| Time | September 2 · 7:30pm - 11:00pm |
|---|---|
| Location | The Waldorf, 12 Gore Street, M1 3AQ Manchester, United Kingdom |
| Created By | Bad Language |
| More Info | Can you remember what the opening line of Oliver Twist is? Would you recognise your favourite book from the cover alone? Do you know what George Orwell called himself when he went undercover? Then come along to The Literature Pub Quiz to see if you really know. Be there and be square. Plus amazing special guest peformances from Max Wallis and David Gaffney! ...£2 per person. Maximum team size 6 people. For more information contact: events@badlanguagemcr.co.uk Or 07850029658 |
Wednesday, 4 August 2010
The Literature Pub Quiz
Sunday, 18 July 2010
Bad Language Submissions!
Bad Language are opened up their submissions for their second anthology!
This time around we thought we'd do something a little different. Instead of an overall theme for everyone to write to, we want you to send us a piece of work that you feel incredibly proud of. Whether that's a story you wrote years ago, or something new that you want everyone to read, it's up to you!
The guidelines are as follows:
Short Stories
Short stories to be no longer than 2000 words.
Only one short story per person.
Stories to have not been published elsewhere.
Poetry
Poetry to be no longer than 40 lines.
Maximum of 3 poems submitted per person.
Poetry not to have been published elsewhere.
Other
We will also be accepting comic fiction (as a PDF, maximum ten pages of story).
Submissions should be sent to submissions@badlanguagemcr.co.uk by the end of the closing date.
The deadline for submissions is September 6th, so you've got a whole month to send us your best work! Good luck everyone!
Dan
This time around we thought we'd do something a little different. Instead of an overall theme for everyone to write to, we want you to send us a piece of work that you feel incredibly proud of. Whether that's a story you wrote years ago, or something new that you want everyone to read, it's up to you!
The guidelines are as follows:
Short Stories
Short stories to be no longer than 2000 words.
Only one short story per person.
Stories to have not been published elsewhere.
Poetry
Poetry to be no longer than 40 lines.
Maximum of 3 poems submitted per person.
Poetry not to have been published elsewhere.
Other
We will also be accepting comic fiction (as a PDF, maximum ten pages of story).
Submissions should be sent to submissions@badlanguagemcr.co.uk by the end of the closing date.
The deadline for submissions is September 6th, so you've got a whole month to send us your best work! Good luck everyone!
Dan
Wednesday, 14 July 2010
Books, Books, Books for sale!
If you haven't already bought your copy of the first ever Bad Language book, titled 'I Know Where the City Has Wings', then now is your chance.
Thanks to the wonderful support we have received from people around Manchester, you can now buy 'I Know Where the City Has Wings' from the Nexus Art Cafe AND the Corner House in the centre of Manchester. Imagine that, your very own copy?! And only for a piddly four pounds!
But hurry quick as we're selling out fast and there are only a limited number of copies left.
Ta Ta for now!
Thanks to the wonderful support we have received from people around Manchester, you can now buy 'I Know Where the City Has Wings' from the Nexus Art Cafe AND the Corner House in the centre of Manchester. Imagine that, your very own copy?! And only for a piddly four pounds!
But hurry quick as we're selling out fast and there are only a limited number of copies left.
Ta Ta for now!
Tuesday, 29 June 2010
Cracking The Flags
Another piece of World Cup fiction here, this one by Sarah Clare-Conlon, I'll let her give you the introduction:
"I was in the Howgills in Cumbria, watched the match in a pub then went
hiking across fields in the blazing sun past marshy bogs and thought about
how some might take drowning their sorrows to extremes. I tried to use
the repetition of words, sounds and ideas, along with the repetition of the
last line and the decreasing 11-9-7 rhythm of each verse, to convey a sense
of depressing inevitability and pointlessness, especially following the
initial hopeful flag-waving antics the nation puts itself through. Anyway,
see what you think..."
Cracking the flags, by Sarah-Clare Conlon
The crackle of England flags in the stiff wind
The stiff drink drowning England's sorrows
on a cracking-the-flags day.
A damp squib, a squabble, a sticky quagmire.
A drowning in the depths of despair
on a cracking-the-flags day.
"I was in the Howgills in Cumbria, watched the match in a pub then went
hiking across fields in the blazing sun past marshy bogs and thought about
how some might take drowning their sorrows to extremes. I tried to use
the repetition of words, sounds and ideas, along with the repetition of the
last line and the decreasing 11-9-7 rhythm of each verse, to convey a sense
of depressing inevitability and pointlessness, especially following the
initial hopeful flag-waving antics the nation puts itself through. Anyway,
see what you think..."
Cracking the flags, by Sarah-Clare Conlon
The crackle of England flags in the stiff wind
The stiff drink drowning England's sorrows
on a cracking-the-flags day.
A damp squib, a squabble, a sticky quagmire.
A drowning in the depths of despair
on a cracking-the-flags day.
Saturday, 26 June 2010
Tricolore
Another piece of World Cup Fiction. This takes place only 12 years ago. Oh, France, how you have fallen...
It was longer originally but I couldn't find a way to end the longer piece so I cut it.
Tricolore
Mother died in France in the summer of 1998. 9 July. Before France were crowned victors and the country erupted. We had gone to France as a compromise – she wanted a holiday in Europe and me and my father wanted to be wherever the Word Cup Final was. My mother will never know that we were part of history – the first French World Cup win. That was when it became apparent, I knew the outcome, the rush of celebration that swept through a country, the drunks down the Champs Elyse, when she did not. It angered me – how could she not know? How could she hide herself from this knowledge? Once every four years life was pushed forward and history was made and she was ignorant to this knowledge. Even with her limited interest in football she would find herself gripped by the stage and the players and this year, when she was right in the centre of it all, right in the centre – for a brief moment – of the universe, she gave it all up. The intoxication by spirit, by beauty, by dancing, the tricolore draped across Paris and she was nowhere to be seen. She had written herself into a private World Cup history shared between me and my father where every four years the week before the final would be the memory of her body, still, motionless, unknowing.
She created that history, that story and shared moment yet is unaware of any of it. She will remain unaware of every victor from here. Of Italy, of South Korea, of Robbie Keane in the 90th minute, of ecstasy. She knows nothing.
It was longer originally but I couldn't find a way to end the longer piece so I cut it.
Tricolore
Mother died in France in the summer of 1998. 9 July. Before France were crowned victors and the country erupted. We had gone to France as a compromise – she wanted a holiday in Europe and me and my father wanted to be wherever the Word Cup Final was. My mother will never know that we were part of history – the first French World Cup win. That was when it became apparent, I knew the outcome, the rush of celebration that swept through a country, the drunks down the Champs Elyse, when she did not. It angered me – how could she not know? How could she hide herself from this knowledge? Once every four years life was pushed forward and history was made and she was ignorant to this knowledge. Even with her limited interest in football she would find herself gripped by the stage and the players and this year, when she was right in the centre of it all, right in the centre – for a brief moment – of the universe, she gave it all up. The intoxication by spirit, by beauty, by dancing, the tricolore draped across Paris and she was nowhere to be seen. She had written herself into a private World Cup history shared between me and my father where every four years the week before the final would be the memory of her body, still, motionless, unknowing.
She created that history, that story and shared moment yet is unaware of any of it. She will remain unaware of every victor from here. Of Italy, of South Korea, of Robbie Keane in the 90th minute, of ecstasy. She knows nothing.
Wednesday, 23 June 2010
World Cup Haiku
Here's a very small world cup inspired piece taken from my experience of watching the Mexico VS France game on a big screen in the middle of Prague.
Beer drips down my face
Your arms in ecstacy
As the final whistle blows
Keep writing your football stories/poems/world cup inspired pieces and be sure to send them to: submissions@badlanguagemcr.co.uk for the chance to see it published on the blog!
Beer drips down my face
Your arms in ecstacy
As the final whistle blows
Keep writing your football stories/poems/world cup inspired pieces and be sure to send them to: submissions@badlanguagemcr.co.uk for the chance to see it published on the blog!
Sunday, 6 June 2010
Fan
Incredibly short one this time round, based on the news story that North Korea has hired Chinese people to act as fans for their matches.
It's called Fan.
Fan
It's called Fan.
Fan
They hand me a flag and a shirt and a ticket.
They tell me to cheer like mad.
But not too much.
Not enough to cause a fuss.
I tell them not to worry, I’m a professional.
I was on this soap once, I tell them, and I was pretty good.
They tell me to hold the shirt up to my chest. It’s too small.
They try and find me a larger one.
Remember, they say, you’ll be out there representing our country.
I can’t say anything negative.
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