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[peterbloxham-blog]

feedback

Dear Albert,

I really enjoyed this extract, I think it’s a really promising start. I think maybe you could be a bit clearer about how this character feels about the death of his mother, though. Have you tried maybe writing this in the third person? You might be able to get a bit more of the interiority into the narrative if you wrote it in close third?

I mean, I just think that if your mother died you might seem a little bit more upset. That’s why I’m not sure about the cafe au lait scene, it just doesn’t seem like something a grieving son would do.

I think generally actually... sometimes we’re not sure where our sympathy lies with this Mersault character, so perhaps it might be a really good idea to show him doing something that we can relate to, maybe doing something nice that we could use as a way into the character? Maybe he could comfort the old woman crying at the funeral? Just an idea. I think we’d get more from the following sections if we could understand a little more about his perspective, maybe they could have a conversation and he could say something along the lines of ‘I am very upset about my mother’s death’.

Also, I was at times slightly confused spatially. Like, where is the coffin in relation to where they’re sitting, for example? I’m sure this is all stuff that will come out well in a second draft. Maybe two or three paragraphs describing the room?

Oh and off the record, I think that Jean-Paul may have been a little harsh during workshop, although I can’t imagine why because I do think this shows real promise. I don’t think it’s mundane and self-indulgent in the least. I don’t know what’s got into him recently, workshop with him has been quite tense.

Anyway, keep up the good work an I look forward to reading more,

Your friend,

Simone.

[peterbloxham-blog]

booker prize acceptance speech notes

[eyes forward, look natural]

Thank you, Booker, for giving me the Booker prize. Hello to everyone watching at home and thank you to Russell Brand for that fantastic introduction.

[sip water]

There are lots of people I would like to thank.

Thank you to every retail manager I ever had, for truly getting the best out of me and pushing me to succeed,

Thank you to Ian McEwan, the greatest buddy a guy could have, thanks for the advice [gesture lovingly to Ian]

Thank you to public, for buying so many of my books, you all show so much potential as great readers [smile winningly]

Thank you to Brunel University, for showing me what happens if I don’t work hard enough. Thank you to Will Self and Fay Weldon, I missed all of your classes, but your inspiration still lives through me. [touch chest]

My 2:1 plus honours

takes pride of place on nearly ALL of my CVs.

Thank you to UEA for all of the free wine, my MA is still pending, but I’ve already started spending! [pause for laughter]

In fact, thank you to every teacher and lecturer I ever had, for teaching me how to Write. [heartfelt pause]

Thank you especially to literary theory for making my bookshelf look so much better,

Thank you to every company that offered me an unpaid internship, for the experience and for the opportunity I am truly grateful. [remember to breathe]

[screaming]Thank you to post-colonialism, for my sense of identity!

Thank you to HSBC for my overdraft

Thank you to public school, where I shall now be able to send my children

Thank you to Booker for giving me Booker prize, I knew it would be like this, I always did.

It is a lovely prize and I truly feel I deserve it,

I will hopefully write another short book and collect another literary prize next year,

But I will always remember my first.

[peterbloxham-blog]

A KITCHEN MISHAP

Jamie Theakston is standing in his kitchen, reading the preparation guidelines for a Goodfellas’ frozen pizza. Jamie has bought four pizzas and eight beers from his local Sainsbury’s Local supermarket. The beers are chilling safely in the fridge and he is about to cook the pizzas in the oven, before eating them with his friend Richard Bacon who is due over to his flat any minute now.

He is looking forward to an evening of classic laddishness, he and his friend Richard will drink beer and watch the Football Match on ITV and talk about girls. After the match, they will play violent games on the Xbox 360. He has bought a copy of Nuts magazine and a copy of Front magazine specifically for this occasion. He and Richard will flip through the magazines and rate all of the naked women, carefully critiquing their breasts. Younger women in general have denser tissue in their mammary glands, making the flesh feel firmer, often making the breasts appear more pert. This is a fact Jamie has carefully researched, he will drop into conversation while he and his friend are discussing breasts.

The girls in Front magazine have tattoos. Front magazine is about punk girls and emo chicks now. The girls break the mould. They have personality. Jamie Theakston prefers images of naked punk girls, they are stronger individuals, they are more unique. He hates the idea that a woman might bleach her hair blonde or get fake tits to be in porn. He thinks that women having surgery and homogenising their looks to appeal to a restrictive, whitewashed image of what a man finds attractive is wrong. Jamie prefers natural breasts, he doesn’t mind what size they are. Jamie Theakston is a modern feminist man.

When Jamie Theakston is cooking, he often pretends that he is the star of his own cooking show. He imagines his photo on the cover of the Sunday Times Magazine or one of the Observer pullouts with a caption that says ‘Theako, The Gonzo Chef Who Is Making Cooking Cool Again’ or something similar. He imagines he is doing a section on his show right now. The section is about how to prepare a frozen pizza. He is talking out loud, as if to camera.

“I’m going to get this pizza here and just cut off the wrapper with a sharp knife, but you can use scissors if you like.” He says, cutting the plastic and unwrapping the first pizza.

He opens the second pizza box and takes another shrink-wrapped, frozen pizza out.

“Same again here, just cut it out!” He says. This time he attempts to cut off the plastic with more flair, he quickly flicks the sharp knife across the surface of the frozen pizza, the sharp point flashes through the plastic film and into his hand.

Jamie Theakston drops the knife and the pizza and grabs his hand. The knife clatters on Jamie Theakston’s Italian granite flooring. The pizza falls onto the work surface, its plastic film gashed open. Jamie doesn’t say anything. He looks at his new injury. It doesn’t hurt yet. He has a 4 cm slice between his thumb and forefinger. He watches as the freshly created lips in his flesh turn from a stunned white to red. He watches as blood starts to seep out and drip onto the work-surface. He solemnly moves the frozen pizza out of the way. The wound bleeds faster. He stands in the kitchen and bleeds for about ninety seconds. He is waiting for the blood to coagulate, for the wound to stop bleeding of its own accord. A puddle of thick red liquid is forming on the work-surface.

The wound does not stop bleeding of its own accord. Jamie Theakston’s hand begins to throb. Sticky blood is all over his hands and sleeves and the work surface. Jamie Theakston eventually gets a clean tea-towel out of the drawer and wraps it around his hand tightly. He can feel warmth and moisture spreading under the fabric.

He very quietly and calmly rinses his good hand and opens his fridge and takes out a cold can of Coca Cola. He opens the can and stands in the middle of his kitchen, looking out of the window, sipping from it. Everything is very quiet and calm. He holds his bandaged hand above his heart. Pearls of blood begin to gather on the lower corner of the cloth. They drip onto the floor.

The flat buzzer goes off.

[peterbloxham-blog]

RICHARD DAWKINS

Richard Dawkins is in The Old Blue Last on a Saturday night. The place is rammed. An American experimental hardcore punk band called Fucked Up are playing here tonight. Dawkins is pumped. Fucked Up are Dawkins favourite band at the moment.

Richard Dawkins had a beer and a shot at about 4:30 and has been knocking them back ever since. It is now about 9:30. He is feeling boisterous, drunk and excited. He thinks about how stupid all religion is and laughs to himself loudly. He thinks about hearing some sweaty hardcore experimental punk. He thinks about how good Fucked Up were at ATP festival last year.

‘Fuck, yes,’ Richard Dawkins is thinking. ‘This is going be amazing. I’m going to lose my shit.’

Dawkins looks out over the upstairs area of The Old Blue Last. There is a man with an expensive-looking camera taking a picture of a girl and a guy. The girl is pulling her left breast out of her top and sticking her tongue out and snarling. It is all part of the crazy time everyone is having here tonight. Dawkins is sweating. He wonders how much longer it will be until Fucked Up play.

Dawkins turns back towards the bar. He waits with other sweaty people and then orders a beer and a shot. He downs his shot and grabs his beer and decides to go and find a good spot for when Fucked Up come on stage because it probably won’t be long now. The place is incredibly full. He pushes through clammy bodies towards the front.

Dawkins gulps down 1/3 of his beer. He is feeling incredibly pumped now. He looks towards the door over the heads of the crowd and sees The Pope walk in.

What the fuck is that prick doing here? thinks Dawkins.

The Pope is with a few friends. He sees Dawkins but pretends not to notice him. The Pope approaches the bar with his friends. Dawkins is watching him, feeling drunk and belligerent when the crowd starts cheering. Fucked Up walk out on stage and immediately start playing Dawkins’ favourite song, ‘Magic Word’. This makes Richard Dawkins go completely mental. He drinks another 1/3 of his beer and throws the rest at the stage. He starts running on the spot and punching the air. Other people are stomping around and punching the air too. Fucked Up finish their song. They play another song. People are jumping around, running into each other. Fucked Up play another song. Richard Dawkins is jumping as high as he can and at the height of each jump he is kicking the air and shouting ‘Yes!’ in a very shrill voice.

‘Yes! yes! yes!’ his face is red, his head could explode at any minute. He is drenched in sweat. Fucked Up finish another song.

‘What’s up, London? We’re Fucked Up,’ says the singer. People cheer. Dawkins roars, head back, fists in the air. The singer is talking.

‘I need a motherfucking drink,’ thinks Dawkins.

He goes over to the bar. The Pope is still standing at the bar with his friends. ‘Yeah,’ the Pope is saying to his friends ‘they were shit at ATP and they’re shit tonight too. I’m only here because this blog wants me to write about it and stuff.’

Dawkins’ blood is pumping.

He leans drunkenly over the bar and shouts towards The Pope. Fucked Up start playing another song. It’s incredibly loud.

‘Why don’t you fuck off?’ bellows Dawkins.

The Pope and his friends try to ignore Dawkins.

‘Oi!’ screams Dawkins. ‘I’m fucking talking to you!’

The Pope looks slightly agitated. The bar staff look at Richard Dawkins. One of them calls a bouncer over and starts talking to him.

‘Cunts!’ shouts Richard Dawkins.

‘What?’ says The Pope suddenly. He starts pushing through some people towards Dawkins.

‘Ahhh, fucking hell, come on just leave him,’ says someone. The Pope approaches Richard Dawkins. ‘Did you say something, mate?’ he asks. Dawkins is swaying from side to side and sweating profusely. He fixes The Pope with a wild look. He picks up someone else’s beer from the bar. It is in a glass bottle. He downs the beer. The Pope watches.

‘I said fuck you,’ shouts Richard Dawkins, and he smashes the bottle over The Pope’s head. The Pope goes down, he hits the floor like a sack of potatoes.

Richard Dawkins laughs maniacally as he is wrestled to the ground.

[orginally posted on newwavevomit.com]