welcome to long words

I’m trying to remind myself these days that horror is a many splendoured thing. In fiction, that is. I’m not watching the news, smiling a slow snake smile and muttering the word ‘beautiful’ to myself. I’ll leave that to the people pulling the politician’s strings. Surely there must be someone watching the blossoming groundswell of chaos reaching far across the world today and congratulating themselves. Before turning to Hitler’s living brain (now safely implanted inside the body of a gaunt, pale, asthmatic gorilla) and offering a deeply worshipful high five.

You might remember, the other week, that I mentioned setting up a sort of required reading list for the new novel.  Who am I kidding?  Of course you remember.  They’re putting up the blue plaque outside my window to commemorate the anniversary of me writing it.  I was talking about how I was looking for particular things to read and watch.  I was listening to a lot of horror scores.  I was basically chasing some sense memory of the novel I’ve got growing in my head.  Or I was sense checking that it didn’t already exist.

I’ve never been what you’d call an animal person.  I suppose it’s partly because I don’t cope well when things die.  I struggled when Sam’s tropical fish floated to the top of the tank.  I think it also comes from the fact that I didn’t grow up with animals around me.  Thanks to two thirds of my childhood home having allergy issues, my parents never bought a pet.  So I grew up without a puppy, kitten or baby gecko to call my own.
   Since living under my own roof, any thought I’ve ever had about owning an animal has been crushed by realising just how much hard work that lies wrapped up in the relationship.  Let alone the fact that living in a street where everyone apart from you owns a cat really puts you off owning one yourself.  

Oh, Danny Boyle.  The press, the press are calling.  
   Yep, there’s no way that hasn’t already been written online at least a thousand times.  To be honest, if I had his number, I’d be calling.  Or maybe I’d be better calling the good folks at Eon Productions.  Just to find out what happened.  I want to know exactly why they parted ways with such an established and interesting director.

Sometimes, the universe speaks to you.  Or that’s how I choose to see it.  I suppose it’s just coincidence, really.  It’s either that or I’m deciding to pick up on the same, repeating cues to assemble my own, personal breadcrumb trail.  It’s a way of making sense of the noise.  Or using the noise to make sense of yourself.

Today we're going to talk about basketball.  I know, I know.  The fat, white horror writer fast approaching his 40s is going to try and talk about sport.  Not just any sport.  Basketball.  The fast paced, money spinning game that has millions of people all over the world shouting at their TVs over the squeaking sound of trainers on wood.