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24K SCHMOOZING & BOOZINGwithMARC BLAKE |
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| It was over 90
degrees, the ride was in a Cadillac heading southeast toward Vegas and
my driver (or ride donor as I called them then) asked me to reach into
the cooler and grab him a beer. On complying I found, packed in ice, 24
cans of Coors, which is almost enough American beer to get you tipsy. We
sank several of them under the hot august sun, skimming radio stations
until the driver happened on an advert for a second hand car costing a
thousand dollars. He asked me to open the ashtray where I found, to my
surprise, a roll of bills easily large enough to cover it. At this point
I ought to mention that the guy's name was Duane Johnson III and that
when he'd picked me up from the side of the road, the first thing he
said to me was "Know why I picked y'up?" "No" "Because
you're on my land." I put him down as either truly rich or a liar,
but at least not barking, which would adequately describe most of the
other drivers I'd encountered in my mammoth hitchhiking trek across the
States (We won't even go into Hunter S. Thomson). Anyway, he certainly
had my attention - especially when he veered off the road and bounced
along in the brush with the fender chewing tumbleweed. Once he was sure
I had safely stowed away his billfold, Duane next asked me to open up
the glove compartment. I couldn't wait. Inside was a gleaming six
shooter revolver, the first gun I had ever handled. Duane asked. "Know
what I use that for?" "Rabbits?" I offered weakly. He
burst out laughing. "Sheet, no. Shooting hitchhikers." This is
not how I became a writer, nor is it a fictionalised travel story, but
it is an illustration of the kind of people I seem to come across with
alarming regularity. These assorted crazies, provided I survive them
relatively unscathed, usually end up in my books. Call it catharsis or
strip-mining of experience but where else do you get your characters
from - the telly? I began as a comedian on the 'alternative' comedy
circuit and, over the years, graduated from seedy, stale rooms above
pubs to the dizzy heights of larger seedy rooms above pubs. The
bowel-loosening terror of doing this was mitigated by an appallingly
paid BBC radio series, a TV Special and several of those late night
telly slots you watched drunk and cannot remember. If you met me in
person, you might for an instant think that you recognise me, but the
glow would soon pass as you realise I just happen to look a little bit
like lots of people. Comedy is like heroin. The better-than-sex rush of
performing is addictive and anaesthetises you to the concomitant days of
misery and self-loathing as you search for the elusive next gig/hit. All
of this formed the basis of my second novel - Bigtime
(Flame. 1999) in which I pointed out the paradox that the people we seek
to entertain us are not very nice or stable people. However, the comedy
world isn't called a circuit for nothing: Round and round you go until
your face finally fits or you act improves enough to garner interest
from the agencies. I put in a decade and called it quits, realising that
I had probably peaked with that joke about the lorry driver with the one
brown arm. Alongside this, as a kind of ersatz day job, I was writing
for Spitting Image, Weekending, Roy Hudd and Frankie Howerd, though
you'll be hard put to find any comedy writer who hasn't. It's your
National Service. Six weeks with Roy and it's off to the front, or the
back, if its Frankie. My first novel, Sunstroke
(Flame, 1998) came about as a result of unemployment. Having finally
snagged a literary agent by standing by the pool with some fresh meat,
he had managed to sell two of my sitcoms and a screenplay. This led me
to the mistaken assumption that I had mutated into a genius combo of
Simon Nye and William Goldman and yes, the word you will be looking for
is hubris. My fall came in the form of industry rejection method #2,
which is the one where the producer spends six months never quite
letting the writer know that its not going to happen. In my despondency
I took a holiday in Andalucia where, as my body tanned to a rich nut
brown, a rich combination of criminal characters began to gather in my
overheated mind. Utilising the boss of a cowboy-cleaning firm where I
had once worked as the villain, I trawled the clubs and bars of
Fuengirola for source material, because someone has to do it. What
fascinated me then and still does about Southern Spain is the vast
cultural bridge which spans the indigenous dirt farmers, the service
industry workers, the tourists, the jet set rich of Marbella/Puerto
Banus and the UK ex-pat & criminal community. Drenched in sunlight,
the region offers the tawdry and the thrilling and yet lies beneath a
penumbra of violence. In that respect I see it as a simulacrum of 1950's
Los Angeles - a stew of volatile discordant nationals liable at any
moment to explode. I was amazed that no one had seen fit to focus on
this before. As the project grew and grew I poured into the pot a
budding romance, a girl searching for her dead sister, a couple of
Spanish rogues; the thinly disguised real life mayor of Marbella and a
mongrel mutt called Zoltan. Sunstroke took a year of isolation and
eleven re-writes to get right and was sold to Hodder Headline inside
three weeks. I permitted myself a sigh of relief and a small sherry. OK.
I was drunk as a skunk for a month. It was a best seller, but then
frankly these days what book isn't if you believe all the blurb on the
back? For my 'difficult' second novel I decided to keep the small-time
criminals but this time relocate to England: Birmingham in fact, on
Valentine's day. The majority of Bigtime takes place at high speed on
our nations beloved motorway system. There is Doug, a wily
Anglo-Irishman, Danny, an 18 stone steroid-fuelled Filipino and Jason, a
twat. The trio holds up a cashpoint machine at Corley services, which
was the most pathetic example of the traditional heist-gone-wrong
scenario I could come up with. It's less Dog Day Afternoon, more Dog Day
coffee-morning. I think I favour the activities of the small time
criminal for two reasons; one, you rarely hear about successful
criminals (as they're the ones getting away with it) and two, I'm
English and therefore have a genetic predisposition toward failure.
Their hijacking activities coincide with the return home of two
diametrically opposed comedians, both gigging in Birmingham. Andy Crowe,
is a gentler type of comic; Rob Gillen is a foul-mouthed venal, arrogant
tosser and is based directly on four famous comics I briefly knew in
those days. No, I'm not going to name them. Yes, I was a mixture of the
two types. No, comedians don't get groupies. Stop it with the questions.
In both books I also tackled the frustrations of love &
relationships; In Sunstroke, Mike spent two weeks trying to get inside
Sarah's pants, in Bigtime, Andy made the biiiiig mistake of choosing his
career over his girlfriend Michelle on Valentine's night. Both were
broadly comic with intricate plotting and were fast, easy reads. I'll
confess that during the editing process I think I lost some
characterisation, and it is this I have attempted to remedy in my third
and latest novel 24-Karat Schmooze
(Flame). Schmooze is the story of Rox Matheson, a northerner with a
busted heart who comes to London in search of the scammer who ripped off
her mate. There she meets Reece, taciturn minicab driver and love
interest, and Davey Kayman, the silver-tongued schmoozer of the title
bent on ripping off the BBC. There's also Charlie Ribbons, his junkie
Trustafarian girlfriend and Archie and Steve, comedy car clampers and
part-time arsonists: also, the Peterson's - a southeast London crime
family - finally make an appearance hinted at in Sunstroke. Although
these elements have, at first glance, the same ring as the previous
books, this one favours character over event every time. My intention
has been to deliver the same uproar, but with the jokes singing from the
people rather than big comedy set pieces - although there is a
dwarf-bowling session in Amsterdam. Meantime, I spent most of last year
writing a two-part ITV drama called "The Swap" which will be
on in November 2001, also a short story for this summer's charity
offering 'Girls Night Out/Boy's night in. Sunstroke was optioned for two
years by Company pictures, but if I may refer you to industry rejection
method #2 again, you'll know it didn't happen. The next producer is
lined up and hopefully this time I'll get to work on the script. I'm
between publishers at present, but have plenty more tales of murder 'n'
mayhem cooking up in my cranium: either that or its some kind of
bi-polar disorder. Within this genre, it is my first desire to
entertain, secondly to get under the skin of the characters and bring
them to you to the best of my ability. I feel the work taking a darker
turn at times and, as I notice the blood count diminishing, I note the
menace keeps going up a few notches. I don't, and won't, write about
Serial killers - How much fetishised mutilation and versions of the same
sociopathic bogeyman can we take? Nor do I seek to belittle the serious
effect crime has on people, but I have a lot to say and right now humour
is the most effective vehicle to get my message across. I hope you enjoy
the books and all unalloyed praise is welcome. PS. By the way, Duane Johnson did not shoot me, but took me to Las Vegas with the money where…well, you'll hear about it sometime. |
 BUY Bigtime |
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 BUY Sunstroke |
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 BUY 24 Karat Schmooze |
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