Beware the Delta X-Ray

Ah, summer bugs.  I still they’re the closest we’ll ever get to seeing the true start of the ever-impending zombie apocalypse.  If only because germs make sense in winter.  They belong there, where the clocks have changed and afternoon becomes night before we can even finish work.  It’s cold, it’s dark.  We all get a streetlight tan and ice scraper’s wrist.  We’re all rushing to some end of the year, family tradition that has to be as perfect as it can be.  Especially when it stands no chance of living up to the greetings cards around here.  We can’t afford to be ill.

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Here comes the Fluff

This is it, people.  This is not a drill.  The second novel is out.  Which is crazy.  I’ve managed to write another one.  Three decades on this planet, two novels published.  That’s not bad when you consider the whole first decade and some of the second was spent primarily being forced to learn things in various classrooms.  
   “So, where did this new novel come from,” I hear you ask.  “And what’s with the pink rabbit?”
   I guess it’s time I properly introduced you to Fluff.

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The Big Screen Cometh

Now, don’t worry, I’m not going to review Infinity War here.  There is a near infinite number of people on the internet who are going to do that today.  No, what I wanted to talk about was opening night.  I love the opening night of a big movie.  I truly do.  The atmosphere.  The anticipation.  The reactions in the room, after the lights have gone down.

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Dear 38

Dear 38 year old me,
   Hi, how’re you doing?  Well, I guess you’re resting right now.  If all things go to plan, then you’re due for a pretty big year ahead of you.  There’s the new book coming out, Fluff.  There’s another book to write.  You’ve got a massive new Avengers movie and the first female Doctor Who to look forward to as well.  I just wanted to take this opportunity to wish you luck and send on your way with a little advice.

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The Denmark Rot

   A few weeks ago, on Easter Sunday, we were flicking around and passed a rather intense looking programme.  It was clearly a drama, being performed on a stage and in front of an audience.  A well dressed, well behaved audience at that.  I recognised a couple of faces in the cast and was relatively intrigued until I spotted a grave digger and heard the name Horatio.
   “Alas…” said the TV.
   “Oh, not again.” I said as I quickly hopped to another channel.

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Player 2 Has Left the Game

There are some people in the world of cinema whose name becomes synonymous with what they do.  You can spot them quite easily.  They normally get the word ‘esque’ stuck on the end of their name to tell you another director has tried to respectably rip them off.  It’s a sign that their talent has sewn them into the fabric of the cultural landscape.  Steven Spielberg is very much one of those people.  Although, unlike so many other directors who share that honour with him, he’s transcend the need to be seen as connected to only one genre or style of film.  When it comes to Tarantino, Hitchcock, Fellini, Lean or Kubrick, you know roughly where the movie is going to take you.  Whereas Spielberg feels more of an iconoclast than the rest of them.  Or, at the very least, he appears to have a few extra clubs in his bag.  

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Little Grey Sells

I’m not what you’d label as faithful.  I loaded myself up with a heavy dose of cynicism as a kid and it stops me from comfortably believing most commonly accepted miracles.  Although there are some things in this world that can catch me off guard.  Things that appeared to have reached in from beyond the beige walls of our rather ready salted existence.  Great inventions.  Scientific breakthroughs.  Moments of hope or moments of true charity.  Great works of art or music that can grab you by the soul.

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