BarryHutchison.com

Since starting this blog back in February 2008 I’ve tried to at least occasionally write something that readers might find vaguely useful. I haven’t often succeeded, but I’ve tried, at least. Surely that counts for something?

Anyway, now that I’m doing more and more author events, I find myself being asked to share writing advice and tips, which I’m always happy to do. Because time is usually quite limited, though, I rarely have time to talk for very long on the subject, and I end up referring people to this here website.

I’ve realised, though, that the useful content gets lost in amongst all the rubbish about water pistols, soup, and Sylvester & Tweety, so I thought I’d collate the writing tips here in one post to make them easier to find. So, for those of you interested in becoming an author yourself, you might find some of the posts below useful.

12 Tips for Pro Writing – Part 1

12 Tips for Pro Writing – Part 2

12 Tips for Pro Writing – Part 3

Writing Lesson #1

Writing Lesson #2

3 Tips for Writing Horror

The Idea Fairy

During my school workshops I mention an early attempt I made at writing a children’s book – a comedy fantasy novel called KENTUCKY FRIED FAIRY. I’ve mentioned it on the blog a few times, and if you do a search for the title you’ll even find a few sample chapters to download and read.

Today, though, I thought I’d give you a glimpse into where the book’s title comes from. You’ll find the answer – along with a fairly detailed description of the process – somewhere in the extract below.

There is very little to compare to the many and varied sights, sounds and smells of market day in Upper Stumm, as Ben and Claire are only just discovering.  Before we get to those, however, I feel a quick geography lesson is in order.

Hobley’s Square, where the children are now, is situated slap bang in the middle of Upper Stumm.  Upper Stumm is by far the larger of the two boroughs which make up the City of Stumm, the other borough being Middle Stumm.  No-one can recall what happened to Lower Stumm, but after several decades of arguing about it, historians agreed that presumably it must have existed at some point or another, and to leave it at that.

Stumm itself is the largest – and, indeed, only – city in the land of Volgorthia.  Volgorthia in turn is one of the three biggest countries in the whole of Sub-Divan, which, as if you didn’t know, is a vast and expansive world only accessible via a few portals scattered across a variety of dimensions.

Those wishing to discover the exact location of these dimensional doorways are invited to turn to page two hundred and eighty seven of It’s a Bit Like a Big Banana, Really, where Brunt Thrushtap of Ing has helpfully provided a most informative and detailed fold out map.

Although one of Upper Stumm’s busiest locations, Hobley’s Square only truly comes alive on market day, which takes place twice a month and which, despite the name, can often last for anything up to a fortnight.

During this period the expansive square is crammed to bursting point with salesman, traders, and wave after relentless wave of fanatical bargain-spotters.  On each market day morning the more fanciful traders set up quaint little thatched roof stalls from which they sell their wares.  Inevitably, these are torn down by the fervent masses of over-zealous shoppers some five minutes later, but it’s the thought that counts.

The produce on sale at Stumm market ranges from the ordinary to the outrageously elaborate.  It is not unusual for one trader to be selling small nick nacks made from his own rotten teeth, while the next trader along is advertising the wide range of magical spells and powerful elixirs he has available.  Obviously in this instance the real bargain would be the scabby tooth sculpture, as everyone knows there’s no such thing as magic.

Unless you’re talking about fairy magic, of course, which is a different matter entirely.  It’s powerful stuff, fairy magic, and not something to be meddled with lightly.  There are a range of fairy products available at Stumm market, one of which can be found in no other country in all of Sub-Divan.

There’s an old saying that suggests that every time someone says, “I don’t believe in fairies,” a fairy dies.  This is nonsense.  While it may hurt their feelings a little, saying you don’t believe in fairies will not directly bring about a fairy’s death.

Snatching one from the air, coating it in flour, egg and breadcrumbs, then plunging it into boiling oil for three to four minutes, on the other hand, almost certainly will.

It was a uniquely Volgorthian delicacy, rumoured to have been conjured up in the castle kitchens by Lord Volgorth himself during a particularly voracious attack of the midnight munchies.  Soon the recipe spread far and wide, until all across the land, from Ingle to Shum, everyone was hungrily munching on the dish Lord Volgorth had dubbed: “Kentucky Fried Fairy”.

Before long, Kentucky Fried Fairy had become the unofficial national dish of Volgorthia, quickly overtaking the official national dish of Stewed Scum Slug in the popularity stakes.  These days, no matter where you are in the country, no matter what time of day or night it is, somewhere nearby there’ll be someone merrily plunging fairies into scalding oil and serving them up with fried sticks of potato and little soggy napkins which smell faintly of lemons.

Make no mistake, they have one hell of a time of it in Volgorthia, fairies.

I am going to devote this blog entry to an apology. Or rather, to a series of apologies, many of which are long overdue. I hope you will bear with me as I cleanse my soul of sin.

I am going to devote this blog entry to an apology. Or rather, to a series of apologies, many of which are long overdue. I hope you will bear with me as I cleanse my soul of sin.

I’d like to start by apologising to Miss Adam my primary four teacher, for disappointing and angering her by drawing a half-assed picture to accompany a story I’d written in her class. Though the picture was more of an afterthought, and was really little more than a thumbnail sketch depicting the events in the accompanying prose, it clearly did not live up to her high standards. For this, Miss Adam, I am sorry.

I would also like to apologise for quietly calling her a “fat cow” when she stormed away from my desk, and for adorning a copy of the Dandy annual 1987 with the words “Miss Adam is a fat cow” several dozen times upon my return home that evening.

I would like to pass on my sincere apologies to John, the then area manager of Blockbuster Video, for convincing the staff in all the stores in the Aberdeen area in 1998 that he was a dancer in Abba: The Movie. I take full responsibility for the time everyone stood round him at an employee’s leaving do, chanting, bellowing and insistently demanding he perform some of the more complex dance steps from the Swedish supergroup’s motion picture, until he finally gave in and utterly humiliated himself before the baying, jeering crowd.

Likewise I take all blame for the black eye he received from an irate customer when he refused to sign said customer’s wife’s copy of the compilation CD album, Abba Gold.

I would like to say sorry to the attractive American customer in the pub I worked in in 1999 for convincing her I was Tony Hadley out of Spandau Ballet.

I am not this man.

I would like to apologise to the nation of Belgium for a large number of things, including but not limited to:

• Wiping it from the face of the earth in Issue 1 of The League of Supervillains online comic.
• Several years of cruel and ignorant mockery, which didn’t once take into account your rich heritage and culture.
• Assuming ownership of the country by means of sending a letter to King Albert II instructing him I would like to lay claim to the entire nation, and that if he didn’t reply within 48 hours I would assume he had no objections. As a token of my remorse I am now re-instating Christmas before relinquishing all control of Belgian affairs of state.

While I’m at it I’d like to return the Shetland Isles to their rightful owner, and beg their forgiveness not only for the devious way in which I seized control of the islands, but for their new shape and colour scheme. I hope in time you can come to accept the new look.

I hope that somehow all of the parties mentioned in this post can find it in their hearts to forgive me. I’d also like to beg forgiveness from (in no particular order): Dr Macleod; Raymond Hervo; Steven Seagal; The London Philharmonic Orchestra; Andy Cameron; Tyne Daly; Estelle Getty; Andrew Lloyd Webber; Yoko Ono; the cast of Bread; East 17; Lewis Grassic Gibbon; and her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, for all manner of misdemeanours too numerous to go into here.

I am profoundly sorry for them all.

"What, this old thing?"

It’s not unusual to open a newspaper, or catch the end of an evening news bulletin, only to be presented with the latest ‘findings’ of some team of government funded scientists somewhere – findings which, to the average person, seem like an utter and unforgivable waste of time and resources.

Equally as often, you’ll hear those same people complaining about how millions of pounds of their tax money is being chucked at speccy nerds in white coats, who’ve got nothing better to do than try to find out exactly why cornflakes go soggy in milk, or determine which type of biscuit is the best for dunking in tea.

I used to be the same.  Whenever I read that hundreds of thousands of pounds had been frittered away on determining that faraway objects are hard to see*, or that a few million had been spent on finding out if swallowing two or more magnets could be detrimental to your health**, I’d wonder aloud if the people conducting these studies shouldn’t think about going out and getting proper jobs instead.

More than that, though, I’d wonder about the people handing out the grants.  What were they thinking?  If someone asked me for a big wodge of cash so they could prove once and for all that you can, in fact, teach an old dog new tricks***, I – like most sensible people – would tell them to sling their hook.

I was watching the first James Bond movie, Dr No, when my perspective on the situation changed.

For those who haven’t seen the film, the eponymous Dr No is a scientific genius who lives on a remote island.  He’s also – and I think this is a fair assessment – a raving mental case.  Oh, and he’s got metal hands.  I forget why.

As I observed Dr No’s eccentric schemes, I thought to myself now here’s a proper scientist.  No cornflakes or magnets for him.  Oh no.  Dr No used his scientific skills and knowledge wisely.  He built an unconvincing robot dragon!  He constructed an atomic powered ray gun!  He gave himself metal hands!  (I forget why).

Dr No was a small man (even smaller with his hands off), but he had big dreams.  He didn’t care about training an elderly Beagle to fetch, or looking at objects in the middle distance!  No, Dr No wanted what all good mad scientists want – to use his atomic ray gun to hold the world to ransom!

Of course, there was no way Bond was going to be having with that, so the good doctor ended the film half drowning, half dissolving in the cooling vat of a nuclear reactor.  To be honest, he was sort of asking for it, even if Bond was a bit out of order making fun of his metal hands earlier on in the film, when Dr No was still being quite nice.

The Robo-Dragon. Seriously, you're fooling no-one. It's a shark, if anything.

But anyway, as I was thinking about the film, a thought struck me.  What if all scientists are a bit like Dr No?  What if every single person working in a scientific field has both the desire and capability to construct an atomic powered ray gun with which to shoot aeroplanes and rockets out of the sky?

And even if scientist aren’t inherently all evil, (and I find that very hard to believe) they are all inquisitive.  An inquisitive nature is one of the main requirements of the job, just below the lab coat and unflattering glasses.  So, even if they don’t have any intention of blowing the world to smithereens, it’s probably quite likely that if they were left to their own devices, scientists would do just that.

That’s when I realised – I wasn’t the first person to have come to this conclusion.  Those people at the grant offices must’ve realised long ago that the world’s scientists need to be kept as busy as possible at all times.  That’s why they have that bottomless pit of money. That’s why they assign stupid, nonsensical projects to scientific teams across the globe, accompanying the brief with a cheque with a lot of zeros on it.  It’s that or we end up with someone creating a galaxy-swallowing black hole in their basement, or turning everyone in Norway into indestructible lizard-people.

So, when I read today that a team of scientists in Canada have been doing proper actual research into how mankind would fare in the face of a zombie holocaust (‘not that well’ was the finding), I didn’t tut or shake my head.  I nodded my silent approval, and said a quiet ‘thanks’ to whoever had funded the study.

You see, the person leading the research is called Professor Robert Smith?.  The question mark at the end of his name isn’t a mistake – he put it there so as to avoid being confused with Robert Smith, the lead singer of The Cure.

Now, while I admit that adding unexpected punctuation to your name so as to avoid being mixed up with that bloke from The Cure isn’t in the same league as having metal hands and building a robot dragon, it’s headed in the same direction.

I can well imagine the scenario: Someone at the Canadian Scientific Grants office got wind of the fact that this Robert Smith?, this madman-in-waiting, was really, really interested in zombies.  Sensibly,  they decided that it’d be best to pay him a large sum of money to go away and try to rate our chances against the living dead, rather than just leaving him to muck about with some chemicals in his underground lair, and actually bring about a full-scale zombie holocaust.  I think it was the right decision, and regardless of how many trillions of dollars the study may have cost, I doubt anyone can say it wasn’t money well spent.

So, next time you read that time really does appear to go faster when you’re having fun, or that unhealthy people can’t run as far as healthy people can, don’t despair.  Don’t complain.  If it wasn’t for important research like this, we’d all be up to our eyes in death rays.

* “Why is it easier to see someone close than far away?” -  Psychonomic Bulletin & Review, Feb. 2005
** “Multiple magnet ingestion alert,” Radiology, Nov. 2004
*** New research funded by the National Institute of Aging found that older beagles fed a healthy diet and given plenty of exercise performed nearly as well as younger ones on cognitive tests. Seriously, there’s a National Institute of Aging?!

I’d like to talk about something serious for a moment.  It’s an issue which affects us all, particularly now that the sun is shining and Summer is officially here.

I’d like, if I may, to talk about water pistols.

Once upon a time, I used to love a water fight.  Running around with a bunch of friends, firing at each other with small, but well-aimed squirts of tepid tap-water – it was great fun, and most of my memories of childhood summers feature water fights in one way or another.

Back then, pretty much every water pistol was a variation on the one on the left there.  They were, as the name suggested, water pistols, holding anywhere between a large mouth and a small cup full of H2O.  Invariably, they’d leak out of the bottom of the handle, but we didn’t care.  We’d fill ‘er up, run outside, empty the clip into a friend’s laughing face, then nip back inside for a refill.

They were happy days.  They were innocent days.  They were days filled with slightly damp t-shirts that dried off within 30 seconds of angling the wet bit to face the sunshine.

For years – decades – the flimsy handheld water gun provided hours of entertainment for children everywhere.  And then, one fateful day in 1990, everything changed.  A small toy company called Larami did something that would send shockwaves around the world.  Something that would change the face of water fighting forever, and begin a street-level arms race between children everywhere.

What did they do?  They released this:

Originally branded The Power Drencher, the monstrosity above underwent a name change the following year, when it was dubbed The Super Soaker 50.

It revolutionised water fights.  No longer were they fun-filled free-for-alls between bunches of laughing kids.  Now, whoever could convince their parents to splash out on one of these had a massive upper hand.  No more tiny spurts of water, the Super Soaker 50 could blast an arc of water over 50 feet (hence the name).  No longer did the shooter have to run inside and hastily refill.  The pressurised reservoir on this bad boy held enough ammo to take out half the estate, while still leaving enough over to provide a refreshing, if slightly plasticky drink on the way home.

Whoever had the Super Soaker had the power, and as soon as one made it into your circle of friends, water fights were never quite as much fun ever again.  Unless you were the one with the pump action water cannon in your hands, in which case your enjoyment levels went through the roof.

And that may well have been the end of it, had the Super Soaker 50 not proved to be such a roaring success.  Newer, more advanced Super Soakers began to appear on the market, promising new and interesting ways to drench everyone you’d ever met.

There were Super Soakers with two tanks, Super Soakers with four tanks.  Super Soakers that could shoot round corners, and Super Soakers you could cunningly set up to blast the shooter in the face, for those times you relented and gave your friends a shot of your next generation water-based weaponry.

And with each new water blaster that emerged, the entertainment factor of the battles continued to slide.  Those little squirts of water were fun.  Getting hit point blank in the face by a blast powerful enough to tear your skin from your cheeks?  Not so much.

Kids who didn’t have Super Soakers suddenly had to get one, just to be able to mount some kind of defence.  Those who couldn’t convince their parents to stump up the cash spent all their time either dripping wet, living in constant fear or fleeing for their very lives.

And then, in 2005, the next evolutionary step happened.  A step which I believe will one day lead to the death of the water fight.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Super Soaker: Arctic Shock.

For those of you unfamiliar with this water gun, the clue’s in the name.  This doesn’t just hold water.  Oh, no.  This holds water inside a compartment with a core of ice.

No longer do combatants run the risk of simply having holes punched clean through their heads by high pressure water blasts.  Now they also have to contend with the fact that said water is frickin’ freezing.

If you’ve never been on the receiving end of a blast from one of these things, you can’t ever fully understand what it’s like.  I can only liken it to being stabbed by an icicle.  I live in the Highlands of Scotland, so I’m no stranger to chilly weather, but the water in these things reaches whole new levels of cold.

As soon as the water hits, all the air leaves your body in one sharp, spluttered breath.  An area of about thirty centimetres around where you were struck becomes instantly drenched, and so whatever clothing you are wearing sticks to your skin, amplifying the numbing, gnawing cold a thousand times over, until you’re not sure if you’ve been hit by water or a stream of liquid nitrogen.

You stagger wildly.  Noises come out of your mouth – noises you’ve never heard before.  Noises which will haunt you for the rest of your life.  You try to breathe, but your chest is heaving and your body is shaking and you realise you’re slipping into shock.  You wonder how your face got wet, and then you realise – it’s because you’re crying.  Sobbing so uncontrollably that you don’t even notice the person who shot you taking aim at some other unprotected area of your body.

The second shot sends you over the edge.  A deep-rooted survival instinct kicks in and you lash out, desperately trying to get your hands on the gun, to stop them shooting you, to end the pain.  You find yourself shouting and swearing.  You’re no longer playing a game, you’re out for blood.  For vengeance.  And nothing will stand in your way.

Now, I have a seven-year-old son, and we used to have regular water fights, until he got an Arctic Shock.  One blast from that thing, and I’m out for the day.  I’ll be in bed with a flannel over my face, wishing I’d never been born, thanks very much.

Likewise, on those occasions I’ve seen my son or any of his friends struck by one of the freezing jets of water, it has ended in floods of tears.  Which begs the question, if no-one can stand to be hit by it, what’s the point?

I’ve come to the conclusion that the Super Soaker: Arctic Shock is the nuclear weapon of water pistols.  If every child in the world had one, no water fights would ever take place again.  The first time you’re on the receiving end becomes the victim’s very own Hiroshima.  You experience first-hand the damage the thing can do, and you decide then and there that you never ever want it to happen again.  You buy your own Arctic Blast, hoping to never have to use it, but knowing that the fact you own it at all will act as a deterrent for those who would otherwise Arctic Blast you without remorse.

Want to know more about the history of the Super Soaker?  Check out iSoaker.com.

Dear People of Earth,

I wanted to pen a quick letter in order to introduce myself to those of you who don’t know me, and to inform you all of a few of the changes I shall be making now that I have assumed total and absolute control of the planet formerly known as “Earth”, and hereafter known as “Kenny Loggins”.

Many of you may be asking why I have elected to rename the planet after the man behind the theme tune to the 1984 hit movie “Footloose”.  This is your first mistake.  The will of Barry must be obeyed without question or hesitation.  It’s called Kenny Loggins, just deal with it.

So as to avoid any confusion with Kenny Loggins the planet, Kenny Loggins the popular recording artist has been eliminated, and refunds for his scheduled June 2009 concerts in Paris, France may be obtained from the original ticket provider.

Before I go any further I’d like to take the opportunity to respond to some of the rumours which have been circulating about myself and my regime, and hopefully put your minds to rest a little.

Firstly, I am not an unfair man.  Far from it, in fact.  I believe each and every man, woman and child on Kenny Loggins was created equal, and each should be allowed to fully express their opinion on any subject, regardless of what those opinions may be.  Naturally, should any of these opinions cast aspersions upon my leadership, then I shall be remorseless and unrelenting in the pursuit of vengeance.  I shall, however, continue to defend your right to these opinions even as your family mourn their loss.

Secondly, I do not have an “Enforcement Team” authorised to force entry into your houses and places of work in order to investigate suspected plotting against me.  This is – quite frankly – utterly ludicrous, as any such team would find it impossible to match the efficiency of the surveillance devices already installed in key locations throughout your homes.  While a more sadistic ruler would neglect to do so, I feel it only fair to inform you that any attempt to tamper with these devices will result in the instant and explosive deaths of everyone within a five hundred metre radius of your location.

Lastly, I do not possess any freakish mutant abilities, nor am I immortal, despite what Alan Jackson of Denver told visitors to his Stapleton area sandwich bar, up until his recent crucifixion.  Research is continuing in this area, however, and I shall be sure to keep you all up to date with the progress.  Until sufficient advances can be made my brain shall continue to reside within the virtually indestructible android body it currently inhabits.  Those of you wishing to see for yourselves what my robotic frame looks like can find it depicted on all Kenny Loggins currency, and on the fifty foot high billboards currently being erected on every street corner.

Now that we’ve cleared all that up, let’s take a few minutes to review the main changes due to take place over the coming weeks and months.  For more information on any of the below you should refer to pamphlet B17-A: The Unquestionable Will of Barry and Your Role in its Fulfillment which, if you’d care to step outside, you will find nailed to your front door.  Should you have any difficulty complying with or adjusting to any of the guidelines detailed in the document, please do not hesitate to approach a member of one of my Recalibration Squads for assistance.  These Recalibration Squads may be identified by their distinctive yellow and red uniforms, their “RS” chest emblems, and their shoulder mounted rectal drills. They will be happy to assist you in any way they can.

Some of the changes  we all have to look forward to include the following:

1. The entire population of the planet shall be assessed and scored firstly according to intellect, wit and ability, and secondly according to dress sense and cultural taste, and all citizens shall be allocated a group – A, B or C – according to the results of these tests.  In order to ensure the future survival of the human race, Group A shall be allowed to continue more or less as they are, while members of Group B shall be sterilised immediately.  The people making up the third and final group shall be thrown screaming into the enormous furnace currently being constructed at Kenny Loggins’ core.  The combustion created by the flaming corpses of Group C shall be used to power several major cities, thereby reducing the drain on rapidly diminishing supplies of fossil fuels.
2. The nation of Norway will be evacuated in order to make room for everyone on the planet between the ages of 15 and 19, who are to be shipped there as soon as logistics permit, and until such times as they are fit to be reintroduced to the populace at large.  ElectroShock bracelets shall be fitted to them upon entering Norway, partly to maintain discipline, partly for their own safety and protection, but largely for my own amusement.
3. The long running television programme “Hollyoaks” will be cancelled and everyone involved in its production put to death.  In its place will be shown brutal and harrowing footage of “Saved By the Bell” actor Dustin Diamond being repeatedly mauled by a frenzied pack of starving Dobermans.
4. All religions are now outlawed, and anyone found to be practicing religion of any kind shall be trapped inside a slowly compacting and entirely transparent airtight cube with their horrified family, a live studio audience, and every television camera in existence watching helplessly on.
5. All written texts shall be altered to remove any trace of the phrase “Shania Twain”.  Likewise all audio or visual recordings of Ms Twain will be incinerated in the hottest fire ever witnessed by the eyes of man.  As a merciful ruler I shall allow Ms Twain herself to live, on the understanding she changes her name, goes into hiding, and never utters another sound for the remainder of her natural life.
6. The people of Belgium may no longer celebrate Christmas.
7. Nor may they celebrate anything else.
8. Each night, at a random time between the hours of 1 and 5am a high pitched alarm will sound within your homes to signal the beginning of Exercise Hour.  Sixty minutes of gruelling exercise shall follow, monitored at all times by your in house surveillance systems.  Those failing to take part in Exercise Hour shall be immediately trampled by a number of previously concealed cows.  Fat people are of little use to me.
9. Any and all future sequels, prequels or spin-offs of the movie comedy “Miss Congeniality” are expressly forbidden.
10. UK TV personality, Sir Jimmy Saville, shall be returned to his home world to face trial for a number of crimes he committed there before fleeing to Kenny Loggins in the early 1960’s.

Thank you for accepting you had no choice whatsoever in whether to read this correspondence or not.  Your compliance continues to make life easier – and longer – for all of you.

Warmest Regards,

Barry Hutchison (Ruler)

Something has been bothering me for the past few months, ever since I saw what I can only describe as “a very surprising thing” on children’s television. It was something that made me question everything I have ever believed. It was something that forced me to realise that not only do I not have all the answers, but I don’t even know what all the questions are.

It was something called Baby Looney Toons.

I came across it quite by accident. My son was flicking through stations, searching for something – anything – interesting to watch. He found Baby Looney Toons (hereafter known as BLT), and being a fan of the ‘proper’ Looney Toon cartoons, he settled on that.

What I witnessed was mind-blowing. I sat in my chair, eyes fixed on the screen, my head shaking from side to side of its own accord. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing – I wouldn’t believe what I was seeing. Because, if what I was seeing was correct, the whole world had just turned upside down.

You see, what I was watching, was this:

What was that? Did I just hear your jaw drop open in shock? I know how you feel, my friend, I know exactly how you feel.

For those unfamiliar with the characters, let me introduce them. On the left is Sylvester the cat. Or, a toddler version of him, at least. Look at him there, happily pulling his little buddy along in a cart.

Oh, and who’s that little buddy looking up at Sylvester with such adoring eyes? Why it’s Tweety Pie, the canary. Check them out – two best friends, playing happily together, without a care in the world. Why, I bet those two are going to remain close pals for life. Best Friends Forever.

You can perhaps understand my confusion. The Sylvester and Tweety I know are sworn enemies. It isn’t merely that they’re not on good terms any more, Sylvester has apparently dedicated his entire life to eating the wee yella fella. Think about it, in the classic cartoons Sylvester’s whole reason to be is apparently just to swallow Tweety whole.

When I saw them playing together like this I was knocked for six. If I was wrong about Sylvester and Tweety’s relationship, what else was I wrong about? Maybe Coke was Pepsi. Maybe up was down. If I couldn’t believe even the most basic facts about a series of Merrie Melodies cartoons, what could I believe?

What happened? That’s what I want to know. What happened between these two to turn them from the doting pals pictured above, to the bitter enemies pictured below?

At first I thought something must’ve happened to Sylvester. Maybe when a kitten becomes a cat, certain hormones kick in or something. I don’t know, I’m not a vet, but as a theory it had potential. Human males become more aggressive in their teen years, so perhaps the same is true in cats.

But the theory isn’t perfect. For one, I’d say Sylvester is past his teenage period, and is now well into adulthood by the point pictured above. I seem to recall him having a 5-year-old child of his own in a few cartoons, and from his general demeanour I’d put him around late twenties/early thirties. In cat years. Well past any aggression brought on by a surge of teenage testosterone.

Then there’s the fact he isn’t just picking on Tweety, he’s trying to swallow him whole. The last part of that sentence deserved italics, and it got them. This isn’t some dominance issue, this is the repeated attempted consumption of another living creature.

So that more or less made me rule out that theory. I started thinking of other alternatives. Was Sylvester just hungry? I doubt it. I’ve been hungry before, but I’ve never attempted to eat anyone, much less any of my friends. It’s just not the done thing.

Had the cat gone mad? Possibly, although in his interaction with other characters he seemed perfectly lucid and rational. But insanity was the only real possibility left for me as to why Sylvester had turned on Tweety with such ferocity.

And then something struck me. Something made me readjust my thinking on the whole issue. I realised there had been a piece of the puzzle missing, and I had just found it.

Look at the two pictures above. Notice anything different about Tweety in the second image? Let me spell it out for you:

He’s. In. A. Frickin’. Cage.

So, between events in BLT and events in the grown up Looney Toons, Granny took the decision to put Tweety Pie behind bars. He (it is a he, right? I was never sure) went from having all the freedoms of a human child, to being imprisoned in a metal cage – a metal cage with no apparent door of which to speak.

You might argue that this was a rather extreme safety measure, and that the cage was designed to stop Sylvester getting at the poor little birdie. If that’s the case, how come Sylvester could always open the cage with such apparent ease?

Because the cage wasn’t designed to keep Sylvester out, that’s why. It was designed to keep Tweety Pie in.

I’m not sure what Tweety did. I can only speculate. Whatever it was, it must’ve been something so terrible that it tore his and Sylvester’s friendship apart. Tore it apart to the extent Sylvester swore a violent and bloody revenge – a revenge which would see him happily devour his former pal, rather than allow him to live.

Whatever happened, Granny knew Tweety could never be allowed to mingle with the outside world again. A firm believer in law and order, she refused to allow Sylvester to take the bird’s life, and instead incarcerated him in a tiny prison with only basic exercise facilities. Now she spends her days keeping Sylvester away, trying to stop him doing something he’ll regret.

Every waking moment of her life is now filled with the horrific, heart-breaking memories of what Tweety Pie did. She probably blames herself, even though she shouldn’t. She couldn’t have stopped him. No-one could have stopped him.

And when Judgement Day finally comes, and all must face up to their sins, Tweety Pie will get what is coming to him. A demonic Hell-beast will emerge from the flames of damnation, and it will approach the chirpy little canary, with fire in its eyes and darkness in its hollow, empty hear.

It will approach the bird, and it will reach into the cage…

And then it’ll swallow him whole.

Well the ending I had come up with for Invisible Fiends book 2 was a bit rushed and rubbish, so I sat down today and wrote the ending the story deserved. As the title of this post announces, I managed to write over 4000 words in 5 hours, and have now properly finished the first draft. I shall celebrate this evening with a cup of tea and one of Mr Kipling’s finest French Fancies. Rock and Roll or what?

I was surprised to get the draft finished today. I had planned to do some yesterday but ended up taking the day off to go sledging and build a big snowman. Here he is here with my son and me.

I called him Snowgor, Destroyer of Worlds. My son called him Snowy. Oddly enough, both suit him quite well.

To give some idea of his height, I’m six feet four inches tall. I reckon Snowgor/Snowy must’ve been pushing eight feet. Getting the top half of his body on was a bit of a nightmare, but fortunately we had my son’s cousin, Jamie, there with us to lend some muscle.

We decided a snowman of his scale needed four arms and a scowling face. You can’t see one of the arms because he’s hugging me with it. When Snowgor isn’t destroying worlds he’s all about the hugging.

Oh and yes, I’m well aware how ridiculous my hat looks. I was too cold by that point to care. I’d have worn a big Carmen Miranda fruit stack if it’d have kept my head warm.

After the snowman was built we went sledging at ludicrously high speeds down a sixty-degree slope. It was massively entertaining, although the hike back up the hill didn’t do much for my aching old bones.

Taking a few days off now. Back sooooon.

Let the trumpets play, let the dancers dance, and let all of us be merry – ’tis the 100th post here on BarryHutchison.com!

Although I stated my intention a while back to become a kind of mutant book/butterfly hybrid when I reached my 100th post (see here for details), I’ve decided not to bother.  This is partly because I have contractual obligations I need to adhere to, and partly because such a transformation would be against the laws of science, nature, and all known gods.

So instead let’s commemorate this, the 100th post, by taking a look at some of the more random photographs I have stored on my mobile phone.  It’s the gift that keeps on giving.

Click on the photos to see them larger.  Just if you want, like, I’m not going to force you.

I love Indiana Jones.  I also love LEGO.  What could be better, then, than a near life-sized Indy made entirely out of LEGO?  I spotted this gorgeous piece of work in the window of a Toymaster in Dublin back at the start of October, and had to take a photo.  He stood about four feet tall, which is short for an action adventure hero, but fricking huge for a LEGO man.

I’ve always wanted an Indiana Jones style Fedora, but I’ve just this minute realised I want one made out of LEGO even more.  What an ice breaker that would be.  “Hi, I’m Barry”.  “Hello.  Um … is your hat made of LEGO?”.  “Yes.  Yes, it is.”

Also while in Dublin, I spotted this stand of BEASTLY! books.  They were in a big bookshop, but I forget the name of it.  They looked good, although were criminally overshadowed by the Rainbow Fairy books.  No surprise there, though – at last count there were over a hundred million Rainbow Fairy stories in publication, every one of them exactly the same.

Back in Wexford, myself and the family joined thousands of other people in attending the opening festivities of the Wexford Opera Festival.  As well as a wide range of live music and entertainment, there were also ruddy enormous skeletons.  See if you can spot any in the picture above.  Full marks if you can spot both.  (Hint:  They’re wearing hats).

There were fireworks, too.  That’s them there.  It was probably the most impressive fireworks display I’ve ever seen.  The picture doesn’t do it justice really.  If you kind of jiggle up and down in your seat while looking at the photo and go “ptchoooo, wheeeeee, powwwwwch!” it helps, but it’s still not the same as being there.

You may be able to make out the vague shape of a statue on the left of the photo.  It’s a chap named John Barry (not the one who composed the James Bond theme, I don’t think).  I only mention it because my name’s Barry John Hutchison.  Every time I pass the statue I say “Heh, John Barry.  Barry John.”  No-one listens, though, and I have no idea why I continue to say it.  Maybe it’s an illness.

We took a trip out to a ludicrously expensive “amusement centre” a few days after that.  About eighty quid just evaporated out of my pocket the second I set foot inside the building.  I did spot this brilliant Elvis themed coin waterfall game thingy, though, which almost made it worthwhile.  Unusually, though, whenever anyone won it played the first verse of “It’s Not Unusual” by Tom Jones.

This bizarre contradiction made me doubt that the place was 100% legitamite and honest – a suspicion confirmed a few moments later when I saw one of the prizes on offer inside a games machine …

Ah, the world famous Wi games console.  No, it’s not the Wii, although you’d be forgiven for thinking it, what with it looking quite like it, being packaged in a similar way, and having Mario on the front.  Oh, and because it’s called the Wi – did I mention that?

You’d think the manufacturer would have considered all these things before launching the product.  Surely they must’ve known it’d only result in confusion?  They must’ve been mortified when they realised their error.

Ahem.

Now this is probably my favourite photo of the bunch.  There’s a story behind it, so bear with me.

A few weeks ago, I was minding my own business in a shop, when a man approached me and started chatting.  He seemed nice – if a bit odd – and we spent a few minutes discussing the weather and exchanging pleasantries.  Then he said something I didn’t expect.

“Do you want to see something amazing?”

How could I decline such an offer?  As soon as I said “go on then” he began rummaging around inside the briefcase he carried with him.  A moment later he whipped out the piece of paper above and held it out for me.

I took it and stared at it for a long time, not quite sure how to respond.

“I’ve made a flying carpet,” he told me in a hushed whisper.  “That’s it there.”

I nodded slowly.  “It looks nice.”

Then he said something which almost blew me away.  With absolute sincerity he told me: “That’s not a photo.”

Look again at the picture above.  I struggle to think of anyone who could mistake that image for an actual photograph of a man on a flying carpet, and I know some proper idiots.  Even if the cartoon lines and garish colours weren’t giveaway enough, we can see his thoughts in the picture!

What’s worse is I was feeling so uncomfortable at this point I just nodded again, as if I had thought it was a photograph, and was only now realising I was wrong!

I have no idea if the flight took place, or even what he was doing it for.  More than anything, though, I hope he made it.

A couple of quickies before the big finish.  Spotted the above text on the box for a toy motorbike and trailer set.  It’s not just Chongtrol or The Best Design New Thing, it’s Chongtrol and The Best Design New Thing.  That’s the double stamp of quality right there.

Incidentally, I’ve just punched “Chongtrol” into Google, and it’s as stumped as I am.

Here’s another one from the same shop.  This time it’s a truck carrying a motorbike, rather than a motorbike pulling a truck.  That’s an important distinction.

As you can see, this “handsome appliance” is Vivid and Great in Style.  Importantly, it also has Both the Quality Of Tenacity, which we all know is vitally important in today’s toy market.  To my mind, that’s where the Wi went wrong – it just didn’t have both the quality of tenacity, although looking at the box, it may well have been friction powered.

I apologise for the quality of this last photo, but I felt I had to publish it here all the same …

I’m not sure if you can make it out through the blurriness, but the label on that big weird sausage thing says “Extra Pork Headcheese”.

No matter how many times you re-read those three words, they won’t make any more sense.  Extra Pork Headcheese.  See?

It’s a very strange substance which appears to be about 50% yellowing jelly, and 50% bits of pink and black stuff.  The label says the meat content is “Pork from pork heads”.  Technically that should be “Pig from pig heads” I think.

Oddly, there’s no cheese in it.

This was the third photo I took of the thing, and the least blurry of the lot.  I’d have taken more, but a couple of Tesco staff members had started watching me closely, like I was some weird sausage fetishist or pork-based spy or something.

I should also point out that the thing is about the size of a large cucumber – the photo doesn’t do the scale of it justice.  It’s a frightening, alarming product in any number of ways.  Let us never speak of it again.

Right, that’s yer lot for the 100th Post Spectacular.  It wasn’t all that spectacular, but it was the 100th post, so at least the title is 50% factually accurate.

Feel free to discuss anything shown above, by the way.  I feel all lonely and unloved when no-one bothers their backside to comment …

I’m writing a short story for possible inclusion in a new anthology at the moment.  It’s a gritty, realistic piece, about two boys in inner city Glasgow, and touches on various ‘grown-up’ subjects.  One of these is drugs.

Now, never having been involved in drugs myself, I’m having to do a lot of reading up.  I’m learning a lot of things I didn’t know.  Through it all, one thought keeps striking me.  Maybe it’s my age or something, but I can’t help but feel that drugs don’t sound as good as soup.

So, in order to prove this point, here’s 10 Reasons Why Soup is Better than Drugs

1.  Soup comes in a wide range of flavours.

2.  You can buy soup in most supermarkets, and many corner shops.

3.  No matter how much soup you consume, the Russian Mafia will not take an interest.

4. The second container of soup you buy is unlikely to be thirty times more expensive than the first.

5.  It is rare for dog-worming tablets or washing powder to be used to ‘pad-out’ soup.

6.  When you have soup, you can be reasonably confident it has never been hidden up someone’s bum.

7.  Bringing soup into Singapore does not carry the risk of being shot dead on sight.

8.  Soup won’t cause you to dance around like a mental patient.  Unless it’s too hot, obviously.  Even then, you’re unlikely to keep dancing for eighteen hours straight.

9.  There’s a reason The Verve never released a single called “The Soup Don’t Work”.  It’s because soup does work, consistently and without fail.

10.  You can’t dunk bread in cocaine.

So, for anyone thinking of dabbling in drugs, I hope this has helped convince you otherwise.  Go grab yourself a bowl of Chicken Noodle or Carrot and Coriander instead.  You’ll feel better for it in the long run.  And probably the short run, too.