Connections...

Life is full of conflicting information. Just yesterday I was told that collectively we drank 150 million less pints than we did last year. Aside from who might do the actual counting (and why incidentally is it always a nice round number?) this bombshell runs entirely contrary to other events also featured in the news.

For example, at the weekend an arachnophobic Portsmouth man, while trying to burn a spider, set fire to the front of his house. It took 3 fire tenders to dampen down the conflagration. The fate of the spider is as yet unknown, but you can rest assured that if it survived, the first thing it did, was struggle down the pub for a pint to settle its nerves.

The uncharitable amongst you might reach the conclusion I did. If a man chooses fire as his favoured weapon in his battle with a spider we should not worry about, what I might suggest, is a temporary dip in beer consumption. But don’t be hasty in your judgement of our Portsmouth chap, and while your at it, dispel the stereotypical view you have already built up about him (pit bull terrier owner, web tattoo on neck, shaved head, incapable of spelling paedophile), because you are almost certainly connected to him.

That’s right, courtesy of the news, I’ve discovered there are only 6 degrees of separation. In other words, I know someone, who knows someone, who knows someone, who knows someone, who knows someone who knows the dangerous dog owning psychopath from Pompey. I like this logic.

Using this formula I’m connected to the person who commissions new travel writers at the publishers Harper Collins. This is useful, as I’d like to ask him a favour. I’m wondering whether he might go and look at where I’m currently sitting in the travel title chart on www.authonomy.com (7^th – after only a week or so on the site) and ask him if he’s seen the reviews?

So all I need to kick this off is for one of my dear readers to come forward if they have a connection with book publishing.

There's a pint in it for you…

News...

I heard on the news this morning, and not just any old news, the BBC news, that Peter Andrea, whoever he is, and Katie Jordan Price Big Tits, whoever they are, were expected in the studio to talk about their training for the London marathon.

After being corrected in my assumption that PA and KJPBT were not, in fact, lines on an optician’s eye chart, I began to wonder why this might be newsworthy. This led me, after a tortuous detour around the maze that is celebrity, to question why some people seem to be famous for being, well, famous.

‘What are they famous for?’ I asked

‘They have a TV programme, he has a six pack and she has large bosoms,’ I was told.

Apparently this programme is all about them (the couple, not her knockers – although I understand they make regular appearances – not alone, always with her…), so I’m not entirely sure what purpose it serves beyond their continued self-promotion. To tell you the truth, I’m still baffled.

Using this logic I should have been on the BBC news couch this morning, smiling confidently at Kate Silverton, and winking conspiratorially to Bill Turnbull. After all, I’ve run the London marathon, I’ve got boobs that continue to wobble long after I’ve stopped jogging, and I own a six pack (although I’ve drunk 4 of them). And I’m a bit of celebrity myself. Don’t laugh.

The Millard self-promotion wagon hurtles on. My book – recently posted onto www.authonomy.com is sitting pretty at 989^th. Before you laugh further, that’s up 392 places from the day before. If my progress continues at this pace I’ll be top of the pile in about 20 minutes and a famous author in a couple of hours.

Perhaps, in preparation for my forthcoming torrent of adulation, I should get into training. I’ve still got the Union Jack shorts I originally ran in, and I think, with some rigorous buttering, I might still squeeze into them.

As for the 26.2 miles, if I finished, that really would be news…

Toxic Hillbillies

Now, it’s true to say that I have rarely, well, never actually, been described as vivacious. But I was last week – well, if I want to be entirely accurate, my writing was, but as I consider it to be extension of my being, ergo, I am vivacious.

And whom do I have to thank for this unexpected tribute? Well, indirectly its those kind folk of the Deep South in the good ole US of A – that quadruple XL of a country where a man without a cent can grow up to be President – providing he has the backing of enough Billionaires…

But what am I twittering on about? Sadly, a story of rejection, greed, and political chicanery. This sorry tale starts with the American administration’s desire to turn America into a home owning democracy. Altruistic? Not a bit of it. Any Government will tell you that if you get the citizens in a house, preferably with enough debt to sink the USS Missouri, they become more productive. Gotta work hard to pay that mortgage or you’re homeless…

Of course the logic falls down when you lend money to people called Earl who are married to their sisters, also called Earl, so they can buy a shack and play the tune to Deliverance on their banjos, while swaying back and forth in rocking chairs on their highly geared verandas. These people aren’t called Hillbillies anymore: they’re called toxic debt.

Now consider the UK publishing industry. Last year 134,000 new titles were published. This year its likely to be a little over half of that.

Why? It’s simple. Earl never had any intention of paying his mortgage, and after a year or so of experiencing running water, and a toilet he could sit on, was quite happy to move back into the caravan.

Which brings me to the subject of my vivacity. This compliment was actually offered by the agent who read my book recently. She liked it. Enjoyed the writing, suggested I might have some talent – but she didn’t feel she could sell it to a publisher on my behalf in the current climate… unless I was famous of course… which I won’t be unless I get published, or get on Big Brother and humiliate myself in front of the morons that watch it.

But no matter, rejection is part and parcel of writing for a living. I experience it every day – sometimes editors like my proposals, sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they like them but it’s the wrong time (did something similar recently, readership not quite ready for the idea yet, etc. etc.), and sometimes they think they’d be absolutely crap at any point in their readership cycle.

So, I’m not downhearted – there are hundreds of other agents and publishers out there and I will be tracking them down soon.

In the meantime I’ve tried a different tack and uploaded part of my book to a website – www.authonomy.com - this is a site run by Harper Collins one of the biggest publishers in the UK. The idea is simple. People can visit the site and read any of the authors’ books and then grade them. The best ones move up the ‘best seller list’ and get reviewed by editors at Harper Collins – if they like you enough they offer you a publishing contract.

If you want, go and visit and look for my book: The Reunification Express. Be sure to leave a grade, or comment – but only if you’re honest – if you don’t like it say so – like I said rejection is part of writing – I can take it…

No, its not a sprout...

My last blog entry elicited rather odd responses (e-mail in the main, still no phone calls). One respondent suggested my marketing campaign, you know the one, the marketing campaign that will make me a millionaire by the end of the year, or possibly November, should be spearheaded by the mighty Sprout. Now, in my book, the sprout is the Jekyll and Hyde of vegetables. When raw it’s Cary Grant. Cooked, it becomes the Incredible Hulk. I’d rather eat the trail a snail leaves behind.

But, the split personality of the sprout is intriguing, not unlike the party I went to at the weekend. Now. I’m of an era when parties happened in kitchens and you only mixed beer and wine if you were spoofing for it. This party celebrated my friend’s 50^th, a milestone I never thought would bother him when he was in his twenties. Back then he specialised in crashing cars into inanimate objects.

In the intervening years, while I’ve been contemplating sprouts, he’s been accumulating wealth. Which was why we celebrated his party in near darkness. Only rich people can afford not to light rooms. In fact it was so dark, I’m not sure he was even there. That’s another thing about the monied, they can afford not to be anywhere.

My friend, now 50, but only looking 18 under the dungeon-esque lighting, was generous when he didn’t have money and I’m pleased to say he hasn’t changed – his generosity has expanded in direct correlation to his wallet. And he’s still thoughtful, making a point of asking guests not to bring gifts, although he did suggest we make donations to charity instead. I happily sent off a tenner to my local Alcoholics Anonymous Group in deference to his early life. I think they bought some cider with it.

Another aspect to the evening is that I nearly saw lots of old friends and work associates, many of whom I’d assumed were in prison, or at least tagged. Most were keen to take home as much of the free booze as possible – ingeniously drinking it so as to make it easier to get past security.

I received the usual reception I get when responding to the inevitable ‘…so what are you doing now...?’

‘I write for a living these days.’

Knowing that this response tends to knit eyebrows together I normally add, ‘and I’m still doing some consultancy work…’ You know, so they can feel I’m doing a proper job.

This doesn’t help much as most people replace the word consultancy with unemployment by the time it reaches their ears. I experienced a lot of people walking off shaking their heads and muttering pity under their breath. Interestingly most of my old colleagues would have considered me a crap insurance broker, I always did, so I’m always amazed that they should be surprised I’m not doing it anymore. I suppose I should have felt some tinges of jealousy every time one of my contemporaries mentioned how well they were doing, but unfortunately I could only find myself feeling pleased for them. This is an irritating trait I have picked up in the last few years that I am working hard to irradiate. The trouble is they’re all so nice.

Another interesting aspect of my friends rise from financial obscurity is his WWR – Waist to Wallet Ratio. Most people developing great wealth, with the exception possibly of Peter Crouch, see the former expand in direct correlation to the latter. The broader the wallet the broader the man. But, in this respect, my friend parts company with the uber-rich. His waistline has reduced. Which is why I’m not sure if I said goodnight to him. It was so dark, and he is so thin, I might have been professing my deep admiration to the hat stand.

On the train journey home, I avoided the vomiting classes by sneaking into 1^st Class. Such opulence gave me the opportunity to cogitate. It had been a great evening, but I wondered what was the common denominator of such a successful bunch of people? Then it dawned on me. Not one of them ate sprouts. There wasn’t a sprout to be seen all evening. It was totally sprout-less.

All the evidence seems to indicate that you don’t get wealthy by associating yourself with sprouts.

Back to the marketing drawing board for me then…

Talk, talk, talk...

I have a friend who, when arriving at a destination, immediately starts to think about leaving. As a result he spends his time at each place distracted by his need to engineer a reason for departing. This is equally distracting for the people around him who are happy to dwell in the company of each other.

Or at least that was how I always read the situation, but just recently I’ve come to question this assumption. Because, it appears to me, most people in my company seem forever looking for an exit. I’ve checked my personal hygiene and am satisfied that I’m wafting out nothing stronger than eau de spring freshness.

This feeling has been exacerbated by the lack of communication coming my way. Everyone, especially in my work life, appear to be ignoring me. Phone calls are not returned, e-mails remain unanswered. It’s very disconcerting. It's like being in a faulty radio. I'm transmitting but not receiving.

Have I become boring? I know I can appear unwelcoming: if my face were a dog it would be a Pug. But most people realise, after a few minutes in my company, that under my bleak Dartmoor exterior there is an exuberant Torquay.

I’ve been bobbing around in mild paranoia about this for the last few days but this morning, while I was thinking about a meeting I had yesterday, the solution hit me. I’ve forgotten how to talk.

Those of you that bother to read past the third line of these blog entries (paranoia again) will know I am about to embark on a marketing campaign that will turn me into a multi-millionare by the end of the year, or possibly November. Apropos this I met with a design agency. Usually I am very confident in these situations. I understand how to compose my requirements into a cogent, meaningful proposition that is lucid, succinct, well thought out, and measured. So how come when I opened my mouth the words came out like an orchestra warming up? I could see her eyes wandering over my shoulder and strolling through the window to the car park outside. It’s very humbling to know that you are less interesting than a car park. Fair enough if it was a multi-story, but this was on one level, and didn’t even have clamping signs.

Despite spending all day, every day, communicating in the written word I frequently go all day without uttering a sentence to anyone. I think this may be the root of my problem. The tongue, after all, is a muscle. And muscles without exercise wither. So it logically follows that I’m losing the apparatus required to converse. What I need is a training regime to help me regain my ability to talk. A tongue tone up, or maybe a mouth marathon? Perhaps a talking tour, or maybe I should get up to date and turn this old fashioned Blog into a Podcast?

I’d welcome your suggestions, but not by mail please: could you talk to me instead?...