Hollywood: A Third Memoir by Larry McMurtry (Simon & Schuster 2010)

 

HOLLYWOOD—as opposed movies, its principal product—entered my life almost simultaneously with my son, James McMurtry, who arrived in March 1962, at which time I was teaching world literature—all of it, from the Ramayana to Dylan Thomas—at Texas Christian University in Fort Worth, Texas. To the farm and oil patch kids I was teaching, literature—or at least my mandated selection of it—held little appeal. In desperation I began to challenge these reluctant students to Ping-Pong matches, a game at which I was then quite good. If a student won, he or she got an A; if they lost they got a C.

That may seem a little unorthodox, but then five classes is a lot of classes. Between matches I was able to make friends with two writers, John Graves and Dave Hickey, both still alive and both still friends.

Then one day a man from Paramount Studios called, taking me by surprise. He turned out to be a location scout—that night he took me to dinner at what was probably the best restaurant in Fort Worth. Though, by this time, I had lived in both Houston and San Francisco, I knew nothing of fine dining. The man wore a pin-striped suit which bespoke a standard of eloquence far beyond my own. Though the suit was probably just normal Brooks Brothers, I remember it to this day; and I also remember the news he brought me, which was that Paramount had just bought the film rights to my slight first novel, Horseman, Pass By, and planned to film it in the Panhandle of Texas, starting almost immediately, with Paul Newman to star. The sum they planned to pay me, $10,000, meant, to me, farewell forever to the Ramayana and to table tennis as a grading system as well.

Rik Mayall: Magnificent B’Stard (2026)

 

Listening to podcasts about Adrian Mole and a family revelation

Posted late evening June 27th.

Just walked in whilst listening to a podcast about the enduring brilliance of Adrian Mole,  only to meet with the sad realisation that I'm the only member of my immediate family who likes Bolands Raspberry Cremes.

Absolute bloody heathens.

87/50

Fantastic Four

Last time I hit 4 180s in one day was early May of last year.

86/50

Three's a charm

Maybe I should dial down the practice more. I haven't really been playing that much  in the past week - here and there - and I'm suddenly hitting some sort of form again. Funny how that works.

85/50

That Spongebog meme . . .

You know the one . . . 

Actually, can six minutes qualify as "A few moments later"? 

In a darting timeline, probably . . . why not  . . . leave me the fuck alone.

84/50

Half a man

A couple of days ago I got one of those Facebook Memories thingies in my timeline, where I was informed that this time last year I'd just hit my 150th 180 in 2025. Sadly, I can't link to that 180 on the blog 'cos I've yet to post it. (My continuing bad.)

Why the drop off? No idea. I can't really blame the dartitis 'cos I'm sure the dartitis was up and running last year. Have I played less? I can't be certain but, if I was to guess, I'd say that in fact I've played more this year. That leaves me with the conclusion that last year just happened to be an exceptional year, and I've just levelled out again . . . reverting back to where I'm truly at. A bit of a come down but why lie to yourself?

Anyway, I still have plans to adopt a proper practice routine to see if I can improve my game . . . and I just hit my 83rd 180 of 2026. One of those 180s where I didn't necessarily realise that I was aiming for the 180 with my third dart.

 

83/50

P.S.

I'm back on the Dark Thunders.

Blue Moon: Down Among the Dead Men with Manchester City by Mark Hodkinson (Mainstream Publishing 1999)

 

Royle and Donachie are contrary personalities, but they share a cultural background from which much of British football is still forged. Donachie was brought up in the Gorbals district of Glasgow, one of five children living in a house without a bath where several families shared the same outside toilet. Royle lived in inner-city Liverpool, forced to sleep on a camp-bed in his parent’s bedroom because of a shortage of space. Football was their ticket to somewhere better.

Time has not lent enchantment to Donachie’s view of his home city of the ’50s and early ’60s. ‘The shipyards were closing down and it was a hard place to grow up in. There were gangs on the streets and it was a very aggressive environment. If you showed any interest in your school work you were seen as a swot,’ he says. His mother died when he was 12 and he did not get on particularly well with his lorry-driver father. ‘He was a hard Glasgow man who would never show his feelings or emotions. He didn’t really give me much encouragement, except to say I was crap! He gave me one good piece of advice though; he told me to try and find a club in England.

A Hard Day's Night (1964)

 

Hello Beautiful

File under using song titles as post titles. A brilliant comeback song from Dodgy.

If 'Hello Beautiful' isn't in my Spotify Top Ten at the end of the year, then Unwrapped is a crock of bogus shite.

82/50

"It's like talking to a wall with a moustache."

My first 180 for a couple of weeks. My longest drought since mid-January. It doesn't help that I've been throwing the Harrow Graflite darts, which are a chunkier dart and makes it all the harder for the third dart to find a spot in the T20 bed.

Why throw the Harrows, then? In truth I'm having a flat period with the darts at the moment. Maybe because it's the post-season blues, maybe 'cos the NYC hot summers have kicked in. That partially explains why I'm not being as serious with my darts, and why I'm using a dart which I know is not ideal in the long term. 

I promised myself that once the season was over that I'd commit myself to proper training routine to improve my game. Practising doubles . . . practising checkouts . . . the whole shebang. Sadly, I'm not there yet.

81/50

Where to Land (2025)

 

The Play on One: The Party (1988)

 

The Unbelievable Truth (1989)

 

Give Us A Break (1983)

 

My darts are shot

Posted June 15th.

The Shot Zen Ki's continuing to mess with my head. I ended up putting them down . . . resulting in a 180 famine. 

Serves me right.

80/50

Don't leave old darts lying around . . .

Turns out I hit a 180 with Shot Zen Ki's back in 2022. 

Did I ever hit another one before today? I don't have a scooby.

79/50

'Don't do it !!!!

Another day of life messing with my head. Old darts revisited.

Decided to pick up the Shot Zen Ki 26g darts  just for the sake of it. I hadn't thrown them in three or four years. "A few moments later  . . . "

In fact, it was that long since I'd thrown them that I couldn't even remember what brand or weight they were. I had to look them up.

78/50

Sweets Memory

 

Don't forget those bastard Texan bars. They could extract (not so) precious metals from places where they should never have been extracted. IYKYK . . . fuck that, OIKWH.

"They were only nuns."

Posted June 15th.

Catching up. Half-watching the first season of Father Ted.

77/50

'Can someone please explain the reason for this strange behaviour'

Posted 31st May (3.57 am)

Excuse the waffle, just trying to stay awake. That banging Friday Playlist from 2007 has now finished - played it twice - and Spotify being Spotify has decided to kick into a new playlist determined by songs previously played. That explains why Duran Duran's 'Skin Trade' immediately popped up.

I've always loved 'Skin Trade'. This isn't me Monday Morning Quarterbacking. I always thought it was one of their best singles. In fact, I remember at the time being surprised by how good it was. By 1987 they'd been on the creative dip for a few years. I always thought their material from Seven and the Ragged Tiger onwards was decidedly sub-par. Laughable lyrics coupled with ponderous, plodding pop music so beloved from the mid-80s when 'New Pop' had bolted and all that was left was ever increasingly bloated music videos, big hair and post-Live Aid save the world messiah complexes. 

The weird thing is that I have another distinct memory of 'Skin Trade' from 1987 itself. Sitting in the back row of a General Studies lesson at Longdean School, wishing I was somewhere else, and I hear James Adkin (I think that's the spelling of his surname) from the other side of the classroom expressing the opinion that it's a great single. Why would I remember something so passing, and seemingly so inconsequential, from someone I hardly interacted with at the time forty years on? I can only attribute it to the fact that by 1987 Duran Duran were seen as passe, something from yesteryear. They'd had their moment in the sun, and now it was the turn of  . . . who, exactly? I can't actually remember. Had SAW taken over our musical world at that point or was it six months later? Those bastards were definitely on the horizon. In that moment, James Adkin was someone I recognised as a fellow pop kid, someone who could spot a brilliant tune . . . even when it came from the 'wrong place', He definitely went up in my opinion on that day, and that why I think I still remember his pronouncement after all these years.

I should be sleeping.

76/50

When 1 and 2 are the wrong way round.

A bounce out on the bull deprived me of my second ever 12-darter. A possible 12-darter turned into a 21-darter. Woe is me. (Still a 71.6 average, I guess.)

136, 140, 140 . . . and, then, aiming for the T15 I hit a S15, went S20 and then the dart bounced off the wire when I was going for the bull. Fast forward three other rounds before I finally won the leg against the bastard bot.

I'm not even playing that well at the moment. Just once of those brief moments that keeps you enveloped in darts.

Fast One by Paul Cain (Vintage Crime/Black Lizard 1932)

 

Kells walked north on Spring. At Fifth he turned west, walked two blocks, turned into a small cigar store. He nodded to the squat bald man behind the counter and went on through the ground-glass-paneled door into a large and bare back room.

The man sitting at a wide desk stood up, said, “Hello!” heartily, went to another door and opened it,said, “Walk right in.”

Kells went into a very small room, partitioned off from the other by ground-glass-paneled walls. He sat down on a worn davenport against one wall, leaned back, folded his hands over his stomach, and looked at Jack Rose.

Rose sat behind a round green-topped table, his elbows on the table, his long chin propped upon one hand. He was a dark, almost too handsome young man who had started life as Jake Rosencrancz of Brooklyn and Queens. He said, “Did you ever hear the story about the three bears?”

Kells sat regarding Rose gravely and nodded his head slowly up and down.

Rose was smiling. “I thought you'd have heard that one.” He moved the fingers of one hand down to his ear and pulled violently at the lobe. “Now you tell one. Tell me the one about why you've got such a load on Kiosque in the fourth race.”

Kells smiled faintly, dreamily. He said, “You don’t think I'd have an inside that you’d overlooked, do you, Jackie?” He got up stretched extravagantly and walked across the room to inspect a large map of Los Angeles County on the far wall.

The Way It Is

Posted 31st May (3.23 am)

Where's that second wind? My eyes are drooping for christ sake. It's not looking good for early morning laundry  . . . it's not looking good if I don't do early morning laundry. Decisions, decisions  . . . just to avoid the deserved decibels.

Still on an Elvis Costello tip. Listening to this Friday Playlist from 2007 whilst typing this up. A bit obvious in places but enough left-field tracks (including a Costello album track) to suggest that I still had my music mojo in the 2000s. 

Nicole Atkins should be at the Las Vegas residency level this point, folks. What the hell happened . . . or, rather, didn't happen? And check out that Duran Duran track on the playlist. A banger that I've not listened to in years. They were always good for the deep cuts.

75/50

The Invisible Fan

Posted 31st May (3.11 am)

Trying to stay awake through the night so I can do the laundry super-early. (It's a NYC thing.) Decided to try and rush through a backlog of old(ish) 180s. Reading up on Elvis Costello and his falling out with the Attraction, Bruce Thomas. Maybe I should read Bruce Thomas's autobiography? Maybe I should just read  . . . period.

Realising I don't listen to as much Costello as I should. Maybe it's the voice. Saturation can be too much, but I always return to him 'cos he is such a brilliant songwriter. The above 'The Invisible Fan' is a play on 'The Invisible Man' from the Punch The Clock album. One of his early albums which don't get that much love. Probably seen as too poppy, too mainstream. I like it.

74/50

Addendum.

I should have mentioned that the 180 is a Brooklyn Bar 180 from a practice session before the final league match of the season. All round it was a bit of a nightmare, though it hasn't hit home yet as such. We lost 14-13 on the night. Going into the final of the cricket singles match of the night, it was 13-13 against our fellow bar mates (a proper Darts derby), and I lost to AB. No excuses at my end. I had the upper hand for most of the match and AB clawed it back brilliantly on the bullseyes (in local parlance, "the corks"). The victory would have been nice. We've been a bastard losing streak for the second half of the season, with a final league record of 3-7. 

On a personal performance note, I also lost out to the All Stars first place. It would have been the second season in a row. (Still waiting on the T-shirt lads.) Going into the final round of the season, I was still leading the stats by about 47 points but I wasn't feeling confident. The eventual winner, EB, had been clawing back the points in the recent weeks and by the end of the night I kind of guessed that I hadn't scored enough points on the night to retain the top spot.

The funny thing is that, days later, I'm still more gutted about losing that Cricket singles match. Go figure.

I fucking hate teenagers

Posted in late June. (How late? Steve Clarke resigned as the Scotland manager. That late.)

I hate the 18s . . . not as much as I hate the 16s but close enough. So, it's a pleasant surprise to hit a Round 9 on the T18s.

And you thought the title of the post meant it was a post about the kids. Shame on you.

"He got his lad out."

Poster June 15th.

It's the 'Careful now' episode.

73/50

The Forensic Records Society by Magnus Mills (Bloomsbury USA 2017)

 

The Forensic Records Society
 
‘I saw you!’
 

We listened closely. The voice sounded slightly remote, as if it came from an adjoining room. It was followed by a fuzzy silence.
 

James gazed at the turntable as it ground to a halt.
 

‘That’s Keith,’ he said.
 

‘You certain?’ I asked.
 

‘Yes.’
 

‘Not Roger?’
 

‘No.’
 

He played the record through for the third time. This was the agreed number of plays, so he then removed it from the turntable and returned it to its sleeve. As he did so he gave the label a cursory glance.
 

‘Fabulous music,’ he remarked.
 

I rose from my seat and went over to the window. Outside there was snow lying everywhere.
 

‘Do you realise,’ I said, ‘we were probably the only people on the planet listening to that?’
 

‘Surely not,’ replied James.
 

‘Just think about it,’ I continued. ‘They released it almost fifty years ago and it was a moderate success before disappearing without a trace. You never hear it on the radio these days, or anywhere else for that matter. The song was a deliberate joke: the lyrics are childish to say the least. They’re practically meaningless in English, let alone Chinese, French or Russian.'

 

“Marvellous ensemble performance nonetheless,’ said James.
 

‘Of course.'

The Hit (1984)

 

Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri (2017)

 

11 minutes later . . .

Posted late June. How late? It's that time in the month where I lie to myself that I'm going to turn over a new leaf come the 1st of the next month. That late.

This 180 occurred six weeks ago so, of course, I can't properly remember how I was feeling at the time after hitting two 180s in 11 minutes. I'm sure I was under some fog of delusion. A delusion that convinced me that . . . perhaps . . . these were my new go-to-darts. (It wasn't just two 180s in the time it takes me to make a cup of tea. It was also the earlier 170 checkout. It all adds up and fuels the delusion.)

Anyway, I took the darts along with me to a league match the following night. We happened to be playing the best team in the division. They lasted one round - I actually won the leg - before I was scrambling for my trusty Dark Thunders. We ended up losing the match 20-7. Revenge for them as we were only team to inflict a defeat on them this season. (15-12 in mid-April.)

My captain was correct, after all.

72/50

"Lock them in a box and bury it."

Posted late June. (How late? Canada's playing South Africa in the first match of the last 32 later this evening. Go AJ.)

The title of the post is a direct quote from the captain of my dart team after I mentioned on Facebook that I was trying out new (actually old) darts. 

Will I listen? Was she right? Where's the three? I always do these things in threes.

71/50

The Works

Are you shitting me?

I only picked up these darts 'cos I asked my son to get me a random dart to help me open a package. I decided to play with them against the Dart bot, and I only go and hit my first ever 170 checkout. ('The Big Fish'.)

I haven't played with these darts - One80 Rectifiers - for about 4 years. This is the bane of the bang average dart player. Pick up a random set darts, play out of your skin with them for 5 minutes, and then convince yourself that they're your 'forever darts'.

It serves me right.

I'm Chering this . . .

I laughed.

Maybe they should change their name to Hearts of Mitteleuropa?

Spot the pun, peeps? No truth in the rumour that Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves is a reference to the Hearts ultras.

Yep, posted on Twitter, but spotted on Facebook. Twitter is not my thing these days. It hasn't an unpleasant musk surrounding it. 

'Can you give me a five star rating?'

I won't lie. This brilliant joke that I found on Facebook hits a bit too close to the bone.

You just can't help yourself.

Bobbing along

A mid-afternoon 180. Nothing much to report, so I won't make something up.

68/50

Everybody Wants Some!! (2016)

 

Previously seen in a small hut in Düsseldorf, West Germany, circa 1983

Seven years ago today.

Yes, that was my board and those were my darts. 

The board was from Aldi. I think the Darts were from a Christmas Cracker . . . they might as well have been.

Facebook likes to trigger me.

Where were you last night?

Another league defeat last night. That's three defeats in a row now. Losing one of our best players to a broken hand and the new format have not helped us. It also didn't help that I was standing in the wrong part of the oche for the first half of last night. My fault as it was my decision. 

I did end up salvaging something by hitting a Round of 9 in my cricket singles match in the final round. My first ever R9 in a league match. (I hit a 180 in a league match a few years ago.) I nearly hit a second R9 a couple of minutes later but the third dart deflected in the T3. (I was going for 3 T17s.)

Anyway, back to this morning's 132 checkout. The second time I've hit the Bull, Bull, D16 checkout, and this time my dartitis was giving me gip.

Click on the link and all will be revealed it will be partially hinted at . . .

If I told you what happened, you wouldn't believe me. FFM . . . . FFM.

FFM? Family 'fucking' drama.

62/50

It turns out 61 is a prime number

Apparently the theme for a 61st wedding anniversary is a plane wood tree, but I couldn't come up with an appropriate title incorporating that fact, so I settled with the wee fact - hitherto unknown to me - that 61 is a prime number.

Have I previously mentioned on the blog that I was for about 15 minutes in my youth a 'Mathlete'? Yep, I represented the school and everything. We got to the quarter final one year, before getting knocked out by Watford Grammar School. Funnily enough, one of the reasons for my early aptitude for Maths was Darts. It really did help with my numeracy. However, my primary thanks for actually being half-decent at Maths as a kid was my teacher in my final year at primary school. That teacher's name was Mr Lowde. It was also his final year of teaching after a lifetime in the classroom. (He served in the RAF during World War Two as a young man.) It would be fair to say that he was the most important teacher in my life during all my years in education. If I wasn't for him, I probably wouldn't have gone to university. Funny the stuff you remember when you're trying to come up with blurb to accompany your 180s.

With regards to this 180, I love the grouping, and there was only an 18 minute gap between this 180 and number 60 ('Diamond Life'). For those 18 minutes I was actually on fire, and I had one of those moments of (darting) clarity where I realised this is how I should throw all the time. The problem is that it never lasts. I can actually walk you through - or more importantly - talk you through how I can get the best out of my game but I can't sustain it for any half-decent length of time. It' something I should work on. Maybe muscle memory will eventually lock in. If it does, my game will definitely improve by 3 or 4 points, and those 3 or 4 points can make all the difference at the level I'm playing at.

61/50

Diamond Life

 Just want to post the 180. Not quips, no family drama . . . little or no recollection of the 180 itself.

60/50

Instant Karma's going to get you . . .

I think I b*rnt down an orphanage in a previous life.

"The Name of the Game"

A 180 at a local Luck of the Draw. Sadly, it wasn't during an actual match. Just a practice session.

Equally sad, is that I played actual garbage during the event itself. Got down to the last 7 from 27 entrants, but this was more from luck than design. My only half-decent performance was during a Cricket doubles game with J.F., where the gamesmanship from one of the opponents was off the chart. I'd played him in league darts on Monday nights in the past but I don't remember him previously playing these tricks to fuck with my head. A strange occurrence, but we won in the end. Snatching victory from the jaws of defeat, and all that jazz.

59/50

This Is The End (2013)

 

"I don't want to be associated with his awful fucking laugh"

A direct quote.

I won't say which son said it, but if you know, you know . . . etc, etc (in a la-di-dah posh English accent.)

58/50

Extra, Extras

Trying to get the wee yin into Extras. No go . . .   it's not working.

Opted for a coked up Michael Cera and an apocalyptic Los Angeles instead. A movie education has to start somewhere.

57/50

The Anderson tape

Nice to get my 56th 180 of 2026. April's been a good month for me. Maybe if I continue in the same vein, I can hit some targets for the rest of the year.

I've actually thrown for - maybe - six 180s today but this is the only one that has stuck. Funnily enough, about five minutes after this 180 I nearly replicated this Gary Anderson incident from 2015.  A crumb of comfort is that one T20 stayed in the board. The other two dropped to the floor.

56/50

Sally & Bob

Half-watching a series of Taskmaster that I've previously watched. I need noise in my life when throwing darts and this series just came on. Davies, Phillips and Mortimer will appreciate their 0.0004 cent royalty checks. (American money, American spellings.)

55/50