Amongst the hundreds of names listed in the closing credits of a film, I’m surprised there isn’t one with the job description ‘Lots of little things that everyone forgot about.’ Or ‘Negligence corrector’. Or ‘Sweeper upper of small but essential tasks’.
What I’m learning about trying to produce a short film is that whenever you think it’s finished, you find more stuff to add or correct. So you do those tasks and realise there’s a batch more.
I can see the scenario whereby the damned thing will still be occupying me in five years time. A tweak here, re-recording a bit of voiceover there.
And I’ve not got to actually burning the DVD yet. That will throw up a fresh wasps nest of irritating problems.
I know you’re all fascinated by the minor details of this project so don’t you worry, I’ll keep you updated daily with my progress.
I was walking up Bold Street today and saw that the elderly man who plays the violin (very badly) for small change has got cuts and bruises all over his face. This rather saddened me because it’s never nice to see the elderly injured is it? Unless it’s Pol Pot, or Pinochet, or Maggie. Then it’s fine, but as a general rule…
I presume he had a nasty fall, probably onto the pavement, as he’s a rather frail old thing who looks a bit shaky on his pins at the best of times. The thought that he was attacked is a rather despicable one and I do doubt that.
I suppose the only occasion in which it’s alright for an elderly man to be attacked is if it’s by a man of similar geriatric age and the recipient actually deserved it. For example, if their sat around listening to Radio 3 in the day room of the old people’s home and one of the old codgers notices one of the other old codgers looking at his bird, Doris, then I think it’s fine that he should totter over and smack him on the head with a walking stick. Just because they’re old doesn’t mean they’ve lost their valour. These men won us a war, I bet they’ve not entirely lost their fighting spirit.
I’ve occasionally given 10p or so to this particular old man. His competence with a violin is negligible, in fact he can’t really play at all, it’s more of a prop, but at least he’s got the courage to stand there whilst I imagine having to occasionally suffer cruel taunts from ill minded teenagers.
I wonder how much he makes? His violin case normally has a fair scattering of coins in it. Mostly coppers, the occasional 10p, but he might be using the age-old busker/beggar trick of hiding all the higher value coins to make himself look more impoverished and deserving of charity than he actually is. I suppose this tactic also lowers the chances of any fellow buskers or thirsty beggars running up and nicking the pound coins.
I bet he easily clears £20 a day. He’s there every day so I’d safely assume he makes over £100 a week. Good for him. You never know, he might be making thousands. It all mounts up. Perhaps at the end of his day he limps off around the corner, immediately straightens up and skips happily up to his Aston Martin, throws the violin in the back, jumps in, turns the key and screeches off thinking ‘Ha! Fools! These cuts and bruises are working a treat! I must remember to stop off at the joke shop on the way home and get some more.’
Tonight I met up with K and H for drinks. Apparently it was H’s birthday celebrations but I had no idea so can be excused, I think, for not turning up with a card.
H also had three girlfriends with her, all from Northern Ireland. I do genuinely like the Northern Ireland accent – it pulls no punches – but if you’re not accustomed to listening to it every day it can be a challenge to translate it in a loud room. I managed to figure out that one of the girls was called ‘eeeiiiirrr’ and that she worked as a ‘arraauugggaa’.
They wanted to move on to Alma De Cuba, the new bar over the road. I popped out to see what the situation at the door of this ridiculously popular bar was like and noticed quite a long queue. I’m not a queue person as a rule. I don’t think you should have to queue up to get in anywhere – not because I think I’m above it or anything – it’s just that if there’s a queue it’s undoubtedly going to be packed and rubbish inside, and besides, who wants to wait out in the cold for half an hour when you could be sat down with a drink?
I’ve seen queues for some of the tackier Liverpool nightspots at 1am that are at least an hour long. So the people at the back wont even be able to get a drink when they do eventually get to the front. It’s insane. And they queue in all weathers too. Middle of February, six degrees below, tiny dress, trying to shelter from the arctic wind, quite happy to stand outside an impenetrable bar for an hour instead of getting inside and necking a warming cocktail.
Anyway, when it’s someone else’s birthday night you can’t really complain and as it turned out I’m glad I didn’t. After a shortish wait in the queue we got in and it found a booth all to ourselves immediately. Perfect.
Come to think of it, the reason the queue didn’t seem to take long is probably because I engaged in a sort of row with a group of four lads behind us from Nottingham, which could very easily have escalated to a fight had I not noticed that a) There were four of them, b) I was really in the wrong because although they were irritating I was being the main aggressor, and c) when you’re out with a group of ladies it’s your job to look after them, not go starting brawls. So I backed down, apologised, and shook their four hands. It was the only sensible thing to do in a very insensible situation.
I can’t actually remember why it was they’d annoyed me… I think they were just being a bit lewd in front of the girls and you know I’m a stickler for manners. Looking back, some of the stuff I said to them was way over the top. I should really count myself lucky.
No matter, before long we were inside and at our booth. It was a genuinely fun night, although I did make my leave early. As soon as I start to feel really drunk I do generally go home, there’s no point embarrassing yourself. Getting the point of departure right is the key. The ‘dismount’ as I call it.
I’m pretty sure I got it about right. Maybe ten minutes too late, but nothing drastic. And at least when I woke up the following morning my face didn’t resemble the violinist’s…
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