Corrie (as if by Grant Morrison)

Corrie (as if by Grant Morrison)
by Richard Barr, co-plotted by Andy Luke

The Superhero had never before in his existence felt such powerlessness hollow out his multidimensional soul. In Earth Year: 1992, via the Word Processor of series creator Hamish Dillinger, he was incarnated into the village of Glendarroch, in the soap opera Take the High Road. Here he was Nigel Jenkins, cockney wide boy and bringer of Capitalist Shopping Resort doom to the sleepy Scottish village.

Standing on a hill overlooking Glendarroch, as he did in that final episode, as the set props and backdrops suddenly took on a garish, artificial feel (something common in all final episodes of cancelled shows, he later reflected) he listened to the velvety intonations of the mysterious Mister Spinetti, Mall Entrepreneur and Serial Community Leveller, telling him to persuade those gentle country folk below to accept his plans for village annexing and Consumerist Terraforming.

Such a waste, he thought, such a workaday tragedy. Another daytime Soap Opera crescendo squandered. On his final return to the set of his (now) Balsawood home, he did wish that for once he could control the destiny of those hard-done-by characters he found himself inhabiting…

Between the veils The Superhero perceived a number of work men coming onto the set and lifting the props away. In this world, his world, the world of make believe and multi-recycled story narratives, the bits and pieces of his life as Nigel Jenkins disappeared into thin air, and then, finally, he did, too.

…And back into Fractal Time Hyper-Conscious Anthropologiverse he went. Travelling through a multi-laned, multi-coloured hi-way of hi-def, fibre optic pixilation, across landscapes of dusty literature and comic book tropes. But he always knew it was the dimension given to Soap Opera in which he belonged.

His essence, transmuted via the sweaty fingertips of veteran TV writer Gildare Hazzenbottom onto the very grimy screen of his Commodore PC monitor by way of a well-bashed keyboard, did then pour into one Ken Barlow the second, prodigal son of Coronation Street patriarch, Ken Barlow, who, he was none too surprised to find, was much put out at his impromptu arrival.

But that staple of Soap Opera interpersonal relating was the very least of his worries…for there was something happened on his arrival on the hollowed, cobbled Coronation Street, something that’d never happened before in the usually flawless processes involved in spawning a new Soap Opera character.

As usual a portal opened in a place much mentioned but never seen in-soap, in this case Bessie Street Post Office. Ken Barlow the second, as again was usual, stepped through the portal, hauling with him that year’s entire set of outfits in a big old suitcase. And this is where this particular character spawning cast aside normalcy…

…A shift occurred in the chest of Ken Barlow the second. He noticed this first. Suddenly his stomach was engorged, blooming like an aggressive tumour. From out of his arse spilt the liquid matter of Other Ken, played by Prince William (in an EarthPlane cameo appearance aimed at making the Royals relevant and down with it…)

“I am Prince William, your heir to…I mean, sorry…I am Other Ken. I am here to herald the Great Convergence. A resident of Coronation Street Roy Cropper has been using his idiot savant genius to mess with SoapPlane’s laws of Space/Time. The convergence of Soap Realities, an event not prophesised to happen for at least another millennia, is happening now due to that oddball’s meddling, and there is nothing you can do to stop it!”

With a stagey laugh, Other Ken disassembled his amorphous liquid essence and ran down a gutter. Ken Barlow the second had a lot to do.

All around Coronation Street, The Convergence was manifesting in the most fantastical ways, signs and portents which sent the children of Bessie Street Primary into a cannibalistic, lustful rage. Little Simon Barlow hopped on octogenarian Emily Bishop, causing SoapPlane’s first ever colostomy- (as opposed to gym-) –slip pregnancy. But none of the other characters seemed to take much notice – they were all much too concerned with their own Convergence visions.

Hard Man Owen, aged beau of Anna, began a steamy affair with Coronation Street veteran seductress Sally Webster. Then Sally, spotting her reflection in the windows of The Rover’s Return, began to have an affair with herself, resulting in her carrying on her back a near full-length mirror every episode. Sally and her mirror, housing within its frame her always-shocked expression, then did a declaration of their love bit in the Rovers during the Christmas special, where, by this point, Ken Barlow the second had found work as a barman.

Yet Ken Barlow the second wasn’t the only prodigal child to return to Coronation Street in the episodes (not days, see) before The Convergence. Norris Cole didn’t even recall having his son Norris Jr., who arrived with a great Cole family fortune, made from his exploitative dating website loversreturn.co.uk. Alf Roberts (of Summer Bay) crawled through a pregnant Emily Bishop’s washing machine (via Dot Cotton’s laundrette on Albert Square) claiming he’d help Mrs Bishop raise her colostomy-slip baby. Unfortunately Alf Roberts was still suffering his PTSD hallucinations from the ‘Nam and with a rifle he’d made using the 3D-printer at Dev’s shop, he went out onto t’street and did a Hungerford.

Elsewhere, Kevin the Mechanic, standing in aged Thundercat Rita’s kabin, was shocked and ashamed to discover that on the front page of the Weatherfield Gazette was a man named Michael Turner, who looked just the spit of him, that’d been accused of the most heinous and filthy crimes against his own daughter.

Up in the skies above Weatherfield, Other Ken flew around there naked as the day he was born, save for Edna Sharples dusty hairnet which he’d found while rifling through Deidre Barlow’s dildo drawer.

I’m bored, he thought. I know, I’ll speed up this Convergence thing and rip a big hole in the sky.

And as the sky tore, the noise accompanying it was the whining strings of the Coronation Street theme tune.

On the screens of EarthPlane television sets, a purple faced and flustered Julian Simmons announced that night’s televisual entertainment.

“…and so due to the shock conglomeration of the drama departments of the BBC, ITV, actually, every television station in the world, tonight at 7.30 we’ll have Coronation Street’s Days of Our Lives Dynasty Doctors. Tomorrow night, Eastenders of Home & Away Bring Back Their Sons & Daughters…

 

Back on Coronation Street every strata of soap opera trope and event spilt forth from the hole ripped in the firmament by Other Ken. The shark that ate Tom in Home & Away landed with a splat on Jason Grimshaw, killing the thick fuck instantly. From The Colby’s came the Flying Saucer that abducted Fallon, which hovered over the Kebab Shop menacingly. The Peruvian terrorists who had shot up the wedding party at the end of S01E12 (for this is how the calendars appear on SoapPlane) Dynasty rushed the Rover’s return shooting Peter, Carla and Ken Barlow. Ken Barlow the second, who’d forgotten for many episodes that he was also The Superhero, ran from behind the bar, slumped to his knees, and screamed the place down as he lay cradling the dying head of his father.

With great anger he rushed out onto Coronation Street shaking his fist at the sky.

“I will end you!” he screamed at Other Ken, flying about the sky with great abandon.

“Embrace it, Ken Barlow the second. The Convergence is well under way.”

Remembering that Other Ken had told him it was all Roy’s doing, bringing on the Great Convergence, he ran at Roy’s Rolls, shoulder first, right through the door.

Seated at a dark-wood table next to the counter, Roy was listening intently to George Noory on Coast 2 Coast FM, who at that moment was talking about Time Travel. All around the dim café snaked Roy’s train set with many model trains whizzing along it.

“Ken Barlow the second,” said Roy, his strange eyes squinting.

“What have you done, Roy?” screamed Ken Barlow the second. “You have sped up The Convergence.”

“I was only trying to reach my beloved Hayley, who is dead but is now a comet in space, using my train set as a stargate for a way into outer space. I want to be out there, with my Hayley, floating along, a particle in her tail.”

“But you’ve sped up The Convergence, you fool. What are we going to do?”

“Our only hope is Bob Jiggery.”

“Who’s he?”

“He runs a dance studio/pornographic film studio in the large attic that runs along the tops of the houses of Coronation Street. Also, he has a peculiar hobby reassembling bits of old characters. I think if we go to Mr Jiggery and ask him to assemble all the toughs who’ve left Coronation Street, like Big Jim McDonald, Jez the drug dealer, men like that, then we would have a specimen hard enough to kick the shit outta Other Ken.”

“Take me to him.”

Bob Jiggery was more than happy to help Ken Barlow the second assemble his Coronation Street hardman. In a matter of minutes he had the fists of Big Jim mixed with the brawn of Jez and the cunning of Mike Baldwin. Ken Barlow the second, lifting the hardman by the waist, flew skyward, toward Other Ken, who on seeing the cut of the hardman, cacked himself.

What ensued was not so much a fight as a pounding. Other Ken, played by Prince William on EarthPlane, was beat beautiful by the fists of Big Jim. He fell to the ground in a lump of blue blooded mush, as Ken Barlow the second closed the hole in the firmament, the noise accompanying the whining strings of the theme tune now in reverse, manifesting back-masked words extolling Satan, causing church-going God fearer Emily Bishop to fall to the cobbles and give birth to her colostomy-slip baby, which dim village idiot character Kirk named Schmichael, after his much loved dead dog.

And with the birth of this ugly baby from an elderly mother, things returned to normal on Coronation Street – affairs, incest, alcoholism, gun play, long losts…, arson, skulduggery…and all that other detritus of human juju, and all occurring along that short street in that Northern Industrial Town…

END

 

Becoz

Well how am I? I might maybe have toothache…and I’m definitely really badly  hungover. I got thinking about my time with Occupy Belfast recently.

Becos

Reminder that an audio clip of myself (rumoured) interviewing the Occupy Belfast camp has appeared at the WAB FM installation at the Golden Thread Gallery. Apparently, myself and other camp members are featured discussing an Occupy themed soap, with lines from the sketch above.

There’s also a brand new fifteen minute audio I recorded at the request of curators Stephen Millar and Colm Clarke.  It’s called ‘The Call’, and it’s about a superhero project quite close to my heart. It should be there until the end of the month and online after.

 

The Rejected

DeSpayer was a thin Count, mucky, but on the outside top line black waist-coat and bow tie. Only the nose (shaped like an arrow head), gave any indication of irregularity. This quiet statesman kept his poly amorous souls buried in the thickest soil. Deep beneath the villa, golden rays warmed the mountain top and at it’s bottom, Atlantic rapids blanked the rocks to ice the prison boundaries.

Chad and Martin III, the poor Easygate: so young and hard and lost, the richer sibling Grace, Waldo (of gardens), each withered away one by one. In turn, in that carved out hollow, they passed around their stories of who they were before. They passed on their skills. They held each other strongly. After the first month, the captor was only spoken of indirectly: Valiantisha wth the spike in her chest, and Harry, who called himself The Battered, were the last remaining. Raw worm and accidental fish were not enough to keep the scourges gone. Waldo would not last long.

She bound and grabbed Grace’s legs and dug days and nights. Likewise with Harry. Using Easygate’s shoulders, he knocked rocks from out of the way. Valiantisha barely knew Chad, the first architect of their space then and once again as his body held up the fortifications they had hard won. It was Autumn when their white forms emerged from one dangerous side of the cliff. Waldo was first, his lifeless head a shovel. As the way became clearer, Harry emerged but blocked the hole for a while before the situation dawned on Valiantisha. She tossed his body over to the unforgiving expanse below. As ordered she had stripped the shoes from his feet first and marched them towards DeSpayer’s bedroom were she put an elbow bone through the Count’s skull.

The Count’s living room was sofas built of clean sponge parts, baige loungers in an open planned suite, with minimalist features. The glass was open to the sun, wine red shag curtains remote controlled for days of torrential assault. Between the oriental rugs, in the centre a jewel was embedded. When the time suited DeSpayer, the subterranean victims appeared there in hologram. They screamed in dental anguish, dirt leaked from the curtains. Cut open, wounds appeared as the rejected scrabbled against wooden dividers. Over time as the show was uglier, ivy grew, and Valiantisha drew nearer. Her money was enough to buy new cameras and commission a new show, called The Rainbow of Damage Control. DeSpayer’s former business colleagues were murdered in a manner much like the great purges. Assets were seized: it’s okay to call it pest control if pests are culled.

The Rainbow of Damage Control Show featured planes in emergency evacuation missions. Thousands of people airlifted in a 24 hour challenge. Flat pack transformer fortress were dropped for those unable to leave. Valiantisha died an old woman in a happier world.

Charlie


24 Gran

Charlie was a border collie, crossed with springer spaniel and a member of the Luke family until November 2007. He died four weeks after Eileen Lucas (my gran), and had lived to around 16, or another good age for a dog. The family got him as a pup shortly after I moved out of the family home in the early 90s.

Charlie - Brothers

The previous dog in the previous home was Murdock, named after the Howling Mad character played by Dwight Schultz. He was my dog, mine and Graeme’s, and Charlie, was Gavin and Stuart’s. Except that Charlie had a bit more energy than just allocations could handle.

Charlie - Mat Surfing

The bond probably strengthened following my hospitalisation in 96, when I went to live with my parents for a few months. The time off work allowed me to enjoy simple pleasures like throwing the dog the ball, and walking with him.

Charlie - Ball Play
Charlie - food
charlie - walks pull

There was no reckoning the energy to him. By 2001, I’d moved back to Bangor, and a few years later a lucky set of events found me renting a property opposite my parent’s home. My brothers had all moved out and Charlie and I ended up spending more time together. Those who have had dogs (or cats), will understand just how close good relationships can be. I rehearsed my stories and songs on Charlie, complained to him about co-workers, tried to persuade him to watch Buffy with me. I must say the dancing wasn’t my idea.

Charlie -- Dancing

Charlie’s favourite toy was “the blue”. Mere mention of it could set him of into one of his two-gallon Cola frenzies.

charlie - blue

Charlie - Blue 2

Charlie - Blue 3

Living with a dog, it’s essential (as with humans), that they’re given decent exercise and quality specific time.

charlie - walks

charlie - walks oy

Charlie could keep a secret and when things were bad I’d confide in him. If I didn’t, he’d already have known something was up. He could sense someone approaching the door four minutes away. We truly loved one another, but he couldn’t possibly hope to keep his affair with the postman secret.

Charlie - kisses

Phone calls from University to home were dog tales of sad. Diarrhea, blindness, bumping into things. He wasn’t the same. The energetic extremes of his life were going, I was told. I made a trip home and I was told the most remarkable change happened.

Charlie - After Uni

And that was the last I saw of him, the last I remembered him. My confidante, companion. The butt of jokes who suffered the shit with a smile. My trainer, my dearest friend. I know you miss him. We just gotta keep going.

charliephotos

What a fricking incredible mutt he was.

Blog: Creativity and Collaboration

My hearts not really in any of the pieces I’ve started: nothing that would allow me to finish them in an hour.

Tonight, I’m producing  an audio segment for Stephen Millar and Colm Clarke‘s WAB FM project which enjoys a brief resurrection at Belfast’s Golden Thread Gallery as part of a Catalyst Arts retrospective. I’ve a special idea in mind for this. Listen for ‘The Call’ at the gallery over the next month, or on this site.

I got two or three DJ spots on Wab FM with my sometimes collaborator, Richard Barr. We’ve some flash-fic showing up here over the next month. There’s also plans for the two of us to work with our friend, Irish comix artist, letterer and playwright John Robbins. After a year of failed projects, I’m looking forward to a more organic return to work. If I could give one piece of advice to somebody wanting to make comics as a career, it’s this: don’t, and secondly, work with people you like and trust and only them.

One happy exception to that this year has been with Ruairi Coleman. I saw Ruairi’s work at 2d last year and got him on board hours before Uproar Comics spotted him and did the same. He’s been the lead artist on three issues of their Zombies Hi! comic, and is now doing some stuff for Rob Curley’s Atomic Diner imprint. Ruairi has been drawing from my script for “Brand of Britain” for the “To End All Wars” book published by Soaring Penguin Press and due out before next June. There’s been a lot of reference to follow, and a lot of editorial demands and Ruairi has been handling it all very professionally. I have set things I want to do however the process of creation is organic. Making comics or any creative work is not factory work: it’s communication and needs communication period.

To End All Wars, Soaring Penguin Press, 2014 (Image creator unknown)

Some relationships haven’t worked out this year. I’ve bowed out of Studio NI’s Skeletons in the Closet collection and Borderline Press’s Zombre over creative disagreements. I think when I’m not being paid for a job, it’s perfectly acceptable to walk away in some circumstances. Creativity is not an obligation, it’s a freedom.

The project I’m most excited about at the moment is a solo project due out in oh ho about two weeks. I’ve been very lucky to have been blessed with an editor who took my work and made changes to make it better. I know! Imagine my shock. Here’s another teaser from the project:

Part of a clockwork with a dial

 

And there’s a few bloggers I should probably be talking with this week. Get in touch with my agent if you’d like to run something.

(yeah, I’m still my own agent)