Gary Davison

Go on. Look at this script art of ze God Father. Imagine the camera is rolling, and, ACTION!

Here goes: it’s quite dark, blinds are shut. Voices from the party outside and the band playing in the garden are muffled. 

Brando moves his lips. He slowly strokes ze cat with two fingers. He sniffs.

There is a knock at the door. He doesn’t look up. There is another knock.

God Father deathly music starts.

Cut to:

What do you reckon? That there was my first effort at writing a script. I’ve been doing some research, a bit of scratching about here and there. The few irons we mentioned about a film deal for Streakers have gone cold. Well one has, one is still soldering (a nice way of saying slush pile, but let’s be big and bold about it. Shy bairns((shocking word)) get nothing).

 I’ll leave some of the other details out, like screen writer \ script writer (do I know the difference yet - no) festival dates, until nearer the time.

What I will say, is that I stumbled across John August’s site. He is a script writer. Wrote The Nines. Impressive, and so I took my first gander at a script on his site.

Go on over and have a look if you’re curious. I was. Extremely. And now I know for sure that I will never ever write a screen play. Not a chance. I would most certainly know a good script of Streakers if I saw one, simply by what they capture and what they leave out. But write it? Not for me. I love writing stories, but dissecting for the screen needs dedication and flare in this department. Meticulous attention to detail. I’m flying by my arse pants 95% of the time, so I’m out of the picture.

On the plus side, writing with a not giving a shit attitude, gives you the chance to create. Create something fresh and new.

To take it to the big screen, I’m going to need a script writer with some fire in his belly. The hunt is on. There’s a recession on. TV shows are getting cut left right and centre. Films too. Even the very best must be looking for graft. Price and person could well come together. It’s worth a pop.

I was off on one the other night and bought this on amazon. I loved Atomised, so I’m looking forward to it.

Houelle… Houelleb…Michel has such a confident, relaxed style, that sweeps you along, or is it swirls you along? You’re neither propelled nor dragged, a lot of the time going east and west instead of t’other way. But you don’t mind because you’re often still reeling from the last chapter, and it feels like he has earned the right to mess around with you, before taking you somewhere else. Please don’t let me down Mick, I’ve been dealt four hammer blow novels in a row.

I also stumbled across this by a French dude by the name of Benoit Duteurtre. This is the first one of his ten novels to be translated into English. Looks interesting.

So, we’ll stick these in the backpack and head to Perth, Australia.

 Today in Perth it is 35 degrees and pure sunshine.

When Karen and I returned to Oz for the second time we landed in Perth.

It was scorching, blazing sun, white sands, beach bar with no windows and we had no suntan cream. I whipped my top off and went in search of some factor fifty.

 After about an hour, I found a chemist. I bought the suntan cream, applied with trowel to arms and boat-race and headed back. On my return Karen gasped and I was unable to move my lips freely I was so burnt.

 We had a great week planned out here, before we were due to set off for Sydney. I spent it indoors. Seen nothing, done nothing. Only bloke there with a long sleeved shirt on. The flight to Sydney was torture. Not even the water spray I was applying every few minutes (to myself and those sitting behind me) could help.

 This is Cottesloe Beach. Karen, Tara and me are thinking of heading there at Christmas. This time I will be armed with Amber Solaire.

That looks nice and warm, doesn’t it?

Better than blighty today, where it is minus minus. Heating full belt and still it’s chilly.

When I get to the office I’ll need to do star jumps between pricing jobs.

 It’s so warm over here even the map looks hot.

Port Elizabeth is south of Johannesburg (spelt right, hopefully, it’s a long n). Can you see it there? Today it is 22 degrees and mostly cloudy. But as my brother-in-law always says, you can still get tanned through this. Not if you’re as white as me you can’t. Tomorrow I think I’ll visit a place where, the last time I was there, I got so badly burnt, I had to stay indoors for a week and spray myself every hour.

 Today it is 90 degrees and pure sunshine. Sunrise 5.17a.m, sunset 7.43p.m.

Karen and I didn’t venture over to Melbourne on our travels, but it’s on our radar for next Christmas.

We did travel from Sydney and through Canberra on our way to a fruit picking farm. Not the most lucrative employment I’ve ever had, but a good laugh.

 A Melbourne caff. Here you would find Karen, chilling on her way to work (well if we were in Sydney). She’d put herself on flexi-time and stop and people watch and not clock in until eleven o’clock. Nothing’s changed!

 Crockett and Tubbs. Deadly. I remember making sure I was always back in from not getting into trouble to watch it at about ten o’clock.

You’ve got to admit, at one time or another, whether it be on holiday or round the house, you wore slip on shoes with no socks like Crockett. You might (not me of course) have actually moon-walked and pulled a 45 from the inside of your jacket pocket, finishing the move off facing the mirror.

 And what about old scar face with the deep voice. If he was getting paid per word spoken, he would probably have earned 30p a series.

He let them get away with murder though, didn’t he? As long as they got a result.

I tell you what I did forget about and have just remembered, Crockett’s pet crocodile. Come to think of it, I might look up and see if there are any repeats of Miami Vice on. Would be ideal for hangover viewing. At the moment I can’t see beyond Columbo when it comes to needing to watch something when your heads in pieces.

So today, in Miami, nothing like this, it’s 26 degrees and raining. This here is Florida Beach. If you swim past that corner, hang a right, you’ll see Delboy and Rodney getting chased through the Everglades.

Today, 26 degrees and partly cloudy.

And here’s one of the residents, who has just spotted a tourist with a bum-bag.

It’s minus eight thousand, snow on the ground, and the week ahead looks bleak - weather wise. So I’m off else where. No point in hanging around in the real world, so time for another little tour.

Seeing as I’m heading to Portugal for real this month, I thought I’d start there today.

Today - 12 degrees and sunny. All day. That’s t-shirt, but not quite shorts, weather.

I had every intention of coming on here and slagging January off and the post was going to be entitled, Roll On February. Because January has been an extraordinary load of shit, hasn’t it? Three weeks snowed in, no paving work getting done, dogs dropping like flies, wrote 5000 words of complete dolomite and deleted it.

 Then I came across Miss January Jones. She who stars in Madmen, and I thought, January’s not all that bad. Aye, it’s taken until the thirtieth of the month, but January, in my books, is pretty darn decent. Do-me-a-favour. Good grief, you couldn’t fall of, could you?

Madmen, though, I can’t get away with. I watched four episodes and had a smoker’s cough and I was bored out of my brains. The full figure women in the offices were a big plus, but not enough to keep me watching.

So, despite wanting to take January with me into February, I am pleased the month is over. There is even an outside chance I might be able to sneak off to Portugal for a game of golf in Feb, but that’s strictly between you and I. Hush, hush.

February - let’s get our heads together and have a laugh. I’m going to get stuck right into this book sales and film malarkey. It can’t be that hard. Danny Boyle is doing theatre so he’ll be itching for a new project soon. All I have to do to get his attention is throw myself off London bridge, tie myself to the little hand of Big Ben, or switch to plan C. Me neither, but there has to be one.

J.D Salinger died today, aged 91. His book will live on for a lot longer. Centuries rather than decades. One of my all time favourites.

J.D Salinger, soon after The Catcher in the Rye was published, shunned publicty and became a recluse.

There has been very little from him in new work since then. His son says there are fifteen manuscripts in his house.

The million dollar question: how do you stop the viagra emails coming?

Seriously. I can’t be the only one that gets at least twenty a day. I’ve marked them SPAM, but still they arrive. How do you get rid?