The Artful Heffalump

The Empty Ballroom

Barnabas Netherwood — Sun, 08 Jan 2012 16:47:04 +0000

The ballroom was empty now, just the gentle tap of a dripping pipe to accompany the dust motes that whirled and span in the light streaming in from the broken and partially boarded-up windows high up on the far wall while spiders tended the dry and rubble-strewn bar. “A nice and juicy semi-liquified fly, sir? Coming right up,” and the spiders raced away, egged on as ever by the pulsating dance beat of the dripping pipe in a far off corner of the room.

NICE (as in biscuit) & Gentle Nightmares

Barnabas Netherwood — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 14:34:22 +0000

Two tunes recently knocked up in the early hours. They aren’t finished but I’m not really sure what to do to them to make them finished, so since I quite like listening to them I thought I’d just go ahead and post them anyway.

NICE (as in biscuit)

Gentle Nightmares

If you find you can’t get the tracks to play for any reason you can play them directly via SoundCloud at this link.

Lost Property: the original script

Barnabas Netherwood — Fri, 04 Nov 2011 19:56:45 +0000

I thought I’d post this for the future to discover. It is the product of a full day’s brainstorming and followed a series of decent but ultimately rejected ideas. I even did a full storyboard for someone else’s script before the brainstorming team (myself included) decided that all the options we had up to that point were either untenable or unfeasible. This was my attempt to wrest some value from the session.

The eagle-eyed amongst you will notice one or two changes twixt script and screen. There are no socks or launderettes in the film: I decided to keep the locations simple and socks really aren’t all that interesting to look at. I think the glove makes a decent stand-in though. Handbags, as a rule, tend to get nicked rather than lost, and so featuring an abandoned one would probably change the meaning of the film. Also skulking around the bushes in Victoria Park with two bags full of toys, a camera and a tripod and a handbag might well have raised the wrong kind of eyebrows and/or worried phone calls to the local constabulary. I think it was a sensible decision to leave it out.

Lost Property

Barnabas Netherwood — Mon, 31 Oct 2011 14:09:24 +0000

Entered the Smoke & Mirrors 48 Hour Film Competition 2011 at the weekend and this is the result:

This year’s theme was “Lost.” The film was cobbled together in about six hours on Sunday afternoon after having spent a full day brainstorming on Saturday only to realise that all our ideas were either unfeasible or failed to reflect the theme in any way (and then heading out to a Halloween party in full zombie make-up where copious amounts of alcohol were consumed, hobbling back home at 5am.) This is a far simpler solution and if I am honest was my secret fall-back option all along. I think it turned out rather well, and having run out of time to come up with any music I think the in-camera sound is quite acceptable too. (EDIT: I have since experimented with a variety of soundtracks but I don’t think any of them are quite as successful as this version.)

The Flying Visit

Barnabas Netherwood — Thu, 27 Oct 2011 14:06:15 +0000

Hector woke up with no arms and no legs in a puddle of something sticky on the pool room floor. “I met Sonny Chiba and he smiled at me!” he thought to himself excitedly before drifting back into unconsciousness again.

Springfield, E9

Barnabas Netherwood — Thu, 22 Sep 2011 23:57:22 +0000

Lord Rokeby’s Repast – 14

Barnabas Netherwood — Tue, 13 Sep 2011 13:52:39 +0000

Stamford Manor, that stately pile of which much mention has been made of late, is a singularly unedifying edifice and, in the opinions of many, quite the most loathsome building ever to attain listed status. Designed by Bertram Russell-Jones in the latter half of the nineteenth Century it is a perfect example of late Victorian rich-set planning blight. If, by some miracle of bureaucratic oversight, Stamford Manor had somehow managed to escape becoming listed, none save the most committed and ardent conservationists could conceivably campaign for its preservation, for it is a blighted place and few who visit it come away with good impressions, if they come away at all. Even in its prime it was striking rather than beautiful, but now it sits in its little vale at the foot of a hill with a dark and heavy cloud hanging permanently over it. Even the postman refuses to pass the great ornate ironwork gates and its inhabitants have long since learned to accept their grocery deliveries being thrown over said gates in tied-up plastic bags. Jack Humphrey, proprietor and landlord of the Rose & Crown in nearby Wigglesby, has heard all the stories many times over, the children who slip into the grounds on a dare, never to return, the vanishing poachers, the weird behaviour of the inhabitants on their all-too-rare excursions into town, some accounts of which have already attained the status of legends, frequently scatological in nature and so deeply blasphemous that accounts of them would make an atheist shudder, but legends nonetheless, reiterated in cautious whispers over a pint or three of Old Dock Leaf or Dark Grunter on quiet nights when other forms of entertainment have either failed or been exhausted. If Ophelia had been a better journalist she might have noticed Wigglesby on the map and made the effort to go there and canvass the locals about the Manor (and those who live there) and thereby be aware of some of the possible consequences of blundering into that godforsaken place unannounced and unforewarned. Unfortunately, for everyone concerned, she is not and she did not, and so our sorry tale must continue.

And so it was that Ophelia found herself in the grounds of Stamford Manor at around four o’clock on an overcast Thursday afternoon. The journey had been long and arduous and involved more than a few favours that she would be quite happy to forget about and she was almost dead on her feet through tiredness but she was here now and that was the main thing. However, right now all such thoughts had been banished, for Ophelia was following another train of thought entirely.

She was standing beneath a large military-style plane with little wings and big engines. As an item of garden furniture it was large and ostentatious and not a little rusty. It had clearly seen better days and not been flown in some time. Ophelia found herself wondering if it still worked. Any enthusiast worth their salt could have told her that it was a Hawker Siddeley Harrier and that the rust and the thick stems of ivy creeping across the wings and into and through the engines were a clear indication of its inoperability, but these are but mere details and of little significance to the wider dream. Willard clearly didn’t take it out as often as he should, but no matter. That would change once she got a foot in the door and her feet under the table. A spot of polish and a little engine oil and soon they would be jaunting off to exciting places such as the millionaire resort of Morocco where he would take her on expensive shopping trips to Cartier and Tiffany in his Formula One car and sip champagne as they watched all the other Formula One drivers racing round and round in circles from the deck of his yacht moored in the most prestigious mooring spot in all of Morocco. Not that she cared one jot for motor sports, but when in Rome it paid to do as the natives do. Besides, even millionaires have to have hobbies.

Meanwhile, inside the house, a curious fellow with curly ginger hair and slightly bulgy staring eyes was leaping up and down in delight. His name is Roger and we shall very shortly be learning far more about him than would be permissible in polite conversation.

– They got him!

He slammed the phone down happily and skipped off to find his uncle.

– Yoo-hoo! They got him!

He found him in the study, scowling over some ancient bound volume of manuscripts or other and scratching the sore patch on his head listlessly.

– I do wish you would speak properly. You are not an East End barrow boy. Please enunciate.

– Go boil your head, you ugly relic.

– That’s better. Now, whom did they get?

– Shouldn’t that be “Whom is it what found himself got?”

– If pedantry were pennies you would be financially soluble right now, my boy. Now please get to the point before I lose my patience.

– Our friends in the blue pointy hats took care of that chap with the camera who snapped Vicky leaving Snookums in Mayfair with John the Baptist.

– Ah, jolly good. Another loose end tied up. Pass on my regards to those responsible, would you? Usual nonsense, hamper, bottle of bubbly, that sort of thing.

– I’ll put in a call to the caterers first thing in the morning.

– You couldn’t do it now?

Roger was visibly agitated, hopping around on one leg and scratching himself unpleasantly.

– Well, I would but my hernia is acting up something rotten, giving me the right gyp. I might have to go outside and avail myself of the frottage options against a tree or two outside.

– Very well, I’ll do it myself then. Off you trot, and be discrete about it, for heaven’s sake.

Roger grinned horribly.

– Oh, I will. I am the very poster boy of discretion, me.

And with that he skipped off humming tonelessly to himself.

At this very moment no more than two or three hundred yards away Ophelia was writhing around on the grass bleating in pain, the teeth of some ancient and rusty mechanical contraption clamped firmly around her left shin, already digging in and drawing blood. The nose cone of the Hawker Siddeley Harrier lurking above her head no longer seemed remotely interesting. She was going to have to have a stern word with Willard when she met him about leaving such dangerous devices lying around where they might hurt people.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Portrait of Aunt Mabel

Barnabas Netherwood — Thu, 04 Aug 2011 13:26:47 +0000

Aunt Mabel does not really exist, of course, but if she did she might look something like this.

The original drawing is a few years old now but the colouring is new. I dusted it off and scanned it in as I needed an ersatz paperback cover for a film I was making and felt that she would stand in for an author’s photograph. The made-up book is “Ensconced and Enchanted: A Tale of Frontier Life” by Felicity J. Hawkins and the cover I designed fits perfectly (with the help of a little spray mount) over the cover of a Dan Brown novel I bought for 60p specifically for the purpose of being ripped up on camera. I figured the world could stand the loss of at least one Dan Brown novel.

At some point (after the competition is over) I will post the film on YouTube and attempt to embed a playable version here, so check back in the fullness of time. I will also post links to the competition website once they get round to uploading my entry.

The Ugly Visitor

Barnabas Netherwood — Sat, 16 Jul 2011 12:56:45 +0000

It was Flossie who discovered the strange thing out beyond the sand pit at the bottom of the garden, near the hedge and not far from the boarded up well that all the children were under strict instructions not to go anywhere near, but all such rules were swiftly forgotten once they heard Flossie’s excited squeal of discovery. It was an ugly looking thing, with pale hands and face poking out of black leathery skin, spiky pink and green tufts of hair pointing out in all directions and wild, staring eyes. “What do you suppose it is?” asked Edmund, intently. “I haven’t got the faintest idea,” snapped Flossie angrily. “Perhaps it has escaped from a zoo!” exclaimed Peter excitedly. “That would explain the ring through its nose.” They sat and looked at it expectantly for what seemed like an eternity but it was probably only seconds later that little May broke the silence. “Farm animals sometimes have rings through their noses too,” she squeaked. “Yes, but that doesn’t explain the rings through its ears and eyebrows or that funny pointed stud below its mouth,” observed Peter. “I think a zoo or a circus sideshow is the only logical explanation.” They stood there and looked at the thing a while longer. “Well, wherever it did or didn’t come from,” announced Flossie, “it is here now and we have to decide what to do with it.” There was a general murmur of assent from the boys, but little May wasn’t so sure. “I think it looks hurt.” As if to prove her right the thing lurched suddenly and rolled over, revealing a large white A in a circle painted on its back. “That proves it is from a farm,” murmured Edmund. “That A thing is clearly a branding mark, like the ones Farmer Giles puts on his cows.” “Oh, come on now,” replied Peter. “We’ve been on plenty of farm visits before and that thing is quite unlike anything we have seen before.” Before them the thing twitched gently and made strange gurgling sounds with its throat. “What do you think these things are?” inquired little May, and for the first time the children noticed the trail of metal cylinders lying around him. Peter picked one up. It was quite light and had a hole at the top and brightly coloured writing around the sides that read:

HAPPYDOWN VINTAGE DRY CIDER

in curly playful lettering above a picture of an apple orchard, and below that:

17.5% ABV

surrounded by a pointy yellow circle. “This must be what it eats,” suggested Edmund. “They sell it in the village shop.” “Perhaps we should get some for it,” suggested little May. This seemed to be a Very Good Idea to all concerned, and off they trotted to the shop.

When they returned several hours later they found to their dismay the thing had gone. “Oh, bother!” exhorted Peter. “We needn’t have gone to all that trouble after all.” “Yes, and after we spent every last penny of our pocket money combined buying it,” complained Flossie, sounding exhausted. “And I didn’t like the way Susan the Postmistress stared at us when we were paying for it. It made me feel quite uncomfortable. I wish I had never set eyes upon the horrid thing.” “Well, I thought it was sweet,” piped up little May, “and I think we should keep it in case it comes back.” This seemed like a sensible solution to everyone, and once all the necessary murmuring and nodding of assent was over and done with they turned and skipped happily back to the house.

Imagine their surprise when they had flung open the front door and leapt inside to find the thing sitting upright in the middle of the living room carpet. It had found Uncle Albert’s decanter set and was drinking liberally from them. The children rushed forward. “Bad thing!” scolded Flossie. “The drinky jars are for Uncle Albert only!” little May chipped in. “Yes, we’ll all be in an awful pickle once he finds out,” added Peter. “Oh, get stuffed, the steaming lot of you!” retorted the thing. The children looked at each other in astonishment. “It speaks!” blurted Edmund. “Of course I bloomin’ well speak, What are you, a bunch of flaming idiots?” The children were dumbstruck. In all their days they had never heard such language. The thing continued to chug from Uncle Albert’s prize cut glass decanters. After an awful pause, little May plucked up the courage to speak. “We bought you a present,” she offered. “See? It is the same as the other ones you had when we found you,” and she showed him the heavy metal cylinder that she was carrying. The thing stared at her, then at the cylinder, and blinked several times. “Now that’s more blimmin’ like it,” it informed them. “Gissit here.” It snatched the mysterious object from her grasp, tweaked a metal object on the top, making a hole appear, then put it to its lips and glugged away contentedly, like a two week old kitten or puppy at its mother’s breast. The children waited with bated breath until it had finished. “That was great,” it told them. “You must bring me more like this, and quickly too.” It let out a ginormous burp for emphasis. The children glanced at each other nervously, before Flossie plucked up the courage to speak. “But we can’t get you any more,” she wailed. “We spent every last penny we had on that one.” “What’s the matter with you?” inquired the thing. “Haven’t you heard of shoplifting?” The children shook their heads in dismay. “Never mind,” it said. “We can all go together and I can teach you.” Then it leaped onto an armchair, leaned over the back and made several unpleasant heaving and retching motions, arching up and down, shaking occasionally across the whole of its body. The children looked at each other in delight. A magical thing was happening. This was going to be absolutely the best holiday in the countryside that they had ever had!

THE END

Adventures in Monsterland

Barnabas Netherwood — Tue, 28 Jun 2011 20:26:49 +0000