July99

WRITES AND WRONGS

July 5 1999

Some (much) consternation last night when Justin said he knew he was "being written about on my website." "Oh dear!" as LaaLaa would say. Oh dear. That's put the cat among the pretty flamingos big style. A friend, for reasons I can't even guess at, had informed him of this a week ago.

I'd hoped for longer - much longer - before the inevitable discovery happened, but no - such is the closeness of our community that five weeks was all we were granted. Sabotage. But we shall see what can be rescued, both in type and in reality. People understandably do not like someone turning up at their workplace and in their lives then proceeding to broadcast their every dot and comma.

Which leads us to todays little polemic - how far is a writer allowed to go in taking inspiration from real people? This has various euphemisms such as "characters drawn from life" and "loosely based upon blah blah blah" - but what it really should be called is "ripping people off rotten". Ask Irvine Welsh - he kens plenty aboot it. Radge gadge. Or Alan Bennett - admits he purposely stands in queues at the butchers to write down what the other ladies are saying. Even when he doesn't want to buy any meat! How fucking cool can you get, man? Sit on buses when you don't want to go anywhere? Well - he's done that as well.

I challenge any writer - of any interest at all to read - to put his or her hand on their heart and state that they haven't stolen even one story, or action, or opinion, or expression, or even word - from someone they have met in real life.

So tell me what you think. How far should you be allowed to go in using material "inspired" by people you know? Exactly how guilty am I? Certainly a bit, but I hope not a lot. Was my friend right to grass on me? Tell me what you think.

Yesterday was a festival called Independence Day by people in the USA. My Bingo in Scotland was festooned with stars and stripes, balloons and streamers - all in apparent ignorance of the fact that we lost the damn War of Indendence. Lost the fucking lot - all those mountains, rivers, banks, oval offices and Simpsons episodes. All because the Redcoats were apparently so easy to spot and shoot.

But back to the Bingo. For Independence Day my little cashier's office was re-named BANK, and I was required to wear a badge saying DEPUTY SHERIFF. (BANKER might have been more apt, but they were kind enough to spare me the rhyming slang.) "Why are you only the DEPUTY sheriff?" a lady asked, kindly. (See - there we go already.) "Because I slept with the wrong people, ma'am," I answered. "Slept with all the wrong fuckers." She smiled. She understood sleeping. And she understood corruption in public office, with which this city is rife.

Three days before "Independence Day" Scotland got not quite independence, but did get its first Parliament for three zillion years. Even the Queen turned up, dressed as a thistle. But on this matter the Bingo was completely silent. It wasn't even a public holiday. Who the fuck cares about Scotland, when you've got the United States to imitate?

Troubled times, all of a sudden. We would all have been much happier without this. Adjustments will have to be made, as Dipsy once said, as he fiddled with the controls of his hi-tech home.