In a World Gone Mad: Wednesday 27 May 2020

Wednesday 27 May 2020

The world and his brother are writing books. I’ve got another one.  I finished and returned one at the weekend. Paul and I are still meeting daily to work on his. The one for my other friend is half complete and coming on well. Although he’s a friend, he insisted on paying me.   

My boss has sent me one of his own books and asked if I would do it as a favour to him. Over six years, he has given me a lot of work. I wouldn’t dream of charging him.  He’s never asked me to edit for him before. He said he’s defensive of his work and might not be able to take my level of honesty.

And now I have another one and it’s a new client. I love getting return work because it shows that they are happy with the job I did on their last book—and I love getting new clients because I don’t know their style and what’s going to come at me.  Apparently this one is very sexually graphic and full of street language. Oh joy, oh bliss, I can’t imagine anything worse.  

Some of the authors I work with are beyond bad. They are semi-literate and could do with a few English lessons before attempting to write a book. The middle section are okay, this is most of my client base, there’s a story in there and it’s middle of the road stuff.

The first group will never reach acclaim, but  everybody should write and who says that everybody has to be good at it? I say in my disclaimer that I have no qualifications, that I am self-taught and that anything I offer or suggest is only what I would do if it were my book. I’m not a good writer, but to edit I don’t have to be, all you need  is a good eye and to know people. If you understand how people work, you can know if they’re acting true to character.  My middle group are unlikely to ever reach the big time—but like me—they will have book covers bearing their name.

My third group—there’s three of them to date—are excellent writers. Their books come to me with the usual fluff that needs cutting, that’s what early draft is all about, but once we clear the wood, all three of these authors deserve to be up there with the named writers of the day.  I’m going to name two of them here as a little plug. I’m sure the third wouldn’t mind me writing how brilliant the books are, but I haven’t had permission.

The first is a lady called Jackie Johnson.

I love getting her books because it’s not work. An average book, of average length—say 100,000 words—will take me about sixty hours.  With Jackie’s books I get paid for working on a book I’d pay to read. It’s brilliant. When I got her first book I groaned. The genre was a mixture of MI5 and Sci-fi, two things that I can’t stand. But I don’t get to choose, my boss sends me work and I get on with it. About eighty percent of my authors write gushy, romance but any book is enjoyable if it’s good. It was with resigned reluctance that I opened the first page of the first book for Jackie. Two pages in and she had me. By the second book I couldn’t wait to get them. This lady is an amazing writer. Her knowledge of how certain services operate is ‘inspired.’ Her imagination is great, and her humour and great characters keep the books flowing.

My second author of note is Peter Merrigan.

Peter’s skill is use of language. He’s a sensitive writer that understands his characters.  His early books flit among different subjects and he’s working on a five-book series—always risky but he’s pulling it off—regarding the early Celts in Ireland in, Something Old BC. I’ve had to relax into his style because his language is verbose. It’s purple and intense, contractions hadn’t been invented yet. The wording and description are gorgeous the man is a beautiful writer. His research is extensive, and every item mentioned, and every new word introduced has to be checked for authenticity. I pulled him up on the noun Heartburn, yesterday. It’s a medical ailment and it wasn’t recognised in 200BC. Peter’s books are intelligent, warm, and well worth a read.

And my third author I’ll come back to, if I’m allowed. Another excellent writer with a sublime grasp of character and making his people breathe.

I’m still busy and long may it continue.

I write anything, there is nowhere I won’t go and nothing I won’t write.  However, there is one word in the English language that I won’t use.  It is plastered in graffiti all over our town. About twenty years ago there was a dripping cock and this word scrawled on the wall of a pub near where I lived. I went out in the middle of the night and when I couldn’t wash it off, I got a tin of paint and painted that section of the wall. Max says to leave well alone, but I’m considering doing the same to the graffiti, that I can reach, in our town. I don’t want to see racial abuse everywhere when I go out in the car. Three weeks ago, children were counting rainbows in windows. Now they’ll be counting C**Ts or Black Bastards. I don’t want to see Justice for Ellie on our beautiful architecture. We are an old town and we have some amazing and interesting buildings.

I don’t mind the word C**T written down, but I hate hearing it spoken. I don’t know why I object to it so much; I have had three people close to me  who use it. Two women a cousin and an old mate  who used it to excess and I think that’s where my hatred of it comes from—when they used it, it made them ugly. Paul uses it to annoy me. There are worse words in our language and it’s no worse than minge or snatch, but my objection is that I think it’s the ugliest word used in modern day English.

So, Guitar the Magnificent arrived yesterday. It’s very pretty—but it’s just a guitar. Max was excited, and it was lovely to see. He lit up like a little boy and spent ten minutes taking it out of the packaging in case he scratch the hard case. He bought two cases for it. Every guitar needs a hard and a soft case—well silly me, how could I not know that? We have seven hard cases in the house. They can’t be folded. They don’t fit in any space smaller than one that would fit a hard guitar case. And I detest the bloody things.  Max owns seven guitars, five original, one that his daughter has, but she didn’t take the bloody hard case with her, and the new one. Every guitar has two cases, its own strap, its peg on the  wall, it’s individual tuner and capo and its specific leads and strings. One size fits all, why the hell doesn’t he mix and match them?

Why do I need 220,000 MTG cards when we play with ten decks of sixty?

 I resisted the urge to rip the Stanley knife out of his hand and get the sacred object out of its bloody packaging—but these  things take time, he was savouring the  moment. I had to have patience, and I’ve got no interest in the damned thing. When the beast was released, and the case opened, it was as though beams of shining light rose from the wood. I expected him to fall to his knees and bow to the instrument. We have the Holy Grail in our home and the world doesn’t know. Andy and he agreed that every note was more pure, every chord more resounding. It was The Emperor’s New Clothes; it sounds just like his other guitars. But seeing him so happy and childlike made me happy.

 I felt sorry for Max last night. He had a gig at eight and ten minutes before going live we had one of he worst arguments yet. I caught Arthur spitting in the kitchen sink and he blew his nose on my tea towel.

I held my temper and asked him nicely not to spit in the sink.

He said the same old words in the same old order, who do I think I’m talking to, stop telling him off like a little boy, he’s been doing it all his life.  He shouted at the top of his voice and raised his fist to me. Yeah, back down little man, you aren’t going to win this one.

‘You are a dirty, disgusting old man. Stop spitting all over the pace.’

It escalated and SuperMax came to the rescue.

‘Who do you think you’re shouting at?’

‘She’s having a go at me. She’s always having a go at me.’

‘Well stop spitting, she’s right it’s disgusting. Your mother told you not to spit as a child so what gives you the right to spit in our coffee mugs that we use ourselves and give to our guests?’

Up to that point he was a dirty old man who’d lost his temper. The next part was pure dementia. Arthur doesn’t swear. I have heard him swear a few times with the advancement of the disease, but nothing like this. He’s never his life sworn at somebody.

‘Who do you think you’re fucking talking to? You can’t fucking talk to me like that in my house. Pack your bags and her bags and get out.’

Max really shouted at him, ‘This is my house, not yours, we put up with you here to keep you alive you ungrateful old man. Don’t you ever swear at me like that.’

‘Don’t you fucking shout at me.’

 ‘Dad, get up to your bedroom and stay out of my sight. I don’t want to speak to you.’

Arthur was raging. He turned around walked into a wall and almost knocked himself out. He had a bump on his head that bruised within minutes.

‘You go Max, I’ll see to him.’

We followed the same road we always do. I shouted back at him and felt awful for bullying an old man with dementia. I tried talking to him, but he was still going berserk. He wouldn’t let me put a cold compress on his head. He went to his room and  Max told me to leave him for an hour to give him time to cool down. Nothing was going to stop him in that state, and our presence was only making him rant.  I told Max to go to his gig and I’d check on him after it finished.

The plan was that I’d keep Arthur entertained in the kitchen to stop him walking in on Max while he was live, but Max was so het up by the argument that he asked me to sit in with him. I sat by the door to head Arthur off if he came down for round two. Andy sat on the stairs to listen to the gig. I poured Max a glass of red to help calm him.  It is probably the worst Max has ever played live. He had to be bright and cheerful and nobody would’ve known that he was churning. I saw his hands shaking. He went live within three minutes of me getting Arthur into his room. It was awful for him and I think he did great.

Arthur was fine but sulked for the rest of the night.

I felt bad and talked to Max about it afterwards. He always backs me but doesn’t agree that I should pull Arthur up on it when he’s calm. I can’t not. I have to be consistent with it in the hope that it sinks in through the dementia. The dementia doesn’t make him spit everywhere; he has done it for years.  Andy showers every day, but he can’t wash in the bathroom anymore because it makes him feel dirty using the sink. He does all his washing in the shower and cleans his teeth in there too because he  can’t use the sink. Arthur probably gozzes in the shower too he does it everywhere else.

I told Max that there are two things that I will not stop pulling him up on, the spitting and the way he treats the animals, and he kind of agrees with me—but at the same time, when Arthur is in a good mood and calm, he thinks I should let him get away with it because we know that as soon as I ask him not to do something, it’s going to cause a major argument.

 I suppose the spitting isn’t hurting anybody except Andy and I who both gag when he does it and it affects what we can use in the house. But when he shouts at Teagan and hits or kicks her it’s dangerous. I could let the spitting go, but why should I? I have to live here, too and it makes everything in my house feel dirty. How can I offer future guests a coffee knowing that the cup has been half filled with phlegm? They’ve all been through the dishwasher, thank God for the dishwasher, but it’s the knowing. We try to keep him to specific cups but it’s difficult and he always gets hold of everybody’s but mine. I keep mine well out of his way.

The spitting is deliberate, and he does it because he knows he’s going to get a reaction from me. He does it all the time when we’re out walking, and it turns my stomach and makes me heave.

It looks as though Barrow is going to be put on complete lockdown. Andy asked how is that going to work, it’s going to be impossibly to police? We only have a small force and there aren’t enough police to be everywhere. On the contrary, it couldn’t be easier to enforce. Roadblocks on the A590 and nobody comes in other than service vehicles and nobody leaves. The powers that be couldn’t care less what happens within the town as long as nobody penetrates that block. We can all go berserk and kill each other, it doesn’t matter as long as we have containment.