The Bartending Blues

The Bartending Blues

Ahhhh bartending - after several months of a government sponsored holiday, care of COVID, I should be happy to return to you. I mean.. you've provided me with so much joy over the year. All those times you've had me covered in piss scented beer from the drip trays, old cigarette butts from ash trays, and the beautiful brown crumbs of skidmarks that I've had to scrub off bowls with the frayed ends of old toothbrushes. Not sure why I did that, I mean nobody asked me to, I just felt that I'd save the cleaner some work. I mean what does a bartender do? I'm not saying anything new in that we're the part-time social workers, psychiatrists, kind ears and liquid magicians who are blowing your mind with tasty beverages when we're not fixing them with our ears and our words.  I mean, we may not be saving lives like nurses do, but there are times when having to listen to a customer tell you about their arsehole hair bleaching practices should result in a higher hourly rate.  However, bartending is doing largely what you're told by your manager to do. Which in my case is usually "Conor.. please don't be too harsh at all the dumb cunt customers." Really though?

The ones who lean on the fucking hatch that is clearly marked "please don't stand here". I mean it's not exactly like we need access to a bar floor covered in broken glass and vomit because some genius lost the ability to maintain a grip of his pint glass or his bowels after three redliners - that's when some clown chooses to infuse the silky smooth anaseed notes of a flaming sambucca with the spicey vingarette of tobasco because he's "such a lad". Usually, the same guy who comes in, looks at the badges on every tap, then the menu, then to me, so that he can ask.

"What do you have on tap?"

They're there. THEY'RE FUCKING THERE. I know it's a bit too much to ask that you have basic literacy skills when you come into my bar, but if you could read the labels, I wouldn't have to rub my two remaining brain cells together to give you the answer you could get with basic understanding of the alphabet.

"We have Heiniken, Birra Moretti, Guinness, IPA, PA a nice organic Cider.."

"Do you have Carlsberg?"

Did I fucking say Carlsberg?

Amongst those names that you heard me say, did I say fucking say Carlsberg? Do you see it on tap? Sometimes I just give him a pint of Heiniken and tell him it's Carlsberg. Same tasteless piss weak lager, he's not going to know the difference. I could just empty the drip trays into a pint and the bastard wouldn't have the tastebuds to distinguish it.

“No, sorry. We've got Heiniken, fairly si-”

“What's the strongest pint you have for the least amount of money?”

I stand there silently for a moment. Is he asking me to create an Excel sheet creating mean averages for percentage of beer vs its value in pound sterling?

“Ummm.. probably the Heiniken,” I say, kicking myself that I didn't just sell him the drip tray beer as Carlsber and hoping that whether my answer is right or wrong, it's enough to placate him.

That same guy will then tell me that because I'm Irish, I need to know that because his great grandfather was indeed from Dublin, that makes him, Mr centre-of-wit-and-intelligence-also-Irish. Then he springs on me something which completely utterly blindsides me. Something that makes me stare off into the distance, like my eyes themselves are searching for the higg-boson particle.

“Do you know where Dublin is?”

Do I know where Dub- The capital of my own country. DO I KNOW WHERE-

"Ah Dublin, is a good city," I say with a smile.

"Yeah it is, I was there on a stag do last year. Fuckin hammered haw haw haw." In fairness, I also went on a stag do and was hammered, but I'm not going to tell him that because the more I have to engage with this highly evolved amoeba cell the more I'm going to want to pour tabasco, then sambuca, then fire into my eye in the vague hope of ending it all.

That urge to hurl myself into a firey alcohol fuelled abyss is only intensified when he's joined by his dumpy female. Maybe it's his wife, maybe it's his sister, maybe it's his mother. Could even be all three. She comes in and your brain's probably already conjuring some fake-tanned crabalocker fishwife except, for me, that'd be nice if that were the case. Unfortunately for our handsome hero, this crabalocker fishwife is actually a pornographic priestess. Tall, curvy in all the right places, slim in all the other ones, perfectly angled cheekbones, clean bright white teeth which put my six coffees a day stained ones to shame and beautiful dark eyes, like two black holes that I could just fall into and the universe would cease to matter. She picks up the menu, peruses it for a moment, looks over my head at the spirits on the shelves for a moment, then, as if God answers my prayers, casts her gaze upon mine. As my heartrate soars to Tour de France cyclists going uphill levels, I somehow manage to forget that she's some deliverance style lover/sibling combo of this that is.. until she opens her mouth and asks that question I simultaneously prayed to Allah, Yah Weh, Vishnu and Satan pleading with them that she wouldn't ask. A question that, even if we could have the menu in giant fucking letters on a board behind me would still get asked. She could have vision so sharp she could read the bottom letters of an eye test three miles away and these words would still dribble out of her beautiful, sumptuous, wasted lips.

“What pink gins you got?”

The words ring out like a gunshot in my ear.

It's not even that I'm that snobbish about the venomess peppa-pig-coloured distilled muck that she wants to drink, it's not even that just like her brother/manthing she can't be bothered to process the obvious information in front of her, it's that she let's out those words with that Estuary accent which could make me want to put tabasco, sambuca into my ear and set it on fire, and this time, definitely in that order.

The illusion shattered, I decide to continue with the banal disintigration of those two poor, lonely, remaining braincells.

“We've got Beefeater Pink, or a lovely rhubarb infused one fr-”

“Do you have Gordons?”

“No.. sorry.”

“Well why not?”

Because it, like all pink gin is shite and we shouldn't be stocking any of that flavoured slime.

“I -uhhhh--- I'll ask the manager next time I see him. Beefeater is good.. I hear”

“Fuck it. I'll have one of them then.”

I go and pour the damn drink, knowing that she'll be complaining about the price and will impart the information that I so desperately seek – the knowledge that she pours much bigger measures in her house and then she hits me with that uestion. The one I'm not totally sick of answering every single time I'm making a drink.

“Are you Irish?”
“Aye.”

“Do you know Leitrim?”
“Not that well to be honest.”

“Well that's where I'm from.”

I can't help it, I'm doing my best to not swear or say anything too harsh, but the snark. The snark can't be controlled sometimes.. it just creeps out of my mouth.

“Great. How's that working out for you?”

She's offended. Deeply offended now.

“I want to speak to your manager.”

“Fintan..”

I call him over and mouth a sorry. He understands. A certain level of snark is needed sometimes. Like to the guys that go up to the live band and ask for a go on their instruments, because they can do a “great rendition of Wonderwall.” To the American tourists who wonder in at 11.30 at night to ask for Irish coffees on a Friday night when the queue is already three deep and then can't understand why the coffee machine has been cleaned and closed down. To the middle aged woman ordering a vodka and coke, who only tells you after you made the drink that they didn't want ice in it, because you were supposed to be euipped with your crystal ball and predict that this weird bitch would want her beverage exactly like this. I won't be getting writ up for this one.

Then they walk in. The big eared Kensington/Windsor/wherever-the-fuck-else crowd that love nothing better than treating me like the shit on their shoe, just because their shoes have a higher net worth than I do and that they bought their shoes from the pocket money Daddy gave them for not calling him a Tory cunt, all whilst this Irish peasant does menial work and has a funny accent. Don't worry, I'll do my best to be quiet and subservient and appreciative when he comes up to the bar. I'll just count to ten and breathe when exchanges like this happen. Maybe they'll be so kind as to buy me a shot if I just do exactly as they say. Preferably a shot of sambucca, which I'll top with tabasco and fire.

“Can I get a -”

Here it comes, here it comes..

“A pint of IPA, two Peronis”

“We don't have peronis sorry, Moretti OK?”
“Yeah that's fine.”

This might be OK. We can do this.

“A bottle of prosecco. A gin and tonic”

“Single or double?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry single or double?”
“Yes.”

“A double then?”
“No – single.”

“Ok, what else?”

“Can we have one of every cocktail on your menu?”
“Uhh yeah.”

“Oh and it's her birthday..” the big eared goon says with a point, as if I'm meant to know Camilla Parker-Bowles Jr. “Can we get a round of shots on the house?”

“Um, no sorry.”

“Ah gooo on. You're Irish!”

Yes, us Irish people have a long and happy history of giving stuff for free to the English upper class.

“Sorry. No can do.”

“But why not? Go on.”

“It's just not something we do here.. bar policy and that.”

“Right, well let me speak to your manager.”

I turn around, the poor guy has just managed to settle little Miss Self-importance. He's going to love this one.

“Finn-” I say with apologetic eyes for the second time in the night. I tilt my head, pointing him towards our new friend.

“Listen, it's Susan's birthday. We're spending a lot of money here. Any chance we can get a free round of shots?”

God I want to grab him by his big flappy Dumbo-fuck ears and slam his head into the puddle of piss-smelling pale ale he's created jostling to the John-Lewis-style cover of 'Purple Rain'. I want to elbow drop him like howTony Jaa does when he's fighting everybody in Ong Bak. I want to -

Breathe. Breaaaaaaatthhhhe. Count to ten.

“Right OK. What shots would you like?”

“Yes.”

“What shots? I'll tell you what, I'll give you a round of Irish whiskey..”

“irish whiskey! Bleh! Don't touch the stuff! What is it with you micks.. is it an Irish bar or something?”

“Well yeah, it is yeah.”

“Ok. Well fine. Whatever. Irish whiskeys will do fine.”

I let out a small sigh. One that is part due to Fintan's choice resolve the situation without hassle and part due to his willingness to just let it slide. I didn't want him this clown to win, but here we are again. I go back to shaking and stirring, pulling up bits of mint, garnishing fruit onto the top of the drinks. I am in my element, constructing them with pride and dilligence. They're all made up, beautifully presented, expertly made. If I could drink them, I would. I would down them and hopefully pass out within the hour so as to remove myself from the situation. I pass them over onto the bar counter in front of him, on bar mats no less. He starts passing them around his group of Made in Chelsea-rejects. He manages to drop one, meaning I'll be forced out to come round, sweep up the mess of broken glass, crushed ice and sticky liquid now clumped to the bar floor. Of course doing so means that despite my massive frame, I'll have to make myself more apparent, with a constant stream of “excuse mes” to the high-heeled harpies screeching about what Oliver got up to with Imogen in the jaccuzi last weekened.  I sort of thank the fact I wasn't there, otherwise I'd most likely be doing life for drowning them in their heated evervescent tank of even stickier body fluids.

I go back to the bar, print off the bill and present it to him, grabbing the card machine, readying it with the amount stated on the receipt.

“Oh and a pint of Guinness..”

No, of course not. Wouldn't be right for me to expect you to know the very simple rule that us bartenders have for wanks like you: order your Guinness first. So it can you know, settle.

I put the Guinness on and reprint the reciept, type the new number in the card machine and present it to him.

“Oh can we split it over three cards. 25% on one, 33% on the second, 17.5% on the third. We'll pay in cash for the rest.”

I pull out my phone and start doing the percentages, at this point, the bill could come to a round £100 and I couldn't rub those two brain cells together enough to create a spark of mathematical success. I take the first card, put the amount into the card machine, then the card itself, then hand the machine over to the Earl of Pissingmeoffdom. Or at least I try to, he's too engrossed in conversation with the Lady of the IPA lake to pay attention. After practically poking him with the machine, he gives his attention to me, with a look of “what do you want”, before the slow realization occurs that yes, I might need his pin number if we wish to proceed. The same happens with the next card. And the next one. Except on this occasion, it's Olivia and she hasn't bothered to move the money from her current account onto her Monzo card, because fuck you, that's why. Then Charles goes to pay his amount, lifts the bill and reads it, with a slack-jawed gape, almost like he's been stolen from.

"Listen, you, Mick. I don't think I should have to pay service charge on thse cocktails. After all, I've had to wait for a whole two minutes for you to make them.  Ridiculous."

"Yes sir, but you did order eight different cocktails, all with a multitude of ingredients and garnishes. Apologies for taking my time to make sure they are perfect for you."

"Well Juliette is allergic to corriander and there was corriander in her cocktail. She should have been warned about that.”

“It's on the menu. Corriander also has a distinct smell. Of corriander.”

“Well Marianne dropped her drink, so we shouldn't be paying for it.”

“Unfortunately sir, as the drink was in good condition when I handed it to your friend, what she chose to do with it afterwards is entirely her decision.”

“Well – the Guinness. It's not full. That's not a pint. Look at the shape of the glass.”

“Yes, it's settling. I will finish it in a moment. Guinness is poured in two parts. Industry standard.”

“Yes, well I'd much rather I only play the cost price. Even then it's too much."
"Oh that's fine. That service charge was only to be used to pay the extortionate rent I pay on the single bed broom closet your Father is so kind to rent out to me."

"Now now, there's no need to get like that. It's just that I will spend my money alot better than you would. You don't have the education..."

At this moment, my funny accent is gone. My willingness to be pleasant is gone. I go full Belfast, one of the few accents famed for being scarier when the speaker doesn't shout, but talks slower and quieter. An accent where its owner neither needs to swear nor make an overt threat. It's all in that fear and confusion illiciting subtext.

"It's like the philosopher, Friedrich Neitzche once said - he who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become the monster. When you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss also gazes into you."

"Oh right.. I never thought about it that way. Please. Have my money. Take a drink for yourself."

"Cheers.”

I wait with my hand out for Charles' cash to go into it. A hand he just ignores and instead, he places the cash in that big puddle of IPA, leaving me to scramble it out of there, suddenly feeling like I'm one of the lepers in the New Testament who's been suddenly transported through time to the Royal Albert Hall and being expected to play the grand piano. I pry the brass nuggets from the piss pool and put a drink on the bill for myself before I cash off, lightly flooding the till drawer with the moisture from the coins.

I pour myself a shot of sambuca and tabasco and angle the lighter ready at the surface. Maybe I'll stick it up my ass this time.

I write almost entirely for fun and because I love storytelling, but if you're feeling generous and want to throw a coin or two my way, below is my paypal tipping address.  A fair amount of the money I spend these days goes on either writing classes or tipping other artists for bringing us cheer at this grim time, so I wouldn't say you're wasting too much if you do.   Christ that last sentence is even more try hard..

Paypal Link

Some random stuff I wrote on the Facey-Bs

Well, I post too much on Facebook.  May as well put some of my (hopefully) funnier moments of the last two days up here.

On post-lockdown shopping:

There's something so sad about people fighting to get into Primarks and Nike stores on the first day that the shops are open. That somehow spending money in some place where people in conditions not much better than slavery are used to make low quality clothing items will make people feel OK, or important again. That they've been able to socially distance for all these months to avoid passing round a deadly, contagious disease like a big joint at a party but are prepared to risk it all for a new pair of trainers, or some tatty clothing that won't last a year troubles me. I mean for fucks sake, just order your shit for cheap off Amazon, if a megalomaniac profit over people bastard is going to get your money, don't bother leaving the house.

Edit: Just tagging on, this was supposed to be both funny and sad, was trying to take a dig at myself for ordering too much stuff off of Amazon and I'm sure some people have good reason to get stuff from Primark etc., just try not all to rush in at once.

Conor's laws for life

1) The moment you think you're intelligent, is likely the moment you're making a grave error

2) Never start a fight you can't finish

3) Anyone who makes a big deal about being honest or telling the truth, likely aren't

4) Anyone who writes "attended school of hard knocks" on their Facebook profile is 100% a pussy

5) The moment you spot a cash machine with no queue on it, a queue will form as soon as you start walking to it

6) If you're someone who boasts about never eating fruit or veg but gets sick all the time, you're a bit of a knob

7) Devote a percentage of your income on headphones, you will lose them

8) If there is an outcome you really dont want, but there is a small percentage chance of it happening, chuck a tenner on it (see Trump election)

9) if you're writing a rules for life on social media, you must be bored as shit, or a bit of a dick.

10) if you don't fully understand a problem, or social issue and can take the time to study it to figure it out better, do that. Don't just wade in like youre John Wayne in a saloon. Nothing wrong with admitting you're out of your depth. Sometimes just shut the fuck up.

On Lockdown Shape

My body shape, after three months of lifting weights, doing no cardio and drinking and eating too much

I am now the cheapest, least qualified PT in Belfast.  £15 for an hour and a half.. whaaaat?

On Amazon Stealing

Not content with stealing the labour from its workers or the taxes from the coffers, it moves onto stealing wishes marketing strategy

On Accepting you can't fight for shit

Waking up to realize that the dream you had where you had a fight in the UFC scheduled in two weeks time was in fact a dream and you dont have to worry about the fact you still cant fight for shit sets you up for the rest of the day

How not to fight Muay Thai

On Attempting to be smart whilst drunk

On how to make pasta

On how to make a cup of tea

Seriously.

questions and answers about the Royal Central School of Speech and Drama MA Acting for Screen

1. In general, would you recommend the MA acting for screen program at Central? 

For the most part, yes.  I would absoloutely do it again, but there were some places that I felt it could be a lot better

 2. What were you looking for out of the course & did you get it?

From a technical/skill standpoint, then for the most point yes.  In terms of employability as an actor after the course, not necessarily.

 3. Did the program prepare you for the real world? Did you get a nice reel out of it? 

I have heard of other courses which set you up better for the "real world" in terms of setting up businesses, finding work which is potentially well paid but still conducive to being an actor.  There were warning signs provided by the school that seeking work as an actor is tough regardless of your perceived ability or background, but I feel there is a change I didn't pay enough attention or respect to them.  I believe you've already seen my reel, which I feel was a great reel and did some good things for me in the years after RCSSD, I've since updated it as it's good not to have an old one stagnate for too long.  I did however do it myself as you can tell by the scruffy editing!

This is the RCSSD one:

And this is my updated one, of my own editing:

 4. After the program, did the school help with getting work, setting you up with agents, etc.? 

Not really.  There were a couple of showcase nights where short scenes or short films we were involved with were shown in the main auditorium and agents were invited, but few if any actually showed.  Once third term had wrapped up or even as early as mid-third term, we felt largely on our own.  There were a few girls in the class who really did their research regarding agents and made lists for people, organized glossy headshot photo printing.  At the time it was still common place to mail them out directly to agents, though whether or not that has changed, I'm not sure.  I didn't get a good agent until mid 2018 after being hussled by one who I paid to join (don't ask)

 5. I believe I saw that you didn't study acting in Uni prior to going to Central (I also did not), did you find that hindered you in any way?

Yes and no.  I did feel that those who had studied acting prior to the masters had a bit of a head start and for me the three strongest students were all BA Drama etc. graduates from other institutions, so I definitely felt green.  I do believe that you will get up to speed quickly if you put the work in.  You can also read some books and try exercises out ahead of time. 

 6. How were the teachers and did they have a large amount of real life experience (were they working professionals)? 

A mixed bag.  Amanda Brennan is the head tutor and I think she is great at her job for the most part, although at times seemed to pick favourites.  She is fairly insightful and intelligent and has a lot of experience coaching high level actors (I believe she prepped Andrew Garfield and helped him get the spider-man role) along with working as a writer and director  Armen Gregory is fantastic as well for his script analysis and dynamic style of teaching, he is for sure a student favourite.  Jo Shah's class on representation within acting felt very much like an academic necessity for the course to receive MA creditation but it didn't feel particularly useful as an actor and she relied on YouTube lectures from other people.  Dave Nolan is one of the movement coaches and has worked as a special action extra (I believe) on shows like Vikings.  Whilst I got on fairly well with him, there were some people who took issue with his style of teaching.  He shared the responsibilities with Anna (whose surname I forget), I liked some of the things I learned in that class, but I am still unconvinced on its usefulness overall.  I would recommend you look up Feldenkrais as these activities are used extensively in the first term.  In the second term things I enjoyed more like Laban techniue came in to play.  I am unsure who is coaching voice right now as the teacher at the time was suffering from some health issues.  Keir Burrows taught some of the camera techniue classes, he is more of a director but has made award winning feature films. The dance instructor, Paul was the same genetleman who choreographed all sorts of dance scenes - including the Harry Potter wand fight scenes.  He is a little harsh at times, but he recognizes when people put the work in.  He commended me for my efforts of going from one of the worst dancers to being one of the better ones, purely because I'd put so much work in.  Praise where priase is due is nice.

 7. How was the workload in the school? How were classes? In classes were you writing papers or more getting on your feet and working/filming?

The workload for the first term is intense and the second term is relatively intense as well.  You have 4 days of 9-6 timetabled hours as a bare minimum but you may have agreed times to meet up with other students, work on projects, practice dancing, line running, writing etc.  We were almost always on our feet, though occasionally we sat down for some voice work.  The classes are almost always active, save for Jo Shah's class which is about 2-3 hours long.  Most of the essay writing you do is on your own time.

 8. Did you also get a taste of other aspects of filmmaking (writing, directing, editing, producing, etc.)? 

Yes, though as with many things it all depended on how much time you were going to put into it.  You were shown the editing suite and Adobe Premiere Pro but typically if you were in a group with an experienced editor (there were a few in our class) they were able to handle that.  You aren't coached that much on any of these other skills, so having a rudimentary understanding of these things would help.  Each semester has moments where you will be working on projects, roles of directing/editing/writing are shared out.  Enthusiasm without being controlling will go a long way.

 9. More importantly, did you like it? 

Well I would definitely do it again, so I would say yes.  I've been lucky to have stayed in contact with some of the students on my course and consider myself very good friends with them.  From what I gather the course has improved with regards to the number of short films you make and who the outside director/producer/writers are for those.  In the second/third term I was cast in a short film that school funds had been given to the writer/director to write roles which suited us as students.  He then decided somewhere in the second/third term to change the role entirely and found I was no longer what he wanted and brought in a past student of the course who suited it better (much smaller build, younger face, almost natural nervousness to him) this and a couple of other things did put a little bit of bad taste in my mouth, but again overall I was happy enough.

 10. Anything else you'd love to add!

There is so much you can do to prepare for the auditions and for the course itself.  I would recommend you take the 21 Day Self Tape Challenge (Purocasting) as it is pretty cheap for a lot of lessons in working with scripts and doing monologues to camera.  I would also recommend you try chi gong - a martial art a lot like Tai Chi which Amanda uses as her warm up.  Check out Chekov's techniues.  Maybe get Amanda's Energetic Performer.  Look up Feldenkrais  Download Celtx as it's a free script formatting program if you want to write scripts.  DaVinci Resolve is a free Video Editing software suite, maybe not as good as Adobe Premiere Pro, but great for free and worth learning how to use if you want to get involved with editing.  If you haven't got headshots, maybe hold off until you have the list of recommendations (Yazzmin might know this) and get them done in London.  Obviously make sure you know your lines for the monologues, work hard do your preperation, make a character, make clear choices whilst observing stillness, all that good stuff!  Figure out your funding in advance, I should have taken a part time job sooner, though who knows what the economic climate is going to be like after COVID is deemed less of a threat than it currently is.

Star Wars Rewritten

If you know me, you'll know I absoloutely love the original Star Wars trilogy.  I grew up watching it with glee so it has a huge part of my heart.  As a teenager, I cared a little bit less for the preequelbut I loved the expanded universe and the world building that had gone on in them.  As an adult, I've taken a real disdain towards the sequel trilogy and no, it's not because of the "SJW pandering" which right wingers will complain about, much like Star Trek, Star Wars should be more inclusive and have characters of different ethnicities, genders and sexual orientations, it's just that the stories the films told were neither engaging or sensical.  That's right, I'm complaining about the sense made in a science fantasy film series, but I do this because the original trilogy, for the most part was able to tell a simple yet complex story which posed as an analogy for either the Vietnam war or the WWII (depending on who you ask, or the particular film involved) with both reasonable word and time economies.  Very little of A New Hope, or Empire Strikes Back feels supurlfuous in terms of advancing the story or character development.  Return of th Jedi definitely isn't on the same level, but I would argue, the brilliance of some of the scenes, makes up for the slightly more questionable pacing and structure.  Overall, the first three films could do with only a little bit of tidying up..  Get rid of an incestuous kiss here, an alien jazz band there and maybe a slight re-write of one or two scenes, dialogue wise.  In that last regard, I decided to rewrite one scene which has always bothered me as an adult, not solely because because Robot Chicken so deftly took the piss out of it, but because I just feel it could have been handled a little bit better in the writing stage.

That's right.  The scene where Leia, after losing her own planet and everyone she's ever known has to comfort Luke, showing how much more of a strange teenager he is compared to the well adjusted, ass kicking diplomat, Leia.  In my mind, it could go something a little bit closer to this.

INT. MILLENNIUM FALCON - CENTRAL HOLD AREA

Luke looks downward sadly, shaking his head back and forth, as the princess stares at him understandingly.

LUKE

I can't believe he's gone.

LEIA

There wasn't anything you could have done.

LUKE

It's not just him.  If I hadn't told Uncle Lars to buy the R2 unit, he and Aunt Beru might still be alive.

LEIA

You can't blame yourself for the Empire's actions.  Otherwise, I would never forgive myself for what they did to Alderaan.

LUKE

I'm sorry.

LEIA

This is why I fight them.  This is why I'll never stop.

LUKE

I will join you.  We will do this together.

Han rushes into the hold area where Luke is sitting with the princess.

HAN(TO LUKE)

Come on buddy!  We're not out of this yet!

So it's not perfect, maybe a little wordy and I'm aware Luke is supposed to be a bit of an annoying bratty teenager, but I feel this way you get at least a hint of resolve and a reason to follow the character a little bit more.  At worst case scenario, this would be "closing" some part of the character arc, but I don't think so.  Anyway, that's my two cents.

The Lockdown Masturabtion Conundrum

This is a piece that I originally wrote for stand up, but decided it works better as a blog piece than anything else.  Please note artistic liberties have been taken regarding things like sex drive.  It's not that low.. and well some other parts too.

So.. lock-down.. it's been.. GREAT! I can take some tie out to show my mum what kind of human being she raised. A fucking thirty three year old manchild! I am able to say that despite growing into my goddamn gorgeous looks a little, I am still the lazy loser geek I've always been. You see whilst some of you have been learning new skills, being creative with your sourdoughs and twenty five push up challenges, I've started playing Dungeons and Dragons again! I can feel my virginity growing back every day. But that's OK. Because I'm 33. Sex.. it's over. Look, as soon as the average man hits thirty, his testosterone levels drop by about one percent a year. In my case it's more like ten which is why my plans to get prison-hench in isolation haven't been going that well. I started lifting weights so I'd have a real “don't drop the soap around me” look. I even tried to give myself a mohawk to scare my cat. You know, walking round like I'm 90s Phil Anselmo.. He was a muscular ex racist heroin addict turned metal bad ass. Instead I look like a racist doughnut addict. Or an Aryan Brotherhood rentboy. “I'll suck your dick for a pack of cigarettes Mr White Man” I might appear sculpted but I've my pecs are smoke and mirrors. Humps, lady humps, or perhaps even camel humps, because ladies, gentlemen and every one of you beautiful sentinent beings on or outside of the gender spectrum out there, I can now identify as a wank camel.

And I chalk this down to the fact that with low testosterone I now have the added superpower of being able to go a really long time without.. shooting fast swimming genetic material out my flesh cannon. Yes, I can go for about ten days in a row before I suddenly stop and think “My goodness, my balls feel so heavy today. Perhaps if there were some way to drain them, I would feel so much lighter and aerodynamic!” Which is lucky for me because my masturbatory tendencies have been entirely encroached upon by one person. Rupert Murdoch. Nevermind the fact he'll probably install more 5 G towers to give us all COVID 19. His parental shield on Sky Broadband prevents me accessing certain websites of uestionable moral integrity.. before midnight. Don't ask me why his parental shield seems to drop after midnight. I can only assume he employs some good natured mogwai who consume the pornography and prevent it from getting to me but when those four zeroes line up, they have to be removed fro the server lest we hear “GIZMO! GIVE ME BRAZZERS!”

So I'm basically the Cinderella of handsheathing the meat sword. Except in reverse because I get to the ballllls at “the stroke” of midnight. You're probably thinking why not use your imagination or just scroll a little bit more tactically through Instagram. Cultivate it so that only practically pornographic pictures are coming up. Get all the hash tags right - #thicc...penis. But my imagination doesn't function that like any more. I'm 33, gone are the days when fourteen year old me could stick on Countdown and bang one out into the coal scuttle over Suzi from the dictionary corner. And somewhere since I was fourteen and now, Channel 5 decided it was somehow, too cultured to show soft core porn. I know it's utterly ridiculous the channel that has brought you such uality programming such as ASBO and Proud, The Sex Business: Swinging both ways, OAPs on the Game and World's Most Scenic Railways decided “hey you know what? We don't need to pretend to have sex any more.”

Because that's what soft core is – they used to show this drama programme on Channel 5 with Moulder out of the X-Files where he would go off and investigate dirty stories and write them in his big dirty story book like one where this sexy female bounty hunter is tracking down a sexy buff criminal on the run from the law. Can you feel the sexual tension? “Oh my, they're gonna bang..” and then you'd get a series of steamy sex scenes where they might get topless but you'd be damned if you're even going to get a peak of anything more because the likelihood is that they were likely just pure dry humping in slow motion. Being a soft core porn actor must be a shit job, I mean you're expected to have a slightly higher standard of acting than a hardcore porn actor, probably get paid less money and have to leave set with a set of balls that are so blue they resemble my bald epileptic mate's head after he had a fit whilst walking down a flight of stairs. Anyway, the only benefit of being a soft core porn actor is that you can have a small penis. In fact, fuck it – you don't even need to have a penis. Nobody is going to check. Essentially, I'd be great at it. My sex drive being as low as it is means that since lockdown, I've only increased the number of days I don't have sex each month by ten percent. So pretending I'm having sex would come naturally for me. Maybe that's what I should be doing with my career. Otherwise, who else are they going to get? Some very monogomaous married guy “Um no.. my wife says it's not cheating if I only lick your nipples and don't go too rough on your aeriolas. God says it's only adultery if there's penetration.” So yeah, going to look into that career option – gyrating my hips back and forth like I'm failing at the hoola hoop.

I can't believe that when I was fourteen and watching those shows, I would have to engage in domestic espionage just to watch them. If I wanted to cry having and let loose the protein tadpoles of war I would have two options – one – feign tiredness and go to bed early, waiting for my parents to do the same, then sneak around the hallways like the Solid Snake of masturbation like an over eight year old trying to catch Santa Claus deliver all the Christmas goodies or option two, program the VCR with codes from Radio Times like I'm stealing crypto-currency from a deep web drug dealer. At the time I even had a network of spies sharing dossiers of dirt that they probably don't even print any more. I don't know if I could look at 'Reader's Wives' any more, never mind cover it in my DNA PVA. I don't have that pre-teen porn-sharing secret-illuminati any more, so what do I do? Go up and ask random eleven year olds if they've got any top shelf magazines? Are you fucking kidding me? Eleven year olds have learned Filipino knife fighting from YouTube by then. It'd go

“Hey kid.. you got any di-”

“Have that you paedo Aryan brotherhood bitch!”

With me shooting blood out of sixteen different places out of my neck.

I did think of calling up my old cum happy comrades from back in the day but figured it'd go something like this

“Yo Wee Ryan!”

“Um nobody has called me that in twenty years, I have a wife and kids now...”

“Wee Ryan, that's great and all, wonderful reconnecting after all these years. Listen you don't have any dirty magazines? Hello? Hello?”

So maybe you're thinking – why nt ask your mum for the account details? I mean she's a grown woman, she can undertand sometimes you need to wrangle the pinkest of salmons. Well.. the thing is, I have done. We had a whole

“Mum, erm is there any chance.. I can get the broadband passoword?”

“It's on the back of the box.

“Um.. no.. the account login. I need to change something that's blocking.. legitimate websites.”

“Oh? What kind?”

“Umm... gambling.. under 21s.. 21s.. uhhh jacking black.. blackjack!”

“Well I'll take a look and let you f I find them.

“Great! Thanks mum, love you!”

Despite telling her that I love her, she has not found the details. So I decided that perhaps the reason that she hasn't is that she knows that Dad never sat down to have “The Birds and the Bees” chat and sadly he passed away ten years ago. So I decided what any horny teenager with a dead Dad would do.. draw a pentagram on the floor in my own blood and summon the spirit for my old man.

“What is it son? I'm shagging the ghost of Suzi from Countdown here..” he said, in a Northern English accent.. which he seemed to have acuired after death.

“She's not dead though,. Dad.”

“Look at her.. no woman in her fifties can be that attractive. Unless she were a vampire..”

“Do vampires have ghosts? How do you do it anyway?”

“What do you mean how do I do it? Your other's still warm, I've got to shag something to pass the time.”

“I mean.. it.. shagging? How do I shag?”

“What do you mean how do you shag? I've seen you shag. Terrible techniue. Much smaller penis. You definitely don't have your father's package. Definitely got it from your mother's side.”

“Well could you just tell me.”

My ghost dad sighed.

“When a man loves a woman..”

“Yes..”

“Why are you asking this?”

“Well I feel the reason mum isn't telling me the Sky Broadband parental shield password is to stop me from wanking because I've never had 'the talk' with you”

“No, it's because she wants you to do something more productive than wank all day. Also she'd much rather not walk in on you shooting your man milk into the coal scuttle in the middle of the day again. Grow up and get a proper haircut. You look like you'd suck white supremacist penis for half a pack of cigarettes.”

I write almost entirely for fun and because I love storytelling, but if you're feeling generous and want to throw a coin or two my way, below is my paypal tipping address.  A fair amount of the money I spend these days goes on either writing classes or tipping other artists for bringing us cheer at this grim time, so I wouldn't say you're wasting too much if you do.   Christ that last sentence is even more try hard..  What a virtue signalling piece of..

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