Something Different

My youngest turned two the other day and amongst his haul of presents (most of which revolve around tractor-themes) was a Mr Potatohead. This elicited screams of delight from the older two, who then ‘helped’ him make his Potatohead by taking it off him and doing it. They were unusually cooperative—they compromised on the choice of eyes, teeth, hat, arms and nose. The resultant Potatohead was anatomically correct (well for a potato-human hybrid) and they presented it back to Henry who chuckle and pulled all the bits out. Then Henry poked them all back into the various holes and created the sort of Potatohead you’d get from bathing in gamma rays and getting angry. Three arms, tongue jutting out of his arse, no eyes, that sort of thing. He finalised the whole thing by shoving the toy glasses on my face (better than shoving the tongue up my bottom, I suppose).

What made me chuckle was the fact Henry, being two, had very few conventions to follow. He put the limbs and eyes and hats where he fancied, and liked the general look of the creation. It’s like when he draws—he just gets crayons and scribbles like a Brass-Rubber on speed. It looks good to him so f%$£ it!

Creativity without boundaries is something many adult artists aspire to in their work. They try to emulate that period of your life where you can just splurge out something that looks/feels good to you and be damned with what others tell you. It doesn’t last long though. As soon as you hit school the restrictions start. Some are understandable—you have to write letters so others can read them... it’s called communication. Others try to channel you down conventional lines: stories have a start, middle and end. The kids are marked down if their short stories don’t follow that line. This was troublesome for my eldest son, Charlie, who has sensory processing disorder and dyspraxia, and tends to throw his ideas down like Jackson Pollock painted. Its taken years to adapt him into a conventional writing structure (and we only did it because he has an exam in two months where he has to write like that!).

But creativity isn’t just about form, it’s about content. One of the best things about being a Geek-dad is that my interests—reading, writing, comics, DnD, drawing, Dr Who, fantasy—have permeated into my kids in a positive way. Whether you’re a fantasy fan or not, or whether you think comics are a childish media or not, you can’t argue that they don’t fire the imagination. My two eldest have seen this geek-heritage, and seen my writing and publishing books, and been inspired. Charlie (10) is an avid reader, years ahead of his age, and is munching through fantasy and sci-fi series like there’s no tomorrow. He loves creating in his games, is mad-keen on DnD and creating stories around his characters, adores his Lego still, and scribbles comics all the time. Whereas his written work at school is constrained, the stuff at home is wonderfully imaginative.

Evelyn (8 ½) naturally enjoys all the things her elder brother does, with a slight chick-bent. When she plays DnD she likes the role-playing parts, and making the backstory, rather than the slaughter of kobolds. Her reading is definitely girly, although she is reading Harry Potter again (she read the first three at 7) and she’s discovered some wonderful series (Holly Webb’s Rose series, RJ Anderson’s Knife series). She read Jacqueline Wilson for a good while, but stopped recently as she felt they were a bit miserable in places. Although she does well at most things, Evelyn’s strength is writing. She’s written a whole bunch of stories, some only half-complete, others done and dusted. Some she illustrates, others not. She’s planning to be an author (as well as dancer, singer, actress—Charlie is planning to be in MI5...) and if the following story is anything to go by she may well manage it!

She wrote this after a shitty period of bullying at school, which I’ll tell you about another time. It was a way of trying to express her feelings and write a story about being believed by people. As convention goes, it has a start, middle and end, and you can see the influence that Disney Channel programmes and Jacqueline Wilson has had on her. But (proud dad that I am) this is her own work, with the help of Microsoft Word doing that red and green squiggles, Daddy. No-one else has touched it!

Here goes:

Something Different by Evelyn M Kitson

“Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!” I was in the playground on a Thursday; chatting with my friends Lol, C and Abi, when guess who wandered up? Robin, the school bully, even though she’s a girl. She always picks me as her first victim. It all started in kindergarten. She asked me if she could sit in the empty seat beside me, so I said yes because I was new. She peered at my writing and suddenly burst out laughing and I didn’t even know what was so funny.

So since then we’ve been deadly enemies.

“What’s new Fesilly?”  She said, waving her arms about. “Look! Look! I’m Fesilly.”

“The name’s Felicity, Robin. Why don’t you go flap your wings and let us talk in peace?” My friends snigger uncertainly looking at Robin with weary eyes.

“Flick! I know a place were we can talk in peace! Lets go!”

So we did.

When we got inside the school, Robin was waiting. When I sat down she fired a spitball at me and by the lockers she grabbed my overshirt and threw it in the bin!

***

“Hey sweetie! How was school?”  asked my Mom as I walked in the door.

“If you want to know how many good things happened today, zero is your answer.” I answered.

“Robin?”

“You got it.”

“I don’t believe you, Felicity.  I think you’re as bad as each other.”

Ignoring her retort I went to the kitchen cupboard and got some oreo biscuits and started dipping them in my milk.

***

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! I woke up and hit my alarm clock. I got out of bed and pulled back my curtains. Aaahh!! Only two more weeks till the summer hols. 3 months of no school! It was a sunny day, which was what I needed, maybe, just maybe, it would lighten Robin’s rainy mood. I pulled on a white frill top and some denim shorts. Did I ever tell you I’m ten? Did I ever tell you I have 3 brothers and they tell on me at home? They also tell my head teacher that I’ve been naughty in the day so my head teacher sends a letter home to say I’ve had a ‘behaviour malfunction’.

I went and poured some granola and then my Mom walked in. My sly older brother Ben came in behind Mom and then Chazz, my 5 year old brother, and last but least my 8 year old brother, Harry.

" YOUNG LADY! Why on earth would you go skating outside late?” boomed Mom, “No skating for a week!”

I can’t believe it! Normally Mom would just give me a PS3 ban. Or maybe an XBOX ban or a PSP ban. Or sometimes a computer ban! No skating for a week?! .

***

 DDDDDDRRRRRIIIINNNGG! Went the school bell, ringing in my ears.

“Just stay away from Robin!”

“OK, Abi.” I responded, hoping Abi would come to my rescue if anything happened.

I went to tenth grade class and sat down. Robin sat down next to me and I ignored her just like Abi had told me to.

“Right! We are learning about when you wait longer for things to happen, they’re always better, ” said my teacher.

“Felicity couldn’t do that,” said Robin, “…and she can’t spell supercallafradjalisticexpialadousios, either.” A row of giggles shot through the class. I think my teacher had had enough already.

“PLAYTIME!” he bellowed. Normally, I would have jumped up and run out of the room without second thoughts and would be grabbed by Mr.Enliten (the teacher) and would be sent to the head. Today, however, I sat there, with my arms folded and just, well, waiting.

My teacher was surprised and said, “Felicity, you can go first.”

So I did. I did that day after day, as well as sitting quietly and instead of talking, paying attention. It had been 4 days since Robin had called me Fesilly, but she hadn’t stopped picking on me. She had been spreading rumours about me doing naughty things, but no one believed her. Because of that, Robin got narked and got her gooners and herself to push me into an alleyway near where I lived and beat me up. I was coming home with black eyes, bruises, scratches and sometimes even bloody noses and still Mom didn’t believe me.

It had been a week since Robin had ambushed me when I was talking in the playground. For some reason Mr. Enliten called me into the classroom to talk.

“Felicity, myself and some other teachers have been thinking, we have done a little look at your work, done a little bit of research, and we have, well, found out, that…you’ve…well…got… Dyslexia.” said Mr.Enliten, his eyes were full of kindness and warmth. I didn’t believe him at first, but then I saw he wanted to help me.

“OK.” I said, rather quietly.

“Felicity, you mustn’t worry. We will help you. You’re a bright girl. A lovely girl.”

I slipped out of the room. I’d heard of Dyslexia. It means that sometimes you might get your letters or your numbers the wrong way round. Mr.Enliten had already told my Mom. Still, I went outside and joined my friends. I could feel like someone, or somebody was watching me. I turned. 

“Felicity, we like you now ‘cos your not getting told off anymore,” said all of girls at the equipment area.

Robin’s followers and Robin were still worrying me. That night I hurried home and literally ran past the usual beating up alleyway. Then the next week all the boys said they liked me and thought I was a very nice girl! Then that was the best week ever. Still of course trying to run away from Robin would so not work. Robin grabbed me by the arm just as I was walking up the driveway.

“Hey, strangely different girl.” she said. I don’t now why, but my eyes suddenly welled with tears. “…and look! She’s crying!”

Suddenly all Robin’s followers came out from behind trees and cars. Robin threw me to the ground and kicked me hard.

“LEAVE ME ALONE!” I yelled desperately. My chest (where Robin had kicked me) was throbbing. It hurt so much. The pain was like losing friends. Friends that weren’t worth losing. I suddenly realised that everyone from school was there watching. Them? Why on earth would they do that! I looked further into the crowd of people… and… there… I could see… three sad faces. Lol… C…and…Abi. After a while people started to speak, not droop.

“Robin why… don’t… you, well… like… leave her alone?”

“Yeah, can’t you see she doesn’t like it?”

Suddenly three familiar voices started talking. “Yeah, Robin. All these years you’ve made us scared. From… well…you.”

“Abi’s right Robin. Leave her alone,” said C.

“Uh-huh. Leave her alone. Leave us all alone.”

“B-u-u-t…” Robin started but trailed of. “I mean, like… look, she’s crying!”

“Well of course she is, Robin! You made her!”

“Robin, you’re… well we’ve never brought ourselves to say this… Robin… well… you’re……mean.”

“Oi! You there!” Came a familiar voice… Mom! “Leave my daughter alone!” Mom ran out and pulled me from Robin’s grip. Robin stammered and ran away, faster and faster until she was nothing but a dot miles and miles away. Her gooners did likewise.

***

 “I’m so proud of you!” said my mom, as we walked in the door. “…about the boys and Robin, I believe you now, and after the school holidays, I will step straight into that school. I can’t believe it! It’s horrible! It’s mean! Why it’s more than mean! It’s disgraceful! I’m going to go to your head soon. What’s his name? Oh, yes Mr. Flint, I’m going to tell Mr. Flint what they’ve done to you!”  

“Thanks,” I said, baffled.

Now every body trusts me and likes me because I did the right thing. And when you wait longer for things, they’re always better.

THE END

The Muddy Funsters*

There have been several key changes during my descent into mid-lifeness and fatherhood. The first is that I boo all the time. Seriously, the littlest thing sets me off. I hear the strains of classical music over the scene of a kid and his dad and the tears spurt out. I can’t even think of that scene in the Lion King where Simba lifts his dad’s paw and it flops to the dust all limp. Don’t even mention Finding Nemo, I can’t even see the screen to type now. I mean, WTF? I wade knee deep in daily gore in my job and deal with grimness +10 every day on Intensive Care, but anything that reminds me of Dads and kids and poignancy gets me going.

Anyhow, the blog isn’t about that. It’s not about existential dread that life is ebbing away. It’s not about inability to drink alcohol in anything beyond a thimble or be convinced my brain is oozing from my nose in anger. It’s about how I can’t stand gangster films anymore.

Seriously, I used to be massively into them. If it had Scorcese, De Palma or Coppolla on it I’d lap it up. I’d crave the twitchy De Niro face or Joe Pesci freaking out or Al Pacino gurning. As students we used to love ‘em. Throw in a few about South-central LA and gangsta-stylie drive-bys for variety, just to dilute the crotch-grabbing, you’re a good kid, forget about it lead-ins to stiletto/vice/baseball bat/head shot scenes.

Then it changed. I can’t quite remember what film it was... perhaps it was that one with Leonardo and Jack Nicolson. I sat and watched it and then everyone gets popped at the end in a totally pointless fashion and I thought... I just don’t like this anymore. It’s like I see enough blood and stuff at work without needing a fix at home. But then it can’t be quite that, because I enjoy the gratuitous Game of Thrones...

I think it’s the gangster thing, the crime thing. There came a moment when I ceased to find them of interest, of value. There’s a genuine glamorisation of crime within film and, perhaps less so, literature. The writers and the directors seem to have an admiration for criminals, feeling that if they show some kind of compassionate side (camaraderie, loyalty, GSOH) then it makes the nasty shit they do seem a little more acceptable or understandable. The characters are usually bullies, slinging their weight around to get what they want, feeling that it’s all about ‘respect’ and so forth. Yet they’re the sort of kids who at school used to kick crap out of smaller kids. It’s that romantic notion that if you fight for what you believe (even if that belief is flawed) then it’s acceptable. It’s bollocks, really.

So what altered in me? I think the love of the gangster film and the fascination with crime boils back to the intrigue of the anti-hero (which I blogged about on Alison De Luca’s blog here.). Part of growing up is that challenge of the status quo, testing the boundaries of what we’ve been raised to believe is just and right. We are teased by the Dark Side, with glimpses of the uglier aspects of human nature. The gangster in these films is the anti-hero. He’s the one who does what we wouldn’t, who doesn’t give a shit and fights/shoots/kills to get what he wants. And clearly there’s some anti-heroes that I find acceptable and enjoy and others that I don’t, and I wonder if that’s a touch hypocritical of me? I like reading about the loveable rogue—say like Locke Lamora in Scott Lynch’s books. He’s a con-man, like a Hustler in a fantasy world. We all love Robin Hood, especially if he gives to the poor. Tyrion in Game of Thrones is great... because he’s naughty, but not downright evil. But there’s a tipping point when I can’t enjoy it, when I can’t drag up even a morbid interest in the character. And I think that threshold alters more and more with age.

So am I just a miserable old sod now? Well, yes, I am. To be fair, I do find some crime films/books entertaining—specifically I quite like the gangster-comedy ones like Lock, Stock and Snatch, mainly because I find the southern accents funny. Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction is one of my favourites, perhaps because of the dialogue and its slapstick nature. On my book blog, The Roaring Mouse, I’m featuring a comedy-crime book about a contract assassin getting married that I would describe as Grosse Point Blank crosses with Meet the Parents. Perhaps that says more about me that I can stomach the gangster-violence-glamorisation when it derides itself. And I suppose that opens up a whole host of new questions...

* The Muddy Funster title refers to an old Harry Enfield sketch where he satirised the BBC and its dubbing over bad language in films. He played a Robert De Niro character in ‘Badfellas’ whose badly dubbed character asked, “Did you fun my wife, you muddy funster?” Watch it... its superb!

Your adventure ends here...

Chain of thought is a funny thing. I was driving to work t'other day, toxifying the beautiful countryside with my gas guzzling SUV (fantasising I was a member of CTU from 24) when an old Pulp song came on the stereo. The song was called 'Something Changed' from the album Different Class. In essence it's about what would have happened if Jarvis and his lass had never met- would she be with someone else instead? What if he'd decided to go and have a beer or stay in bed instead of going out and first meeting his missus.
I'd actually bought it for my wife back when it came out as we were both Pulp fans and we'd just started going out- me in Scarborough, her in Stoke. It seemed to capture the sense we had at the time that this was more than just a short term thing- and 16 years later I suppose I can say we were right about that! (picture me getting home tonight to find that she's eloped with the pool attendant Juan...)

So onwards my brain goes and I start thinking how much life is like a Fighting Fantasy book. Man, I loved those books. I can remember the first one I bought- The Warlock of Firetop Mountain. I was probably 10 and I'd seen the DnD stuff that my mate Nick's older brothers used and been eager to play it, but our attempts were chaotic as we didn't really 'get' it. So when I found this book on holiday in Scotland I thought that it was the next best thing.
I must have spent all the time that I didn't ski that week playing the book. I had no dice so I used ripped pieces of paper numbered 1-6. I mapped it all out. Loved it. Loved the nagging uncertainty of choice within it.

Citadel of Chaos (with the bloody Gangees in it) and Forest of Doom (Yaztromo rocks) were bought on return to Leeds and then I was an addict. Me and Dan (my brother) must have got 20 or so of the series, plus the spin-offs like Sorcery. Some other series tried to emulate them (like Lone Wolf) but usually they just complicated it to try make it more grown up. WTF? It was supposed to be a gung-ho slaughter fest- with increasingly graphic endings ( Demon bird lays eggs in your brain...your adventure ends here...). I nursed what I thought was a dark secret as I read the books, always keeping my thumb at the prior entry lest the choice I'd made resulted in my arse being consumed by a frisky ghoul...turned out everyone did it (the thumb part, not the arse-chomping).

Inevitably I moved on to, well, every role-playing game available from 1984-1990. The books fell by the way-side but I can't forget the buzz of playing them for those early days and the wonderful illustrations.

(As an aside I found them in my bro's garage the other month and have bestowed them upon my 9 year old- and so it begins again...)

So is life like Fighting Fantasy? I ponder my life as I stumble into middle-age and, like Pulp, think about those significant choices and indeed some less significant. Where would I be if I'd chosen -pursue your love of comics and go to art college (turn to p345)? rather than -decide that blood and brains are more fun, train as a doctor (turn to p132)? Well I'd probably be a good sight poorer, probably not as happy, and I wouldn't have met my wife.
Other choices- which university would you like to spend 5 years drinking at? If it is Leeds go to p109, if Cardiff go to p222, if London your adventure is over. Such choices ripple through your life- if I'd gone to Cardiff or London would I live and work where I am now? If me and Amanda had chosen to stay in Australia would we have kids..the same kids?

It gets mind-blowing at times. I wonder just how free some of those choices were? Now my choices are constrained heavily by family, debt, money, career, that weigh like Marley's chains around me (OK that's over-dramatic...family aren't a chain, although kids do limit your options more than a rabbit did). But even back in those formative years how much freedom did I truly have? My choice of career was undoubtedly influenced by my mum being a physio and me spending time as a kid hanging around hospitals. It didn't dictate my choice- but there was bias within me. Your choice of spouse is hardly totally random- its not an episode of Blind Date after all. It's like the entries in the Fighting Fantasy Book of Life have some clue, perhaps they're in italics or bold.

And without being morbid one of them will have "Your adventure end here" when you turn the page. I've had one or two scrapes over the years that have almost ended on those entries (Car engine on fire...that's a great story...). And sadly, and I know this from random sad shit that happens at work on Intensive Care, you don't always have a choice about turning a page and can't keep your thumb at the last entry.

But when I look back I've chosen my adventure well so far. I've had a fair few 5s and 6s with my dice rolls and beat some tough monsters. I've got a full character sheet, with a vorpal wife +5, three Kids of Exhausting Fun, a house almost as good as Baba Yaga's Hut and a Career of Extra-Healing that generally works well.

The new bogeyman

When I was a kid I think I had a traditional set of fears. Way, way back it was monsters, although ironically I love them now and spend all my spare time writing about them (agreeably people hacking their heads off). Then it moved onto separation related things- you know, like being abducted or losing my folks- that sort of thing. I had the Dr Who behind the sofa fears. My doctor was Tom Baker and the first season I really remember was the wonderful run of gothic horror style episodes from seasons 13 to 15 (Pyramids of Mars, Talons of Weing Cheng, the Fendhal etc). One that especially sticks was the Horror of Fang Rock, with the Rutan blobbing up the stairs of the lighthouse. Petrified!

And it's funny seeing the fears coming out in my kids. Yet there's an oddity or two that is curious to think of. First of all the two eldest (now 9 and 8) had very different ones. Charlie- the dreamer- has always been monsters and imaginary horrors until recently. He was terrified when he was 4 and we took him to a Halloween party- clung to me like a limpet all night (and I look like a vampire on my good days). He's been afraid of ghosts in his room, monsters outside, scarecrows on Dr Who, and weird stuff like being turned into a doll or converted into a drawing (all very Tales of the Unexpected). Of late, he's got more rational- now he's afraid of being abducted. Fair enough.

Evelyn- the pragmatic one- was always afraid of dangerous animals (although you could call fear of sharks in Devon a touch irrational) and disease. I've no idea where this last one comes from but she is seriously hypochondrical at 8. Her love of Horrible Histories fuels her concern about the return of the Plague. Perhaps she knows about an Al'Quaeda attack we don't...

But the best one yet is the new bogeyman. Now I was never afraid of the bogeyman, because he was never on Dr Who and the comic by Raymond Briggs made him a green joke. But it would seem that there is a new bogeyman in town...and he's called the Hacker.

Sorry... The Hacker.

At first I thought it was a mad axeman chopping up naughty children and keeping them in jars in his basement in a Roald Dahl type fashion. But no, it's a cyber-fear. They all discuss it at school, when they talk about kids social network sites like Moshi Monsters and Club Penguin. The Hacker is a cyber-bogey man who creeps around the internet destroying your Moshi Monster. He can be anywhere, lurking on the fringes of your screen... My son came home one day and told me that a kid at school had seen him! Anticipating he would be an acne ridden Speed Metal fan with aviator shades on I questioned further. No, my lad says, he's been seen by his mate Jacob actually on Moshi Monsters. He's a being made from shadow that slunk across the screen and gave the Moshlings a good kicking.

(Further questioning elucidated that this was the same Jacob who told Charlie his hand had been bitten off by a shark and replaced with a rubber one...).

The kids were freaked, avoiding going on the computer without me nearby (not a bad thing) and blaming any computer problem on the new bogeyman. They discussed him at school, worried about him at night and generally used him as an excuse not to go to sleep at lights out.

The Hacker! WTF. We are truly in a new age my friends when the scariest thing is an amorphous entity on the inter-net killing virtual pets. The kids think of dangerous viruses as ones that mash your hard drive up, not ones that give you meningitis. They fret about their on-line pets when they forget to feed them. It's bonkers.

Then I think about the hours I spend tapping away on computers at night. I think about all the tweets I send and jokes I share with people I've never really met. I think of hours of my life drained by the vampyric Facebook. And am I surprised by the new fears of my kids?

So I did the only thing I could. Told them that statistically they're far more likely to be run over by a car than abducted, eaten by monsters, blown up by a bomb, crash in an aeroplane, swallowed by a shark or rotted by the Plague.

Now they're afraid of cars.