I’ve grown frustrated with the lack of progress on this project. I need to make it happen. I was on the bus back from Muswell Hill as ideas swirled around my noggin – visions of VAT returns, and Welsh quarries, and a Scooby Gang. What does it all mean? I’d rather not say yet.
But I have decided to do a number of things that have been at the back of my mind for about two years, but which I had always ruled out. One of these things was advertising for a producer. If the applicants don’t all absquatulate after reading the script – after all, everything in the entire world is destroyed on page three – I’ll eat my hat, and my daft spiky hair with it. However, I wouldn’t want my epitaph to read, “He couldn’t be arsed,” would I?
Another one of those hitherto forbidden activities (because it would mean I was – I am…. producing, horror of horrors) was the generation of a budget. It’s not finished yet, but in order to draft a budget, I needed to work out how many days to shoot. 55. Which, by a remarkable coincidence, is how old I will be when enough money has been raised to begin shooting.
More soon.