Greetings, y'all, to another From The North bloggerisationism update in the house, dearest blog fiends. Coming to you, as t'were, live and direct from The Stately Telly Topping Manor and all that.
Beginning, once again, with a short reminder that yer actual Keith Telly Topping's very own Island of Terror: A Guide to Sixty Great* British SF and Fantasy Movies From 1936 to 1984 (* ... and not so great) is shortly scheduled for release from those most excellent and fragrant chaps at Telos Publishing and remains thoroughly available for pre-order from the Telos website. Here, in fact, for just nineteen English pounds and ninety nine of your English pence (plus package and posting, obviously).
Go on, dear blog fiends, you know you want one. Of course you do, you're only human after all. And, as previously noted, this blogger can beg if that's a deal-breaker in this matter. He knows how to beg; he has, after all, had lots of practice at it in the past. Keith Telly Topping would also like to confirm that he has a rapidly growing DVD and Blu-ray collection and a salt and chilli pepper king prawn with curry and boiled rice addiction to support and fund. 'But, but, but ... what's actually in this very book of yours yer actual Keith Telly Topping' this blogger hears you all, as one, cry aloud. So, this blogger will tell you. Because he's a nice chap (allegedly).
Island of Terror (et cetera, et cetera) also includes, just to take but one example, this bit on page 288 in the Dr Who & The Daleks, Logic, Let Me Introduce You To This Window section. You're definitely going to buy this book now, aren't you, dear blog fiends? Oh, yes you are. Go on. Go on. Go on.
The proof of the 'mushy peas, strawberry ice cream, mashed banana and diarrhoea', incidentally, would appear to be in the non-eating, thereof. And, on that bombshell ...
Amendments to the final, fianl, very definitely final, set of page-proofs for Island of Terror which had arrived, hotfoot, from The Stately Telos Manor were completed during the first week of September. And, from a mega-quick perusal (which was all it was going to get because this blogger knew the text backwards by that stage and had already been through the whole damned thing with a fine tooth comb at least twice ... and so had his editor), Keith Telly Topping found but (he believes) seven or eight last-minute things which needed further amending. And four of those were just putting in an extra line-break between paragraphs. Ladies, gentlemen, it was a jolly emotional moment when this blogger finished his quest.
Though, to be perfectly honest, how this blogger actually felt reaching the end of a project which had started last November on the day after he got out of hospital (once the glorious NHS staff at the RVI and the Freeman had, generously, helped to keep this blogger, you know, alive) could more be summed up with this here visual representation.
Nevertheless, dear blog fiends, that was no time whatsoever for this blogger to be resting upon his Laurel and Hardys. Or, indeed, his arsehole for that matter. Because, from that very moment onwards, he has been continuing, apace, with the next Stately Telly Topping Manor tome of world renown and importance, Bride of a Vault of Horror (still provisional title). Or, sometimes, Brie of a Vault of Horror when this blogger is feeling a shade discombobulated and stressed-out (and cheesy). But, he is deliriously happy to be able to report that he is currently, as he writes this latest bloggerisationism update, on Day Forty One of the writing of the third part of the A Vault of Horror tetralogy. Having watched and written up entries on a whopping fifty of the (proposed) seventy three(ish) works he intends to cover and has reached the 1970s. Delivery, as mentioned in at least one previous bloggerisationisam update, is at the end of the year and, on this particular occasion, this blogger intends to use the extra time he's likely to have after completing the first draft to edit this fekker. Till it bubbles and blares and begs - begs - for mercy. And then, edit it some more. Island of Terror, if anything, was delivered just that bit too quickly and this blogger subsequently needed an extra couple of passes on the edit (kindly granted by his publisher, he should add) to get it as tight as he'd wished. There is, sometimes, a bit of a temptation once a book is written to get it sent in as soon as possible as the more one fiddles with it after reaching the end the more chance there is that you'll cut something you either don't need to, don't want to or that should be left to someone else to cut if necessary. Thus, although before the end of next month this blogger hopes to have completed Bride of a Vault of Horror: A Study of Sixty Seven Great* British** Films of Mystery & Suspense 1933 to 1986 (* ... and not-so-great), (** ... plus two French, three Italian and one Spanish) to a broadly acceptable first draft level, he's then going in with a sodding chainsaw (just like the bloke that edited Incense for the Damned in 1970) until the blood squirts and the screaming starts. Which will, no doubt, be a right good laugh.
That said, this blogger did take but one day off from his current writing endeavours. That was on 16 September for to meet up with That There Young Malcolm so that the pair of us could partake in an afternoon of food, fun, frivolity and mooching around HMV in search of bargains (this blogger found two). Because, as usual, we both (but, especially this blogger) really deserved this.
How much did this blogger really deserve that, dear blog fiends? On a scale of one to ten? With one being, 'yeah, he sort of deserved it, you know, a bit'? And ten being, 'let me tell ya, brothers and sisters, he really, really, really, really deserved it. Lots'? Well, if truth be told, this was an eleven, at least. Possibly, approaching a twelve. Truth.
The following day, in fact, saw this blogger make a - necessary - third trip into Th' Toon in but three days (a normally only gets out of The Stately Telly Topping Manor about once a week to get the weekly shopping in). Not that he was bummin' around on the scrounge, like, nor nothing of the sort. No, indeed. This trip was entirely enforced as this blogger needed to to return a faulty disc to That There HMV picked up the previous afternoon when yer actual Keith Telly Topping and That There Young Malcolm had visited said establishment directly after our really, really, really deserved visit to Stowell Street. Still, bright side, after getting the disc changed a doing a quick bit of pharmacy shopping at Boots, this blogger only went and had himself a further chicken and chips luncheonette as a treat to his very self for spending a fiver on bus fares which he shouldn't have needed to in the first place. You lose some in life, dear blog fiends, you win a few little victories. That's all any of us can really hope for.
Returning, briefly, to Bride of a Vault of Horror in what has to be the single most most bowel-shatteringly scary bit of research this blogger has stumbled across during the researching and writing of his current book was this. The discovery of what was, perhaps the single most bowel-shatteringly scary double-bill in cinema history. What flaming idiot thought it was a good idea to expose people of, perhaps, a nervous disposition to not only Argento's 1977 witchcraft masterpiece but, also, Phil Effing Collins on the same programme? That's just asking for trouble. You'd jolly well need to spend a bit of quality time chilling out in the licensed bar after them shenanigans. Twenty bastard six bastard minutes of bastard Supper's bastard Ready? That's real horror.
Never trust a hippy, ladies and gentlemen. And the same thing goes for Woodstock an'aal. Six hundred thousand of the mud-encrusted, lice-ridden fekkers in one place at one time and nobody had the wherewithal to aim a thermonuclear device in their general direction. What a tragedy that was.
If this blogger hasn't already made his position clear on this matter over the nineteen years that From The North has been exposing the Interweb to the thoughts, sagacity, humanity and intolerant prejudices of yer actual Keith Telly Topping, dear blog readers, this blogger hates hippies as much as he loathes any group (except, possibly, Nazis. And people who play tennis). Cannot abide them, so he can't. He's with Primal Scream all the way on that, particular, score.
Also viewed this very week ...
Next, here's today's From The North Thought for the Day, dearest blog fiends. True, that.
Meanwhile, would all dear blog fiends like to see an example of the single most Gruniad Morning Star-type article in the history of the Gruniad Morning Star? Well, check this out. Only in the Gruniad Morning Star dear bloggerisationism fiends, only in the Gruniad Morning Star. The answer to your question, by the way, is 'no, of course this blogger wouldn't do such a thing, Middle Class hippy Communist journalist at the Gruniad Morning Star, this blogger is neither effing stupid nor a slappable, disgraceful hipster with a beard and more money than friggin' sense like the one you use to illustrate your (and this blogger uses the word quite wrongly) "article."' Hope that clears things up.
And finally, dear blog fiends - testify Tommy.
This From The North bloggerisationism update was brought to you, live and direct from The Stately Telly topping Manor, by yer actual Keith Telly Topping, author, journalist, novelist, broadcaster, lover of ear-shatteringly loud pop music, British horror and science-fiction and scourge of hippies everywhere. From The North will return ... whenever this blogger gets the urge and the opportunity. Until them, dear blog fiends, remember - treat every day as your last. Then, one day, you'll be right.
