I would have screamed, at the Cavern, at the Coliseum. I would have hung on their every word. I would have breathed when they did, melted when they shot a knowing glance into the crowd.
I would have felt the triumph behind the self-consciously puppy-dog eyes as Paul crooned the song that started as ‘Scrambled eggs.” I would have camped outside his house, and listened with tear-starred eyes as he sang about blackbirds to a world fresh awakened. But he was too normal, too relentlessly up-beat.
I would have hung on the sensual fall of John’s newly Dylanesque voice on Ticket to Ride. I would have felt a hopeful hollowness in me when he revealed that Norwegian Wood was not about cannabis but an illicit affair. But he was too mean, too intellectual.
I would even have loved Ringo, a little.
But George. He was the quiet one. By slow inches he crept upon them, until even as the tight harmonies shattered and the beautiful, complex puzzle was smashed forever, he could say with such sweet simplicity that there was something in the way she moves.
I would have carved my name upon the wall, and maybe I would have got a call.
So finally I have written an entire thing! I am happy to have achieved at least this, although something tells me that getting two friendlies to read it and doing some corrections based on their observations will not suffice. But it's a start (until I buy a book called 'Your Screenplay Sucks!'. Yes,it's a real book.)
Anyway, the entire screenplay (yes, dear reader, I am a screenwriter this week) is called Fallout (until I run into a copyright issue) and can be found here, under the SCREENPLAY tab.
And this is the pitch (until I change it):
As a douce Scottish village on the river Forth recovers from Hogmanay 2013, Doug and Helen Birrell are horrified by the decline of their beloved family dog, Sapper. An overexposed X-ray links his demise to Britain's first designated Radioactively Contaminated Land, the MoD landfill site nearby in Dalgety Bay. As the year of the Independence referendum starts, the village becomes an environmental disaster zone and the MoD send in one of their most reliable officers, Sandy Forbes, to do damage control. But Sandy, is Doug's old friend and a local resident. With eyes firmly fixed on the end of a long and thankless career, he quickly finds himself in a critical mess of vested interest and divided loyalties.
This month SEPA, the Scottish Environmental Protection Agency are deliberating on whether to irrevocably declare Dalgety Bay in Fife Britain’s first designated Radioactively Contaminated land. I explore how a culture built around obedience can accept what cosy suburbanites can barely conceive of, how anger can drive politics to a point unthinkable only a few years ago, and what would happen if someone broke ranks at just the right time.
Kirsty at Better Nation, a leading Scottish political blog, reports that the new positivism of the SNP’s pre-referendum campaign will kill stone dead the exasperated anger and negativism of the ‘cybernats’ leaving such base tactics to the opposition.
That’s the problem with coming late to the party. First I thought; “What can she mean? And who are these cybernats?” Some of the commentary seemed to suggest they are a fiction made up by the relentlessly negative campaigning of the other side. Which would be weird.
Later, I watched both Newsnight and Newsnight Scotland. The former examined the impact and implications of Steven Lawrence’s murder on the Metropolitan Police and on the black community. There was a restrained debate between individuals from both sides of the divide in every sense; the white Former Police Commissioner, the black female member of the Metropolitan Police Authority and the black male former gang member turned youth worker. It was relevant, it was meaningful.
Newsnight Scotland debated, without irony and for 23 minutes, whether we were getting too worked up about the weather.
My initial reaction was; roll on Independence, or an independent national broadcasting body. At least then we can take our pick of global, national or local issues to report on.
I think this is microfiction: It's called 'Angels only Sing one Song'. It's a bit maudlin ;)
Sometimes the sadness is so great it comes out of you, like them angels that can only sing one song. Sometimes it’s the difference between living with regret and ending it all. “Hush your moaning,” she says. Well the drink don’t help it “Might as well do something useful, now you’re back.” Well the drink don’t help none “We managed just fine without you.” If the drink don’t help, then I’ll pray to God “Would be better if they’d never let you out.” And I’ll get my gun And I’ll get my gun And sometimes the singing makes it worse.
Well put down a word and pick up a song can change our minds spark joy in a heart lifted by relative position and bear me along beyond a mere shape of letters on a tide of it becomes a key to unlock shared lives and loves and minds.