Sawdust Caesar

Self Protection

2009-08-09T10:32:00.003Z

Not karate or some other martial art, but just a little note here as a record that two or three years ago I wrote a screenplay called 'Hereafter', a unique little number about a reincarnated German soldier who seeks out an old love, which I gave to a couple of agents to look at and had it turned down - which I have a horrible feeling may have been stolen. A well-known scriptwriter who usually does docu-style stuff has suddenly written a screenplay in the vein of Sixth Sense (according to Variety Magazine) - a complete departure from his usual style apparently - entitled... wait for it... Hereafter. Hmmmnn...

So naturally I'm getting paranoid. There's no way of getting a look at the script yet, and I may yet be relieved to discover my fears are groundless, after all, Hereafter is anyone's word and a good title, but I'm writing this blog to tell the world that my version has been around and has been read by at least two film producers who would bear witness to the fact.

And tomorrow I'm going to post the screenplay to myself as added protection (tip) - a bit late but hey, better late than never...

I'll keep you updated...

My Life Story

2009-06-10T11:09:00.002Z

I remember well the moments before my birth. I was stuck.

A bit like a prenatal writer with block. Anyway, I did finally get out with the help of giant forceps and emerged into the cold light of south east London and a bitter capricorn winter. Not long after that they decided my cock needed trimming up a bit and in the process instilled within me a complex about people looking at it. So not for me nudist beaches or any form of lewd exhibitionism, which in a way is excellent news for the general public. I mention this because I wonder how many others have been irreversibly fucked up in later life by groups of doctors and nurses staring and hacking at one's cock in those so formative early years. By the by. From then on like most boys I was obsessed with sex and came to realise that it is probably the most bizarre and ridiculous obsession invented by someone with a perverse sense of humour to ensure that human life goes on; because of this obsession there are at least five extra people on the planet that I know of who may go on to produce millions more through the ongoing obsessions of future generations. All that for a shag. And to think that I was the product of a shag has its own stigma, its own reminder that I'm not actually that important, a lump of meat which has developed through trial and error into this creature writing this blog for unknown readers. I mean how absurd is that? Ever thought how absurd your life is? Going out to work, driving the car, buying food? Now there's a thing, eating. You push stuff into this hole in your face and convert it into energy. Which brings us neatly to shit. To get rid of it we sit down and ease it out, then flush it away. Billions of folk do this every day, munch away at the planet, crap it out, and gambol about on the by-product, energy. With this energy we do all sorts of odd things. So in a way, under certain conditions, a tomato for example may become a world war. Hitler was a vegetarian - look where that got us. And that was in the days before we knew anything about additives. You know, I've watched a bright, intelligent young boy turn into a psychotic freak within seconds of pouring an additive-filled milkshake into that hole in his face, from a charming little chap into a monstrous beast capable of anything. How many atrocities have been carried out by those under the influence of Smarties or sweet bananas? Or lager... But all are quite legal, while marijuana or smack which just make you lay down, are banned. Now what sort of message does that send out? - eat or drink something that might make you stamp on someone's head - that's cool. But take something which makes you lay down and therefore probably be unfit for work, and you'll be reviled, forced to pay out huge sums of money, or even be locked away in a cage with a bunch of perverts who want to shag you or poke a truncheon up your arse. And they wonder why kids have no respect for the law.

Anyway, I digress...

The Meaning of Life

2009-06-10T10:29:00.003Z

Basically there isn't one. Not an overall easy to understand thing, that is. The most difficult aspect is the brain, difficult insofar as it (the brain) is able to perceive absolutely nothing beyond its own conditioning. Remove memories, it's fucked.

So we have to transcend the brain. Easier said than done. Ever tried it? Well the secret if there is one is not to try, but to be aware of the gaps between the chatter of the brain's activity. Wam. Suddenly everything's crystal clear and wonderful. Then wam and you're back into brainland saying to yourself, 'Hey. I glimpsed it. I'm enlightened. I saw the truth.' Or some such bollocks.

And you're back in the underworld of Brain Tyranny.

Problem is, if you need to write stuff, having an empty brain isn't the best state in which to be. You need information and that curious thing called emotion. You have to entertain. Unless of course you're one of these odd souls who writes for him or herself (ffs, why bother?).

Which brings me onto information, and in a curious way back to where we started... Most research nowadays is done on the net. Easy, innit. You sit there on your arse and trawl the web, looking for something exciting and original to add to your work. Cunt. Your brain is like that web - not a piece of originality in it, just the mindless dribblings of countless secondhand brains. So you copy someone's already copied idea and produce your masterpiece. And some of the more discerning among us wonder why practically everything that's produced nowadays is banal crap.

Have you ever tried to pitch a script? GENRE is what they all want to know; fucking genre. Because if you can't pigeonhole the thing, you're screwed. And the latest genre bollocks is - wait for it - High Concept. D'you know what that means? No, neither does anyone else, beyond it has to have an immediate 'hook' (eh?), a good title (I kid ye not) and must be able to be described in one sentence with words of one syllable for the ignorant who are going to sell it to the financiers. Good job they weren't trying to pitch The Bible eh? Cos sure as heck that's High Concept by anybody's book, unless you want to get blasphemous about this. Anyway, genres only count if they're What Everyone's Looking For Right Now. And that boils down to what the financiers believe is going to give them a reasonable return. And what they want is BANKABLE NAMES in the central roles - you know why? Because the public are mindless idiots who go to see a movie because so-and-so's in it. It guarantees a return, because they know that x million females will pay good money to see Mister Knobhead with the tattoo in the right place - remember filling in that little questionnaire, that little survey, which among other things asked you your favourite star? Well, you fed the machine and it shits out crap. And it's all your fault.

Anyone want to start a Give Us Exciting Original Stuff blog? Go for it. Hell, I've been trying all my life.

Instead, I think I might just start by telling you my life story.

Unpublished sequel to Sawdust Caesar and Enlightenment and the Death of Michael Mouse

2008-05-27T09:45:00.002Z

Yeh, there's a third in the series, but would you believe it, the publisher thinks it 'too dark' and 'not a true story'. Well it may be dark, but it's definitely true. I'll give you a quick rundown on it:

Tommy Spitz gets back from his overland to India gig, meets the love of his life, Nelly, and moves with her and their new baby to a derelict cottage in Wales where they meet up with a whole new bunch of freak arrivals to the area intent on living a life of self-sufficiency away from the weirdos running society. The sad thing is, that wherever you go, there are always weirdos - 'straights' who need to fuck up the lives of other people... (remind me to tell you about the latest batch who've come to visit us here in France)... and one of these is a neighbouring farmer, Elgan, who not only kills Tommy's goat and poisons his dog, but kills a dear friend of Tommy's by setting fire to his caravan while he's asleep, stoned, inside. Tommy later learns that this piece of shit, Elgan, may have been responsible for the torching and death of another local Bohemian, so he sets out intent on retribution which he achieves by spiking Elgan with strong acid and forcing him to drive home minus his brakes.
But from there on, things go rapidly downhill among the freak community as drugs are increasingly consumed and work on the land is avoided. Relationships founder and the viability of a dream life becomes increasingly precarious. And by now penniless and with another child, Tommy and Nelly are forced to live on the road with the gypsies, the only people prepared to befriend such social outcasts.

If you want to read it in its entirety, it's called BRDLIK'S WATCH, and you'll have to contact me. Unless of course you happen to be or know of a publisher who's prepared to print something a little out of the ordinary, ha-fuckin'-ha.

Scam which produces mediochre writers

2007-11-04T16:47:00.000Z

Yeh. How about this... (Town) Scriptwriting Agency will promote your work. Aims to support struggling talent. Fed-up with rejection? Unable to get your work in front of the right people? Come to us, an independent agency that has all the right connections.

You check their website and the glowing recommendations

What happens is that you eventually get to speak to a Jimmy Saville soundalike on the phone who asks you to send a 50-word logline of your script, so you do. Next time you speak to him he is obviously performing to someone in his office or the same room as him and he smugly pulls your logline to bits, throwing in bollocks about unique selling points, protagonists and antagonists, their long-term aims and fears and the resolution of those fears, and rounds it off by adding - and listen to this - 'The protagonist has to have a fight with the antagonist at the end.' I suggest that in the case I've offered it's more a mental than physical fight. He says, 'No, it's got to be physical. All films end up with a physical fight. They've got to or they won't sell.'

Two weeks later you receive an email asking you to join their next screenwriting course at a knock-down fee; a 3 week course reduced to a long weekend for just£250.

Ha ha indeed. Now here we have a clue as to just what is happening in the industry: homogenisation by the talentless. Writing to 2nd-rate formula. The world is just jam-packed with screenwriting experts who can show you how to write and sell that million buck movie. Well believe me, punter, they probably have less talent than you when it comes to writing that screenplay. But they've recognised that there are thousands of you out there with £250 to spend. Thousands of you who want to make it in the film world.

Thousands of gullible fools who haven't asked the one single question that shows these little enterprises up for what they are: why aren't they doing it? Why aren't they writing and selling those million-buck movies?

Pissed Off

2007-05-11T12:08:00.001Z

I just wrote a long blog about another character worth avoiding - The 'C' List Director, pressed 'publish' and lost it with a notice which said it couldn't publish because of lack of ID or something. Stupid thing is I can't get into 'create' without the ID, so as I was in 'create' I had to have put in my ID, n'est ce pas? Fucking technology. Or maybe the 'C' List Director has friends in high places - I smell a conspiracy theory brewing here. Anyway, I'll now attempt to publish this. If it works I'll rewrite the 'C' List director. Bah.

Fuck's sake. It worked.

Excuse the expletives. I hate technical breakdowns over which I have no power.

'C' List Director. Well-known as a loser in the industry, but others treat him politely on account of his family background. They smile sympathetically and say 'Hello (insert name here),' then move on. Smile sympathetically as in how you'd smile at someone who's just had both legs removed after getting infected by a gnat-bite. Eats in third-rate restaurants full of loud writers and out-of-work actors where he feels superior. Constantly on the look out for a Bankable Name to produce a film that actually makes a profit, that someone actually pays to go and see. Because basically he's not much cop. He's wet and unimaginative, terrified of originality.
There you go. I have to stop there because thinking about him's making me depressed.

The Freeloader Producer

2007-05-05T11:50:00.000Z

To coin a phrase, a sad git, this one. But costly to encounter. Frequently wears large hats. Similar to the Old Compton Street Producer but more hands-on. This one invites himself to stay at your home, usually on the pretext of discussing changes to your screenplay which he has optioned for one pound or dollar. Rarely pays for anything. Consumes vast amounts of your food and drink. Can be a sexual predator, preying on keen newcomers to the industry. An unscrupulous professional freeloader who will rarely, if ever, produce a mainstream film, but will sometimes produce a low-budget piece, usually a short, to which he will frequently refer as a reference to his credibility. Has also been known to sell off your ideas, and use your imaginative titles for his own shorts. Basically this guy is a fraud who uses someone else's talent and hospitality to stay hovering around the industry. The problem is spotting him, but a good way is to approach a reputable agent, tell them that someone is interested in optioning (or has already optioned if you're a rank amateur) your screenplay and ask if they know of him. I haven't yet met a female freeloader producer, by the way - I've generally found them more honorable than the men. The agent will have either not heard of him, or will warn you off. Another giveaway is a pronounced reluctance to invite you to his office, preferring instead to meet you in a members-only club, usually somewhere in the West End of London. Black's, Soho House, and The Groucho are usually pretty good at sifting out these fakes, but don't take it as gospel.

Lessons:
1) Don't sign anything without discussing it with an agent
2) Don't agree to him visiting you at home
3) Treat any unknown as a potential ***hole

The Sloane Reader

2007-05-04T10:49:00.000Z

Ah yes, this particular type is probably the the most potent cause of the demise of literary art and filmic excellence in the UK today. This type, although a minion in the general scheme of things, has been and still is the most damaging creature in the book and film world, a frontline dilettante with enormous power but no talent. Frequently called Arabella, or Ben, or Lucinda, or Annabel, or Leah, or Toby, or Adam, or some such other significantly striving wannabe middle-class tag, these beings are recruited as friends or offspring of friends already in the industry to read your work. Devoid of life-experience and interested only in the media merry-go-round, they are appointed to read and sift through the volumes of literature that daily arrives on their desk, a job for which in fact they are utterly unqualified and therefore incapable of doing. Give them The Bible and they'd consider it unsaleable: give them War and Peace they'd say it was too long or that they weren't gripped by the first page. Gripped by the first page? Now there's a thing - at least 80% of all work submitted never gets further than the dustbin. Not for these the subtlety of character or plot, the gripping denouement, or gut-wrenching finale, oh no. They cast their vapid eyes over a synopsis or the first paragraph, check to see if it fits into their Currently In Vogue view of life, a safe viewpoint from which they stand no risk of ridicule or exposure as a fraud, and condemn out of hand next year's Bulgakov or Vonnegut. Because they don't understand. Because they don't know how to read. Because they have nothing within that empty frame but last season's best-sellers with which to compare true excellence.
As a writer you'll be lucky indeed to receive even a reply or acknowledgement of receipt from them. If you do it'll probably be a cursory 'we read your manuscript with interest, but sadly it's not for us' - even though you didn't actually send them a manuscript but merely a note asking if they'd be interested in reading it.
On a less negative note one should realise that these readers are burdened with an impossible task: that they have to find a best-seller, a work worthy of time, effort and massive expense which will make it a best-seller, with little or no guidance; after all, their bosses are as clueless as they are as when it comes to understanding what makes the public tick, living as they do in the rarified air of the kingdom of publishing or cinematography where originality has no place. Safety by repetition has become the maxim - if it's been done and was a success, do it again. Or copy someone else's success. You only have to watch a Bond film to see where that leads, or read yet another formulaic crimewriter to understand why the industry is probably at its lowest ebb ever. And when one takes into account the appalling fact that in this age of the fast buck just about every Tom, Nick and Harriet believes they are capable of writing a blockbuster which will turn them into a millionaire celebrity overnight, just what chance does the serious writer have of getting his work in front of someone who counts, someone with vision, flair, and perhaps above all, the balls to take a chance?
As a published writer I'm often asked to assess the work of others, but here it has to be said that most of what I've read is dismally poor. And whoever it was that glibly pronounced 'everyone has a book in them', should have gone one step further and added that there it should stay.
Anyway, a big thumbs down to those readers to whom I above refer.

Lessons to be learned:
1) Don't kid yourself on the excellence of your writing
2) Don't kid yourself it's gonna be easy
3) Even if you are good, don't take it for granted anyone's going to read your work without a lot of effort on your part
4)Get to know people in the industry - no-one's going to beat a path to your door. Put your name about by continually presenting good work
5) If it's big money you want, do something else. Or change your parents.
Finally, 6) If you can churn out mindless pap by the vanload, there could be a place for you yet with (name withheld because I'm not as yet a complete ****)

The Wannabe But Not Very Good Writer Offspring of a Famous Person

2007-04-24T11:38:00.003Z

Now there's a person: The Wannabe But Not Very Good Writer Offspring of a Famous Person. I had to repeat it just for personal effect. Now I feel so twisted and resentful with his image in my head I have to be careful I don't go over the top on this one. It goes like this: I get a telephone call from someone saying he's seen my latest book and wants maybe to turn it into a film. I put him off because his voice is just a bit too smooth for my liking. He rings again, leaves a message. Rings again and I'm silly enough to pick up the receiver without vetting the call. It's him, for anonymity let's call him 'John'. We agree to meet. Couple of minor foreplay lunches later he moves in for the kill, introduces me to his wife, and we start to discuss possibilities. The book's a bit gritty, y'know, not exactly mass-market stuff. Can we tone it down a bit? No, I say. The book's its own animal and is going to stay that way. Hmmmm. Okay, he says, you need a co-writer if we're going to do something maybe a bit similar, because you're not famous enough, not a name. Weird logic, but hey, he's the producer after all. So along comes - let's call him Small Person Awesome Mouth or Spam for short. Spam. Little guy with a well-known mum and dad. And loadsa connexions. Well, at first we get along okay. I write the first draft and give him insight into the harsh subject matter, he pretties it up with his particular brand of middle-class gooiness, and soon we have something unrealistic and unsaleable: south-east London characters and plot interlaced with his dialogue and social mores. Annoying thing is, is that pre-Spam, we interviewed a couple of Scouser screenwriters who would have been ideal, but Spam bluffed and weedled his way into it. Worse, he's now trying to undermine my position by altering the plot and changing the characters so that he can cope with it. Because He Can't Do Working Class. The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists or Mean Streets or The Royle Family or even Eastenders just don't exist in his world. Everything has to be a curiously emasculated version of Brideshead Revisited. The crunch comes when the three of us meet one evening for a beer and John points out that as the latest offering's all Spam, there's really no need for me to bother myself with it any more. John's motto is that he always gets films made. Well, he didn't make this one. Spam came to see me a few days later, bad-mouthing John and the world in general. I made my excuses etc...
Lessons: Get an agent you can trust. Just don't deal with anyone without him/her.

And an addenda to this one - Years later 'John' contacts me because Spam's doing a remake of a classic which he wants to do Sixties-style and he needs a bit of info on detail, cos I'm the expert on Sixties stuff you see, and he's been trying to get hold of me. So anyway, I do the honorable thing and check the period detail for Spam (no credits agreed, but I'm still a bit of a sucker you see, and vulnerable to sweet talk). The positive side of this is that I reconnect with John, get to know him better, and discover that he's actually an excellent bloke, and highly talented. So I wish him all the best with his new film, which is brilliant by the way.

Happy ending to something that actually screwed me up for a while.

The Old Compton Street Producer (cont)

2007-04-17T15:46:00.000Z

Tis indeed a shame I can't publish their names. But I'm not vindictive; just biding my time. I'll introduce you to another character next time, and slowly a picture will form...

The Old Compton Street Producer

2007-04-15T09:52:00.000Z

Goes like this: I get a telephone call from S, a friend of an out-of-work actor I've recently met. He says that he's heard I've got a good script that I want to promote. Well hey - being a well-known and respected film producer (I'd never heard of him, but that meant nothing at the time) he'd like to see my screenplay. Yes! I'm in demand. So I arrange to meet him in Old Compton Street, outside a coffee bar.
When I get there I find this well-dressed presentable bloke, cashmere coat, large felt hat of the producer-kind, he buys me a coffee and we chat. I tell him all about the screenplay, he takes it all in, chemistry seems good, and we agree to meet the following week, when I'll bring along the screenplay, and he'll bring along a buddy director.
Next week he introduces me to M, the nephew of a well-known musician, but the chemistry's bad. M is an obnoxious egotist with a limp handshake, walking negativity, nothing's good enough for him - the coffee's rubbish, the chairs are too hard, the weather's wrong, there's too much traffic, and he clearly hasn't taken to me. The screenplay's been done before (it hasn't) and anyway, who's interested in the subject matter? They are, obviously, because after a few wines they begin to wax lyrical and decide to option it for a token £1. Which incidentally, they don't hand over. Of course, I don't read the smallprint - that would be way too small-minded of me. So I sign the rights over for eternity to the V Film Co., of which these two characters are the directors.

To cut a long story short, the V Film Co folds, M disappears, but S signs the rights back to me - which counts for nothing as M has to agree.

Some time later, my screenplay, restructured and under a different title, comes out as a stageplay and is a fair success. I get no credit.

Lessons learned:
Don't sign anything without representation. Get a media lawyer if you can afford it, or find an agent if you can't.
Don't be influenced by fancy clothes and big talk.
Don't drink too much at meetings with unknown persons.
Be aware that stealing ideas is a profession. Really.

POTTED HISTORY OF MOD

2007-04-11T14:33:00.000Z

Mod started at the end of the Fifties in London when a few kids started dressing French and Italian, so the story goes. But there's no big deal about it. All it was, was the beginning of the emancipation of youth; you know, money to spend, not much to spend it on, everyone dressed in monotone, boring gear, so the kids got adventurous. If only to wind up the adults. Drugs, mindless violence, sex, and the need to shock was the order of the day. So you had gangs of drugged-up kids dressed in hand-made clothes looking for trouble from one end of the country to the other until the fashion blew itself out. The End. And ever since, we've had a whole stream of experts, most of them not around at the time, trying to tell the rest of us about it. Actually, from the point of view of social revolution - and as an ex-so-called Mod I'll commit sacrilege here - the Teddy boys and Rockers were the vanguard of the change and far more radical. Mod was part of that evolution.

Anyway, Mod died around 1964, and everyone became wannabe gangsters, dressed in well-tailored expensive suits. Cars, not scooters were the preferred means of transportation and booze took over from amphetamines.

This lasted until about 1966/7 when hippy and flower power took over. Some younger wannabe Mods took to being skinheads and got into reggae. But they became confused and racist, and tended to join extremist political parties if they could think beyond how many laceholes they had in their DMs.

Dropping out was fashionable too. But more of that at a later date, eh?

From Sixties Mod to 21st century oracle

2007-04-11T11:37:00.000Z

Normal service will be resumed as soon as possible.

Those unforgettable words used to appear on early television screens when there was a breakdown in transmission.

Well, the breakdown in Tommy Spitz's transmission has been down to the middle men. Sawdust Caesar sold out its first print run and was reprinted. Spectacular for a first book. Enlightenment and the Death of Michael Mouse hit the bookshelves at the same time the World Trade Center was hit, and never really saw the light of day. The third book in the proposed trilogy - about rural life, Lysergic acid and Freaks in West Wales - was considered 'too dark'. The reality was that the booksellers wanted terrorism; the public had to be fed Al Qaeda.

Another (fourth) book, titled Gastronomy Domine, was passed around and considered by various publishers, but wasn't taken up by any of them, although one of their minions has since used the title for their own blog, which I consider a compliment.

So I took up screenwriting and entered a whole new world. Ever thought about screenwriting? Want to know a bit about it, how to get your work produced? Then follow this blog and I'll introduce you to some of the characters you're likely to meet, characters like: The Old Compton Street Producer; The Wannabe But Not Very Good Writer Offspring of a Famous Person; The Sloane Reader; The Freeloader Producer; The 'C' List Director Who Thinks He's 'A' List But Nobody Will Tell Him; The Gushing Media Groupies; The Ever So Sincere Agent; and that most hideous piece of work - The Ambitious Co-Writer.

Yes folks, they're all out there, waiting in the wings for the unwary and unsuspecting, so read on, and avoid grief... , but most of all, get the fame, wealth and idolisation you so richly deserve...

Sawdust Caesar

2007-04-06T18:40:00.000Z

The early to mid Sixties - when youth for the first time in history ran wild. A little known and barely recorded period when - unlike their Teddy-boy predecessors (who had been subject to the rigours of conscription) - those in their teens openly defied the social order of the day.

The Teddyboys of the late fifties were, despite their bizarre imitation of the early American Rock culture, still part of the system, and their brothers-in-arms, the leather-clad bikers, or rockers, were seen by the new breed of youth as a hangover from the war years, a troublesome barbarian who had ruled the roost for too long.

Picture the scene: schoolboys, school-leavers, mere kids, took to wearing brightly-coloured clothes - often handmade in West End tailors, the like of which had never been seen before: red, yellow, blue, and green leather and suede overcoats; two-tone handmade shoes and boots; pastel coloured trousers worn three inches above the ankle and gaudy shirts in a multitude of audacious styles. Imagine the ridicule they received from the older rockers who saw them as a pushover. But imagine also how they felt when they discovered that many girls preferred these little Beau Brummels, and that en-mass they weren't quite the pushover that they'd hoped. In fact, they soon found out the hard way that many of these kids were of tough stock, coming from the backstreets and council estates of London, and were more than a match for anyone who fancied their chances in a fight.

In direct contrast to the White Music loved by Rockers, these "Mods" as they were soon to be labelled by the media listened to little but the music of their black friends - with whom they had a great affinity - in the clubs of Soho and the basement parties of Brixton. Black and white youngsters mixed without stigma, becoming friends in a way perhaps unparalleled in history. Blue Beat and Ska dominated the subculture for years. And apart from one or two risible attempts, the music industry in both the States and GB were unable to get a look in.

This was a period of spontaneous and exuberant rebellion untouched and unadulterated by market forces, which paved the way for a host of less pure but more celebrated cults.

These youngsters were the pioneers of post war youth rebellion.

Another factor unique in history was the widespread use of drugs among this group; uppers and downers, which, combined with alcohol did little to calm the prevailing riotous impetuosity which pervaded each of their lives. Here was a revolution beyond the purely physical: a revolution of mind and spirit which shattered forever the mold of subservience cast by their forefathers, to set the course of man along unknown tracks.

Synopsis

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

Everything in the book is based on truth, all names having been changed to protect the guilty.

Life in a London comprehensive school. Gang molestation leading to the rape of a female pupil. Present are schoolfriends Tommy, Mac, a half-caste friend, and Dinger. All is fairly innocent, although unpleasant, until the arrival of Kenser, an older and tougher biker who has returned to the school to use the metalwork shop. Seeing the action going on, he takes advantage of the circumstances to rape the girl. There is a brief confrontation as Tommy objects to this degradation, but being the weaker, he backs down.

Soho, London. Out of their school clothes, Tommy, Mac and Dinger are out clubbing. The music is predominantly R&B and Ska, an ideal accompaniment to the amphetamines which are being swallowed wholesale by all. Between clubs and coffee bars they are predators on the streets of Soho.

Tommy meets Sherri, a West Indian girl in a nightclub and a mutual attraction brings them together. Black and white youth mix without stigma, finding common ground in the music.

Next morning, after washing and brushing up in a public lavatory, Tommy and Dinger pay Vince a visit at his street stall to borrow money before going on to commit a smash and grab raid to further finance their fashion habit. Not content with this, they recruit Sheila, a young Mod girl to act as prey for dirty old men.

Chislehurst caves - the rock and roll biker venue of the south of England, where Kenser gets to lay Tommy's white girlfriend Sandy, and the first battle between the two fashion gangs - Mods and Rockers - occurs. In the melée, Kenser, while grappling with Tommy, is stabbed and wounded by Tommy's friend Frankie.

Back in Soho, Tommy and Dinger continue to rob older men who have been lured into hotels by Sheila, but one evening, after saying goodbye to her, the two boys are stopped by three tough men, slapped about, and warned off. They are on Ray's patch. When they decide to quit, and mention this to Sheila, she goes it alone.

Schooldays over. Brighton. Gangs of youth in confrontation. Tommy meets Sherri who has come down in a coach with family and friends for a 'blues' party. He wanders off from the party asking Sherri to come with him to a beach party, but being a good Jamaican girl, she says she has to go home. Tommy gets blocked and then learns of Sheila's death back in London at the hands of the'Ripper' – a serial killer who preys on street girls. Sherri changes her mind meanwhile, and goes off down to the beach in search of Tommy, but sees him in the arms of another girl who, unbeknown to her, is merely comforting him after the terrible news. She runs off disillusioned.

Later, some time after midnight, Dinger is on the beach with a girlfriend trying to get it on when Kenser and gang arrive on their bikes. Seeing the pair of them alone he pounces, and, thinking Dinger is the one who knifed him in the caves, shoves him into the sea, holding him under until he drowns. His girlfriend is badly beaten and hospitalised in a coma. With Dinger missing, the police assume he is the culprit, but when his body is later found washed up on the beach the attention turns to Tommy who had spent the night alone and stoned, wandering the streets of the seaside town. But he convinces the police of his innocence and heads back to London with Vince who has vowed to find his little brother's killers. He then offers Tommy the job with 'the firm' he had lined-up for Dinger. Tommy, with nothing better to do and a bad home life accepts and takes the job and the flat in Soho that goes with it.

The weeks pass with Tommy in his new job as rent and 'insurance' collector, until one day he is called in by Vince to a 'trial'. There he sees Kenser, captured by Vince for the murder of Dinger. The entire sequence of events is clinically recorded on film as Kenser becomes the victim of a snuff movie. Tommy is sickened, but it is made plain to him that escape from this underworld nightmare after having been witness to murder is impossible. To compound his misery, he again by chance meets up with Sherri. Without giving him a chance to explain, she gives him a verbal slapping down and walks off.

By chance one evening he meets Beryl at a party. Both are bored and she is intrigued by thoughts of having a fling with a 'schoolboy', so they leave and go back to Tommy's dingy flat. There she seduces him and he realises the earlier dream he thought to be beyond his reach. The liaison continues for some time until one day Vince turns up unexpectedly and finds them together in bed. Shocked, Vince walks out, telling Tommy to see him in his office. There he gives him a dressing down, and explains that Ray, Beryl's husband, is his real boss and the main man of a large and nasty criminal organisation, but before Tommy can reveal that he too knows something about Vince – learned from one of their call girls – Ray arrives and tells Tommy to leave the office.

Then… but you can buy the book and find out. All right?

Sawdust Caesar at Amazon

Enlightenment and the Death of Michael Mouse

2007-04-06T18:31:00.000Z

Tommy Spitz, the anti-hero of Sawdust Caesar fame is back! On the run from murderous London thugs and the police after a vicious assault on a stranger, he questions his life and values after meeting with a variety of travellers during an epic pilgrimage from the grimy streets of London to the grimier streets of Istanbul, Teheran, Kabul and Karachi.

Ever the London Jack-the-lad at heart, he discards his mohair suit for the more ragged apparel of the seasoned traveller, picks up a copy of the Bhagavadgita, and heads east in his search for truth. Of course, nothing comes easy to the true pilgrim, and before he realises what is happening he is once again caught up in the underworld machinations of his old London buddy, Frankie, with whom he has decided to travel.

Escaping from a nightmare of intrigue in Istanbul he heads on east alone in search of this elusive thing called Enlightenment and discovers far more than he dreamy possible, a world way beyond the hashish dens and drug culture of the hippy overland traveller still today capturing the fertile collective imagination of millions worldwide. Here we experience Iran in turmoil years before the revolution; Afghanistan as a haven to young travellers in the years before Soviet and US intervention; and Pakistan as few of us might imagine.

On the beach in Karachi, Tommy at last finds his guru, but the message he receives from this naked old man is one that he far from expects and such is the shock to his system that his world collapses. Saved by a timely journey back to Europe on a Greek cargo ship, he once again, against all calculations and plans, finds himself in Istanbul, where he has to face the consequences of his relationship with Frankie and the Turkish mobsters with whom he had earlier been embroiled.

Synopsis

Michael Mouse of the title is a guy who walks into an off-manor pub and steps out of line with two of the local boys. After a bit of wordplay the boys follow him out of the pub and waylay him to administer a beating. No big deal. Par for the course in London.

Tommy Spitz (one of the two local boys) and Frankie, disillusioned with England, set out to bum around Europe. But by the time they get to Turkey, they realise that travelling together is becoming increasingly difficult as their individual temperaments are entirely different: Tommy wants to leave behind his old ways, but Frankie seems to be dragging his along with him. And Tommy is increasingly haunted, trying to come to terms with the beating he helped administer to Michael Mouse, wondering if the poor guy is dead or alive. Taking himself off to a remote beach in southern Turkey, he tries in his solitude to understand where he is coming from, but fails to find any 'enlightenment' – a term being increasingly used by his hip peers. Returning to Istanbul, he rescues Nilufer, a beautiful young girl, from the clutches of Mustafa, a Turkish pimp, and Frankie who is working for him, and flees with her after stealing a lookalike American girl's passport, to Germany where he leaves her with a friend before going on back to England. After a spell of casual work and Philosophy and Sociology at night-school, he gives up and sets out once again for India, Bhagavadgita in hand, intent on finding a guru who might teach him the 'truth' about life.

But back in Istanbul, Mustafa is on his trail, demanding payment for Nilufer, telling him that as Frankie has also run out on him, Tommy is bound to repay the debt. Denying all knowledge of Nilufer Tommy sets off East in midwinter, overland to Pakistan, staying in Iran and Afghanistan en-route, in hotels used by seasoned overlanders and hard-line members of the world nomadic scene. For the first time he tries hashish and is impressed. In Kabul he is told of his previous incarnations by a girl mystic, and soon after becomes very ill. Partly-recovered, he continues on through the Khyber pass into Pakistan where, still weak, he decides to head down towards Karachi and the warm Arabian Sea beaches. There, he books into a cheap hotel, exchanges his watch for a kilo of hash, and decides to attempt once again to get to the route of his being. Outside on the streets he learns of an old guru who lives in a temple on the beach and makes his way there to see him. But the reactions and answers he gets from the wise man are not only shocking, but to a naïve Tommy, almost incomprehensible. Dazed, he pays his hotel bill with the last of his money, and quits Karachi, jumping a lift on a tramp steamer back to Europe. There, instead of going home to recuperate, he returns to Germany to sell the hashish he has brought with him and discovers through Nilufer that Frankie is being held in Istanbul by Mustafa.

Once again in Istanbul, Tommy devises a plan to free Frankie who is working against his will for Mustafa: he borrows a small bottle of Lysergic acid and administers it to the Turk and his minders, but is accidentally also spiked by Frankie. The two of them escape in different directions, Tommy on the edge of a nervous breakdown, and each eventually makes it back to England.

Tommy meets Frankie one night in a pub. Frankie has a new job and a new girlfriend (the fiancée of his boss) and says he can get Tommy a job at the same place, arranging for him to meet his boss the following day. When Tommy gets there he is mortified to discover that Frankie's new boss is none other than Michael mouse. But he seems not to recognise the changed young traveller, his hair having grown long in keeping with the style of the times…

Little does Tommy realise that he has.

Enlightenment and the Death of Michael Mouse at Amazon