Topic: Budgie gave me the title “No Gentleman, No Lady” (and the word “ambigram” to use. I’m afraid I let him down, in that I haven’t managed to use the word. But ever since I wrote that little origin story for John Dials a few weeks back, I haven’t been able to entirely exorcise the urge to actually write that story I was talking about, Earth Died Screaming. So I went back to my outline notes, and I started writing the damn thing (as a comic, because as ever I just can’t make prose work in any form other than a short monologue). Here’s the first four pages of script. You may see more of it over the next few weeks/months if I’m happy with how it turns out.

(There is more coming about whisky, by the way. Bear with me.)

Page 1:

Panel 1: Split this page in two, horizontally. The top half of the page is moorland, ending in a clifftop, a single tree sitting to left of the shot. Knock the whole panel out to bleed. It’s a bright, sunny day, birds wheeling in the sky overhead, and the whole scene, if this were in colour, would be lush and green. The tree is verdant, spreading and very, very alive, if somewhat bent by years of the prevailing wind off the sea.

Panel 2: Exactly the same shot, except that this time, the sky is slate grey, and the whole scene is *dead* Not so much as a blade of grass is growing, and our tree is very dead, and very very scary, and monstrous, skeletal thing, like the hand of some maleficent god reaching out of the earth.

In the border between the two panels (make if thicker for the purpose) we’ve got our title: EARTH DIED SCREAMING.

Page 2:

Panel 1: A study in disarray, viewed from the door. Papers are strewn everywhere over the desk, over the floor between us and the desk, books are disarrayed on the shelves, a burea in one corner has all its drawers open, more papers poking out. The desk is a huge old mahogany affair, with a backboard that completely prevents us us from seeing one corner of the room behind it – the chair is off at an angle from it’s proper position where it would be facing us across the desk. Behind the desk, half visible behind the blackboard is a large window, looking out that the skyline we saw in panel 1.

VOICE (off): JOHN DIALS, I SWEAR YOU ARE THE MOST DAMNABLE CREATURE.

Panel 2: Same POV but a head sticks up from behind the desk. Mid-thirties, hair about two inches too long, and looking the owner has just stuck his fingers in a lightsocket. Slightly overdone Edwardian fashion, the tie/cravat disordered and the top button unfastened. Goatee beard, surprisingly neatly kept. This is someone that could look very presentable indeed if they bothered, but they don’t, generally.

DIALS: WHAT WAS THAT, EMILY DEAR?

Panel 3: A shot from a corner of the room – a three-quarters shot past Dials, allowing us to see Emily for the first time. Emily’s dressed in a fairly fetishistic version of Edwardian garb. Don’t overdo it – this is her everyday wear, but at the same time, she’d not someone who would blend in on the street, even in this era.

EMILY: I HAD THE SERVANTS TIDY THIS ROOM JUST YESTERDAY, AND LOOK AT WHAT YOU’VE DONE.

DIALS: IS THAT WHY I CAN’T FIND ANYTHING? HAVE YOU SEEN THAT PAPER THAT AUSTIN SENT UP THE OTHER DAY?

Panel 4: Emily points to a piece of paper midway between them, on the floor, as Dials strides round from behind the desk.

EMILY: IS THAT IT?

Panel 5: Dials stoops to pick it up.

DIALS: WHY, YES, IT IS. I DON’T KNOW WHAT I’D DO WITHOUT YOU, MY LOVE.

EMILY: FLOUNDER HOPELESSLY, I’M SURE. HAVE YOU MADE ANY PROGRESS?

Page 3:

With the exception of the first ballon, all the dialogue on this page is voice-over ballons, no tails.

Panel 1: A shot past Dials, looking more clearly out of the window we can just see a bit of Dials face. The scene out of the window has changed slightly, though – instead of the afternoon view, we’re looking at night time now, the tree visible against the moon. There are some leaves on it, because this is before the horror – but it’s autumn so they’re sparse, and we can some get “scary tree” value out of it. There are three figures running up the hill toward it, just ahead of a mob, the frontrunners of which are visible at the the very bottom/front of the panel.

DIALS: YES, I BELIEVE SO. WITH AUSTIN’S HELP, I’VE TRACKED DOWN SOME LOCAL HISTORY ABOUT THE BONE TREE.

Panel 2: Move past Dials, for a high shot, over the heads of the mob (pitchforks and torches, please – I want a proper lynch mob…) so we can see the three of them, huddled together backs to the tree. One of the women looks terrified, the other furious, and the bloke looks curiously calm. I think it might be worth keeping just a small part of the window in shot – a corner of frame, of some of the lead in the panes, or something.

DIALS: IT SEEMS THAT ABOUT A CENTURY AGO, THREE PEOPLE WERE KILLED THERE. TWO WOMEN AND A MAN.

EMILY: MURDERED?

Panel 3: Three bodies hang from the tree, and we’ve zoomed in a bit more, lost all trace of the window.

DIALS: NOT EXACTLY. THEY WERE LYNCHED FOR WHAT’S CHARMINGLY REFERED TO HERE AS “UNNATURAL CONDUCT”. IT SEEMS THE TWO WOMEN WERE SISTERS, WHO WERE BOTH SHARING A BED WITH THE SAME MAN.

Panel 4: Zoom in closer, so that we can see the three dead faces, twisting on their ropes. This close, we can see that the man’s eyes are two different colours – one light, one dark.

EMILY: SOUNDS POSITIVELY DELIGHTFUL, BUT WHERE DO WE COME INTO IT?

Panel 5: A shot of the blasted heath as it is today.

DIALS: WELL, THE MAN’S NAME WAS RECORDED AS SIMEON MORROW. AND A YEAR TO THE DAY AFTER THEY DIED, EVERYTHING WITHIN HALF A MILE OF THE TREE DIED. NOTHING’S GROWN THERE SINCE.

Page 4

Panel 1: Back in the study, focused on Emily, who has moved closer to the desk while we were in flashback, and who looks a little shocked. If we can see Dials, then he’s setting the chair.

EMILY: BUT WHY WOULD MORROW LET HIMSELF GET HUNG?

Panel 2: Dials is sitting down at the desk now, pushing some some papers to one side. There’s a book open underneath them.

DIALS: WELL, I’VE GOT A FEW THEORIES ABOUT THAT. HAVE YOU EVER HEARD OF A GYTRASH OR MAYBE SHAGFOAL?

Panel 2: Emily shrugs, while Dials picks up the book and hands it to Emily.

DIALS: LOCAL BELIEF-FORM. BIG BLACK DOG OR HORSE, HARBINGER OF DEATH. HELL HOUND, BASICALLY.

Panel 3: The main panel on this page. A shot of the pages of the book. One of them, the focus of the shot is, illustrated – up to up if it’s a woodcut, or something a bit more detailed, but it’s a big (unnaturally huge – put a frightened looking man in the illustration in for scale – on all fours, this thing is three quarters man height) black dog, with fire burning in its eye sockets, maybe around it’s jaws. This is a book printed in the 19th century, so don’t go overboard on the illustration quality, anyway. On the other, we can just make out the title GYTRASH.

EMILY: I DON’T UNDERSTAND. WHAT’S THAT GOT TO DO WITH GETTING HIMSELF HUNG?

Topic: Hugh Hancock asks What’s So Good About Whisky, Then?

“I like the little things. The way a glass feels in your hand, a good glass – thick, with a heavy base. I love the sound an ice cube makes when you drop it from just the right height. Too high, and it will chip when you drop it. Chip the ice and it will melt too fast in the Scotch…” – Leo McGarry, The West Wing, “Bartlet For America”

This is by way of being a preface to a few other essays that I intend to write, in response to several people’s requests about whisky. If I’m going to spend time talking about whisky, I should probably set out my own stall first, as it were. And yeah, I should imagine a few of my friends are looking at that talk of ice in whisky with some horror. I’ll come back to that later.

Whisky ticks a number of boxes for me. Firstly, and most importantly, I love the taste. I love big flavours – red wines, onions, garlic, dark chocolate, butter, cream, coffee, red meat, cigars. (Yes, I am going to die of heart failure. I have made my peace with this.) Whisky, even a comparatively light, floral variety (and they do exist) is a big, big, flavour.

Secondly, there’s probably very little point in pretending it doesn’t also tick my “geek” box. Specialist knowledge? A certain amount of collector mentality? Sign me up!

And lastly, it’s an intoxicant. Let’s be honest here: I like to get drunk on occasion (for occasion read: “at any reasonable excuse, like, say, weekends”). So do any number of people. I especially like to do this in good company. Whisky is practically self-selecting for similar people.

Like McGarry, above, there is a ritual element to it that appeals to me. I like to have the right glass, somthing that varies with my mood – sometimes it’s a good cut glass tumbler, sometimes, like tonight, it’s a proper nosing glass – the common thread, as Leo says, is a good heavy base, a bit of reassuring weight in the hand. I like the pop as the cork leave the bottle, the gentle sloshing sound of the pour, holding the drink to the light to admire the colour, that first sniff of the marvellous smell, and then that first magic sip, rolling the liquid around my mouth…

Which brings me back to taste. And, while I’m here, smell. Let us, for the sake of an example, talk about what I am drinking right now, which is the last of my bottle of Compass Box’s superb blend Spice Tree.

Held up to the light, it’s quick a clear yellow-amber colour, and on first sniff, there’s a sweetness to it, a light sweetness, more like a honey than say, toffee. Going back again there’s strong element of spice to the sweetness, festive spices like clove and cinnamon. Sipping it, and rolling it around the mouth, it’s rich and sweet, with hints of fruit to start with, and it finishes long, and very dry, almost to the point of being astringent. There’s no way you could drink this and not notice that you were drinking something of character. You might not like it, and that’d be fine, because then I could have yours, but there’s no way you could fail to notice the shift in mouthfeel, and the changing range of tastes that come together like liquid magic.

I could write that amount about any of the whiskies in my collection. (By the standards of some people I know, I don’t keep a huge collection – after finishing this Spice Tree, I only have five different bottles on the go at the moment.) And were I to do so, you’d be able to understand the differences between them. Even just in text form, there’d be no mistaking one for another. Now part of that’s the specialist knowledge I was talking about earlier, but part of it just is the sheer variety that’s available. I love the fact that there’s such a range, that every new whisky I try will be different from the others.

My friend Andrew, in his very fine book, Eat Britain, makes the point about whisky that it feels like an elite club, that it requires special training to understand and appreciate. I don’t think it does, but I can understand why it feels that way. I’ve met a few people who get terribly snobby about “wasting good whisky on people who won’t appreciate it”. The technical term for these people is “arseholes”. On a similar subject, I said I’d come back to McGarry’s remark about ice. Firstly, it should be borne in mind that McGarry was talking about Johnnie Walker, a whisky that is more popular in America than anywhere else, a drink that is made with the American palette in mind. And one of the things that’s expected is that it will be drunk over ice, because that’s the normal way to drink whisky in the States. So it’s quite likely that the ice will suit the drink. And secondly: the only correct way to drink whisky is the way that tastes best to you. If you prefer it with ice, have it with ice. If you actually prefer the taste of your 70 year old single malt with coke in it, and have found that a scotch and coke made with a cheap blend just isn’t as good as one with something criminally expensive in it, well, fine by me. As long as you feel you’re getting your money’s worth out of what you’re drinking. Anyone who claims anything else is just wrong.

I don’t feel that I’ve had special training, and I don’t think does take any training beyond maybe sampling a few different whiskies, just to find out what you like. A basic understanding of the differences takes less time than you’d think – in any reasonably well stocked pub, I could sit you down with four or five whiskies, and take you on a quick tour of malts that, even if you’d never tasted a whisky before in your life, would all taste distinct and different. They’d unquestionably have something in common – that huge, rich, explosive taste, but I promise you, you’d be able to tell the difference. And you could probably find a preference, and a place to start exploring for yourself from. That’s what I did, after all. You don’t need to try everything to find something you like, and there’s no shame in finding something you like and sticking with it. Whisky may seem elitist, but actually, it’s open to anyone who is willing to buy a bottle or two, and share it with friends. If you’re enjoying what you’re drinking, it can’t possibly be a waste.

And it really is such an enjoyable drink.

This is a small thing, but it is a perfect illustration of why the public should not be allowed to vote for things, ever.

The 2008 Bloggies were announced the other day, and I may write more about them later, if I can be arsed to form some opinions on the others, but I just wanted to comment on this result.

Best photography of a weblog: I Can Has Cheezburger? (I’m not fucking linking to it.  You all know it anyway.)

Also Nominated: Smitten Kitchen, Dooce, The Sartorialist, 101 Cookbooks

Of that lot, only one of them consistently produces a reasonable range of different kinds of photography. Dooce. Who, fair enough, probably couldn’t have carried another award home. But I find it tremendously frustrating that not one single dedicated photoblog even got nominated, and most especially that the one that never fucking features any good photography, is the one that won.

If you saw most of those fucking photos without text, they’d just be yet another shitty fucking photo of someone’s mangy fucking fleabag, cluttering up the internet. With the text, some of them are occasionally funny. But they’re still shitty photos, and often not original.

I get that despite the name of the award, which would seem to me to imply a certain level of expected quality, the full explanation of it is “Photoblogs and other weblogs that regularly feature photography” . But still, why in fuck, given how popular photoblogging is and how much seriously *good* photography there is out there, must they honour what is basically a joke that has long since ceased to be novel? Surely a little fucking quality control wouldn’t be out of the question?

(FWIW: Of those five, I think The Sartorialist is probably the most deserving winner. The photography isn’t top quality, or terribly interesting simply as images, but it’s of a standard, has a clear voice, and is unquestionably what the blog is about.  Personal taste would probably have had me voting for 101 Cookbooks, but I thing The Sartorialist is the one that would have most deserved the win.)