Sheer Madness

“This is not a hoax: Madness are in the building,” roars film director Julien Temple to the Ska-hungry crowd. To many sceptics, it could well have looked like an elaborate farce – after all, why would the baggy-trousered granddaddies of British Ska take time out of their UK tour to play (for free!) at a town that is more famous for its teenage pregnancy rate and low-income households than its cultural merits?

It turns out there’s a very good reason: Bridgwater, (like many Costa-ized middle-England market towns) is suffering from a major identity crisis and a number of the town’s organizations are doing their best to get the Town Hall and it’s adjacent offices turned into a vibrant hub of cultural activity. It just so happens that Temple is a local and one of the avid supporters at the helm of this project - and he also happens to be able to draw big names, like Madness to the area. The BBC’s Creative Director, Alan Yentob also put in a brief appearance to draw the winners of the raffle prizes and to make his position as patron to the town hall project known to the town’s folk.

Full to capacity and bursting with hot, buzzy energy, the Bridgwater Palace appeared to be the perfect venue to host such a worthy, grass roots event. Of the three support bands (Shoot The Moon, The Royal Males and Kid Harpoon) that battled it out for the chance to be nurtured by music charity Sturmmerville, Sedgemoor locals Shoot the Moon were victorious. As hosts to this event, Strummerville had a dually significant reason to put on this rare bonanza – it’s five years this winter since the death of self-proclaimed rebel and front man to the Clash, Joe Strummer. As Strummer spent his final years at his home just on the outskirts of Bridgwater, it seemed fitting to have a celebration of his life and work on the same night.

Strummer was a regular at the Bridgwater carnival and played a gig in aid of the opening of the town’s Engine Room media centre just months before he passed away. After an electrifying set consisting of old school Madness numbers, the band paid tribute to Strummer by mustering up a cover of London Calling. Suggs’ vocals didn’t quite do justice to Strummer’s raspy drawl, but it was a touching performance none-the-less. Other highlights included a surprise cameo from Roxy Music’s saxophonist, Andy Mackay, who took command of the stage during a few numbers.

Temple hopes to make this kind of star-spangled evening a regular event in Bridgwater; and with such an enthusiastic crowd of locals, it shouldn’t be difficult to raise the town’s morale and make people aware of the rejuvenation scheme. And if the pubic funding grant the council have applied for gets turned down: the underdog spirit of the town will no doubt triumph in the end, even if it takes longer to set in motion. It’ll be an arduous and drawn out process, but as the Madness gig proves – the town is prepared to fight for their right to party and deter the property developers who will invariably want to claim the town hall island site for themselves.

Baggy Trousers in Bridgwater

Bridge Over Troubled Water

Despite using pictures from the WBA exhibition (Mothers Lost in Childbirth) to accompany my article about the Bridgwater Town Hall Island Site, it is up and live!

www.stranger-mag.com/news/ear-to-the-ground/bridge-over-troubled-water.html

Check it out for an interesting story about a planned regeneration project that will rock the socks of any other (if it goes ahead...).

Master of the Arts

It's been a while since I posted, but then I've had a lot of celebrating to do...

On Saturday I graduated as a Master of the art of writing - which sounds very clever, but I nearly didn't make it at all. To recap, I spent the previous week in Bristol, working as a volunteer at Encounters Short Film Festival at the Watershed. Met lots of lovely people, watched a ton of extremely descent films (for free), drank lots of (free) wine, and fully exhausted myself in the fuggy haze that is the film industry.

The Film Council hosted a closing party on the Friday night, and as predicted one was suitably inebriated by the time they kicked us out. I staggered back to bed in Bedminsted with my newly acquainted friend, Kerry. As my phone battery was thoroughly dead, Kerry kindly offered to set an alarm for me. 6.00 am, fine I thought, not much earlier than I'd been getting up the past three days...

The next time I opened my eyes, it was light outside, and I knew something was horribly wrong... I was supposed to be back at home by 8.00 am, ready to get my bits together for the important day ahead. It was already 8.15, and I was still in Bedminster. Shit. I launched out of bed, chucked everything in my bag, didn't even look at the sprawling lines of running makeup clogging up my eyes and wild hair that had taken on a life of its own, but hey - it didn't matter, because if I didn't get a train in the next hour, I'd miss the big event.

I ran (like an absolute nutter) all the way to Bristol Temple Meads - thank god there weren't too many people around to witness that! Got to the station and waited (mildly) patiently for my turn at the kiosk, whilst utterly embarrassed about the steam that appeared to be rising from the top of my head (not joking, it was frosty outside and I was like Xmas roast turkey). My only lucky break came when I realised I could get on a Virgin express and it was leaving in 5 minutes. Perfect, surely? But then I still had to phone the rents to tell them my huge cock-up, ask them to pick me up en-route and furnish me with fresh (smart) clothes and shoes.

But I didn't have any change for a pay phone.

There wasn't time before the train left to find change, so I boarded the train and almost cried. Not because the ceremony was one of the most important dates of my life, but it was the fact that EVERYTHING had gone wrong from the moment I woke up.

Onboard, I borrowed a phone from a fellow passenger, got the message across to mum, and tried to scrape off last night's makeup. Feeling a little fresher, I began to calm down a little inch. Suddenly I was in Taunton, off the train - half an hour earlier than I'll told the rents. Brilliant! I'll go to Morrisions and get some tights, coz I know mum'll forget those!

Got the tights, got some water, headed back to find the Wicks clan pulling into the car park. We were in Falmouth in double quick time, had enough time to change, rearrange hair and makeup before up to Tremough campus for the day's events. Us MA Prof. Writers certainly stood out from the rest of the conforming students in gowns (the main reason being that conforming in the black get-up costs £50.) The moment of handover was less gratifying than I'd thought it would be, but we jazzed up the hour of (mostly boring) speeches and relentless clapping by randomly whooping, shrieking and whistling at people we didn't know going up on stage to collect their fake certificate.

The college funded 'after party' was a bit cheesy, cheap sparkling Chardonnay and cardboard pastries a-go-go. At least they gave us something for free I guess... Things got considerably better off campus, when we all congregated at my favourite cocktail bar The Taproom. The rents and my sister joined us and we pretty much took over the whole place, with the smokers sprawling outside onto the terrace with blue blankets provided by the management. (I personally wouldn't encourage such privileges, but hey...) Most of us went back to Frea and Andy's house, after a quick stop at Bayside Kebabs. (The floor outside used to be soooo greasy that the council have forbidden them from letting their customers eat their goods outside the establishment!)

At Frea's we sat in the cozy living room and played Sing Star till about 4.00 am. Not exactly my cup of tea, but it's funny to watch the quieter members of the group come out of their shells a bit in front of a mic. Miles walked my sister and I back to Kellie's empty house and I slept solidly until 11.00 am. Didn't really get a chance to properly say goodbye to everyone, so in that respect it felt strange to leave so soon, but R&R was a little more pressing at that moment.

Since then, I've had a host of ideas for shorts, which I am going to write up tonight, organised a few freelance jobs, interviewed Lucinda Mellor (Joe Strummer's widow and organiser of Strummerville), and booked myself onto a two day film event at the Engine Room for the end of next week. Phewwwwww.... and breath!

Morris Men on the loose in Glastonbury

As promised, here are the rowdy bunch of Morris Men we encountered in Glastonbury (Where else would you find such curiosities?!)
















They came in swaggering, they drank cider as they danced and then departed high spirited, jangling around like court jesters.

Town Hall Island

Met up with Phil Shepherd of the Engine Room, and coordinator of the Island Project. What a lovely, passionate man. We talked about the practicalities of the business-side of the redevelopment, his aims for the new improved Engine Room and a possible fund raising gig that is being talked about for December. All exciting stuff, can't wait to be a part of it.
Here's the impressive artist's impression of the regenerated Island Site:







Just got back from a cider making demo at the Rural Life Museum in Glastonbury - how hilarious, there was a gang of misfit Morris men and people dressed as weird animals that were going round scaring children, oh ok, maybe it was just me that was scared... (I'll post the pictures for you to judge yourselves) The smell of the apples being pressed in a cold barn was strong and autumnal. Didn't get to taste the stuff though, apparently it needs a couple of mouths to ferment.

To top off the slightly eccentric day, as we were passing through the Hamp Estate in Bridgwater, a grey cat walked across the zebra crossing right in front of the car! What a sophisticated feline...

Mothers Lost

Last week Brigid McConville, a close friend of the family, and fellow writer, invited me to an exhibition held in London this week. Brigid is not only a writer though, she is also a film maker, international journalist and coordinator of the White Ribbon Alliance for Safer Motherhood (www.whiteribbonalliance.org). Curious to find out more about the WRA, and with the intention of writing a piece about the exhibition, I set off to London for the preview.

‘A Promise to Mothers Lost’ is a multimedia exhibit of artwork produced in response to mothers needlessly lost in pregnancy and childbirth by the communities and families left behind in developing countries such as Africa, Asia and South America. The exhibit will run until December, held at the Royal College of Obstetricians and Gynaecologists near Regents Park. Before I tried to find this slightly obscure venue, I had another appointment to keep at Soho House near Leicester Square.

I arrived in London on Tuesday at 2:00, thinking I’d have plenty of time to faff around before meeting Annie Gosney at 4:00. But by the time I’d got my bearings, signed up to the EveryChild charity with a persistently sprightly street haggler (he had an American STOP! sign drawn on the palm of his hand and stuck it into my face – how can you possibly say no?) and found some lunch, it was time to search for Soho House on Greek Street (v v exclusive members’ club/bar/venue for the entertainment industries lovies).

Now imagine the scene: I’m hot and sweaty from the hall-ass around London, a bit lost and a bit nervous. I find the building and start pressing the buzzer on the wall, but nothing happens. Ok. I then watch as a man breezes past me and into the building, no problems. Do I go in, or wait for the person behind the buzzer to make himself know. (Annie said I’d have to buzz!) Knowing full well I should just go in, I take a quick peep inside and decide I should just go on up.

I went up a flight of stairs and found a smart, young man behind a desk and several posh looking waiters hanging about close by. There is a list in front of the man. I lean on the desk and say, “I’m here to see Annie Gosney.” He looks at the list, strikes a pencil line through my name and tells me to go upstairs, “She’ll either be in the second floor bar or the third floor…” I’m already not really listening and instead, worry about not being able to find her in this huge building of a rabbit warren nesting thespians and countless people I kind of recognised, but couldn’t quite put names to…. very disconcerting.

Luckily, Annie has positioned herself close to the second floor doorway, so easily recognisable to me. We move into the bar, which has to-die-for wallpaper, leather sofas, an island bar in the middle and huge glass chandeliers. Feeling a tad bit out of place in my too-big-jeans, grey cardigan and crappy black plimsoles, Annie is very entertaining and makes it easy to settle into a fun gossip-led conversation. Tim McInnerny and Annie have been invited to the press night of Swimming with Sharks, staring Christian Slater. (I heard today that she got on famously with Christian at the after party and is seeing him again tonight…lucky lady!)

What a life – parties, meeting GOOD celebrities and press nights… am I jealous? Maybe a little, but it does all feel a bit fake somehow. Annie treats me to a large glass of wine, and I’m starting to wish I’d eaten my sandwich before I came in here – too late, I’m a bit tipsy! It’s fine though, I’ve got the trusty Dictaphone on, and I only had to seek some contacts from Annie to help me along with my Stage commission. Lovely. Annie had to leave at 5:30 to prepare for Christian (and the play of course!), so we said farewell and promised to keep in contact over Christmas.

Warm, a bit fuzzy, and in the dreadful rush of crazy-hour traffic, I had to gather my wits for the next leg of this mini adventure. On the tub, off at Baker Street, down the road the wrong way for about a mile, I got the feeling I was in the wrong part of town… and I was right. I re-traced my steps and just about found the Royal College of O & G before the daylight faded completely. In the courtyard stood two proud (static dancing) ten-ft willow women with small contained fired burning on the ground beneath each. What an entrance.

Inside I found Brigid’s oldest son, Arthur and one of my housemates, Dean on the decks, playing some welcoming reggae. I met Brigid’s daughter, (one of my oldest friends), Maeve on the stairs. Maeve has been heavily involved in the press side of the event, as well as being a general runner for her mother. We went up stairs and grabbed a free wine and some tasty, worldly nibbles. Actress Diana Quick introduced the exhibition, followed by the coordinators of the WBA, RCOG, United Nations Population Fund and speakers to tell the stories of some of the women lost to maternal mortality. To lighten the tone, celebrate the cause and the news that the Bill & Melinda Gates trust will donate $1 million for the exhibition to tour the world, Tanzanian pop star Stara Thomas performed “Play your Part” with her live band.

There was laughter, dancing and a general feeling of hope in the vast room, which was very well attended by a diverse cross-section of humanity. I took some time to take pictures of the varied and often stunningly beautiful art works with more friends involved in the exhibition. By this point I was feeling pretty exhausted, but enjoying the atmosphere none-the-less. In the information pack I collected at the end of the evening, I noticed a range of post cards with paintings of ‘mothers lost’ on the front. I was horrified to see a girl the same age as me staring back. Rita Egwe died in July this year because the poverty she faced on a day-to-day basis in her homeland prevented her from receiving the treatment she deserved to deliver her baby.

My best friend, also Rita’s age, had her first baby four weeks ago. Oscar was born four weeks premature. Although the conditions at our local hospital are considered to be sub-standard (over-crowded and under-staffed), Oscar is now fit, well and the normal size for his age. Rita didn’t even have the basic right to transport to take her to a health centre or hospital – even the terrain of her surroundings prevented her from living. This is wrong, so wrong. Why is it that even now, steadfast traditions, lack of support, training and medical provisions in developing counties leads to a woman a minute dying needlessly. I hope the exhibition stirs the hearts of as many influential people as possible from across the globe – giving life should not equate with death.

The following day, I offered my services to help with setting up an adjacent exhibition at the Excel centre, along with Maeve, Arthur, Dean, Harry, and another friend of the family, Julian. First, we set to work erecting the willow women from the previous night. It took about eight of us to hoist them upright, but they looked just as magnificent inside the aircraft hanger style room of the centre as they had outside. Then we had to decide what artwork to put on the exhibit spaces, erect two comment boards, and a cinema. That’s when everything seemed to go wrong.

Brigid and John left to go back to the college and then pick up some materials to help us hang the pieces. Julian was kind of in charge, but this didn’t seem to make complete sense. Lovely man, but god – some people are just useless organisers! Maeve should have been in charge, girls are generally better at such things. So, we got the comment boards up ok, taped this weird sticky material on to them then later found out we had to take them down for ‘health and safety’ issues! The Excel people were worse than useless: they wouldn’t lend us any bit and pieces for the displays, watched out every move as if we were complete armatures (not far wrong, but still!), and set us back by at least a couple of hours due to the comment board disassemble. Everything was taking too long, the only thing that was going right was the cinema, but that was nearly a disaster due to the screen stand being too tall – we had to hang the screen off the beams of the makeshift tent instead.

I had to leave just before five, and all we’d really done was assemble and take apart a few boards, place some art work against the panels ready for hanging and, and that’s it! Apart from six fabric panels on one wall, which probably also had to be taken down for some kind of H&S reason... I haven’t even dared to ask Maeve how it panned out yet… she’s probably feeling a bit bitter about it. Considering we started at noon and only had a fifteen-minute break, we didn’t have much to show… I hope they got it sorted without too much hassle.

When I returned home, I found an email from Christina. It was my (unofficial) MA result. I passed! With 64%! Lets hope it doesn’t change before the official verdict next month… I love you tutors!

Continued...

I’m continuing on from the last blog which I had to stop abruptly because I clocked Julien Temple (late by half an hour, but very apologetic) striding towards the Engine Room café as I was inside, writing. I guess I should count myself lucky he remembered our meeting at all. He is working on three films, and championing the Town Hall Island project at the moment, and I am made to feel increasingly nervous as I realise a very famous film director is standing in front of me with his trademark shades still masking his eyes. He keeps them on for the duration of the interview, and I soon realise that the shades are not there to make him look cool, they are there to mask the fact that he is just as nervous as me, if not more so…

Not what I was expecting at all, and when my Dictaphone decided to use up all its memory ten minutes into our interview, I’m really worried the hour we had to talk would be dramatically cut short…but miraculously, I controlled the situation by giving him a copy of Stranger magazine to browse whilst I fiddled with the damn thing, erasing items willy-nilly. Interviewing Julien was very different to interviewing Tim McInnerny, and I guess I wasn’t expecting to have to work harder to make Julien feel comfortable. Tim was a naturally entertaining, talkative, exuberant person to interview and probably could have talked about himself for hours more. But Julien, although passionate about the project, wasn’t overly forthcoming and took longer to settle into the interview.

I asked him questions about his involvement in the regeneration project, about his connection to the town and the next steps of the project. He was most happy talking about his segment of the project, the Black Lamp Cinema, which will (if the project gets the funding it deserves), show independent films from across the globe to a broad spectrum of audiences both old and young. I’m personally very excited about this idea, and think it’s exactly what the town has been screaming out for years, if not hundreds of years…

I’ve just written up the transcript and written a 750-word feature based on the interview for Stranger. (Check out the stranger website for full article next week: www.stranger-mag.com) I think this piece will act as a base for an extended feature I want to write once I’ve got more impetus to tantalize a national publication. By impetus, I mean more names. Alan Yentob is the patron of the project, so I really want to try and get hold of him – it should be pretty easy considering he lives just outside of town. A close friend of my parents who is a VERY close friend of Julien’s is trying to set me up a meeting with Lucinda, (Joe Strummer’s wife) which would be great because she’s chief organiser of the Strummerville music charity.

Damien Hurst is putting his name to the gallery that will feature in the project, but I’ve been told that that’s pretty much all he’s prepared to do, which means it’ll be near impossible for me to contact him…never mind, I hear he’s a bit up himself any way… There are also a few council members I need to talk to about the practicalities with, funding etc, and the coordinator of the whole shebang, and head of the Engine Room media centre, Phil Shepherd. I also will have to do a certain amount of research on the town, its traditions, history and modern economical shifts. All of which I will enjoy immensely, as the town is full of curious secrets.

I know that I am making a name for myself with the movers and shakers of the project, I was even told by Jill that they (project coordinators) had been talking about me in their board meeting, which I was a bit worried about at first – maybe I’m jumping the gun, getting excited before anything is confirmed.

But then I’m essentially acting as a publicity machine for them, writing about the project before anyone else realises there’s a damn good story here…at least I think that if I don’t do it now, I’ll miss out. And whilst I’ve got the time, I couldn’t think of anything I’d like to be dong more than boosting my home town’s cultural profile as well as meeting a host of interesting people and hopefully producing some good writing?

I’ve also got three other projects on the go – a green light on the sixixis profile, a green light on the Backstage piece and a review for a journalist friend for an exhibition she’s putting on in London next week. Brigid McConville is a close family friend and provided me with my first inspiration as a writer. She’s involved in an international organisation called The White Ribbon Alliance – helping to liberate women in developing countries, by giving them the chance to get their voices heard by the rest of the world.

This exhibition is a collection of materials handmade by women in Africa, depicting messages with “a promise to mothers lost” as the theme. Brigid will be touring the exhibition internationally and she has been invited to 10 Downing Street to show some of the exhibits. Brigid has asked me to review the exhibition and have a think about where I would like to place it. I was thinking about Mslexia or Red Pepper, but I will ask Brigid's opinion before I pitch, in case one of her freelance friends has already pitched to them.

After the exhibition on the 16th, I will be returning with Brigid’s youngest son Rory to look after him for the rest of the week in their beautiful family home in Enmore. It will be the perfect opportunity for me to finish off all my projects and get the true solitary writer vibe in this huge house in the middle of nowhere…I secretly can’t wait, it’ll be amazing.

At the time of writing I have also just finished filling in an application form for a digital shorts competition, and a rough draft of the Stranger feature. I’ve got a million phone calls to make tomorrow, but I don’t want to think about that right know. Bed is calling, but not before I’ve had a brief glimpse at Style mag…

Backstage

So, I've got another commission with The Stage, this time writing a smaller article for the Backstage section of the magazine. I pitched the idea as another profile, this time writing about Tim McInnerny's partner, Annie Gosney. She started off as a theatre designer and stage manager, then made the transition to producer. She's got some fantastic stories about her trade, and a wealth of advise for aspiring backstagers. Unfortunately, Ken (Freelance editor of Backstage) didn't think a profile was appropriate, so we agreed to change the angle to a more generalized piece about the transition some designers make into the producing side of the business.

I don't have a fixed deadline for this commission, but I wanted to make a start on some research. I found a number of women who had made a similar leap into producing, and wondered if it might be more appropriate to concentrate on the diversity of women's roles in theatre production. I have emailed Ken with this suggestion and await his opinion. I have no idea if this is common practice to chop and change, but I can't imagine it'll be too much of a problem, as this one seems to be a bit more of a relaxed interaction.

I am waiting to hear back from Matilda at the Ecologist about the pitch I sent to her three weeks ago. It's a piece about my friend's bespoke furniture company, sixixis. He makes beautiful sustainable steam-bent wooden furniture in Cornwall, to the very high end of the contemporary design scene. I know Matilda is interested, but I guess she must be caught up with going to press or something.

Another exciting project I'm working on is a kind of publicity mission for the Bridgwater Town Hall rejuvenation project, which is why I'm anxiously writing this in the Engine Room cafe, waiting for my interviewee to arrive...

Latest Reviews

There are some links to my up-to-date reviews for Stranger Magazine:

http://www.stranger-mag.com/reviews/music/heavy---jazz-money.html
http://www.stranger-mag.com/reviews/

Strike Two

It's not just fluke - I may well be able to pass myself off as a freelancer!

About the same time as making my final arrangements for the Serbian expedition I received an email from the Green Pages editor (Matilda) of the Ecologist, saying she was interested in my idea for a profile on my fashionista sista (see Fashionista Sista blog entry). She wanted 1000 words in the first person, and I quote her here, "and we would write 'as told to Holly Wicks' as the by-line, I think that would be more powerful." Which all sounded bloody great to me! Writing about my sister, without having to leave the comfort of my own home! Bonza!

How wrong could I be.

Firstly, my sister was away in Devon on an animation course when I completed my first draft, so I had to email her the copy to check, and wasn't sure how easy it would be for her to find time/computer to read it. Then she read it and was not a happy bunny. I quote here here, "It makes me sound pretentious and naive, and some of it isn't true." Well, I didn't agree. I was only using stuff from the transcript from our interview after all. But, I didn't want to hurt her feelings, or create a monster.

However, I was on a deadline and sent the copy to the ecologist before Lilli read it - thus making things worse. I felt terrible. I waited till Lilli came home and we had a good chat about what to do next. We agreed that certain things needed changing and we went though the first draft together and altered it to make her sound less 'pretentious'. I sent Matilda the second draft and she said she'd look at it.

We then went to Serbia both feeling happier about the situation. There was a Internet cafe at the EXIT campsite, and I thought it best to check on developments with the piece. Matilda wanted more. We sat in the sweltering heat of the day, beside an archaic, dusty computer and added loads more copy. Then the next day (even more hung-over and hotter) we checked again, and Matilda wanted captions for the photos (which they never used) and spent more time on that.

Two weeks ago, Mum picked me up from the train station after an appointment I'd had with my script supervisor in Falmouth and told me the Ecologist had arrived at home. Then she dropped the bomb. "Oh, it's great - except your name's not on it..."

I was angry, especially after Matilda's promise that my by-line would be 'more powerful'. I stewed about it for a couple of days, and tried to get hold of my tutor to ask for advice. In the end I phoned a journalist friend of my parents' and he said there wasn't much I could do about it, as "yesterday's news in tomorrows chip paper", too true.

So, baring in mind that I would like to work for the Ecologist again, I thought it best to approach Matilda with a more subtle tone. I let her know that I was disappointed, but that I hoped this would not jeopardise our working relationship. She wrote me an apologetic reply, blaming the mistake on a sub-editor who missed it and proofed it whilst Matilda was away. They are (hopefully) going to print an apology in next month's edition, which is a slight consolation.

I've already got another idea to pitch to Matilda, so I hope this one will escape any major editorial glitches. Considering I was writing about my sister and I didn't need to go anywhere to research it, this piece was a hell of a lot easier (apart from the emotional sibling strain) than the McInnerny piece, and for the same price too! I will not dwell on it now, and I can always get busy on Photoshop to correct their error myself...

**************************************************************

Now that the MA is out the way, I actually have time to write for pleasure rather than necessity. Not that writing a screenplay isn't pleasurable. It's just learning a whole new (visual) literary world and writing the full shebang in three months was challenging to say the least. I will give it some space now, and go back to it next month, the ending still needs a lot of work. I think I will work on a radio play next, and also short films, because I feel like I need to go back to basics again before I attempt another screenplay.

I am now thoroughly enjoying some leisure time, thinking about life and my place in it. I have four or five feature ideas bubbling away, ready to pitch now I have the time, and now that my bank balance is threateningly low! I will be updating my website (www.hollywicks.co.uk), and looking for jobs, as well as catching up on some reading and exercise...

What a fabulously productive year I've had so far - I honestly cannot believe how much my writing has improved, and the amazing amount of industry information I have absorbed. I will miss my college clan, and my Three Mackerel co-workers in Falmouth, but this is the season for change, and I'm ready to embrace it now!

EXIT 007

Seven days travelling on mostly un-air conditioned buses and trains for the sake of four and a half days of fun! But was it worth it?

Yes and no. Exit Festival is an annual music extravaganza held at a beautiful fortress in Novi Sad, Serbia, but if I were to go again – I would never, never, ever take the same transport!

“Oh, it’ll be amazing, think of all the sights – all the border-crossing!”

Why did I say that?! For the price (£85), at the time, that was the reasoning… I have since found out that most of my (sensible) friends took a four-hour flight for ten pounds less…gutted! So here’s how it went: on Monday we got the Berrys coach to London, stayed at Charlotte’s, had a nice Indian on Brick Lane, got a relatively early night.

Tuesday at six got the tube to Victoria, checked in, waited to board. First in the queue, we expected to occupy the back seats – but how wrong could we be? This little, fat, squat Eastern European woman barged in front of us, folding her arms across her enormous bosom. We knew she meant business, but could she really be challenging us for the back seats? Yes, and some! She practically sprinted to the middle of the back row, and growled at ANYONE who thought they might be in for a chance.

I was in hysterics – and felt quite in ore of her because she held her ground all the way to Belgium! But in Brussels her glue came unstuck, she had to give in, the driver came up and eventually, she caved in, but again, not without a fight. She must have thought we were running a conspiracy against her because the whole way to Budapest, she deliberately knocked her big boobs into our heads and backs as we tried to sleep aisle side, and bared her gummy teeth when we were unlucky enough to wake in her presence.

That was pretty much our only source of entertainment during the twenty-seven hour ordeal to Hungry. So we were turfed out at the bus station with literally minutes to withdraw money, find the metro, buy tickets and get to the train station before the only day train to Novi Sad departed. I hate backpacks; I hate backpacking in the heat and being late for stuff. Needless to say, we got there almost on time, but the bloody thing was packed like a triple-over-packed sardine tin. Full of happy EXIT fans, drinking and smoking out the windows, mocking us latecomers.

It chugged very slowly out of the station, as if to further humiliate us – but there were a fair few stragglers, so we didn’t feel quite so isolated. Twelve hours of sitting around eating, drinking and finding the locals hostile to say the least, we positioned ourselves as close to the departures board as possible, in order to race off to the train as soon as it’s arrival was announced. We knew that this one would be more crowded than the one we missed earlier, but the newcomers didn’t – this was our only advantage.

Even though we ran like the wind as soon as that mysterious spinning mechanism stopped spinning with PLATFORM 9, a few flocks of EXITERS found their way on first. No matter. We found a carriage with traditional booths, leather seats and head rests, with only three people inside. We sat; we took the abuse from all the grumpy toffs who thought they deserved seats more than we did, and endured the constant cackling of four Irish lads high on champagne and poppers to finally arrive in Serbia three hours late – six-thirty on THURSDAY morning!

Next hurdle was finding a cash machine and then finding change for the bus and then trying to find the campsite….
And then there was the tussle to get into the ticket ‘hall’ which looked like a disused bomb shelter. At breaking point, we queued for our wristbands and then plodded into the site to find camping. Luke and I found somewhere quite central, under shade, near the toilets…then crashed for an hour or two, until the sun rudely woke us by turning our tent into a sauna! Both too exhausted to move the tent, we got outside and explored the site.

The camp is separate to the festival site, divided by the Duane River, but close enough to walk there in ten-minute, over the bridge in the town. At six o’clock, we went up to the festival site to check in and get our ‘state of EXIT’ passports. Why couldn’t they give us wristbands? I know at least a handful of people who lost their ‘passports’ and had to buy dodgy day passes to gain entry.

The fortress was impressively huge, about twenty-two stages in all, but not rivalling Glastonbury in numbers of festival goers. There were rabbit warrens leaning to hidden bars, hidden sights and let more musical interludes. Best of the bunch for location had to be the dance arena, right at the back of the site, down some steep steps into a valley, always a sea of bodies pulsing to the likes of Roger Sanchez and John Digweed. At the back of the arena, a slope led you up the other side of the valley and into a separate arena, but here you could see over the whole valley and it was definitely the best place for watching the sunrise.

Highlights of the first night included a rip-roaring set by The Prodigy, firing up the crowd into a writhing, cantankerous fighting-machine. Amazing to see they still have that energy and drive – thoroughly appreciated by those gathered. If anything the set was a little too raucous, as a stampede occurred afterwards, sending us all flying in all directions and fighting to stay upright. All we could see was people as we tried to make sense of our bearings – where could we go to escape the crowds?

After clambering up a steep slope we found a temporary safe spot, and exhausted, we stayed perched there safely until the crowds had dispersed. At this safe distance we watched Groove Armada from the main stage and then braved the scene for Stanton Warriors. As the sun came up on Friday morning, Luke and myself decided to call time and staggered through the town as the rush hour traffic clambered past us.

After no more than two hours sleep we were up and at it again, strolling into town to find some breakfast. Then onto the beach for some sun, until the sun got too hot and we slept in the shade for a while. Time didn’t have a place here: if you wanted a burger for breakfast – fine, if you wanted to rave at lunch time- - that’s fine too. In the afternoon we met up with my friends at their camp and began drinking. We tried to keep together and enter the festival in convoy – but despite our best efforts, we always seemed to get split up.

In the food court we sat on logs and watched the sunset over the river, listening to the disorientated sounds of Lauryn Hill, who everyone agreed has lost her touch with reality. Next came The Beastie Boys, with a most eclectic mix of old and new tunes, and a few too many instrumental interludes for my liking. Again, the old school boys, like The Prodigy, still had their wits about them in an ultra-respectable way. Venturing across the other side of the fortress, Luke and myself decided to check out the smaller stages; Reggae, Fusion, Funk and ten others I’ve forgotten the names of already...

Sunrise and we’re on the street again, eating fresh corn-on-the-cob, doing our best not to get involved in the traffic piling up around us. No sleep today – it’s too hot already, we try to find a shady area near one of the bars, but the sun seems to move at a ridiculous speed and a cold shower is the only answer. By today (Saturday) the sun is ferocious – about 38°c and rising – no more sunbathing for me! There is literally not much you can do in this heat: even eating is a chore. If I hadn’t been drinking so much wine and vodka, I’d probably have lost some weight this week…

Today I waited in the queue for the on-site internet café, and was a little worried to see the number of emails I had received from Matilda at The Ecologist, asking for me to make amendments to my second draft and add captions to Lilli’s catwalk photos. Got Lilli in pronto and we worked together in the intolerable heat – trying to make words come out of my severely fuzzy head! Sent that off and apologised for my lack of communication.

More drinks around the campsite and it’s off to the festival again. Vodka and peach, vodka and tonic, vodka and whatever I can get my hands on…. shame we can’t take alcohol inside with us because that vile wine is driving me insane – it tastes like watered down whiskey and it’s the colour of piss…and the beer is even worse, and that’s all the choice there is!

Tonight we partied with the Serbians, three Serbian lads to be more precise. Very sweet-natured, generous guys, curious to know about us and constantly trying to buy us drinks and offering to put me on their shoulders so I can see Basement Jaxx and Snoop Doggy Dog better. The Jaxx were a little disappointing – I was expecting them to be really loud and outrageous, but the sound system or their mikes let them down. Although the two lead singers amused me with their frequent costume changes and wobbly boobs. Snoop was predictable and bland, and if I hear “What’s my mother fucking name?” again, I will cry.

He played some classic hip-hop from the old school, but all his recent R&B stuff is boring and monotonous. After Snoop, we wanted to stick with the Serbian’s and they were into Dance, so we went to the dance arena for Roger Sanchez. His set was poor, the only amusement coming from the dancers clad in metallic dresses and punk Mohawks, stomping around on stage. Just as it was getting late we said goodbye to our new friends and staggered back to camp.

Sunday had that ‘last day’ feeling, and although I was exhausted by the festival lifestyle, I was truly getting into the routine. Meeting up with a few others, we decided to go into town for ice cream and a lounge in the park. We explored a beautiful part of the city, quirky, clean and decorated in flags varying in colour and artistic licence. Must be the hottest day today, it’s an effort to do anything, save reclining. Determined not to be unprepared for the next morning’s departure, I decided to make a start on the packing, but again, the heat defeated me swiftly.

We kind of made a pact to stick together for the last night, but we were defeated at the first hurdle as usual. I know I can see a lot of my friends every day back at home, but I wanted to share at least one night with them on the festival site…but never mind…it was still fun. I didn’t have enough money to buy a bottle of vodka, so I blagged some, then had to hand it over at the entrance to the festival, so I was devastated to hand over my last tokens in exchange for that rank wine.

The heat and exhaustion of the previous days seemed to wipe me out of party mode, and I sent most of Wu-Tang-Clan’s set moaning about my back and the lack of proper sound. Shame, I like the Clan, but just couldn’t get excited about their two minute silence for Ol' Dirty Bastard or their not-loud-enough mikes. Pendulum played straight after Wu, but my days of getting excited about cheesy drum & bass are most defiantly over, so we headed to the Reggae stage.

We called it a night just before dawn, and slowly took in the scenery back to the camp for the last time. I was so paranoid about missing our bus at 8 am because we didn’t have an alarm clock that I made Luke stay up, just in case. How mean – he wondered around in a drunken stupor, trying to stay awake by talking to randoms and checking the time every two minutes! I actually woke up before he came back to the tent and I felt mighty guilty for being so horrible, so I then had to try and sort Luke out and stop him from falling asleep before we got on the bus!

The bus was, of course, late. And I had to check Luke was in the shade and not dying in the hot, hot heat, practically pouring water over him every two minutes. When the bus arrived it was like seeing an oasis in the desert – except when we got, we realised there was no air conditioning! So it was probably worse than being outside! Why don’t bus windows open? I don’t know, but we were all a bit delirious by the time we were dropped at the airport. The sodding airport! Which meant more money, more hassle, more transport and more stress. But at least the airport had shade and air con.

Budapest was beautiful and how glad we were to be dropped off right outside the hostel…to be greeted by our lovely host! Us girls quickly dumped our bags and went straight off to the public spa; a short tram and metro stop away. Real heaven. Saunas plunge pools, steam rooms, three gigantic outdoor pools with whirlpools and Jacuzzis! I felt like I’d just sweated out a lifetime’s worth of shit from my body, to be replaced with complete inner peace.

We had a giggle, tried out every possible combination of pool and then sadly got kicked out at seven by the moody staff. You should have seen the look of pure distain as my friend Maeve put her pass in the wrong slit on the way out – I swear the attendant was screaming all sorts of obscenities at us, but we just kept on laughing! We were delirious and exhausted, but in good spirits.

Later a disastrous meal followed with ten of us sat in an ‘air conditioned’ Italian restaurant that was too expensive, and they added a hefty tip which we didn’t really want to pay, and most of the crew couldn’t eat anything due to being hung-over…we got back early and slept heavily in the muggy evening air.

Got up early to say goodbye to friends lucky enough to be transported home in limited hours on a plane, then planned the last leg of the journey. We took Lilli and Luke back to the spa with us, giving our bodies a much-needed boost before the pain of bus travel ensued. Said goodbye to the rest of our friends and got the metro to the bus station. This last leg was actually fairly pain-free, with the help of a speedy-Gonzales style driver and the sudden ability to sleep at will. But the worst by far was the stint into London, where we had to get to Victoria sharpish, otherwise we’d miss the Berrys coach to Somerset. Then the driver scraped a car on a roundabout and came to a stand still.

We were all calling for him to drive on – the other car had continued on its way. The driver eventually got a move on, but we were over an hour and a half late! I’ve never run so fast in my life, as we dashed to Victoria underground. Flip-flogs a flopping, bags jostling with the commuters’ space, we had to get that coach. Lilli ran ahead with her Oyster card, whilst Luke and me struggled to find a change machine and work out what tickets we needed. A kind attendant did the hard work for us and we got to Hammersmith with literally seconds to spare. Not much fun, but at last – a bus with air con, light snacks and home in sight. Finally arrived home at 10.30 pm, delirious, and ready for bed.

Would I do it again? The festival: yes. Bus travel: no. Fascinating country, fascinating people, but next time I will be organised, book a flight well in advance and pack some valium, like everyone else seemed to be doing…

Writers’ Gold in Cheltenham?

Just back from Cheltenham Screenwriters’ Festival and having mixed feelings about the two-day event. It started off very promising; the B&B was squeaky clean with the obligatory nosey parker ‘house keeper’ husband, ugly boxer dog, complementary toiletries and noteworthy cooked breakie. Day one’s highlights included speakers such as Tony Jordon (East Enders, Life On Mars), David Thompson (Head of BBC Films), ‘The Perfect Ten Pages’ with The Writers’ Room’s Paul Ashton and a live commentary of Severance with director Christopher Smith.

I wish I had utilised my time a little better in the afternoon – I sat through a ‘legal and business issues’ session for over an hour and between falling asleep and trying to take in a vast amount of jargon I realised I should have been in the ‘Write with a Pro’ session. Never mind, I’m sure the law handout will come in handy one day…

I felt a little intimidated by all the elite of the industry; boy do they let you know their presence! But, having said that, there were an equal number of people just like me, curious to get into the industry but without the credentials just yet. I met a comedy director/writer (Paul) whose just written and directed a series in Wales, a lady called Yvonne Mellor, whose a producer in Leeds and a lovely lady called Kate, who quickly became my new friend, as we on the same level of newbie-ness.

After Severance I wanted to chat to Chris Smith, but he had to leave straight after the viewing. I did ask a question (over a microphone handed to me), which sounded a bit like this, “Tim McInnerny told me you might be getting involved in the Hammer Horror franchise – is that true?” I think Chris was surprised to hear me mention Tim’s name, and said he thought he recognised me! I haven’t met Chris before, so this was a bit weird, but it’s a shame we didn’t get to talk any further. I think I will ask Tim for Chris’s email soon, to see if I can work on a project with him.

In the networking event later on I realised that an awful lot of people were there to blow on their own trumpets and a number of them exuded unappealing arrogance and spoke loudly about “MY LATEST FEATURE…WHICH HAS BEEN COMMISSIONED BY…” I began to relax a bit because it all seemed nicely fake and very show biz. The FREE wine and canapés helped to soften the blow of my ridiculously overpriced lunch - £10.50 for a scrap of salad and a char grilled piece of Halommi cheese! Frea and David were long gone; so I had a great time with Yvonne and Paul, listen to their industry anecdotes. Just as it was getting dark I thought I’d better get a move on and find a bus back into town. As I walked up the path to the Manor, it started to rain and I had to ask the security guard where to get back onto the road.

As I found the main road from the studio, a taxi slowed down and someone’s head emerged from the window. It was no other than Menha Huda (director of Kidulthood), who I’d listened to earlier in the ‘Funding Hidden Subjects’ seminar. He’s beautiful! He asked if I wanted a lift into town, which I accepted, of course. We talked about insignificant things, I was a bit drunk and think I may have talked too much to make up for my nerves…but he was lovely and we drove straight past my B&B. The taxi driver got to the end of the road and stopped, I tried to give Menha my business card, but he thought I was trying to pay for the taxi! He said to give my card to him tomorrow, and I got out the car and walked back up the road. What a sweet guy, I’d love to work with him, or interview him – but unfortunately I didn’t get the chance to speak to him again the next day. So, I guess if I want to follow it up, I’ll have to do some research and go through his agent or something…

Wednesday started with a seminar on low budget film production, with Ed Blum (Scenes of a Sexual Nature), and Jake West (SFX wiz and director). It was inspiring to see the quality of the features they had made with such little money. The message they were trying to get across is that if you have a very strong story and make a huge effort to mesh well with the cast and crew – every one will be happy and the film will be made to a high standard. A live commentary of episode 4, series 1 of Life on Mars with Ashley Pharoah followed in the marquee. I’ve only seen one episode of L.O.M before, and wasn’t that thrilled, but this one was a corker! Ashley didn’t intrude too much on the narrative, but the things he did comment on were insightful. Themes/structure/character facts were explored and a number of the audience asked poignant questions at the end of the commentary. I was particularly moved by the composition of the music to help carry certain themes and I think the cinematography had a filmatic quality. But, maybe that was just the big screen?.....

In the afternoon I listened to Mia Bays talk about producing her Oscar winning short Six Shooter, and then the star of the show emerged in the marquee – Bill Nicholson. Bill is the granddad you’ve always wanted, I’d be more than contented to listen to him tell stories about his film career all day. He’s a ‘real life’ writer, meaning he likes to take real life stories and dramatize them for film. He wrote Gladiator and he’s working on a number of new projects including a film on Nelson Mandela. Bill’s speech was uplifting and exciting – he doesn’t believe in over-researching a project and says that at long as you keep you subject by your side when you write, you will be true to them and if they’re at the screening, they’ll understand why a bit of artistic licence can help to produce a well-rounded story.

Then the worst part of the festival – FEVER PITCH. To think that Frea, David and myself and most of the lovely people I met there all enter the comp and didn’t get picked is a tragedy when you look at the ten that disgraced the stage that night. Poor doesn’t even come close to describing the quality of the pitches, I have to admit about half way in, I had my head in my hands – no more clapping for me… I know that the market is all about horror and comedy or the derivative zom-com, but these ideas did not vaguely challenge the genre. I may be a bit bitter, but there were 600 entries – I want to know who picked the short list and if they were awake when they drew it up.

Here’s a brief over-view of the pitches in order of ‘merit’, a kind of ‘what not to wear’ of the film industry:

1. BLOODY FAMOUS (A zom-com with vampires that are rock stars)
2. THE FLEABURT INHERITANCE (Dark comedy involving thespians)
3. HUSTON WE HAVE A PROBLEM (Creep, but with comedy and stoners)
4. THE BOUNTY HUNTER (Noir thriller set in Manchester)
5. 8 MISTAKES (Police thriller in the style of Seven)
6. GOD’S LONELY MAN (Political drama involving one legged hero in Afghanistan)
7. 24 LITTLE HOURS (Romantic comedy with Cinderella story)
8. DRIVING BEIJING WILD (Comedy involving taxi drivers at the Olympics)
9. EMMA AND THE CASTLE (Comedy with lingerie designer moving to a castle)
10. D.N.A (Six part comedy drama where a Dog Naming Association that names dogs for celebrities, and other animals, “with drugs and stuff…”

So, what do you think? Cream of the crop? I hope not….
No. 10’s my personal favourite – I couldn’t stop laughing when he tried to justify making it into a SIX parter! Maybe it would suit a two second sketch or a two part kids show – but SIX PARTS!!!!

Now I’ve off loaded my rant, I’ll go back to the end of that day. We all left the marquee with our jaws touching the floor and headed to the bar. This time the drinks were not free and there were no tiny canapés floating around – more disappointment… A vast majority of the congregation seemed to disappear after the pitching, and the bar was too big and cold to want to sick around in. Kate and I knocked back a few vodkas and followed the crowd to the Harvester next door to the Manor.

It was a bit more cheery in there, but it was last orders and the grumpy barman wouldn’t even give me a straw for my G&T! They threatened to confiscate our drinks if we didn’t hurry up and drink up, so we were out in the cold again. Kate and I waited for a bus back into Cheltenham, but gave up and forked out for a taxi. We got lost finding the B&B, spent some time wondering around aimlessly, then found the street and snuck in, went to bed on a completely empty tummy.

I will definitely be going next year, hopefully staying for the four-day event if I can get the funds. I will have a polished script or two to distribute and I will make much more of an effort to swat up on the guest speakers so I know who’s who and what they do. I found that I’ve missed out a bit this year because I didn’t know enough about peoples biographies, so if I find some common ground, it’ll be easier to network with the right people. I will need to be more forthcoming, determined and confident about my work. Just speak to whoever I need to and not worry about my status, if I don’t try, I’ll regret it later…

FASHIONISTA SISTA

I’ve just sent off a pitch to The Ecologist, a profile idea for a piece on my rising star fashionista sista. Since my last entry, Lilli has been offered freelance work from River Island, one of her garments has been selected to be sold at Selfridges, and some more of her work is being shown at a graduate design show, again, in London.

It’s mad how much interest her design work and ethics has attracted. How many twenty-two year olds can say that the leading fashion houses in the UK have approached them before they’ve even received their degree certificate? I don’t know any! She can play them to her advantage, demanding good, ethical practice for her services. The angle for my profile (if it’s accepted) is that Lilli is going against the gain of the industry to show that fashion can be ecologically friendly and still elegant and profitable.

She is adamant that she will not accept freelance work from any corporate companies unless they agree to her work ethic of sourcing organic yarns and natural dyes made in the UK by people paid more than the minimum wage. She also insists that some profits should go to charities or community projects. A brave step for a young graduate, but one that she hopes will make a difference to production in the UK fashion industry.

I’m looking forward to writing about her triumphs, and if The Ecologist doesn’t take it…well, there will be other outlets. It would be illogical not to push her profile at this stage, and I’m so close to her that I’m practically her PA! Maybe she’ll employ me when she hits the big time.

I’ve got another prospective interviewed lined up with an actor called Nicholas Boulton. He’s my next-door neighbours son, and he’s just been paid a ridiculous amount of money to play the lead villain in a Scandinavian film called Arne. He’s also had a part in Doctor Who, and regularly lends his voice to afternoon plays on BBC Radio 4. He’s a rising star, and apparently he’s very popular with the ladies! He’s living in Brighton, so I’m going to email him after I’ve got the first draft of my script in hand.

This time next week, I’ll be hob-knobbing with the film industry in Cheltenham, can’t wait…it’s pitching time again.

Out in the sticks...

I’ve made the move back to the sleepy backwaters of my homestead. There should now be NO DISTRACTIONS, no noise, nothing to stop me writing the first draft of my screenplay by next week. The last few weeks have been impossibly testing for my self-motivation. I’ve managed to put together the first ten scenes of Torn, but various social engagements and move-related issues have arisen in between.

First there was Lilli’s final show at Graduate Fashion Week in Battersea Park. A glorious and proud moment for my sister, to see her beautiful knitwear come to life on professional models in front of a huge audience was truly inspirational. She was nominated for the knitwear award at the Gala show – and won it the following day, judged by none other than Victoria Beckham and Zara Rhodes.

Lilli has worked extremely hard to reach this peak – she’s got strong ideas and a very opinionated view on the fashion world in general. She’s not interested in the glitz and glamour, but she is determined to change peoples’ views about sustainability and eco-consciousness in the industry. I want to write a profile piece on her and submit it to an industry mag and maybe a newspaper supplement, with a kind of ‘rising talent in eco fashion’ angle.

I don’t quite know how it’ll work with us being sisters, but I’d really like to give it a go. It would give her some unabashedly honest publicity and get her message across: recycled knitwear can be incredibly elegant and sustainable. Here’s a link to Lilli’s proudest moment to date – holding her prized award surrounded by models wearing her creations: http://www.gfwlive.com

Seeing such talent in London last week made me feel like I should have pursued a more visual medium at degree level. All I had to show at the end of my three years was a bunch of essays, a website and two dissertations. I think that’s why film appeals to me so much now. It’s taken me some time to get used to writing visually, but I am a visual thinker, so it’s just going to be a case of putting the two together.

So I intend on setting up a makeshift office in the covered gazebo at the end of the garden, surrounding myself with scene breakdowns, cats, character files and a good supply of reading material…it should be the perfect atmosphere for creativity. I’m going to miss Falmouth, it hasn’t quite hit me yet – that I can’t just wonder down to the beach, or pop into town for a coffee. When I got into the van that held six-years-worth of belongings yesterday, I got this hideous feeling in my stomach, like I hadn’t eaten for days or something. There’s no point in mulling over it, because I need to move on and although I love Cornwall to pieces, there isn’t quite enough going on to warrant me starting a new career there.

I’ve spent too much time in the sticks, I’ve grown in the shadows, and I’m ready to test the water further up country. My long term plans are to go wherever the job takes me, as long as it’s something inspiring. I want to write screenplays on the side, shorts that I can work on with my friends and enter into festivals next year. Ideally I’d like to work in-house as a features writer, but failing that I’d be more than happy to do some copywriting or PR.