on the path to true moustacedom.

Except mine never really filled in in the middle. Yes, I had two distinct fuzzy stripes under my nostrils, but they never met up and merged into one. I had the sort of moustache a top-hatted villain with a cape would be proud to twirl in a Victorian melodrama. No wonder a friend of mine said it made me look like the creepy cousin of Super Mario Brothers’ Luigi.

Not all of the responses to the new addition to my face were negative though. A couple of my pals liked it. One even remarked that it made me look as if I’d finally gone through puberty. Result! That’s exactly what I wanted.

It never really felt like mine though. Having lived so long with a naked face (so to speak), it was strange to see my moustache each morning in the mirror. To me, it didn’t look like it was attached, but merely floating above my skin. Conversely, when I finally shaved it off to officially mark the end of my summer holiday, upon seeing my old visage after so many months, I was struck by how much space there is between my nose and my lip.

That’s the beauty of rebelling by growing a moustache, I guess – it’s so easy to get rid of. Whilst piercings have to close up, tattoos only come off with lasers, and head hair gradually reverts to its natural colour and shape in a matter of weeks, a bit of face fur can be taken off in a couple of minutes. It also doesn’t take too long to regrow either…

Yes, that’s right, I haven’t ruled out bringing it back. Until I decide whether I will though, I’m happy to look younger than I am. I’m an actor, after all. With a face like mine, I can play young punks into my forties and enact the type of pubescent hijinks I’ve previously avoided. Not only then can I have my cake and eat it too, I can have it whilst staying up way past my bedtime because that’s how wild I am. After all, in my youth, I grew a moustache.

Friday the 5/13th of November

Ah, Friday the 5/13th. The day I realised my calendar had several typos. Also, the day my dog died. I mainly remember the 5/13th for the first thing though - my memory's weird like that.

Anyway, I'd come downstairs, stepped over Rover's corpse, and glanced at my Daily Fake Fact calendar (today's - 'despite his name suggesting otherwise, Guy Fawkes was not, in fact, a guy.') because I wanted to know how long it was until Mumday (thanks to some cockup at the printers,  my wall planner says weeks begin every Mumday).

I was looking forward to Mumday as months ago I'd bought Bustin' Jeeber tickets. Not so I could go though - for some reason the idea of having a whiny racist haircut pout at me for three hours didn't appeal -  no, I wanted to ensure others couldn't. Hence why I'd snapped up every last one. Parents everywhere would be frantically appealing to scalpers and overpriced sites so they could try get some for their tweens but to no avail. At ten o clock on Mumday, Jeeber would be playing to an empty stadium.

Amused by this thought, I looked back at the calendar. Preoccupied by both imagining the look on Bustin''s face and reading the faux Fawkes fact, I'd completely forgotten to register today's date.

Friday the 5/13th of November.

Okay... This could mean several things.

1) Today is Friday 5th November.

2) Today is Friday 13th November.

3) Today, Friday, is only five thirteenths of November (unlikely).

4) Today is actually neither Friday, the fifth or thirteenth, because the calendar is completely wrong (very likely).

I decided to get a second opinion.

'What day is it, Dad?'

'Tuesday.'

'The...'

'The... day after Mumday?'

I sighed. He'd been really into bad jokes since he'd fallen down the stairs.

'What number day is it?'

'Right! It's the ninth.'

'Thank you.'

I went to put my hand in the toaster (I hadn't got anything to retrieve from there - I just wanted to see what it was like to perform exploratory surgery on a robot) but then stopped short of dipping it in.

'Hang on. Tuesday ninth?'

'Yep.'

'Tuesday the ninth of November?'

'Sure is. You need me to write it down?'

'No, that's fine.'

The concert was scheduled to take place on Mumday the eighth. Did that mean -

I flung open the kitchen curtains. Outside, houses burned, cars had been flipped, and posters bearing the smug punchable visage of Jeeber had been ripped down from every lamppost. Evidently the news there was no room in the concert hadn't gone down too well...

'Uh, son?' Dad beckoned me over to the table.

'Yeah?'

'Can you explain this?' He held up his copy of the morning paper. On the front page was a picture of me. Apparently hell hath no fury like a Bustin' fan denied and they'd managed to trace all the tickets back to my server. Oh crap...

That totally reminds me - Friday the 5/13th of November is also the day I had to change my identity and skip town for fear of being torn apart by an angry mob! I'd completely forgotten. As I said (or maybe I didn't), my memory's weird like that...

In The Murder Room

'In the Murder Room, you can make a killing. No pun intended. I hate puns and will wallop anyone if they do something even resembling a double entendre.

No, believe me, the Murder Room is no joke. It's where despicable killers such as moi bump off those too cowardly to off themselves themselves - for the right cash of course. We couldn't let you leave the world for free now, could we? That would be unfair to all the sadsacks with the stones to sit in their car with windows up and the engine on.

Now, obviously ultimately your God or Gods will pass verdict on you but that sure as Hell won't stop me judging you when you're alive, so - '

'Why are you telling me all this?'

'Because, sonny, I'm obliged to give you this spiel lest you misunderstand what the deal is here. That way, if your demise is traced back to us - which it won't be cos we're thorough - we can hold our hands up and go 'hey, we knew full well what the game was; we gave him the speech'.'

'That won't hold up in court.'

'Course it will. We've got tapes as proof.'

'You record the killing?'

'What? No! We're executioners, not perverts. We only film the preamble.'

'I see. Well, I think I've heard all I need to.'

'Great.'

'You're under arrest. I'm D.C.I. Harry Strong and I'm bringing you in on multiple charges of premeditated murder.'

'Hey, it's only premeditated because they asked us to do it!'

'That's a technicality. Our lawyers will soon find a way round that.'

'Unbelievable...'

'Not really. You boast about your chopping block job long enough, you get caught. What's hard to understand about that?'

'You'll regret this.'

'I'll regret this? You're the one in the risky business of mutilating people. Seriously, talk about going out on a limb...'

'Did you just do wordplay?'

'Why, you allergic to linguistic tricks?'

'Nope. I just really hate puns. And do you remember what I do to people who crack them?'

'Uh...'

He hit the ground before he could even blink. I picked up my phone and dialled.

'Oi, Terry? I've got another one for you. He's heard the speech and is definitely up for it. Be here in five minutes? Ta.'

I love my job...