Thursday, 20 October 2016
Sunday, 2 October 2016
chapter three "The Unknowns" by RJ Dodd
Chapter
three. Mexico.
The fruit freight depot is in a mean, sparsely lit, back street just
on the outskirts of the Mexican town of Tijuana, near the USA- Mexican border. The
shabby collection of sheds and rickety corrugated iron roofed outbuildings glories
in the name of Miguel’s Flying Fruit Freight, at least that is what the cracked
and faded sign above the door once said, but that had been painted many years
ago when Miguel was a young man with
dreams, dreams of quitting the hell hole of Tijuana and moving north to what he
saw as paradise, the United States of America, like his dreams the sign is now
faded, cracked and the paint chipped.
Miguel’s vision of one day having a fleet
of lorries transporting the cheap fruit from the flatlands around his part of
Mexico never seemed to get off the ground, maybe it was the monthly payments to
the local “protection and insurance” gang that ran his area, paying for the
medical attention for his asthmatic wife, helping his aged mother with the rent
for her cockroach infested shack or maybe he was just a terrible business man.
All of these concerns mattered not at all
to him now as he and his two employees, a couple of middle aged men he had
known from his childhood, lay on the blood soaked earth just inside the yard
where he kept his one battered old truck. It would never matter to him because
just beside his blood spattered body and the bodies of his two men lay three severed
heads, theirs.
The execution had been swift and brutal,
four men had walked into the front office, all of them carrying guns. Miguel
and his two old friends were engaged in their nightly game of cards. One of the
intruders motioned for the three amigos to move out into the rear yard where
one of the gunmen spoke only one word “Arridolarse” the three Mexicans immediately obeyed him and
knelt on the ground, with amazing speed
two of the gunmen unsheathed large cane cutting machetes and simply lopped off
their heads, it took three seconds.
Business discussion and conclusion…Execution….
Mexican Drug Cartel style.
Hundreds of flying night bugs flitting
around the lone suspended light over the yard paid no attention to the scene
below them as the unlocked wire mesh
gate was pushed open and one of the gunmen climbed into the rusty vehicle, casually driving it out into
the lane where another vehicle, a large
Mercedes, is waiting..The headlights on the limousine flash once and it moves
off, followed by the fruit lorry. They both move slowly along the dark alleyway
towards the slightly better lit main road.
Saturday, 1 October 2016
chapter 2 "The Unknowns" by RJ Dodd.
Chapter
two.
Present
day.. 85 Albert Embankment.. MI6 Headquarters. Vauxhall. London.
Completely ignoring the gusting rain that
sweep along the nearby River Thames, a man walks rapidly through the imposing
front doors of the Secret Service building and out through the security
barriers on Albert Embankment..hardly believing his good fortune a taxi is
dropping off some passengers just as he reaches the pavement, he jumps into the
now vacant cab and tells the driver “Coopers Arms please, Flood Street, Chelsea.”
Despite the almost continuous downpour, the Friday night
crowd of City workers, bankers and
traders begin to arrive in droves for their
weekly “Fizzy Glug” at The Coopers Arms pub. It takes only a few minutes
for the ‘local’ area pub to go from being occupied by a gaggle of old regulars
nursing their tepid pints of beer to being
standing room only as the young and wealthy crowd begin to slake their
thirst, downing copious amounts of alcoholic beverages.
The Friday night extra bar staff are busy supplying the demand, the
popping of corks and the ringing of the
till is almost continuous.
This popular pub, just off the busy Kings
Road in fashionable Chelsea has recently seen an upturn in its fortunes, going
from a sleepy backwater boozer it suddenly became the drinking hole of choice
for the many young, well educated and seemingly wealthy clientele who have
moved in from the slightly less salubrious area of Fulham and Battersea as the
City of London started to boom and salaries plus bonuses began to rise
accordingly.
At the big square bar the crowd is now
approaching several customers deep, all trying to attract the attention of the
busy bar staff, no one wants to sit down at the many battered old tables in the
spacious sitting area… except for the man who occupies one that is crammed into
a corner as far from the bar as possible.
One more occupant shares this secluded
corner of the pub, it is a full size
stuffed brown bear, its once thick shaggy fur is now well worn with bald
patches. Standing on its rear legs like some guardian of the quiet places. The
man sits almost side on to the bar and removes
some sheets of paper from his brief case. He has a quick glance to make sure no
one at the bar can see the papers as he begins to leaf through them. The first
document is in letter form and is headed ..
Instructions Regarding Immediate and indefinite
Leave of Absence…Terms and Conditions.
The one
sheet memo is quickly scanned, folded in half and placed back in the brief
case. Two more sheets, stapled together at the top left corner are also given a
quick glance. Several of the lines at the top have been blacked out, obscuring
the names of the subjects, below the redacted names is the heading..
DNA samples and comparisons for subjects named
above. Strictly confidential.
The man
takes his time with these sheets and looks carefully at the detailed DNA
samples which are in graph form. After a minute or so of close scrutiny these
sheets are also folded in half and placed in the case.
Taking the
last item from the table the man has a
little smile, the envelope is sealed with a hand written message scrawled
across the front.
For the sole attention of CIO Patrick Quinn.
Underneath
that message and in the same scrawled writing it says..
Delivered sealed and by hand via the USA Embassy London.
Putting a
finger into the flap of the envelope the man rips it open and takes out a small
card which is once again in the same handwriting ..
Bendigo.. Oregon..Confirmed. Call me when in
situ..B..x
Putting down his half full glass of beer, Patrick
Quinn picks up one sheet of paper, studies it closely and then does the same
with the other one.
Patrick
is in his late thirties, over six feet tall and handsome in a certain Irish way
with a finely shaped nose, broad forehead topped off with a thick curly head of
slightly unruly hair and bright blue
eyes that even in this dimly lit part of the pub seem to have a sparkle to them.
Leaning back in his rickety old chair,
which matches the table, both bought from a junk shop sale by a long since departed
publican, he slides the envelope into
the brief case which he carefully fastens. Slowly turning to look at the
boisterous crowd, which he seems to be noticing for the first time, he smiles,
picks up the glass of Youngs Beer and drains it. Standing up, he puts on his
rather old fashioned raincoat, pulls out an Irish tweed woollen hat from the coat pocket which he jams on his head
and picking up his briefcase he carefully skirts the drinkers and pushes his
way out of the crowded pub where he
takes a right turn to head along the rain swept St Leonards Terrace.
Friday, 30 September 2016
1ST CHAPTER OF "THE UNKNOWNS"
Unknown.. Book (Working Title.. Draft 2)_
Chapter one.
Five years
ago.
A Sunday
morning in a small Northern Ireland town.
A light breeze is blowing some discarded fast
food wrappers along the pavements on the main street which is deserted, no traffic,
no pedestrians. The churches are full and the public houses are not yet open
but it is still unusual for there to be absolutely no one walking the streets
of this usually busy little town.
During the so called “Troubles” in this part
of Ireland it was usually taken as a warning that something untoward is about
to take place and the word has gone out.
The deserted street is being scanned through a
pair of high powered binoculars from a long distance away and a slightly
elevated viewpoint…they continually move across the area.
A man
with a broad Irish accent says brusquely “They’re here …get ready.”
The
binoculars settle on a Garda Police car and a white transit van as they move into the area. Moving
rapidly down the road they then swiftly move over to pull up in front of a grey
granite faced building. The sign above the heavy oak doors which are at the top
of a flight of five stone steps states this place to be a Garda/Police Station.
At
the side of the Police Station is a narrow alley way and walking down to the
main street is a woman in her thirties and a girl aged about eight. The little
girl has a bright green envelope in her hand which she happily waves about as
she skips alongside her mother who holds
her other hand.
The
large wooden doors to the Police Station swing open and two men wave for the
drivers in the car and van to come inside. The car doors
swing open and two men dressed in civilian clothes get out and they slide open
the side door of the van. Three more men
get out, The man in the middle has a grey blanket over his head.
Four
men from the car form a small defensive ring around the captive as they begin to cross the wide flagged
pavement to the stone stairs.
As
they exit the alley way and the little girl spots the post box at the edge of
the pavement, she lets go of her mothers hand and runs to it. When she reaches
the post box she turns to her mother, waves the green envelope then stands on
her tip toes as she stretches up to reach the slot.
The Irishman’s voice “Stand by…on my
word…wait until they get to the door, get all the bastards at one go”.
The Police are now moving up the stairs,
the little girl is still hanging on to the envelope and grinning at her mother
who is urging her to drop the letter into the box. Both of them are unaware of
the drama being carried out on the steps behind them.
Another mans voice “We can’t do it Vinny,
the woman and the kid.”
“Now ..do it now.”
“No way..not kids.”
“Fuck em..give it to me.” Inside the small dimly lit rear bedroom in a
terrace house looking over the main street a mans hand grabs a detonator and presses
the red button on the top.
“Fucking now.”
On the steps of the Police Station the
police have almost reached the door with their reluctant guest and the little
girl finally lets go of the green envelope when the small green delivery van
which is parked on the opposite side of the street to the station erupts in a
ball of high explosive from the two Claymore bombs which also ignite several
canisters of petrol.
An enormous blast and fireball envelops the
police and the mother and child.
The man looking through the binoculars
waits for the smoke to settle and disperse, then , happy with what he sees “Got
the fuckers, all of em, that traitorous bastard will be giving nowt away, now
lets get out of here.”
The multiple killing takes less than five
seconds.
Sunday, 24 April 2016
BOOTS..AN ODE..
Yesterday
morning, Mary Lou, who runs ReelshowInt, and I went for a long walk .
From the small village in Northern Italy where we presently live, we
made our way through some vineyards and began to climb up the hill
through a large olive grove.We watched some hunters with dogs shooting
hares and looking for truffles amongst the olive trees.Eventually we arrived at the top of the steep hill and began our descent, down a different path. It was very gravelly and walking was a little tricky. I slid a couple of times on the loose gravel and Lou suggested I buy a new pair of boots as the grip on my old ones was not doing its job. The grip is fine..it was just a little tricky underfoot and getting rid of these boots would be like putting my granny in the waste bin..here is why..
In the Summer of 1968 I was sharing a holiday chalet, my former wife and young daughter, with another young couple and child.
The position was idyllic, perched on a steep cherry tree filled hillside in Switzerland overlooking Lake Lausanne.
We had been in the place for about ten days and were preparing for the drive back to the UK when we got a phone call, at least the other man did, he was a freelance cameraman as was I.
The call was from a Producer with a well known TV company in England ,and he asked us to go to Grindlewald in Switzerland to meet up with a group of climbers who were going to attempt a summer ascent of the North Face of the Eiger.
The climbers were driving out from England and had a van full of camera equipment, they needed to know how to use it.
We both said we would meet them and off we went…families as well..it was going to be a paid for extension of our holiday.
After meeting the climbers and going over the equipment with them we were then asked to film the ascent from the edges of the massive granite face (5-6,000 ft) of the most feared and awesome mountain in Europe.
I had gone on a holiday in a chalet..now I needed some boots that would do the job.
Needless to say that there are lots of boots to choose from in Grindlewald and after mulling over styles, fit, colour, grip, comfort I eventually settled on a pair.
SCARPA Asolo (TV)… ..That is the name stamped on the side of the boots.
They have since travelled the world with me. Apart from trudging over/through peat bogs, marshes, some canny rock climbs in my native Cumbrian fells. The Peak District and crags in Scotland and Wales they are still going strong, after 43 years.
They were packed for every trip I have ever made over-seas and have been in swamps, jungles, deserts, beaches, war zones and one or two posh hotels.
They have never worn, are still comfortable and have the original laces.
Not a bad buy for about six pounds.
Recently I was filming a drama on some sea cliffs down in Cornwall. As I dangled over the sea on a rope, one of the climbing rope wranglers noticed the boots. He was amazed. He had been in the Scarpa Boot company in Switzerland as a boy and helped to design this very same model.
Small world… and as I said to Lou, these boots go in the bin when I do and by the look of them that might be some reasonable time in the future..I hope..
feeding a film crew
A quick zip around the globe and it brings us to Hong Kong.
I love Chinese food.
And HK is the MECCA.
I was there filming a TV movie in the “Cracker” series for UK TV.
The crew was a mixture of locals and some that were flown in from the UK.
The entire grip crew were Chinese and they were brilliant..every one of them.
At the end of the shoot the grip crew invited the Camera crew out for a meal..their choice of venue.. and menu..
The camera crew consisted of myself, the operator Mike Miller, the follow focus..Richard Brierley, the camera assistant /Loader..Mandy..she has since married and I don’t know her married name.
Mandy is a Lancastrian and lives in a beautifully restored barn on the heights overlooking Manchester. She likes to eat….anything..
Richard is from Manchester, lives in London and thinks eating is something to do with the mouth between pouring ale down it..
Mike is built like a bean pole..eats like a horse but always looks as though he has just spent ten years in solitary in the Gulag..no meat on this fella at all.
The arrangement was that we should all meet up at the Peninsula Hotel in Kowloon and the grip team would take us from there..
Kowloon is an old city and is full of dark and mysterious alleyways..places where most folk would not venture on their own..but here we were..diving deeper and deeper into smaller, darker, narrower alleys, getting some strange looks from the locals.
Eventually we stopped at the venue.
It looked OK..full of locals..which is always a good sign’
We were welcomed, seated and the booze began to flow..we ordered from the extensive menu..taking tips from our hosts.
The food was delicious.
And it kept on coming..and coming..Chinese can eat their weight in food it seems.
And all of it was demolished.
One feature if the presentation was that at the end of each large platter of food, the head of the main meat or fish component in the dish was displayed on a small flattened part of the plate..a little off putting at first..to see the head of the chicken, fish, animal, peering at you as you consumed its body, but that seems to be the human way..we quickly got used to it…until..
One dish arrived ..and as it was placed on the table the Chinese crew started muttering among themselves..there was no head..What was it?.
The centre piece was completely unrecognizable to any one at the table, even the waiter had no idea what the creature was..
It sat in the middle of the dish..in isolated splendour..It was the size of a small football..it was entirely dark grey in colour and had some short stubby tentacles sticking out..it was seriously off putting and no one made a move to eat it.
Except Mike..
After waiting for what he obviously deemed to be a respectful period of waiting..for our hosts to begin..about one nanosecond..he stabbed the beast/alien with his fork and began chewing at it.
He ate it all…it took about twenty minutes..we all watched with open mouths as this creature was slowly devoured..no one said anything until Mike had finished.
He picked up his napkin..wiped his mouth..noticed we were all watching him and said “Nice..what was it?”
To this day none of us know..or even want to
One other feature of that shoot was the lunch time catering…great food..lots of it..but nowhere to sit..after six weeks shooting we all became experts at standing up with a plate in one hand and a fork in the other..takes a little time to get used to it but you soon learn what to put on your plate that allows one hand eating..
And now with the flick of the magic wand we are miraculously transported to the desert town of Wittenoom in Western Australia..
Dateline 1970..
We had been filming in the area , making a documentary on the man who found a mountain of Iron Ore..and a vast fortune..Lang Hancock.
Wittenoom was a desert town and had been built around a huge deposit of asbestos..There was at that time a massive demand for this material..until it was discovered that nearly all of the work force were suffering from some form of chest disease through inhaling the fibres.
Asbestosis reared its ugly head and Wittenoom died. .it is rumoured that quite a number of the inhabitants died too..
Anyway here it is..a deserted ghost town..lots of empty properties, proper paved roads, traffic lights, boarded up shops. Not the sort of place one would choose to have a country estate..But Lang was an old time prospector and he was used to being out there in the wilderness, he invited us to join him one weekend, for a barbecue..
Australians enjoy one of the best diets in the world, like Americans, they serve up huge portions and so it was at Lang’s place..
No burgers at this barby..we had a full grown animal on a massive spit roast.
And lots to drink.
We all arranged ourselves around the rather sparse garden and watched the meat being slowly roasted..it smelt great and we were hungry..
We were not the only ones attracted by the meal..
We all became aware of a noise coming from the unlit bush..lots of unlit bush..several thousand square miles of it..It was a sort of booming noise..we heard it every half minute or so and it was getting closer.
Some of Lang’s staff had rifles and they kept them close, casting wary eyes on the darkness.
Turns out it was a massive Python. Often seen in the area of the farm where it had taken some livestock on previous occasions…attracted by the sounds and smell it had decided to pop in for a snack..anything for a snack..it could have been one of us…
A few rounds of buckshot seemed to scare it away but nobody used the toilet facilities which were down a path away from the light
We huddled closer together and moved nearer to the large roasting pit.Then I noticed we were roasting something more than just a lamb or a calf.
Out of the dark night there were hundreds of winged critters screaming through the air to crash land on the slowly turning meat..they must have been hungry because they were instantly incinerated by the flames..and they stayed there..
The spit roast was slowly becoming encased in nighttime critters which were forming a crust. And some of them were about six inches long..
I lost my appetite rather quickly but it was no barrier to the farmhands/estate workers ..they sliced off huge slivers of the animal and wolfed them down..along with the newly arrived casing.
A word of warning..If you are ever in the vicinity of my operator,Mike, from the first tale..dont get too close..he might be hungry..
I love Chinese food.
And HK is the MECCA.
I was there filming a TV movie in the “Cracker” series for UK TV.
The crew was a mixture of locals and some that were flown in from the UK.
The entire grip crew were Chinese and they were brilliant..every one of them.
At the end of the shoot the grip crew invited the Camera crew out for a meal..their choice of venue.. and menu..
The camera crew consisted of myself, the operator Mike Miller, the follow focus..Richard Brierley, the camera assistant /Loader..Mandy..she has since married and I don’t know her married name.
Mandy is a Lancastrian and lives in a beautifully restored barn on the heights overlooking Manchester. She likes to eat….anything..
Richard is from Manchester, lives in London and thinks eating is something to do with the mouth between pouring ale down it..
Mike is built like a bean pole..eats like a horse but always looks as though he has just spent ten years in solitary in the Gulag..no meat on this fella at all.
The arrangement was that we should all meet up at the Peninsula Hotel in Kowloon and the grip team would take us from there..
Kowloon is an old city and is full of dark and mysterious alleyways..places where most folk would not venture on their own..but here we were..diving deeper and deeper into smaller, darker, narrower alleys, getting some strange looks from the locals.
Eventually we stopped at the venue.
It looked OK..full of locals..which is always a good sign’
We were welcomed, seated and the booze began to flow..we ordered from the extensive menu..taking tips from our hosts.
The food was delicious.
And it kept on coming..and coming..Chinese can eat their weight in food it seems.
And all of it was demolished.
One feature if the presentation was that at the end of each large platter of food, the head of the main meat or fish component in the dish was displayed on a small flattened part of the plate..a little off putting at first..to see the head of the chicken, fish, animal, peering at you as you consumed its body, but that seems to be the human way..we quickly got used to it…until..
One dish arrived ..and as it was placed on the table the Chinese crew started muttering among themselves..there was no head..What was it?.
The centre piece was completely unrecognizable to any one at the table, even the waiter had no idea what the creature was..
It sat in the middle of the dish..in isolated splendour..It was the size of a small football..it was entirely dark grey in colour and had some short stubby tentacles sticking out..it was seriously off putting and no one made a move to eat it.
Except Mike..
After waiting for what he obviously deemed to be a respectful period of waiting..for our hosts to begin..about one nanosecond..he stabbed the beast/alien with his fork and began chewing at it.
He ate it all…it took about twenty minutes..we all watched with open mouths as this creature was slowly devoured..no one said anything until Mike had finished.
He picked up his napkin..wiped his mouth..noticed we were all watching him and said “Nice..what was it?”
To this day none of us know..or even want to
One other feature of that shoot was the lunch time catering…great food..lots of it..but nowhere to sit..after six weeks shooting we all became experts at standing up with a plate in one hand and a fork in the other..takes a little time to get used to it but you soon learn what to put on your plate that allows one hand eating..
And now with the flick of the magic wand we are miraculously transported to the desert town of Wittenoom in Western Australia..
Dateline 1970..
We had been filming in the area , making a documentary on the man who found a mountain of Iron Ore..and a vast fortune..Lang Hancock.
Wittenoom was a desert town and had been built around a huge deposit of asbestos..There was at that time a massive demand for this material..until it was discovered that nearly all of the work force were suffering from some form of chest disease through inhaling the fibres.
Asbestosis reared its ugly head and Wittenoom died. .it is rumoured that quite a number of the inhabitants died too..
Anyway here it is..a deserted ghost town..lots of empty properties, proper paved roads, traffic lights, boarded up shops. Not the sort of place one would choose to have a country estate..But Lang was an old time prospector and he was used to being out there in the wilderness, he invited us to join him one weekend, for a barbecue..
Australians enjoy one of the best diets in the world, like Americans, they serve up huge portions and so it was at Lang’s place..
No burgers at this barby..we had a full grown animal on a massive spit roast.
And lots to drink.
We all arranged ourselves around the rather sparse garden and watched the meat being slowly roasted..it smelt great and we were hungry..
We were not the only ones attracted by the meal..
We all became aware of a noise coming from the unlit bush..lots of unlit bush..several thousand square miles of it..It was a sort of booming noise..we heard it every half minute or so and it was getting closer.
Some of Lang’s staff had rifles and they kept them close, casting wary eyes on the darkness.
Turns out it was a massive Python. Often seen in the area of the farm where it had taken some livestock on previous occasions…attracted by the sounds and smell it had decided to pop in for a snack..anything for a snack..it could have been one of us…
A few rounds of buckshot seemed to scare it away but nobody used the toilet facilities which were down a path away from the light
We huddled closer together and moved nearer to the large roasting pit.Then I noticed we were roasting something more than just a lamb or a calf.
Out of the dark night there were hundreds of winged critters screaming through the air to crash land on the slowly turning meat..they must have been hungry because they were instantly incinerated by the flames..and they stayed there..
The spit roast was slowly becoming encased in nighttime critters which were forming a crust. And some of them were about six inches long..
I lost my appetite rather quickly but it was no barrier to the farmhands/estate workers ..they sliced off huge slivers of the animal and wolfed them down..along with the newly arrived casing.
A word of warning..If you are ever in the vicinity of my operator,Mike, from the first tale..dont get too close..he might be hungry..
Feeding the Royal Family
You may wonder why I have raised this point in an article on a Film Makers site.
I have filmed the British Royal Family on many occasions.. one never gets really close, mainly for security reasons.
I have filmed various members of the family at functions and have been allowed to follow them into state banquets and other dining functions, but I have never been allowed to film them eating.
The Security , Special Branch Officers , always give you the order of the boot, as in “Get Out”
Why?
Do members of the most elite family in the UK have eating disorders.
Were they not taught basic table manners?
Were they never taught how to handle cutlery?
Do they eat with their fingers, or push their faces into the food and slurp it up?
Have you ever seen any member of this family eating, on newsreels or any other media outlet.
They must be the most photographed family group in the world and yet no-one has ever seen food pass into their mouths.
There may be some old Hollywood version of someone like Henry VIII chomping on a chicken leg or a leg of lamb, before throwing the remnants over his shoulder for the peasants or hounds to leap upon, but none of the modern royals ever do that.
In the “Kings Speech” I cannot recall one eating scene.
No wonder the newest arrival is bone thin…they never eat.
Are they aliens, as some prominent conspiracy theorists would have you believe or are they just a little sloppy at the table.
We may never know.
A fortune in royalties (Pardon the pun) awaits the first news man/woman to grab a few seconds of the royal chomp…keep your eyes open out there.
I have filmed the British Royal Family on many occasions.. one never gets really close, mainly for security reasons.
I have filmed various members of the family at functions and have been allowed to follow them into state banquets and other dining functions, but I have never been allowed to film them eating.
The Security , Special Branch Officers , always give you the order of the boot, as in “Get Out”
Why?
Do members of the most elite family in the UK have eating disorders.
Were they not taught basic table manners?
Were they never taught how to handle cutlery?
Do they eat with their fingers, or push their faces into the food and slurp it up?
Have you ever seen any member of this family eating, on newsreels or any other media outlet.
They must be the most photographed family group in the world and yet no-one has ever seen food pass into their mouths.
There may be some old Hollywood version of someone like Henry VIII chomping on a chicken leg or a leg of lamb, before throwing the remnants over his shoulder for the peasants or hounds to leap upon, but none of the modern royals ever do that.
In the “Kings Speech” I cannot recall one eating scene.
No wonder the newest arrival is bone thin…they never eat.
Are they aliens, as some prominent conspiracy theorists would have you believe or are they just a little sloppy at the table.
We may never know.
A fortune in royalties (Pardon the pun) awaits the first news man/woman to grab a few seconds of the royal chomp…keep your eyes open out there.
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