The astute among you may notice two lines in the above chart.  The black line represents my weight.  The white line represents a straight line that — on the full graph, only a snippet of which I’ve included above — runs from my starting weight of 120.2kg to my target weight of 108kg on April 9th.  You may also note that the black line is higher than the white line.  This means I’m behind my target.  And I’ve no-one to blame but myself.  Well, I could arguably blame the girl next to me at work who, whilst cold on Wednesday, made the (bizarre, when you think about it) announcement that the only thing keeping her warm was eating biscuits.  I said, “I’ll go and buy some more biscuits at lunch then,” and returned later with four packets of biscuits.  Jam and Custard Jammy Dodgers (disappointing), Pink Wafers (retro), Chocolate and Hazelnut Cookies (indulgent), and the aforementioned Chocolate Hob Nobs (classic).  I then proceeded over the course of the remainder of this working week to eat about half of them.

What's the point putting a copyright watermark in a picture of some fucking pink wafers?

In my last blog I think I might have foolishly said I was going to come up with sort of routine.  I haven’t, unsurprisingly.  But I might do.  I probably won’t though.  Although I should, really.  I have some weights gathering dust on the bedroom floor (although technically they stop my guitar falling over; they’re not just gathering dust), so I should probably put them to use.  I’m going to try a short, gentle jog in the next week or so, and see how the knee holds up, so watch this space for another predictable blog about me shitting up my knee.  Every day this week I’ve been for a short(ish) walk at lunchtime, so fingers crossed the knee is getting a bit stronger.

So, not a lot of progress on the dieting front, but I’ll be good this week, I swear.  By next Friday I’ll make sure the black line is below the white line.  It make shock you to learn that I’ve done a bit more writing on the novel, and I think I’ve closed an annoying and problematic plot-hole.  I just need to get into a routine of writing an hour or so a day, I think.  325 days to go until my thirtieth birthday deadline.

I’ll sign off, for no real reason, with a picture of Gemma Atkinson.  

I could take her or leave her, me.

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NYR#1v2 (going from an obese 120kg to a just ‘overweight’ 108kg)

At my weekly weigh-in today I found I’d lost another 0.8kg.  (You may have noticed I’m referring to my weight in kilos.  This is because it feels less shameful writing 118.5kg than it does 18st 9lb, even though, on the flip side, losing 0.8kg — or 800g — sounds quite pathetic.  Essentially I am a man of twenty-nine years and 6 feet 4 inches who feels embarrassed to be on a diet and be celebrating losing the equivalent weight of a large poo.)

I have an all-singing all-dancing spreadsheet, which actually neither dances nor sings but instead allows me to graph my weight loss against a linear ‘target’ line starting at 120.2kg on 04/01/10 and sloping down to 108kg on 09/04/10.  I am currently a gnat’s cock below (i.e. better than) my target.  When the graph starts to look slightly more impressive (e.g. some space opens up between the two lines, or the weight loss line starts to trend tragically and enivitably northwards) I might even let you have a gander.  Something to look forward to there, eh? 

I’ve decided this week that I need to introduce some kind of routine against which I can measure myself, inspired by but not wanting to imitate this page from FHM.com (well done to any men who manage to scroll past the image of Lucy Pinder to the actual text).  But anyway, I’m going to come up with a routine and try and stick to it.  If I can be arsed.  Then, I’ll, you know, blog about it when I fuck up.

Lucy Pinder: You could play with them all night long and never touch the same bit twice

NYR#2 (finishing my novel)

Nothing to report.  Well, I had an idea today, but I’ve not written anything and I’m not sure if it was a good idea or not.

Spangly new blog bits

A couple (well, OK, just the one) of people (person) have asked if they can subscribe to the blog so they get an e-mail informing them (him) that spacemonkeygaz.com has been updated with a blog and their day is about to get fractionally better (worse).  You may or may not at all want to click on the “subscribe by e-mail here” link in the top right hand corner of the blog, under the “Search the archives” box and above the “the world is your lobster” (a Peter Kay gag from Phoenix Nights, if you were wondering) box, and enter your e-mail address if you want.  Or don’t.  Whatever.

Peter Kay as Max the bouncer in Phoenix Nights

Now, I’m not very good at the technical aspects of blogging.  (You could of course argue that I’m not much good at the actual writing bit of it either.)  I have tried to add a little doobry that allows you to tick a box when making a comment at the bottom of a post, which notifies you if/when someone else comments after you.  This may or may not be of interest, but if anyone fancies leaving a comment then please let me know if it gives you an option to be notified.  I hope that all made sense because I really can’t be arsed to read it again.

Be good.

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But does anyone actually bother?  I get the impression that most people talk about new year’s resolutions, but few ever actually see them through to any kind of outcome.

I’m normally no different, but this year I’d decided I would be.  I’ve got this blog to motivate me.  I can blog about my resolutions — what I’m going to do/not do — and I can publicly shame myself if I fail.  Well one of my new year’s resolutions is fucked already.  And I’m not talking about in a “I decided I was going to give up alcohol but I forgot and had an Irish coffee” type of sense, I’m talking about in a “I decided I was going to start running again to train up for the kilomathon but my knee is still knackered” type of sense.

Yup, I’m going to have to officially pull out of the kilomathon, which is a genuine shame.  I’ve been resting the knee for the six (ish) weeks since I popped it, and I’d decided that in the first week of January I’d try a couple of not-too-strenuous walks to see how it’d hold up. 

January 1^st, whatshername and I went for a short little walk, so short as to not even register on the should-I/shouldn’t-I? register.  Afterwards: felt fine.  Next day: fuck, that doesn’t feel right.  It isn’t really painful, there’s just no strength in it, and I’ve felt a couple of little warning ‘pang’s.  I haven’t even been doing anything arduous when I’ve felt them: bending down to get a beer from the fridge, rolling over in bed, etc.  There’s no way I’ll be able to run 26km in ten weeks time.

So, resolution #1: failed.  I will, however, try to lose some weight (again).  But, without the ability to do even moderate exercise, I’m going to have to eat very healthily (which, I may have mentioned, I fucking hate).  Today I weighed myself and I’m a massive 18st 12lb (pretty much back where I started when I first blogged about losing weight).  So, resolution #1(version 2): To get down to a still-but-slightly-less-massive 17 stone by, let’s say, Friday 9^th April (nearly 14 weeks).

Resolution #2: finish writing my novel before my 30^th birthday.  Today is January 4^th — that gives me 343 days.  I don’t want to be the bloke who tried to write a novel (two novels and a sitcom, but who’s counting?) and didn’t fail: rather worse, he just didn’t finish it.  So, my thirtieth birthday seems like a momentous enough occasion.  For clarity, I don’t plan for it to be published by then, or to have been accepted by an agent, I just want to have finished writing it.  It doesn’t have to be the finished article — (i.e. a completely polished ‘final draft’ — it just has to be a story that ends.

So, have you got any new year’s resolutions?  And remember, keep them SMART.

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This next chapter follows on from the last snippet I posted, which in turn followed on from the first snippet I posted.  Now, at the risk of putting you all off (if I haven’t already) I probably won’t post the whole shebang bit after bit after bit after bit.  I may post the odd chapter here and there, but my intention was never just to give away the whole story.  I was hoping to put the first few bits out there and test the water as it were.  Now, if you feel compelled to comment on this or any of the previous bits of Happy Ending I’ve posted, please do.  If your feedback is good, bad, encouraging, psychologically damaging, whatever; I don’t mind.  If you think it’s shit and I’m wasting my time then please say so.  If you think it’s OK but nothing great then say so.  I’m fairly thick-skinned.

I’m very grateful for the feedback so far.  I’ve had a couple of nice comments come my way, and a bit of negative feedback too (my favourite: “It’s weird.  The blog’s better than the novel.”).

So anyway, on that note, a brief word before I post the next chapter.  So far we have been introduced to three of the four main characters; Jack, Ray and Jack’s girlfriend Kate.  In the next chapter we’ll meet the fourth main character, Samantha.  Blonde hair, blue eyes, big tits: yes I know she’s a cliché but that’s kind of the point.

As for the format, if you hadn’t worked it out I’m trying to break up Jack’s narrative with newspaper articles, magazine interviews etc.  Might be obvious but I just wanted to point it out (the blog formatting isn’t ideal but hopefully it works).

So settle down for the next instalment, as our hero Jack gets to make a music video.

            PLASTIC WOMAN

            I’ve never seen Ray so excited, and consequently he’s never irritated me so much.  He doesn’t stop smiling in the taxi, fidgeting in his seat for the entire journey.  I stare out the window wondering how it ever came to this.  It’s a five-minute walk from Ray’s office to the video shoot, but Ray doesn’t want to arrive on foot.  Over and over again he says “I can’t imagine the Rolling Stones walking anywhere.”  I just ignore him.

            Ray introduces the models to me as the stars of the video when we arrive.  I’m not egotistical in the slightest but it would nice if he could refer to me as the star of my own fucking video.  My own fucking video which admittedly I don’t even want to make, and into which I’ve had zero input. 

            “Jack, may I introduce you to Kimberley…”

            I can’t believe he’s memorised their names.  The sad fuck.  “Hi.”

            “Hi.”

            “—Elin…”

            “Hi.”

            “Hi.”

            “—and Samantha.”

            “Hi.”

            “Hi.”  Fuck me, Samantha’s gorgeous.  “Pleased to meet you.  All of you.”

            “No introductions necessary,” Samantha smiles.  “I loved your first album.”

            “You’re just saying that.”

            “No,” she giggles, “I’m not.  I loved it.  Still do.  I bought both singles too.  I think it’s a really great album.  I can’t wait to hear your new one.”

            I lean closer and drop my voice, “I could get you a demo copy if you like?  I mean, it’s not completed finalised yet, and it doesn’t have a title, but I could get Ray to go and burn you a copy.  Hot off the press, as it were.”

            “Oh.  My.  God.  Are you serious?”

            I turn to Ray, but he’s trying his best to flirt with Kimberley and Elin.  “I’ll get Ray to fetch you a CD.”

            “Wow.  That’s great.”  There’s a second of awkward silence before Samantha is called for make-up.  “I’d better get ready,” she smiles.  “I’ll, erm, speak to you later, yeah?”

            “Yeah.  Sure.”

            That type of thing doesn’t happen much.  Occasionally people recognise me, but not very often.  I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who seemed as pleased to see me as Samantha.  I struggle to think of a fan I’ve met who admitted to buying the album and both singles.  I didn’t think anyone bought either of the singles, let alone both.  The album sales were OK but the singles sales were frankly embarrassing, hence me losing my record deal and ending up recording my second album myself.

            When Ray has finished drooling over Elin and Kimberley, I ask if he can quickly run back to his office and burn a copy of my new album that I can sign and give to Samantha.  He says he doesn’t want to miss the video shoot (unlike me he’s been looking forward to this all week), but I promise him if he brings me a CD then we won’t start the shoot without him, and off he goes.  He starts to call a taxi but I tell him to walk, which he reluctantly does.  He’s breathless when he gets back, and the first thing he pants when he comes back in is “What did I miss?” before he gives me a CD in a blank case which I take to Samantha, who’s being made-up in a corner.  When I ask if she’d like me to sign it, she smiles and says yes.  I scribble, “Thanks for your help” and sign the blank insert.  I notice that Ray hasn’t bothered to print out the track listing, so I quickly scribble it on the other side of the CD insert:

         1)      Everyone Knows You’ve Been Screwing Around (Except Me)

         2)      Katie

         3)      Plastic Woman

         4)      White Noise

         5)      There’s Nobody Home

         6)      Wish You Were Dead

         7)      Happy Ending

         8)      Goodbye, Cruel World

            The video consists of me playing my guitar in front of a black background, while the three models dance provocatively in skimpy costumes around me.  Filming it is nowhere near as much fun as I imagine the finished product will suggest.  I sing along to the song about a million times while the director (an old boarding school friend of Ray’s who, I’m told, is relatively famous for filming low budget pornography) gets a ton of shots of me and the models from every single conceivable angle.  Then—and I look across and note the enormous inane grin on Ray’s face—the director asks the girls to take off their tops and dance around exactly as before.  This is for a so-called x-rated version of the video which they hope will air late-night on the music channels and will appear on the CD/DVD single and as a download.  Personally I think Plastic Woman is an OK song, but I don’t think it should be the first single.  The record company, crucially, do.  (It’s the only track on the album that’s anything like upbeat.)  It was my previous record company who decided Daydreamer should be the first single from my first album (it reached 57 in the UK charts), so what do I know? 

            The idea for the video isn’t mine.  Ray pitched the idea to the record company without my consent, because he knew I wouldn’t like it.  I was vehemently opposed to the concept when Ray told me about it, but by this time the video had all been okayed by the powers that be and the filming had all been set up.  I was livid.  I didn’t know what I wanted the video to be, but I would have appreciated being involved in the decision.  Ray put forward two compelling arguments in his own inimitable way; firstly—sex sells (Ray’s golden rule), and secondly—I should be grateful to have a contract at all given my track record of successful singles to date, let alone cash to throw at a video.  So here we are in what looks like a disused warehouse with three glamour models writhing around while I mime to probably my least favourite—certainly the least meaningful—track on my new album.  Ray’s counter argument to whatever I say is that the record company are taking a gamble spending cash on anything to do with my album.  I tolerate this to a point, but I know deep down that Ray truly believes this is a great album.  Whether he thinks it will propel me to megastar status is debatable, but I think he really likes the record, and I think he wants it to be recognised critically as well as being commercially successful.

            As we finish filming—while the girls are having photos taken for possible covers for the single (Ray seems to think the single will do better if I’m not on the cover)—Ray pulls me to one side.  “That went really well.  Really well.”

            “You think so?”

            “Definitely.  If we can get this out there it will be huge—I assure you of that.”

            “Well, over to you then.  Get the publicity ball rolling.”

            Ray smiles and nods and winks and goes and gets us both a coffee, returning with the three models.  He explains—in his over-officious, self-important way; showing off, trying to prove that he’s the boss—that he thinks it would be a nice gesture if I took the girls to a restaurant for a nice meal, to show my gratitude for all their help today (i.e. standing around looking gorgeous and getting their tits out when instructed).  He says he’s booked a table for four in a very swanky restaurant in a chic part of London.  “Have a nice meal and a few drinks—enjoy yourselves.” he says.

            I pull Ray to one side.  Before I can speak, he jumps in; “No need to thank me.  Just go out and have fun.”

            “Fucking hell, Ray—what are you doing?”

            “Don’t worry.  Just keep the receipt and we’ll put it through the books as customer entertaining.  You should know that—weren’t you a tax inspector or something?”

            “No.  I wasn’t.”

            “OK, so, I’ll be off—” Ray starts to edge away from me.  I grab his arm.

            “Kate will go fucking mental if she finds out I’m out tonight with three topless models.”

            “Jack, please.  They’re glamour models.  And the video they just made about a million times better could just be the catalyst your career needs.  The least you can do is make polite conversation with them for a couple of hours as a goodwill gesture.  If you can get me Kimberley’s phone number too that would be great.”  He grins and winks and taps me encouragingly on the arm.

            “Ray, sorry, I can’t, it’s just that, this, all of this, it’s just so tacky.  I want to be a successful singer-songwriter.  I don’t want to be known as that bloke in the video where the girls get their tits out.  This is completely contrary to everything I set out to achieve.”

            “You’ll thank me when your video’s playing on MTV twenty-four seven.  Now take those gorgeous girls out, get pissed with them, and have some fun.”

            Poor, poor pitiful me.

.

As I hit ‘publish’ after writing my last blog entry, I realised something. I had described myself, with somewhat reckless abandon, as a bitter 28 year-old trapped in a career I’m not entirely happy with.

Instantly my thoughts turned to the ideas I’d already had for my next blog, where, I’d decided, I would describe the idea for my novel and specifically the main character and narrator; 27 year-old singer-songwriter and former accountant Jack Smith, who within the first three thousand words meets a beautiful glamour model who changes his life.

At this point I assumed the reader would arrive at the opinion that my ‘novel’ was in fact the life story I wished I could tell. This isn’t the case. No, really — it isn’t.

The novel is tentatively titled ‘Happy Ending’ (by “tentatively titled” I pretty much mean that if a publisher wanted me to rename it “I’m A Big Stupid Goat” then I wouldn’t put up too much of a fight). It’s worth pointing out here that this is my first attempt at any kind of synopsis. Obviously I don’t want to give too much of the plot away, so it’s an attempt at one of those teasing back-cover blurbs. (Writing synopses is an art in itself, so I’m fully aware of how bad my first attempt will be.)

Here goes:

Jack Smith sees himself as the “caffeine-free Diet Coke” of rock stars. He generally does what he’s told, doesn’t hell-raise, smoke or take drugs, and lives in a modest flat with his long-term girlfriend. About to release his stunning second album, Jack isn’t in it for the celebrity lifestyle. He wants to be critically acclaimed but virtually unknown, and will be happy selling just enough records to prevent him having to go back to his former career as an accountant.

Jack’s record company don’t share his agenda. They release his least favourite track as the album’s lead single and film a tacky video starring three topless models, one of whom is Britain’s most popular glamour model Samantha Louise. Jack hates the video until it pushes him to the top of the charts, and while he’s initially horrified at tabloid speculation that he’s having an affair with Samantha, he quickly learns to embrace life as the media’s flavour of the month.

Consumed by a relentless desire to be recognised as a great songwriter, Jack takes on the media, the music industry and the British public in a fight he can’t hope to win. He tells himself there are no happy endings in life, but can he battle his personal demons and prove to the world that talent and hard work can still triumph over style, marketing budgets and publicity campaigns?

It’s kind of cheesy, I admit, and I’m not altogether happy with it, but as a first gambit, it’ll do (a “first gambit” that took a week of agonising writing, re-writing, editing and tweaking). I’ll post the first chapter or so at some point soon. If you have any comments, if you like the idea, don’t like it, want to read more or think “For God’s sake man that sounds awful — please stop!” then pop a comment below. I’ll try not to get offended. Honest.

Firstly, I think it’s fair to say that I was wrong in my first blog. Blogs aren’t pretentious, and neither are they just for self-important types with high opinions of themselves. There are lots and lots of very interesting, entertaining and helpful blogs out there, and I’d like to bring a couple to your attention:

• http://iainobrien.co.nz/ – Iain O’Brien, New Zealand Test cricketer, nice chap. Interesting blog about the life, trials and tribulations of a professional cricketer. Currently sweating his nuts off in Sri Lanka.

• http://crackerwax.com/ – the insane ramblings of some chap who works in the same building as me. A definite candidate to do one day what can only really be described as “A Michael Douglas in Falling Down.”

• http://baldyblog.freshblogs.co.uk/ – now, serious head on for a moment. Without meaning to repeat what is written in his wonderful blog (and because I can’t do it justice), Adrian Sudbury – an old classmate from secondary school – was struck down with leukaemia, and he used Baldy’s Blog to chart his progress. Sadly he lost his battle exactly a year ago, but his friends and family are still contributing to the blog. It sounds clichéd I know, but no-one ever had a bad word to say about Adrian, and the courage he showed in his final months was truly inspiring. Just go and check out his blog, OK? Then sign up to be a blood and bone marrow donor.

But back to more trivial matters; specifically my attempt to write a novel. Before I start I’d like to point out that I don’t see ‘novelist’ as a career step towards fame, celebrity mates, posh London nightclubs and the like. I’m quite aware that it’s a tough career, and it’s rarely an especially rewarding one, financially.

So why do I want to be a writer then? Because it’s what I enjoy. Since school I’ve always loved writing and telling stories. I did an A-Level in English Language but regret not choosing to pursue it further. I took what I thought was the safe option: accountancy. I bottled it. I thought that in order to be successful as a writer (of any description) you had to be either insanely talented or unfeasibly lucky. I didn’t back myself to be either.

Here I am, twenty-eight years old, the soul-destroying big 3-0 a worryingly-near sixteen months away, and the urge to tell stories is still there. It hasn’t turned into a full-on mid life crisis yet. Not quite, anyway.

I’m not purposefully dragging this out, honest. I’ll write a bit about the actual novel idea soon, I promise.

I’ll write a little teaser of a description of the novel I’m trying to write.  I’m told that trying to condense hundreds of pages of work into a couple of paragraphs is one of the hardest things for a writer (not that I’m *a writer* yet) to do.  I don’t imagine I’ll be able to write the synopsis to any great standard, but I’ll try to get across the general idea of the novel.  I’ll give it a bash because it will be good writing practise.  No point writing two hundred thousands words if I can’t sell the idea in a punchy, catchy paragraph, is there?

Unless I can think of a reason not to, I’ll post the *humorous* letters I sent out to a few celebrities inviting them to my friend’s wedding recently.

There’s a piece of coursework I did back in 1998 for my English Language A-Level, and for the past eleven years I’ve reminisced fondly over this particular bit of writing; a CD inlay booklet charting the career of an imaginary Swedish pop band called ARSA.  From that description you can pretty much gauge the level of humour (that of a seventeen year-old boy, to be exact).  I found it last night and had a quick read through it.  It’s fair to say it wasn’t quite the literary work of genius I recalled, but it’s OK.  It’s funny in parts.  I remember this coursework made my English tutor laugh out loud – something no-one or -thing managed to do throughout our two year course.

An “Adult Fairy Story” (sadly not *that* type of “Adult story”), which was an entry into a Writing Magazine competition.  I don’t think I’m allowed to recreate it until the winning entry is announced, so I might have to hang fire on that one.  It was an attempt at being clever: written in the second person and with what might seem to be a slightly ambiguous ending.

Anyway, must go.

TTFN

I’ll kick off with a line from the novel I’ve been trying to write for almost two years now:

 “I hate blogs.  They’re pretentious.”

Now before I start (and I’m fully aware no-one will be reading this, but still) I need to say that I think blogs are for people with an over-inflated sense of self-importance.

So, why the blog then?

Because I have an over-inflated sense of self-importance?  A little.

Because I feel the need to share my every wondering with the world?  A bit, yeah, if I’m honest.

Because I hope some literary agent will stumble across it, love everything I’ve written and give me a ridiculous book deal?  No no no no no.  Well, maybe a smidge.

The attentive amongst you (and by *you* of course I mean no-one) may have noticed the reference to a novel earlier in this post.  I’ll be using this blog as writing practise, essentially.  Now that’s not to say that most of what I post will be drivel.  Far from it.

I’m told that the only way to become a better writer is to write more, so I will be trying to get into the habit of writing something on this blog every now and then.  I don’t want to commit to anything (first step towards failure, I’ve found), so let’s just see what happens, yeah?

Until then

GG