Like Santa Clause, only more self-indulgent. Way back in the day, when I was but a stripling and my beard too tiny to see, I did one of those ‘list all the things you want to do in life’. I think we were trying to kill a period of English when the substitute teacher was too hungover to beat another poem to death, one line at a time. Not only did my list included ‘write a book’ – doing OK so far on that one – but it also included ‘be in a movie’, which is a bit more of a stretch. Or it was, until I managed that whole book thing: and this is where the Ego Clause comes in. I live in the North East of Scotland, and the whole film industry thing doesn’t really reach this far. (OK, so Mel Gibson’s Hamlet was shot down the road a bit, but other than that it’s suffering from a serious celluloid drought.) BUT I have writed a book and that means I hold the dramatisation rights. Bwahahahahahahaaaa… Anyone wants to make a movie from my stuff, they have to provide the write-ist with a speaking part.
Now this doesn’t have to be a huge part, not looking for a starring, or even supporting role, and they get to choose which part – but it must have discernable words and it can’t end up on the cutting room floor. Bwahahahahahahaaaa… does mine ego know no bounds?
And there’s NO WAY I’m the only write-ist out there doing this. After all, they always say you have to make your own opportunities, and if you can’t use contractual means and blackmail to fulfil a childhood ambition, what can you do?
Personally I see Mr Rickards as one of those inbred, beered-up truckers in Winter’s End, that Alex Rourke tries to pick a fight with (which should annoy Bryon). From what Sarah says about John, it’d be typecasting gone MAD!