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A Scott by any other name

I was christened Scott Keegan Andrews. My middle name was chosen with care. It means ‘son of the little poet’ apparently, and since my dad’s a songwriter he deemed it appropriate. I think it’s kind of neat. However, the Keegan was a bone of some contention at school, as everyone who discovered it henceforth called me Kevin. This annoyed me*, so I kept it quiet. Unfortunately, as the whole world has piled online I’ve found that Scott Andrewses are ten-a-penny. My issues with my email address – which receives at least one misdirected missive for another Scott Andrews a week – alerted me to this problem. By the time I decided to unify my online identity, I simply couldn’t be Scott Andrews – they were all taken. So my Twitter, blog, Facebook, Goodreads, Soundcloud and even my LinkedIn presences now all proclaim me Scott K. Andrews. And in the interests of making me findable that is, as of today, my official pen name, kind of like Philip K. Dick or Iain M. Banks**. The new regime will begin imminently, with a short story coming out next month (yet to be announced – stay tuned!) Following that, everything I publish will have added K. I will even use my super powers to rewrite the past – the omnibus edition of my Abaddon trilogy will have the K, whereas the originals didn’t. So there you have it. Scott Andrews is dead, long live Scott (K.) Andrews! * Understatement. ** But not...

Matt Helm: tied hand and foot

I picked this book up at the railway station lending library this morning and it fell open at the following, deathless excerpt. “Don’t rush me, darling,” she said. “You’re a dreadful cold-blooded, ruthless person, but I had to find you tonight. Do you understand? You’re the only person I’d care to be with tonight, whatever happens.” “Sure,” I said. “I don’t think much of you, either, glamor girl. You’re unreliable and treacherous and arrogant and selfish. If you happen to think a man’s done you a bad turn, you can’t even be trusted tied hand and foot. You’re mean and vengeful, and the only reason I love you is that I can’t hurt you, and even if I do you’ve had it coming for years. Besides, I know you’ll always get back at me somehow.” She was smiling happily at the end of this recital. “But you do love me, don’t you?” “Hell,” I said. “You know I do.” I want a blu-ray box set of Dean Martin’s Matt Helm movies right now. SORT IT OUT,...

State of play – 16 August 2011

New and imminent Bad Haven talk to me about stuff, including my involvement with the film of School’s Out. Mass Movement Magazine review Highlander: The Four Horsemen “Moran and Andrews have taken show favourites and crafted incredible tales that carry the legacy of the show to new realms.” I have a long memoir in the second issue of the amazing Vworp Vworp. It’s all about growing up as a reader of Doctor Who Weekly / Monthly / Magazine and it’s illustrated by the brilliant Leighton Noyes (who was sweet enough to send me his original illustrations to adorn the walls of my new house). I must admit to being quite awfully pleased with the piece in question (Hubris? Moi?) and I urge you to pre-order issue two right now. In progress Finessing the dialogue, mission briefs and cut scenes for this: Writing up my notes on the first draft of the screenplay based on School’s Out Trying to come up with a good short story for an anthology that asked me contribute – two weeks left and I have an inkling of a piece, but am wrestling with whether it’s too dark for me to put out there, or whether I can even pull it off… Pitching an audio drama for my fave franchise – my first pitch was rejected, but the door’s still open (I think/hope/pray) Plus, you know, buying my first house, working 9-5, raising two kids, all that jazz. All of which may explain why I’m so puffed out that the new novel remains stalled at 20,000 words – for now. Fret not, it will get done. Next...

For Smurf’s sake, don’t rock the boat!

There are certain tropes that those of us of a certain age (cough…40ish…cough) were conditioned to expect in comedies and children’s films. The evil boss who gets their comeuppance at the end of the film, when the downbeaten hero realises they don’t have to put up with it and can Follow Their Dream instead, is perhaps the most familiar. You know the schtick, I don’t have to quote examples, and we’ve all seen it a hundred times or more. A little bit Disney, a little bit Kesey, it’s counterculture schmaltz, cathartic and gloopy, uplifting and syrupy and goshdarnit, we love its obvious feel good nonsensicality. So imagine my surprise upon encountering The Smurfs. For this film delivers an entirely different moral. In the film, which is essentially Enchanted with little blue people, our real-world male lead is Neil Patrick Gorgeous who, along with his wife, possum-eyed OCD-Glee queen Jayma Mays, forms one half of a critical mass of human cute. Neil Patrick portrays, um, Patrick the archetypal under-appreciated, over-worked, harried, hemmed-in, white collar wage slave. As the film opens he is promoted to Head of Marketing for a perfume company. This is because his predecessor has just been summarily fired by their boss, Odile, for giving her ‘what I want, not what I need!’ Odile is the odious, power dressed, psychopathic, vain, hateful, mega-spoilt superbitch we all love to hate. She could have stepped straight out of Horrible Bosses. She’s Cruella de Ville in Gucci. This perfumed plutocrat rules her company through fear, makes people dance to her whim, hires and fires with nary a thought for the consequences....