Michael Rodd's Screen Test

Two new films for your watching delectation.

Here

And here.

One of them's even topical.

Sorry.

Hamlet Unchained

And here's another one.

The same actor as in the last one but this time with an Australian accent. Last week Steven Spielberg described him as the new greatest living actor now that Pete Postlethwaite has passed away. And who am I to argue?

Where There's A Will

This past week has been about wills. Betty's aunt died last Saturday and as with my dad and Betty's dad, no will is immediately forthcoming. She wanted to be buried in a dress which has mysteriously disappeared. And the man who helped her for most of the past eleven years wants his expenses repaying. This is all happening 170 miles away and really we just want to brush the problems under the carpet. Let's just hope social services aren't too overworked to sort things out.

So today I broached the subject of wills with my mum and stepdad. Yes, their wills are with the solicitor's. But which solicitor's? Good question!

I'm not letting you off lightly with will talk, though. No, I have another film uploaded to YouTube. It can be found here. I'd dim the lights first if I were you.

World Cup Willie

Hello! It's me again. The annoying tit who keeps posting shit animated scripts on the internet.

Still, at least I'm enjoying myself. It reminds me of when I did a serious scriptwriting evening class in the early 90s and I just brought in loads of short, crappy sketches. "Like Reeves & Mortimer," someone kindly said, but I like to think I was more influenced by absurdist theatre. Ian S Coe, that sort of thing.

Anyway, my latest "piece" is here. I've given up trying to embed them.

Happy New Year to one and all.

His Old Man

Tissues at the ready as I present my latest tear-jerking cartoon. I've even worked out how to upload to YouTube!

I promise I won't go mad and do one of these a week, but you know us boys and our new toys!



p.s. Sorry a third of it is hidden. Probably best to go to the link after all.

Boxing Day Blues

Christmas is a time for families to get together at the feet of the matriarch, even if you're feeling like shit, as I was.

We spent Boxing Day eating a mixture of salad, jacket potatoes, cold turkey and ham, pickles, quiches, pigs in blankets, apricot cheese, stuffing balls, mince pies, trifle, Quality Street, nuts, crisps and our own bile.

"I always enjoy this more than Christmas Dinner," is said every year without fail.

After dinner, the tv recorders are put to work. There's one downstairs and one upstairs.

"BBC1: 6.30, Countryfile. 7.30 Antiques Roadshow. 9.00 Upstairs Downstairs."

"I'll go upstairs and record Benidorm and Deal Or No Deal".

"What about Harry Hill?"

"No, I'm not bothered about Harry Hill."

They have 150 hours of unwatched tv on the recorder. They're going to spend the rest of the week catching up.

We, however, have caught up. Our Sky Plus box is free for the first time in years.

You can judge a Christmas by the quality of its telly. This has not been a good one.

Simply Having a Wonderful...Oh, please yerselves

I'm back!

And here's a little something for the festive period.

OK, it's not Guy Ritchie yet, but it's a start!

Brucey Bonus Tracks

I'm sitting here listening to Bruce Springsteen's The Promise, songs from the Darkness on the Edge of Town sessions, thinking Bruce chose the right songs to release back then when he blew my teenage mind, man. There's an urgency, a passion, a spirit in that album that spoke to naive boys and made us think anything was possible, that even owning a car might be romantic. Of course cars and young relationships could never live up to Bruce's billing but I still get a rush of adrenaline whenever I hear that album. The Promise is OK but not essential, a bit like the reality of the motor car.

***

I'm sure you were all riveted by the Golden Twit Awards yesterday. So pleased for Stephen Fry and the Greater Manchester Police. Fry's childish strops and the Force's kettling puns have been essential reading. And they had the gall to have "Public" awards for certain categories, as if the general public actually give a shit about nonentities' egos. Twitter's a great source of news and good for pissing around on with like minds but awards and books and sitcoms based on of-the-moment Twitter accounts? Get a life!

The Drinker's Tale

I walk into the pub. A big place with a stage where they put on entertainment. I go to the bar and the barman greets me.

"What can I get you, sir?"

There is an array of fine real ales. I can't choose, there is too much choice.

A bearded man appears to my left and says to the barman, "He's a newbie. He'll have what newbies have."

The barman pours me two halves of two different ales. Medium strength.

"You owe me 50p," says the bearded man.

Of course I don't.

I find a stool at the bar and sit alone with my two halves. Except there aren't two, there are three. Where did the other one come from and which are mine?

I spend the next hour drinking the beer. I compare and contrast, taking gulps from each of the three glasses in turn. Three glasses because I don't look a gift horse in the mouth.

I am feeling pleasantly relaxed. This is the pub I've been looking for all my life. Nobody is bothering me, nobody is annoying me.

"One two, one two."

Somebody's on stage. It's the man with the beard. He has an acoustic guitar. He starts to sing.

50p. That's all I ask,
To point you to the tastiest cask.
To cap it all you drink my half.
Do you see this fucker laugh?
When you leave you'll meet outside
Some friends of mine, you cannot hide.
They'll beat you to a bloody mess

And that's my story, more or less.

Limbo

I keep preparing myself for change but change never comes. I don't want change so I should be grateful. But this is a very strange feeling, the most weird I have felt in my life.

I never used to think of the future, just took each day as it came. Good or bad, the present was where it was at, the future would take care of itself. Now my head's in the future and the past. The present is running on empty. The future's looking stressed and over-busy or it's looking relaxed and easy. The past? I had it good though I often had it pretty bad. But I never had this feeling of strangeness.

This week I thought it was shingles. The shingles never materialised. A soreness of the midriff which lasted four days. That's it, I said, it's shingles, it's the stress. But the shingles never came. I tried not to touch my eye as I knew someone whose sight was damaged by shingles. But I'm not a doctor and I really shouldn't be diagnosing myself. It wasn't shingles after all. It was just the stress. The stress that comes not from overwork but from a lack of control.

I don't want change, change is the unknown. Frying pan, fire. Fire, frying pan. Just like that.

Whiskey in the Jar

It was my stepdad's 75th birthday last week. He was in hospital for some time earlier in the year and it was good to see him tucking into his Sunday roast. And his prawn cocktail. And his pudding. And half my mum's pudding.

My mum has a friend who has also been ill recently. But for her, living it up is not on the menu. Her doctor's told her in no uncertain terms that she must give up alcohol. Altogether.

Her favourite tipple is whiskey. It just so happened that her giving up drinking coincided with my stepdad's 75th birthday. What special gift would she give him to celebrate this landmark, considering he has driven her and her husband here there and everywhere for the past 15 years?

Three quarters of a bottle of whiskey.

He is a brandy drinker.

Perfect 10

The young woman giving out leaflets for Gym Box (remember them and their Chav Fighting classes?) has a jacket adorned with the words "Get the body your partner always dreams of."

So I pluck up the courage to ask her...

"What's the body your partner always dreams of?"

"James? He dreams of a body that's dismembered, caked in dried blood, bruised black and blue, oozing with pus, crawling with maggots and smelling to high heaven. But that's James and he has a vivid imagination which doesn't switch off when he goes to sleep."

One Is Busy Washing One's Hair

Her Royal Majesty has cancelled this year's Christmas Party for her staff. The party was an annual event until two years ago when she decided to make it biennial.

This year, said an unofficial spokesman, she "couldn't be fucking bothered".

An official spokesman said, "The Queen is acutely aware of the difficult economic circumstances facing the country and, given the current economic climate, it was thought that it was appropriate for the Royal Household to show restraint."

When confronted with the latter, the unofficial spokesman reiterated, "No. The truth is she couldn't be fucking bothered. She's an old woman. Prince Philip is an old man. They've met the great and the good over the years. They see members of the Royal Household every day of the year. They know they're not going to get a conversation as entertaining as the one they had with Michael Bentine in 1995."

Twitter Love

We met on Twitter. We fell in love in 140 characters or less. We have a common interest in music. We love festivals, that communal coming together of like minds. I play the guitar, Rachel plays the drums. We lived 140 miles away from each other but 140 miles is nothing in cyberspace. Within four months Rachel had moved down to London with her drums. Luckily one of my flatmates had fallen in love with a nice girl 140 miles away and was moving out. We formed a band. You wouldn't have heard of us but we're a bit like the Tings Tings although in our band the drummer's female and the guitarist is male, a bit like the White Stripes but not really if you see what I mean.

When we saw the advert asking for young thin white indie musicians who fell in love on Twitter we immediately contacted ITV. They filmed us holding hands in the park and looking lovingly into each others eyes. They filmed the band too but they didn't show the performance on morning television as they said it wasn't suitable for their audience. We feel a bit let down but we're going to carry on as we think we've got something to offer.

The Time of My Life

In a bid to make the evening more special we decide to go to the pub before the restaurant.

The bus journey is a mile and a half, two pounds each one way, a bargain. The pub we choose is one we used to go in when in this town, run by no-nonsense middle-aged women.

Oh well, not any more. Younger bar staff, loud male punters everywhere, swearing at the tops of their voices.

And the tellies are on. And here comes the football.

I see John Terry's gormless face in the tunnel. Oh well, Chelsea. I look around and see Chelsea memorabilia on the walls. Great. Just what I wanted.

Chelsea score two goals, one bloke shouts his appreciation. Most people are ignoring the football. As they should. Televisions, karaoke, live music and tv game show machines should have no place in pubs in a civilised society. But they do. They're everywhere, we're supposed to need these distractions nowadays. Ever since the 80s when it was decided by the Pub God that jukeboxes were not good enough any more and the hated video jukebox made an appearance with Michael Hutchence wanting to make us sweat greasily like him and Sting and Dire Straits screwing with our minds and starting us on the road to buying our Sky dishes.

So we leave this pub and head for another, distracted on the way by a pub that looks as though it's closed down. But it isn't. It's no longer the haunt of desperate alcoholics but it's now a Real Ale Pub, recommended by CAMRA, winning awards.

We go inside. There are Union Jacks everywhere, posters telling us about a Battle of Britain Day on Saturday, dressing up in Wartime clothes required, kids very welcome to come along as long as they're dressed as evacuees. That'll teach the kids what the War was like, except of course they'll be with their pissed-up mum rubbing Bisto into her legs and their paralytic dad moaning about how long it takes for him to get his willy out of his uniform to go for his half-hourly piss, not hundreds of miles away with smiling, welcoming strangers and glasses of creamy milk straight from the cow's udder.

Next week there's an Irish night when the theme is Green and leprechaun children with large heads and false ginger beards are welcome.

Meanwhile on the telly, we have Top Gear with the odious Jeremy and his mates.

So we leave this pub and head for the Turkish restaurant.

The restaurant is busy for a Wednesday night. Big men are getting stuck into big steaks, cramming chips into their big mouths. Out of the front window of this tastefully decorated very pleasant establishment I see the bookies over the road, bereft of customers, next door to the greengrocer's, which is next door to the Londis which doubles up as the local Post Office. The heart of the town.

The background music is awful 80s. Young at Heart, Eternal Flame, (I've Had) The Time of My Life, you get the picture. Pure shite but loved by everyone of a certain age, the age for coming out on a Wednesday night, stuffing your face with your partner.

So we leave the restaurant and, oh fuck, it's the bus: "RUN!"

The 6Music Subspecies

The Simon Armitage interview with Morrissey said far more about the state of my BBC sponsored demographic's establishment attitudes than about the plodding indie anachronism himself.

I feel like I should be part of the Mark, Lard, Armitage, middle-aged dry-humoured serious music fan set, but I just can't bring myself to raise my game and stroke my chin to a succession of bands that wouldn't have got record contracts in the 70s but are now lauded on 6Music's Pub Lunch With Graham Beard.

Talking about a new band called the Smiths, "Peel was never one for hype or eulogy, but somewhere within the lugubrious voice and deadpan delivery, I thought I heard a little note of excitement and perhaps even an adjective of praise."

Wrong, Simon. Peel's little note of excitement was his mind drifting to images of pretty young girls. He thought the Smiths were a load of old cunt and would much rather be playing something sent in by some unlistenable no-hope band recorded in some poor old deaf gran's kitchen in Uttoxeter.

One of the rules for my generation when talking about music is to drop John Peel's name into the conversation. As if we didn't have minds of our own. This nostalgia is suffocating and inaccurate and would send me to prison if ever I were to come across ex public schoolboy Phill Jupitus in the flesh and tempt him into talking about ex public schoolboys Peel and Strummer and wait for the sentimental "we're in this together" tear in his eye.

Armitage hides his not quite double platinum selling band's CD in his book of poetry gift to Morrissey. Morrissey is embarrassed as he forgot to bring his own 40 year old book of poetry Salacious Salford to give to Armitage and return the compliment.

I cringe for my establishment figures.

Gentle Giant

In the pub I overhear a man mention the words "gentle giant".

I hope he's talking about this...



Or maybe this...



But looking at him out of the corner of my eye I know he's talking about this...

Faith School Menace?

I love watching Richard Dawkins documentaries. The naivety of the man is supreme. He cracks me up. Richard brought his kids up to be questioning, skeptical, fully-rounded human beings. He believes that children have the right not to be indoctrinated by their parents or teachers. He believes in a right that doesn't exist. Just like the "enemies of reason" believe in gods that don't exist. How does a young child stand up for their right not to be indoctrinated by religious parents? And if the child can't, who will? Do we have an army of questioning, skeptical, fully-rounded humanist social workers watching CCTV footage of a parent's every interaction with their child? Does a questioning, skeptical, fully-rounded SWAT team storm the home and arrest the brain-washing mum or dad?

Young minds are open to the possibilities of the supernatural, things that go bump in the night. Mums and dads are there to protect their kids from evil ghosts, monsters and carnivorous wallpaper. They're there to cuddle and suffocate with their overbearing love. And if they have a god to help banish the evil from the home and protect the child, they will call upon him.

Maybe A Bunk Bed Would Be A Good Idea After All

I could smell smoke before I saw it. Someone was having a crafty fag.

My mother appeared. She was sitting on the armchair, her right hand hidden from me. I could see smoke rising from behind the right arm of the chair.

I asked her if she was smoking. I said she can't start again now, not after giving up in her 60s. People don't start up again at the age of 78.

She said she wasn't smoking. The smoke was filling the room and my sensitive nose.

I asked her again. She turned to me and regally lifted her hand to her face, as if she were Princess Margaret. She left the cigarette in her mouth and dangled it like a flat-capped commoner.

I reacted like Bruce Lee. I leapt in the air and kicked the offending stick from her mouth.

***

I woke up with a start. Betty seemed to be sleeping. But she often wakes up in the mornings with bruises on her leg.

Nothing Seems Right In Cars

The 60s boy next door has moved up from a Lambretta to a Mini. Today he is out lovingly washing it as we walk past. My filthy, sticky car is a few feet away. If I were a normal middle aged man I'd say to him, "You can do mine when you've finished." I'm not normal, though. Some cars are aesthetically pleasing to me, like the boy's Mini. But that's as far as it goes for me. My car stays plain-looking, unwashed and unloved, covered in tree and bird emissions. I ought to give it a once-over but that can wait till the week before its service.