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Posted Monday 8 October 2018



Some of the least likeable people I have ever met spend a lot of their time telling me that my characters need to be more likeable. I was in a meeting with a very successful film Producer recently and she said that while she loved my script, she felt that the character wasn’t likeable enough. I asked her what she meant. She said that she couldn’t put her finger on it and she didn’t want to remove all of his darkness, she just wondered whether I could make him lighter, more obviously loveable. I asked her whether she meant before he killed his wife or after. She said ‘right up until he kills her.’

They insist that an audience will turn off / leave the cinema / put down the novel / leave their families / start on a murder spree, if the lead characters aren’t likeable. As a writer, the quest for likeability is the bane of one’s life, perhaps because, as a group, we are seemingly anything but likeable, but also because, as a term, it’s incredibly difficult to define. What do we mean by likeable? Am I likeable? Are any of my friends likeable? That Sri Lankan man who reads the BBC news seems likeable, as does the man who lives in my street and always gives sweets to my kid. Then again, my mother always said Jimmy Saville was likeable and he, it turned out, was…not. I once met Tony Blair, he was wonderfully likeable, a more charming and engaged man you could never wish to meet but he went on to sanction mass murder, so this whole thing can be tricky to get right.

In my world, in the world of films, likeable is a must, something that you absolutely need to find in your characters in order to sell the script.

The producer wasn’t the first one to question my characters’ likeability, in fact she was one of many. I was confused, anxious, who wants to write unlikeable characters. I started thinking. It’s what I tend to do when I’m confused, which is probably the reason I’m confused in the first place. I appear to have that in common with those murderers they interview on Death Row who insist that it was only when the fifteenth knife wound went in that they started thinking about what it was they were actually doing. Not as dramatic obviously, but it’s the same mental stalling - one moment you’re out food-shopping for a dinner party and the next, you realise you’ve come home with a bottle of bleach, some condoms and an apple…and there is no dinner party.

The confusion I was feeling was whether it was just film Producers who are so terrified of losing money that they want everyone to be likeable, or it was everyone. Wouldn’t we all like to be that likeable? Surely most of us are, aren’t we? It certainly appears that way. How often do we see a neighbour of a serial killer interviewed in the news making it clear that the man in question seemed like a good bloke, ‘very likeable in fact.’ The truth, it transpires, was that the man they shared likeable pleasantries with every day was in fact incredibly unlikeable, unless we’re defining likeable as picking up young men, fucking them, killing them and eating their rotting flesh. So seemingly most of us are using the cloak of likeability to hide the dark truths that lay inside. That would mean that being likeable is actually something we shouldn’t trust. We should eschew the likeable.

Until I started being lectured by Producers on the subject, I hadn’t thought about such issues in a very long time, probably since childhood, but recently I have thought about very little else. Forget fiction, what about real life? My real life. What if people don’t like me anymore? Could that be the reason very few people call me and ask me to go out and drink with them? How can I be expected to write likeable characters when clearly I’m not? I’ve taken my eye off the ball, I’ve got on with my life instead of keeping tabs on my increasing unlikeability. Is that even a thing? It must be, I have it. Shit I used to know people, hang out in pubs all day and share witty badinage with good people, likeable people. Are they suffering like me? Are they somewhere else? In a place surrounded by kids, bills and cholesterol testing kits, coming to terms with the fact that no one out there likes them enough to go out drinking anymore? Except, obviously, for that one bloke who’s so unhappy he’s grown a beard.

As a kid, I always thought that being liked was a good thing. It felt clear early on that if other kids liked you, you were less likely to be kicked or spat at or hit. Don’t get me wrong, you still were kicked and spat at, but only by the really unpleasant kids. The pleasant kids would leave you alone and get on with developing their magic cloaks of likeability.

But it wasn’t just the desperate need to avoid being kicked in the face that led to me needing to be liked. Being liked definitely became a theme in my life following an incident that took place when I was five years old.

We were living in Ipswich at the time. My father was an actor and so we lived anywhere that had a theatre that would employ him. This generally meant we spent a good deal of time in small towns, often near the sea, and often full of people who were either bored or mental. We had been in Ipswich a little while when Dad finally got my mum the thing she had always dreamt of having, namely a little house of her own. Obviously it wasn’t her own - it was rented from a man who had just over a thousand houses of his own, but to her it didn’t matter. She could decorate it and play with it and walk around it and tell her sisters all about it. She was deliriously happy. It made for a pleasant period in our lives. As I remember it, Dad would be around all day, playing with me and teaching me valuable life lessons, like never trust a man who works in a bank and remember that anyone who supports Spurs is probably evil. Then at night he would go to the theatre to play Vershinin or Captain Pugwash or whatever it was they wanted him to do, and my mother would walk me around the house telling me how when she grew up she had to share her house with seven siblings and an Indian mother. I never really knew why her mother being Indian made it any harder than had she been English or Spanish but she said it nevertheless.

Then one night Dad happened to be at home, something about an understudy run. So we were having a rare evening as a family. My memory is that Bruce Forsyth was on the television but I imagine that anyone trying to write about their childhood memories going back as far as William Of Orange would be safe to assume that Bruce Forsyth was on the television. The show involved families making fools of themselves and as far as I remember, we were loving it. It was wonderful seeing my mother and father laughing. It’s something I have loved seeing all my life, watching my father make my mother laugh was a beautiful thing, as more often than not he seemed to make her cry or punch him hard in the face. I remember feeling happy, secure. At five I was just starting to get what this whole family thing was gonna be about. Then, out of nowhere everything changed. A brick came cascading through the window and onto the carpet, the section of the carpet on which I was sitting. It struck me on the temple and I fell over, presumably screaming. All hell broke loose. My dad jumped up and ran to the window. My mother was screaming blue murder and I was joining in. Dad had seen the guys that did it. They were on bikes. He ran out of the house and chased them down the road shouting things like ‘come back here you fucking cunts.’ Not something you heard a great deal in Suffolk cul-de-sacs in the early seventies. Had he caught them he would have killed them. Fortunately for everyone involved he didn’t. Instead, he caught himself on an abandoned garden rake and pierced his abdomen and nearly tore a testical clean off. They thought he was angry before?

Meanwhile at home, my mother was in shock. She had read a note that had been attached to the brick. It said very simply: ‘Pakis out.’ I asked what that meant and she told me that some people don’t like brown people, ‘you know people like your Grandmother,’ yes, the one she had kept telling me it was hard to live in the same house as. She said that some people are, what is known as, racists. That means that they don’t like people who are different to them. They’re not very nice people. I was baffled. So why were they throwing bricks through our window? We’re not brown people. My Dad was from Aberdeen for God’s sake, with his clothes off you could barely see him, and I certainly wasn’t brown, I was slightly blue if anything. I asked her whether these racist people had a problem with slightly blue people. She told me to shut up and listen. The truth is, she said, ‘some people think we’re Pakis but we’re not.’

-‘We’re not?’

-‘We’re not. We’re Indians, well, half-Indian, you’re barely Indian at all.’

I was five, this level of insanity was beyond me. I looked back at Bruce who had just been comically offended again and was looking at the camera until people laughed, which they did. ‘Some people,’ she went on ‘just don’t like us. You just have to get used to it.’

So being liked suddenly became real, an actual life-saving necessity. It felt to me that life must be easier lived liked than not liked. However, as I grew into adulthood and now middle age I have started to shift. It did me well for a time but then it started to work against me rather than for me. Being likeable started to become a pain in the arse. ‘Oh get him along, he’s very likeable.’ The trouble with being that bloke is that you end up being one of two things - tedious or disappointing. No one wants to be likable in middle-age. They might as well be saying ‘oh get him along, he’s a fucking dullard with no meaningful opinions or thoughts on anything.’

It’s hell from start to finish. So having thought about this whole likeable thing, I can come to one conclusion. If a Producer wants a character to be more likeable, it’s because they have no idea what it actually means, and if you’re ever described as likeable in your actual life, then it means you have nothing of interest to say. So now, whenever a Producer asks me whether my character is likeable, I have a simple response… ‘I don’t know, are you?’

Posted Monday 24 September 2018



My first experience of a real life television show was with an Independent Television company in London to be broadcast on Channel 4. My first proper paid job and on a show that was actually going to be on television and only a short three years after I got my literary agent. From now on my delivery van was going to have to just learn to drive its fucking self. Those books I had read about writers were all finally going to make sense, my life was going to be a series of moments I could recognise from the life and times of Neil Simon and Billy Wilder.

The show was the type that you become familiar with the more experienced you get. It’s what television is full of, a show created and developed by an in-house development team. These are people who are paid by a Production company to sit around thinking up ideas, usually ‘high concept.’ This is another one of those expressions you hear a lot in television and film. It basically means an idea that is infinitely better than anything the actual script can deliver. I have made a career pitching great ideas that become months of misery as I realise that my moment of genius that went so brilliantly in the room was actually not much more than a funny line. Still, if you’re lucky it takes them a few thousand quid and a couple of drafts for the executives to come to the same conclusion. At which point your ‘funny line’ goes into ‘turnaround’ and you get to sell it all over again.

The idea is everything. The days of a respected writer walking into a commissioning office or a film execs office and saying ‘I want to write a story about a man struggling with his inner self set somewhere in the middle of nowhere’ are over. Indeed the days of a respected writer walking into the same office and saying ‘so Arnold Schwarzenegger and Danny De Vito are twins’ are also over. Whatever your concept, however high, they are going to need something more, an outline, a well-known director, better still a well-known actor and preferably one that doesn’t have a #metoo pending.

This show I was on was very  ‘developed.’ It was about a group of friends who get together in their late twenties and decide to make a list of things they have to do before they’re thirty. The pursuit of these goals and the relationships that took place during it were what made up the show. I was brought on with three others who had received the ‘we like your work but don’t want to do anything with it, so how about you come and write one of our ideas’ speech. Hey I was grateful. I was in a room with three writers, two Producers and a script editor looking at a huge whiteboard full of character notes, actions, series arcs and story beats. This was it. I was a writer.

As the development went on, the show moved away from its original concept and became more about the relationships between the group of friends. That’s what happens. It’s the concept, the high concept, that gets the company the money to develop the show, but the development of that idea inevitably leads to it becoming a different show entirely. What then happens is the executives who paid for it start to panic and the Producers have to convince them it’s going in a good direction while agreeing to make it a bit more like the original idea they commissioned. You, the writer, are in the middle of this. What that means is that you do endless story outlines that have to be passed by several people before you get to start on the script. The dream of being a writer becomes the job of being a writer. You will write more treatments and more story arcs than you ever thought possible for a half hour drama about a bunch of kids trying to get laid and do fun stuff.

Eventually we all settled on the six episodes and who was going to write what. I was writing episode two. That meant picking up the ‘set up’ episode and taking things forward slightly but not massively, emotionally and story-wise. I set off to start writing and I remember specifically that it just flowed. I’d finished writing the first draft in about three days, I couldn’t sleep, I didn’t care about anything else but having something I had written on the television. I handed it in and I discovered that the only thing quicker than me writing it was the time it took to get it back with a load of red lines through it. I remember one of the notes ‘stop explaining everything and just show it.’ Now that’s obvious. Everybody knows that, even people who don’t have anything to do with screenwriting know that. I forgot. So I started writing again.

This time it took me a week, and I sent it in. I heard nothing for a week then I got some notes. These were much better, specifics about moving things about, developing certain themes, hiding the plot, losing some exposition. I made the changes and again a week passed and more notes arrived, again mainly finessing and nuancing. I finessed and nuanced and sent it once more. Three or four days later more notes arrived, again tweaking and shifting. Did them. Sent them off. This time two weeks passed but it wasn’t an email it was a phone call. The script editor (more about those guys later) told me that they had decided to change the order of the episodes. Mine would now be episode five rather than ep two so that would change the arcs of the characters… ‘oh and we start shooting in two weeks.’ There was no explanation just a done deal. Fuck! I set about doing the notes, moving the characters on to their new emotional place even though I had no clear idea where they were at the end of ep 4. But I did it and I sent it. A few days passed and more notes, then more notes, then more notes. It was a day until the read through and I was doing a page one rewrite, I was on about draft nine. A’ page one’ is what we call a complete rewrite. No producer will ever admit to the fact they are requesting a page one, mainly because that usually means you can renegotiate your money, but also so as not to kill your morale. As you’re ploughing through the ten pages of notes, their words will be ringing in your ear ‘it’s nothing fundamental, just a few tweaks.’ The only time I’d heard the word ‘tweak’ before I became a writer was when, at school, someone grabbed my nipple and twisted it causing me immense pain, it was happening all over again.

I did the rewrite and the read through came, a room full of actors, producers, executives, with the addition of costume people, make up and the Assistant Directors. At this point in my career I had no idea what an Assistant Director did, let alone all three of them. I found out later when I attempted to direct a show I had written. I’ll talk about that when I get to the blog about not falling into the trap of thinking you can direct.

I had been at read-throughs before in my brief and deeply unsuccessful career as an actor, but this was different. These were my lines being read. It couldn’t have gone better, it got some laughs, it was even a little moving and definitely felt sharp and vibrant. I was delighted. It was all underway, my career had finally started and I was only thirty-two.

So the show was shot and I even got a call from one of the actors telling me how mine was his favourite episode, admittedly he got to have sex with the gorgeous girl in it who we later found out hated him, but he sounded genuine. But then everything changed, just like a great story should, just when everything was going so well.

A week before transmission I got a call. It was the Producer. I won’t name her but she’s the girlfriend of a very famous comic who used to be fat but isn’t so fat now. She told me that she had decided that my episode ‘didn’t quite work’, as a result they were going to pull it ‘for the sake of the show.’ Pull it?  What the hell did that mean? You can’t pull something you already filmed, you can’t pull episode five of six it wouldn’t make any sense. How naïve I was. Of course they can pull it, they can do what the fuck they like. I was devastated. My career hadn’t begun after all. Where was the mortgage and the nods from admiring fans on the tube? Where were the film companies knocking on my door to ask me to write a movie? All I had was a copy of an episode that would never be seen and a very tricky phone call to make to my mother who had already invited over everyone she knew to criticise it.

I was totally lost, had no idea what to do next. I would be that bloke who had his episode cut because he couldn’t write for shit. My agent, the script editor, one of the actors and for some reason my neighbour all told me that wasn’t the reason but I didn’t care. As far as I was concerned it was fucked, it was over.

I could sense my old van was sitting in a pound somewhere, chuckling to itself wondering how long it would be before it played host to my already embittered failure of an arse once more. This is a hugely important part of being a screenwriter - an overwhelming sense of disappointment. You can never feel that enough, and as my career started to improve rather than disintegrate that disappointment has only become more intense and more frequent. I spoke to an Oscar winning writer about this recently. He said that you will always be disappointed you just have to hope that the increase in your disappointment is matched by an increase in fees.

If you are reading this blog thinking about becoming a screenwriter as a way to find happiness, forget it, if you want to be a screenwriter at all it’s too late. You’re just not the kind of person who will achieve that, and if you happen to become a good one then good luck, because that kind of happiness will be a stranger to you. I don’t say this out of misery or bitterness, both of which I have in large doses, I say it because I think it’s a trait that you need in order to be good. I know two happy screenwriters. One is independently wealthy and hasn’t written in ten years and the other is dreadful. I know several miserable ones, men and women struggling daily with their mental health, with their total inability to ever feel joy, and each one of them magnificent people and terrific writers. That said, we rarely speak to one another anymore…miserable wankers!

Posted Monday 10 September 2018


I should say at this point in the blog, that while I am relating my experiences of a life in screenwriting as honestly as I am able, and trying to show the truthful development of what is a fairly mediocre career, I have been made aware that along the way I may be coming across as slightly bitter. I would like to make it clear that I am not - slightly bitter doesn’t cover it. Don’t get me wrong, I realise that being a writer is a privileged existence, and I know that I am extremely lucky to make a living doing something quite as pointless and self-indulgent as this, but nevertheless when things don’t go quite the way you want, strange and dark things can happen…if you let them.

Seeing my brother-in-law always reminds me of how ridiculous this career truly is. He always asks me how work’s going and I find myself responding by saying I’m overworked and under-appreciated, or that what I’m currently writing has little chance of seeing the light of day because of a producer or a director or a financier or possibly just me, and that being a screenwriter makes me miserable and frustrated. Usually he doesn’t hear the end of my rant as he has fallen asleep. Apparently working fifteen-hour shifts in a busy kitchen for twenty grand a year is quite tiring.

Bitterness is a terrible thing. I hate meeting bitter people, those that think life is simply unfair, that it’s conspiring to obstruct their career, their loves, their life - people who think that anyone in authority is trying to screw them, that anyone who gives them advice are just lying to their face as the world secretly laughs at them. Why do I hate meeting these individuals? For the same reason I removed all the mirrors from my bathroom when it became clear that a diet of alcohol, bread and potatoes turned me into Demis Roussos. It’s me. It’s bloody me.

Nobody wants to feel bitterness, nobody likes hearing themselves exuding it, but it happens. Just read the thread of any screenwriter and it won’t be long before the ranting begins. So what brings about this unsavoury state? The answer is, a myriad of things. There’s the feeling of sitting in a posh restaurant being asked to write a treatment for a show in the knowledge that the Producer who’s asking for it has no money, apart from what they can spend on an Italian dish that literally contains no words you’ve ever heard of. There’s the time when you realise that the show you’ve written three episodes of won’t in fact be shown as the channel have decided that they no longer want shows like yours anymore. There’s the moment you walk into a read-through for a film and realise that literally no one knows who the hell you are, apart from the runner, who asks if you could pop out for him and buy some more biscuits. There’s the moment the film is being shot when you turn up on set and spend the entire time being asked to move and be quiet, while wondering why the actors are saying about twenty percent of the words you actually wrote. Then there’s turning up at the premier of the film you wrote only to be asked by the PR people not to walk down the red carpet as someone from Cash In The Attic is currently being interviewed by Rio Ferdinand, and few things are more likely to engender bitterness than being told that the fifteenth draft of your script which has already been green lit is now back in development because the actor attached to play the lead has decided that his ‘character arc’ needs more work. A decision he came to while on the set of his latest Pot Noodle advert. So yes, there is bitterness, there is also pleasure, but mostly there’s bitterness.

A friend of mine wrote a film that was nominated for seven BAFTAs. He wasn’t invited to the event. He became angry, frustrated, and then he received an email from the Producer saying that their policy was only to invite the writer if he or she was actually nominated himself. He wasn’t. It immediately went to that place deep inside him that always knew he was worthless, ironically the very place that inspired him to write the film that was getting everyone else awards…not to mention laid. Just as he was starting to deal with this reality, after a week on his own on a Greek Island drinking ouzo and staring at his gnarled feet wondering why so many people feel the need to post photos of their own feet while on holiday, he received an email from the lead actor who had been nominated for one of the BAFTA’s. He was wondering whether my friend would write a speech for him ‘just in case I win, as writing isn’t really my strength’ - alongside acting, judging by the screening my friend had accidentally been invited to. At this point the previously happy-ish, successful screenwriter of some repute completed the transformation from fine, to not fine to full blown bitter. Bitterness took hold and he has remained in that hellish if occasionally comforting place to this day.

That said, there was a time in my life when bitter was just a long warm drink, but things started to change when I entered the wonderful world of ‘development.’

This is pretty much all you do as a writer. It’s ironic, as the meaning of development is to move a project or character forward. In reality there are fewer things in a writer’s life that feel less ‘forward-moving’ than Development, and as I said, this is pretty much all you do. You develop ideas and if you’re lucky they become scripts and if you’re even luckier you develop the scripts.

In comedy you are still developing on set, indeed in the edit suite. In fact I have sat in a room with my family watching something I have written that’s actually being broadcast, and people are still making suggestions for improvements. To be fair it’s usually my mother, who thinks that everything is worse than it was before. For some reason everything has to be compared to the first series of Dad’s Army. It doesn’t matter what it is. She enjoyed part one of The Godfather but it was drivel in comparison to the first series of Dad’s Army. ‘Keep you friends close but keep your enemies closer’ she admitted was a good line, but apparently nothing when compared to ‘don’t tell him your name Pike.’ Unlike my mother you are always developing. A script is never ready, it just sometimes gets shot somewhere in the development process. But hey don’t knock it, this is how you make money.

Development started for me when my agent got me some meetings with the very few Producers who had responded well to my sample script. By the way a script becomes a sample script when everyone has turned it down. It’s another way of making something depressing feel positive. I have about two dozen sample scripts and more underway. But a few Producers, or at least their readers, had seen something in the script that convinced them to ask me to travel to their office, usually in Soho or West London, so I could sit in a waiting room drinking tea and reading Broadcast while the Producer finished off their phone meeting with ‘someone in LA.’ (Remember that place? Presumably that’s where you’re reading this by now).

Those early meetings went something like this. I would walk in and sit down, and the Producer (in my experience either a woman in her forties who’d spent years cutting her way through the dense jungle of sexism, or a man in his early twenties who asked a mate for a job) would then tell me that they had enjoyed the tone of my piece. I learnt quickly never to ask them specific questions about my work, as more often than not they hadn’t read it, and you don’t want to embarrass them. Instead say ‘thank you’ and then think about the answer to the next question, which is: ‘what kind of things would you like to write?’ Obviously you want to write something quite like the thing they are supposed to have read, but don’t say that, it sounds sarcastic. Say something else, like ‘I’d like to write shows that allow me to explore universal themes in an entertaining way.’ That might keep you in the room and the Producer off the phone. It might not.

The thing about Producers, certainly the ones that are prepared to meet you when you’re a ‘no mark’, is that they have absolutely no idea what they want and even less of an idea as to whether you could deliver it (the women are exhausted from the years of fighting it took to reach the position and the men know fuck all about anything.) So all you are really trying to get out of them is a bit of money to write a treatment. A few pages that allow you to express an idea with the back up of some characters and maybe even a story. If you can get that, it was a good meeting. A few hundred pounds is good at this stage, that’s a week driving a van, a month pulling pints or ten minutes sucking cocks (a little known job I once did which involved removing sick chickens from a coop on a battery farm.)

Eventually I did get a couple of treatment commissions. Treatments are the bane of a writer’s life. A treatment is horrible. It’s an essay, you are in an essay crisis. Even writing a treatment for a show or a film that is etched in your soul is still like writing an essay on crop rotation in the fifteenth century. It is always dull. However, and I hate saying this, I find them useful. If not as a way of selling the idea then as a way for the writer to work out whether there is one. Invariably there isn’t. I find that most ideas I’m excited about are awful when fleshed out. I think the use to the writer is twofold. First and foremost the very fact that treatments are tough and vile means that if you get to the end of one you will know whether you wish to spend six weeks writing the script. Secondly you can find stuff in the writing of them that you won’t have had before when it was just a very impressive pitch. I have found characters, stories and comedy in the writing of treatments that were never in the original idea. 

However (there is always a however), it kind of depends on who you are writing the treatment for. I have submitted treatments that have been anything from two pages to fifty, from an outline for a television series to a pitch document for a movie - and while I do believe they can be useful for the writer, don’t confuse that with being useful for the executive. It’s amazing how often I have been in a room with several highly paid people (not that relevant but worth saying, the bitterness remember?) while they pore over the tome of outlines and character arcs, themes and research for a pilot script, and hear the words ‘we just need a bit more clarification. We love it, we really love it but we’re not sure where the audience access point is.’ ‘The audience access point’ is the point of the story or the part of the character that allows the audience to engage with the show. In the case of Tony Soprano he may have just knee-capped a bunch of people (notice ‘bunch’ again because it’s American, where I imagine you’re reading this now) but the audience apparently only access him when he goes home and worries about the nesting ducks. It’s an obvious thing that a half-decent writer will think about while creating hopefully deep, flawed and fascinating characters and a thing that can only really come across in the style of the writing.

A treatment can not of course show the executive the kind of writing that the writer will be executing. They hopefully know your style from you ever growing sample script mountain but even then they will probably say things like ‘I really need to know how I am going to like this person.’ ‘How will I like this person?’ ‘Where is this character’s redemption?’  The times I have wanted to say, ‘ I don’t know why we like him, why don’t you tell me why people like you.’ Redemption is a thing that apparently needs to happen in drama that never has to happen in life.

Posted Monday 20 August 2018


Having worked out that writing screenplays was something people actually did for a living, I watched an interview with Richard Curtis. I took three things from it. Firstly, that he didn’t seem to care what people thought of him and wrote with total confidence about the world he knew. Secondly, that he seemed to love what he did for a living and thirdly, that his living seemed to give him a house considerably larger than mine. That wasn’t altogether surprising as I didn’t actually have a house, or a flat, or a bedsit, and was staying in a mate’s flat sleeping on a makeshift bed made from cushions and table cloths (padded). With all the evidence stacked up, I decided if I wanted to be a scriptwriter and live in Richard Curtis’ house then I was pretty certain I’d have to write a script. So I did. (Little did I know that the films I would get made would all be low budget, which meant the only way I was ever getting in houses like his would be to give a quote for the painting and decorating.)

I knew that if I could just get to the end of one draft then no one could say I wasn’t a writer. They could say I was a bad one, but as my Dad always said, better to be bad at what you want to do than good at what you don’t. Something generations of men in my family had managed to pull off, while a select few of us had managed to just be bad at things we didn’t want to do. Anyway, armed with the mantra that ‘you need to write about what you know’, I set out to write a pilot for a show that I called The Stress Diet. While we’re on the subject of writing what you know, I later discovered that particular piece of writing advice is completely wrong. A writer I hugely admire set me straight, pointing out that you should not write about what you know, but about who you are. That said, back then I had no idea who I was so it wouldn’t have mattered either way.  

The Stress Diet was the true story of how I left a six-year relationship and in so doing became hugely anxious and lost a dramatic amount of weight. The person in question was a wonderful, funny, beautiful woman who absolutely adored me and wanted nothing more than to be with me and support me in whatever I wanted to do. Not my kind of thing at all. I was brought up to believe that being in love was about lazy contempt, a long and determined effort to undermine, humiliate and fundamentally destroy the person you’re with. So I left her, and it seemed to me that the tales surrounding that would make a funny TV show.

After several months of further procrastination that included going on a typing course, learning how to use a typewriter before eventually purchasing an old computer the size of a Fiat Panda, I wrote it. I had a script. It was okay, hugely naïve, not very good, but done. I had never read any books on structure or story. I had no idea about acts or inciting events or turning points, I couldn’t save the cat or build the story or get the monkey out of the tree, but what I did have was something that was quite heavy and stapled together and looked a bit like that thing that fell apart and flew away at the beginning of Murder She Wrote - a script. I was excited, but had no idea what to do with it. So for a few days I contented myself with forcing friends to hold it to see just how heavy it was, somehow equating its weight to my talent. They were fun days but the novelty wore off as you would suspect it might, mainly because people started saying thinks like ‘I thought it might be heavier than that’ or ‘it’s nowhere near as heavy as ‘This Life.’

It started to occur to me that the weight of a document might not be all that mattered, so I managed to read a couple of books on Story, one by Robert McKee and one by Sid Field. They were undoubtedly helpful and one of them really quite bulky, and while to this day I believe there is no replacement for actually writing scripts, I don’t subscribe to the view of some writers that you can’t learn the craft from a book. I think one of the things that makes being a screenwriter so soul destroying is that you absolutely can. It may not have a spark or character or a sense of dialogue, that stuff depends on life experience, awareness of the medium and a desire to share things about yourself and those close to you that ruin relationships, but you can absolutely learn to deliver a competent screenplay. It may even get made if the right bankable actor who doesn’t know good from bad decides he or she wants to do it. If you don’t believe me, turn on your television and open your film listings (or movie listings if you’re in LA, did I mention that you should be in LA? You should be in LA).

I was talking to a writer the other day who told me that he had never read any of those books, instead he had decided to read all of the plays of Ancient Greece. He said he’d rather sit through tome upon tome of miserable Greeks bemoaning their inability to affect their own destiny than half an hour of Robert McKee banging on about how he once wrote an episode of Columbo. Writers are snobby about that shit. Well the truth is he’d sold more than me, so that made him an expert.

The weighing done I decided I should try and get an agent. Yes, great idea, all the handbooks said you needed an agent, but it turns out that unsolicited scripts are hard to get read. I had no idea what unsolicited meant, I assumed it was something to do with paying for sex, but once someone explained to me that it just meant ‘unrequested’ I formulated a simple, absolutely flawless plan. Instead of writing dozens of letters and waiting for months for the inevitable rejection from those that could be bothered, I’d just give up. It was all too hard. The voice in my head that had been there for me my whole life delivered one more time –‘Quit. Drive a van.’ So I did that. After all, who the hell were they gonna cast as the man who loses fifty pounds over six hours of comedy drama? It was never gonna happen. I also knew that I was not the kind of guy who could walk into an agent’s office, brash and full of bravado and think of a funny trick to get someone to read it. I was never gonna be the Spice Girls walking into Smash Hits singing ‘Wannabe.’ I was Nick Drake, I’d rather have killed myself than get involved. Besides I’d finished a script, I could say I was a writer now. I’d been calling myself a teacher for five years and all I’d done was teach Chinese waiters to count to three, so this definitely made me a writer. By the way, I wasn’t Nick Drake, wow imagine comparing yourself to Nick Drake, what a twat.

However, after a couple of months delivering sausages to butchers in Kent, I had a realisation – delivering sausages to butchers in Kent, while good for the part of me that enjoyed free sausages, was bad for the part of me that still wanted to be a writer. I’d had ideas for more scripts, and I was also starting to write a few jokes. Maybe I could try and sell some of those jokes to actual comedians. The problem with that was the same as the agent thing. Comics don’t take unsolicited material, which is ironic as they are mainly using jokes to solicit sex. Actually is that ironic or just two words that sound the same? So if I couldn’t sell jokes then maybe I could tell them. I’d do some open spots and become a comedian, and if I was good enough I would happily use unsolicited material from anyone who cared to give it to me. After all, I had enough sausages to live off for a year, what’s the worse thing that could happen?

So, with one screenplay written and sitting proudly and heavily on my desk (by now I’d traded in the massive computer for a ten year old mini clubman) and with several others brewing in my mind, I did an open spot in a comedy club. There I was, six minutes of material, a lot of puns and a tiny bit of observation and I was a comic. It’s incredible how many careers you can have if you do something once, and not even that well, but I did it just about well enough to get myself an agent, albeit a comedy agent not a literary one, but an agent nevertheless. Until I got the agent I’d spend most of my time calling pubs to see if I could turn up and do a spot only to feel sick to the stomach when anyone said yes.

Being a comic is, in itself, one of life’s great paradoxes, at least it was for me - a constant battle between the pleasure of being able to communicate an idea and the terror of the approaching moment when you are supposed to do it. I once drank so much before a gig that when the time came for me to get up and deliver my six minutes of nonsense, a profound nausea overwhelmed me and no sooner had I walked onto the stage than I passed out and fell off it. The last thing I remember was a heckle from the audience which went something like ‘sit down, you’re going to pass out.’ A strange heckle I thought, but not as strange as waking up on the floor of the pub being stared at by a mime doing ‘sad face.’ I had seemingly left the stage head first and landed on my chin (at that point I still only had the one) and the next thing I remember I was in the A and E department of a London hospital receiving twelve stitches in my mouth and six in my face. The attending nurse asked whether it was true I had fallen off stage as the fifteen members of the audience waiting for me outside were claiming. The humiliation was extraordinary, but not enough to make me stop.

Another year of good, bad and mainly indifferent audience reactions would pass before I decided to make my jokes sitting down, in private, without an audience and on a computer (a slightly smaller one than before, no bigger than a Sinclair C5). I was about to enter the wonderful world of ‘Development.’

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