I was going to write a little more about The Cradle feature, but have become distracted and now am fighting off the terrible urge to abuse videogames until the early morning long enough to write anything.
Finished the second draft today and lobbed it over at Donald. A useful rewrite, as it both nailed the weaknesses in the weaker sections and, through an intelligent reading, made me actually grasp in a functional way what structure I was using for the piece.
(It's a murder mystery, for those interested. Which is, at least, unusual).
Especially worthy of note is when trying to create a deep music-related mood, instead of resorting to the expected early Nick-Cave melodrama, I embraced the theme from Ghostbusters. I ain't afraid of no ghosts!
However, the real reason why this post exists is simple. I'm off for almost a week, and feel it's my duty to reveal a certain horrible snippet.
Now, in my internal dialogue, I imagined that this particular piece of film would remain safely buried until an important moment of my life - like, say, becoming Prime-minister - and emerge to ruin it. But it appears its become premature.
Most of you may be aware of my terrible love for Kenickie. A fair chunk will be aware that I set up Kenickie's definining fansite, Kenickie Fried Chicken, which exists to this day under the auspices of the delightful Kermit who I haven't spoke to for literally years. I was a serious fan, up to the point of Marie apparently still considering me scary. Which always amuses me, considering how much I thought the idea of running a fansite was scary and avoided actual contact with Kenickie determinedly through the entire period of running it. I mean... running a fansite? Frankly, it still spooks me out.
Anyway, cutting to the story: on the final Kenickie tour, rumours spread that it *was* going to be Kenickie's final tour. The assorted webkids arranged to be at the closing London gig for closure. Great gig, in the true late-Kenickie style. Lots of expansive pop-playfulness mixed with falling-over-level of drunkeness among Kenickie, and barely restrained violence against the couple who kept on shouting "PUNKA!!!" all the way through the thing. We left straight after to hit the pubs again. Especially Memorable moment: A bar full of Kenickie-kids in tears and Rob Rizzo going "I'm really very sad" and everyone pointing at him and laughing until sick. Which was a defining 'nick moment if I ever had one.
We'd be drinking beforehand, however, which leads to this piece of brought-to-light pop-culture.
Queueing for the gig, someone approaches Scott, (XScott? That was your name, wasn't it? I suck!) his delightful female friend (who I believe he ended up going out with) and myself and asks to interview us. Apparently it's a documentary crew from NE BBC TV, following Kenickie around the tour. They ask us questions, we answer with various levels of articulacy - having been in the pub all afternoon - and then ask us if we'd mind singing any Kenickie.
We'd been in the pub for hours.
Between the pair of us, we sing the entirity of Come Out 2nite, then wander off into the venue.
Fastforward several months, when news of the final documentary reaches my ears. Apparently the mischevious TV crew, on the outro sequence, mixed together fans singing Come Out 2nite. Featuring prominently are XScott and myself.
I'd never seen it. As I said earlier, I wasn't expecting to ever see it.
But then the little baby jesus made the Internet grow up big and strong.
And then Stuart Campbell cut down that gentleman's 300Mb file into the 4Mb of embarassment featuring yours truly.
And then I posted it.
On my blog.
Kieron Gillen's Workblog, foo'.