Books, glorious books...

What have I been reading recently and what’s on the TBR pile, I hear you ask. You didn’t? Well here goes anyway...

Tana French – Faithful Place

The blurb wallahs are giving us this - The course of Frank Mackey's life was set by one defining moment when he was nineteen. The moment his girlfriend, Rosie Daly, failed to turn up for their rendezvous in Faithful Place, failed to run away with him to London as they had planned. Frank never heard from her again. Twenty years on, Frank is still in Dublin, working as an undercover cop. He's cut all ties with his dysfunctional family. Until his sister calls to say that Rosie's suitcase has been found. Frank embarks on a journey into his past that demands he reevaluate everything he believes to be true.

First line: My father once told me that the most important thing every man should know is what he would die for.

Verdict - this is a 5 out of 5'er. Tana French is a wonderfully evocative writer and she's on top form here.

Caro Ramsay – Dark Water

The promo goes thusly - A bitterly cold February in Glasgow. Hanging from a rope in the attic of a deserted tenement is the body of a criminal believed to have been hiding out on the Costa del Sol these last ten years. His face has been hideously disfigured. Investigating officers DI Anderson and DS Costello believe the dead man to be a suspect in a decade-old case: the rape and attempted murder of a young student by two men. And there are other, similar cases on file. But what has happened to the dead man’s accomplice, ‘Mr Click’? And with the discovery of another young woman who has been brutally attacked, detectives Anderson and Costello realize this terrifying psychopath has started working once more. They must use every trick in the book to stop him. For Mr Click has developed a taste for his bloodthirsty trade. And to satisfy his lust he will strike again and again . . .

First line: Emily Corbett flicked the headlights of the Punto on to full beam, highlighting the puffballs of soft drifting grey fog.

Verdict - not finished yet. Police procedural set in the West of Scotland. Her last 2 were excellent and I'm expecting this to go the same way.

Lin Anderson – The Reborn

When the body of a pregnant teenager is found in a Hall of Mirrors with the full-term foetus surgically removed, forensic scientist Rhona MacLeod is called in to assist the police. Suspicion falls on Jeff Coulter, a psychotic inmate at a nearby hospital whose hobby is making Reborns – chillingly realistic baby dolls intended for bereaved parents or those unable to conceive. But how could he have orchestrated the murder from a secure mental facility?

The investigation leads to a group of teenage girls who seem to have all got pregnant at the same time. Then a Reborn doll is discovered near the crime scene and a second girl from the group is found dead...

First line: It was the fear of the clown that drove Kira inside.

Verdict - not started yet. Lin's career is going from strength to strength with the recent announcement that her books were being adapted for TV. Rankin and Rebus comparisons are fatuous but nevertheless will be delivered by the skipful.

Kate Atkinson – Started Early, Took My Dog

A day like any other for security chief Tracy Waterhouse, until she makes a purchase she hadn't bargained for. One moment of madness is all it takes for Tracy's humdrum world to be turned upside down, the tedium of everyday life replaced by fear and danger at every turn. Witnesses to Tracy's Faustian exchange in the Merrion Centre in Leeds are Tilly, an elderly actress teetering on the brink of her own disaster, and Jackson Brodie who has returned to his home county in search of someone else's roots. All three characters learn that the past is never history and that no good deed goes unpunished. Kate Atkinson dovetails and counterpoints her plots with Dickensian brilliance in a tale peopled with unlikely heroes and villains. "Started Early, Took My Dog" is freighted with wit, wisdom and a fierce moral intelligence. It confirms Kate Atkinson's position as one of the great writers of our time.

Beginning: 1975 9 April – "Leeds: Motorway City of the Seventies". A proud slogan. No irony intended. Gaslight still flickering in some streets. Life in a northern town.

Verdict: Not started yet but I'm expecting BIG things. Kate Atkinson could copy out the phone book and I'd read it. She's THAT good.

Tony Black – Long Time Dead

Gus Dury is back on the drink. While in hospital after a hit-and-run accident, his best friend, Hod, asks him to investigate the ritual, on-campus hanging of an Edinburgh University student. The murder victim's mother is a high-profile actress, who has promised a big-money reward. Gus, desperate for money, goes undercover at the university, taking a janitor's job, and soon uncovers a similar ritualistic hanging which took place in the 70s. Few of the students are prepared to talk about it - until another one of their group turns up dead by the same method. But Gus now moves into very dangerous waters as he begins to discover what and who is really behind it all - and he becomes the next target for the executioner.

First line: The doctor was a non-nonsense west-coaster type that called a spade a shovel and if you didn’t like it would add, You got a problem with that?

Verdict; Squemish much? This is as noir as they come; as dark and intense as a day under the stairs of  a haunted house.

As per, the reviews will end up on te crimesquad.com website eventually.

A couple of things occur to me as I write this – thing 1 – most of these writers are based in Scotland – Tana French is in Ireland which is as good as (and thing 1B - all are bloody brilliant) – thing 2 – four of them are women.

Thing 2 reminds me of a comment from the stage at Harrogate Crime Writers Festival last year (if you haven’t been yet and you love crime fiction, do yourself a favour and go). The comment was that male readers don’t read female writers. And it was Val McDermid who made it. A woman who surely knows her crime writing onions.

For me it’s all about the quality of the writing and being captivated by the storytelling. I NEVER check the gender of the writer first. When I look at the books on my book shelves, floor, stairs, bathroom floor – pretty much everywhere in my house – the gender mix is pretty even, with I have to be honest a leaning towards male names.

Am I out on a limb here? One of the enlightened few?

Tell me what you think, fellas.

Seven (or eight) Stages of Writer's Grief...

I came back home from my holidays to receive some free books – more of which anon – and a couple of rejections. Such is a writer’s life. You’d think you’d get used to it, but NO, each one takes a day or two to convalesce. During that time it’s like recovering from being dumped. You know how it is, you drag your feet, your heart is like a stone in your chest and you think you’ll never be able to met anyone else (or write another word).

It’s fair to say that you go through the various stages of grief.

Denial – No, not again. No, not having it. This is not happening to me! Is that addressed to me? Is it even my book? They’ve sent it to the wrong person surely. It’s a mix up. They read mine and loved it. Read another and hated it and then they mixed up the responses. Simples. I’ll just send them a polite enquiry. Hey, fuckwit, did you mean to send this to me?

And this leads nicely on to...

Anger – What do these people know? Feckin’ numpties. Couldn’t spot a potential hit if it had BESTSELLER written all over it. Halfwits the lot of ‘em. Bet they were the ones that turned down Rowling. Don’t they recognise I have the readability of King, the lyricism of James Lee Burke, the pace of Dan Brown, the insight of Freud? Can’t they SEE that, or are their heads so far up their own arses they need a torch just so they can brush their teeth? I’ll show them. I’ll fucking show them...

Which brings us rather neatly to...

Bargaining – Right, I’ll send them a letter. No, I’ll phone them. That will show them that I’m serious about my craft. The bastards. Ooops, slipping back into ANGER there. Calm. Breathe. No, better not phone them, sitting there in their fucking ivory towers with their double-barrelled names and their trust funds from mummy and daddy. Oops, with the anger again. Calm. Breathe.

No. I’ll write and ask them what I should do to improve. Ask what needs working on. Plot? Character? Pace? Setting? What else should I do? Should I get myself on TV, would that help? What if I was on I’m A Celebrity Get Me A Brain Cell, I bet that would get me a book deal? What if I shag somebody famous? I know, I’ll get a penis extension and they can film it for a documentary. Nah, not liking that idea. You should never allow a scalpel anywhere near your man junk. I’ll get a boob job. A wee wax and a D cup should do it.

Depression – I bet they wouldn’t go for the boob job. They’ll think it’s a bit lame. They’ll complain that writers are supposed to be hiding behind their desks, not hogging the lime-light. We’re all blushing violets with the marketing skills of a plank of wood and we should speak only when phoned up by The Times. Like that’s ever going to happen.

Why do I bother? Just set myself up for disappointment every time. I should realise I’m a fraud, a fake, a failure and I have all the talent of a pus-filled boil on David Cameron’s arse. (He has got feck all to do with writing, I like to have a go at him every now and again.) I’ll just go and cower under my quilt. I might pop out now and again, wearing baggy shorts, socks up to my knees and a vest that is more holes than vest to eat cornflakes straight from the box with a second course of a bucket of Hagen-Daz ice cream.

Acceptance – Well...that last one was maybe not good enough YET, but I can learn from it, no? I got in a lot of practise and I can read through it and see where it could be improved upon. The feedback from the publisher was a bit vague and contradicted the feedback from the last publisher, which means that really most of them know fuck all and they’re as clueless as the rest of us. Oh for chrissake there I go slipping into anger again.

No, I’m calm.

I’m one more NO closer to a YES. I just have to learn more and practise more and be even better than the guys and gals who are currently being published. My middle name is Nike and I can do it.

That is the accepted seven stages of grief. For writers we should then add another item...

Outrageous Optimism - Actually now that I’ve roused myself sufficiently to begin the next book and after having set aside the 2000 words I wrote a fortnight ago to settle and having just read over them I realise that I’m nothing short of a fucking literary genius. How can they possibly say no? I’m willing to bet my mortgage that EVERYBODY who sees this is going to love it. There’s going to be a bidding war. Publishers will be queuing up to offer ridiculous sums. I’ll knock Katie Price off the gossip mags and I’ve only got tiny tits. I’ll be in all the papers. ITV2 will want to film me as I sit at my desk pretending to blush like a violet. BRING ON THE WORLD. Play the trumpets. Let the lions roar.

The next work of creative brilliance is on its way.

The week after the week that was...

So after our exertions in Blackpool the wee man and I are having a quiet week.


Do you want to go out?

No.

Fancy going to the movies, I ask him. I’m a wee bit huffed that he went to see The A-Team with his mum and trying to hide it.

Nope.

How about we go down the beach?

NO.

He’s now wearing a face that suggests I’m an idiot several points north of his village.

Dad, when will you people realise I’m happy to just hang out at home?

You people? That would be me and your mum?

Yes.

Are you going to get out of those pyjamas any time soon?

What time is it?

Three pm.

Cool, he grins, I’ve always wanted to have a day in my p.j’s.



This, to be fair works well with my cunning plan. Keep him entertained in a way that allows me to catch up on some writing. Nice one.

So yesterday I got torn into my latest book. It’s crime. It’s low-down, dirty and nasty and I’m loving it.

The wee fella came over to see what I was doing. And of course, on a page full of words he happened to see the one that spelled out F-U-C-K.

Daaad, I can’t believe you’re swearing in front of me.

That’s not me swearing, I say, it’s one of my characters.

He just looks at me - And who puts the words in their mouths?

That would be me, yes. But in this occasion his friend has been attacked and the swearing is justified.

So if I come home from school and my pal has been bullied I can say the f-word?

Not a chance, buddy, I say thinking, here we go another hour’s debate about swearing.

But you just did it, dad.

That wasn’t me...

I get it, it was your – he makes the speech comma sign with his fingers in the air – character.

Oh look, I point at the TV, Kim Kardashian’s not wearing very many clothes.

Oh – he says, she’s hot.

And I’m momentarily off the hook.

We're all going on a summer holiday...

It started on day one of the holiday. We had just arrived in Blackpool – yeah I know, I spoil him– when the wee fella asked...

- See how you and Mum split up ...was it because you were sniffing coke?

I made the mistake of laughing. The wee fella knows the nearest I’ve been to drugs is washing paracetamol down with a slug of cola.

The next time he asked the question we were in public and he judged the question perfectly. Perfect, that is if you are going for maximum embarrassment factor.

- See how you and mum split up...was it because you were unfaithful?

I laughed again. And laughed some more when the shop assistant paused in the action of handing over my change, with an expression of outrage.

A day later, while a waiter served up breakfast...

- When you and mum split up was it because you are gay?

- No.

- Are you gay?

-No

- Is mum a lesbian?

- No.

- Were you on crack?

- No.

- Is it because I is black?

- That’s enough, son I say forcing down a laugh. We’re both big fans of Outnumbered and he fancies himself as one of the characters.

Anywho, back to Blackpool. For any Johnny foreigners reading this, it is a holiday hotspot on the north-west of England renowned for dolloping up a chunk of cheese with your vacation. It is a six(?) mile stretch of beach with amusement arcades, junk food outlets and stands selling rock (a stick of candy) for its full length. Who buys all this shit? You need money, lots of it ...and the constitution of an ox. It’s brash with a stiff (ooh er, missus) breeze. It’s in your face, unapologetic and lots of fun. For a few days.

The nearest I got to my five a day while I was there was flicking a slice of mushroom from my pizza and swabbing up some raspberry sauce with a mouthful of cheesecake.

We did the Zoo, the circus, the Pleasure Beach and spent more than a few hours in the amusement arcades that line the shore front.

At the circus the wee fella sat beside me but leaning forward, facing me so that he could register his discontent any time I happened to gaze his way. Knowing what was on his mind I ignored him and laughed even louder than I needed to at the antics of the clowns. Eventually he realised I wasn’t reacting to the scowl and the body language.

- I hate circuses, he said.

- Since when?

- Since right now, they’re rubbish.

- Can you wait until you are actually a teenager before acting like a teenager?

- Hmmmfh. He crosses his arms.

The Chinese acrobats were amazing and still he wore his scowl like a badge of discontent. The clown – Mooky, in case you were wondering - brought 3 members of the public into the ring and had them act out a comedy sketch. It was genuinely the funniest thing I’ve seen for ages. The wee fella gave in and laughed. When he noticed I had spotted his mirth he quashed it down with another complaint.

- How lame is that?

- Why are you laughing then?

- I laugh at lame stuff.

I made the “whatever” sign in front of my forehead and he chewed on his bottom lip to stop his answering grin.

Next stop was the waxworks museum. Famous people rendered in wax is surprisingly entertaining. Who knew? It’s the staging that makes it work so well and we had our photos taken with Barack Obama, Michael Jackson and King Kong.

More amusement arcades. More junk food.

We finished off our week with a day at the Pleasure Beach. The wee fella lied about his age and saved me a few quid on the entrance fee. Did I say I was cheap?

I didn’t have a map of the park with me and knowing nothing about the rides that were available we just kinda saw a queue and joined it. The first queue was for a ride called Valhalla. “You will get soaked” the signs warned. And we did but it was well worth it. Great fun.

The next queue was for “River Caves”. Did I say the wee man hates queuing? Half an hour it took. Was it worth it? Hell no. This may have been the height of excitement in the 1950’s but today it has all the thrill of a rich tea biscuit.

Next was lunch. I decided that I hadn’t had my saturated fat intake for the day yet and ordered up some hot dogs. While waiting in the queue for my food a Glasgow wifie prodded my shoulder. By the way, just as a wee aside – does Glasgow completely empty out this week? Everywhere I went I was surrounded by weedgie accents.

- Ho, son, she said. A pigeon has just done one on your shoulder.

- Oh right. Thanks for letting me know.

- Want some babywipes to clean yourself?

- Yeah, thanks.

I take my jacket off and spot a pale slick of shit running down my back. I am momentarily put off my lunch. The babywipe makes short work of the pigeon’s best efforts.

- Good job it didn’t get me on the head, I say to the wifie.

- That might have been easier to clean up, she says with a grin eying up my bald head. See Glasgow people. Always with the humour.

Next was The Avalanche. A white-knuckle ride that aims to replicate the experience of a bobsleigh ride. I am SO impressed with myself that I went on it on account of the fact that I am such a wimp. And OHMYGOD it was good. Exhilarating.

They take photos of you while you are on these things and they show them to you as you leave.

The wee fella had an expression that managed to mix pure joy and terror. If you can imagine such a mix. I looked like I had fly caught in one eye while I was suppressing a fart.

While in the queue for the Ghost Train – which was as scary as playing Russian roulette with your index finger – we noticed some people running past. Then some more. All heading in the same direction and all wearing an expression of excitement...like they had spotted someone famous. About 10 minutes later a man joined the woman and child in front of me. “That was Jordan,” he said. “Katie Price is in the park and everyone was hoping to catch a glimpse of her before she left.” I ventured the hope that each of them had a mouthful of phlegm and a good aim. This earned me a disgusted look.

And that was Blackpool.

The last word, as usual went to the wee man. As I was settling up my account at Reception at the head of a large queue I heard the voice at my shoulder...

- Dad?

- Yes, son?

- See when you and Mum split up was it because you’re an alcoholic?

Nut Newsly

yeah...look more closely...you are seeing things. Which bring me quite nicely to my first piece of triviality. It’s been a while since I indulged my sense of the whacky. So here’s some snippets of news guaranteed to make you smile...

British police are on the hunt for a man who is leaving pictures of a penis tied in a bow in town. (This is a direct quote from the article and is a great example of crap writing. It’s not the man’s penis that is tied in a bow – that would take something of elephantine proportions would it not – but it has a yellow bow tied around it. I read this in another article. I have no insider knowledge. So don’t be coming around for some comparisons Mr. Policeman.)

Officers in Sussex are baffled as to the culprit is who is leaving the X-rated images around Lewes, East Sussex, England. (In some settings this would be a work of art. Here it is X-rated.Just saying. It's only a penis, people.)

The photos have been left as A3 and A4-sized posters in car parks and other public areas and have been found in black and white and full colour.


A Sussex Police spokesman (a man who wears a helmet shaped like a nipple) said: "We are aware of these posters and a local community support officer has removed a few, but we have not received any formal complaints. However, we are concerned that they may well cause offence or distress. "However, from what we've seen, if this is a self-portrait, the artist won't be in a hurry to be identified." (That’s a wee bit snide – and one too many howevers for my liking. Do the people who write these articles not have an editor?)

------000------
Two French Nuns Go On The Run...

Sister Marie-Daniel, 86, and Sister Saint-Denis, 82, fled their convent two weeks ago after convent officials said they were being sent to a remote mountain retreat 250 miles away.

The pair vanished from the Sisters of Saint-Joseph convent in Roquebrune-Cap-Martin, on the French Riviera convent, on July 12 and have not been seen since.

A third 89-year-old nun, Sister Maurice-Marie, has revealed she also wanted to flee but broke her leg four days before the two elderly sisters disappeared.

A convent insider had told France-Soir newspaper that the nuns were furious at being "put out to grass" in a retirement home after 50 years at the nunnery. And who would blame them? I hope they’re in some night club in Nice, smoking weed, growing dreadlocks and giving everyone they see the finger.


-----oooo------


A 26-year-old mechanic from West Bromwich, England has officially changed his name to Buzz Lightyear.


The man, formerly known as Steve Bolton, made the change to mark the opening of Toy Story 3 in the UK, according to that paragon of truthfulness and family values, The Sun.

Mr Lightyear is reported to have said: “I'm a massive fan of Toy Story. They are my favourite films, and I've always thought Buzz would be the ultimate action hero if he wasn't a toy.

"It's a great name, a great film and my girlfriend is going to love telling people she's going out with Buzz Lightyear.”

You keep telling yourself that mate.


------oooo------


This fella is a proven master of over-reaction. When attempting to check out at the Gainesville, Florida Sam's Club Michael Nadeau was so intoxicated he couldn't manage to get his membership card out of his wallet. When the manager attempted to help him the drunken man attacked. As you do when someone tries to help.

Police were, of course, called and the situation escalated rapidly. Before it was over Nadeau had fled police, attempted to run down an officer, hit a another police car and a fence, led a chase to his home and fled again ( this time displaying some common sense) on foot. He is charged with: attempted murder of a law enforcement officer, trespassing, hindering a 911 call, burglary, battery, leaving the scene of a crash, fleeing and attempting to elude, and DUI.

Next time just hand over your wallet, dude.

Bare-arsed Banditti

Maggie Craig’s wonderful piece of living history, Bare Arsed Banditti has now been released on paperback by Mainstream.

Bare-arsed Banditti; The Men of the ’45, so the blurb goes were modern men: doctors and lawyers, students and teachers, shoemakers and shopkeepers, farmers, gardeners and weavers. Children of the Age of Reason, they wrote poetry, discussed the latest ideas in philosophy and science - and rose in armed rebellion against the might of the British crown and government.

Sons of a restless nation that had unwillingly surrendered its independence a mere generation before, some were bound by age-old ties of Highland kinship and loyalty. Others rallied to the cries of 'Prosperity to Scotland' and 'No Union!' Many faced agonising personal dilemmas before committing themselves to Bonnie Prince Charlie and the Jacobite Cause. Few had any illusions about the consequences of failure. Many met their date with destiny on Culloden Moor, players in a global conflict that shaped the world we live in today.

Combining meticulous research with entertaining and stylish delivery, Maggie Craig tells the dramatic and moving stories of the men who were willing to risk everything for their vision of a better future for themselves, their families and Scotland.


To celebrate the release into paperback I “invited” Maggie to answer some question on May Contain Nuts. The exchange went like this...


In three words describe Bare Arsed Banditti.

You've got them. Three more would be - gallant, passionate, heroic. That's the lads, not me!


I’m sure you’ve told me this before but I have a shocking memory...I LOVE the title, where does it come from and how much trouble did you have to get it past the publisher?

It was a phrase used at the time to denigrate the wild Highlanders, a way of trying to diminish these exotically-clad warriors who had swept down from their mountains almost to London itself. The insulting description indicates just how much panic they caused - included a run on the London banks - before Bonnie Prince Charlie was forced to accept the decision of the Highland chiefs that the Jacobite army should retreat back north.


It was the title which initially sold the book to my publishers. Then - four days before the books and the dust jackets were to be printed - someone took cold feet and said that the title had to be changed. I gave them four words then. OVER. MY. DEAD. BODY. And the title stayed as it was.


Which do you prefer to be known as: Historian or Novelist?

I can legitimately claim both those designations but I think of myself simply as a writer. I tell stories. For my historical non-fiction I put in the hours doing the research, loving nothing more than days spent in the history mines turning up exciting, poignant, happy and sad true stories. With my novels, I can allow my imagination to roam free, although my novels too always start with research into the times I'm writing about.

It does give me pleasure when people - rightly - describe me as an historian. Make that mischievous glee. I like to think it puts certain noses out of joint, mainly those academic historians who dismiss me as a "popular" historian. Why it's a hanging offence to do your research and then try your best to present it in a readable and entertaining way, I've never understood!


Yeah, dam those stuffy academics. If the history books I had access to in school had half the heart and wit of BAB the lessons would have gone down a lot easier. You mention the similarity between non-fiction and fiction in terms of your research...how do you feel about the constraints when writing non-fiction by comparison?

I find writing non-fiction much easier than writing fiction, so for me it's a liberation rather than a constraint. Sure, you have to check your facts, check them again and then check them one last time but after you've assembled those facts you have them in your tool box and all you have to do is write them up in an interesting and hopefully entertaining way.
In fiction you're spinning something up out of nothing, great when the Muse is standing at your shoulder whispering in your ear, but if he's gone off for the day - my Muse resembles a handsome Australian dentist I once had who looked like a Greek God, better than an injection when I had fillings done - fiction can be a lot more difficult to create.


For the uninitiated - but I'm sure newly devoted MC fans - what other historical periods have you researched and which would have been your favourite time to have lived in?

I've also researched Edinburgh in the 1820s, taking me into low oyster cellars in the Cowgate and the nearby underground vaults, bodysnatching, prostitution and catastrophic fires, you can see why I tend to describe my love stories as romance noir. I''ve also done a lot of research into Glasgow and Clydebank during World War II and at the beginning of the 20th century. I think all of the times I've researched were exciting but I like living now. I love the modern world.


One of my favourite vignettes (can I call it that?) was when you quote from a letter Duncan McGillis wrote to his lover before he went off to join the Jacobites - "Nothing ails me but the wanting of you." The book is full of such wonders. Describe to us the feeling you have when you come across a gem like this?


Och well, you've hit on one of my all-time favourite research discoveries. There I was sitting in the Public Record Office at Kew after a hard day's research, needing a hot bath, a cold glass of wine and an episode of Neighbours, when I requested one final box of documents for the day. Jacobite Correspondence. I think that was all it said. Inside this anonymous cardboard box I found all these letters from Jacobite soldiers writing home to their wives, children, families and lovers as they followed BPC into England. When I realized that I had stumbled upon expressions of love and longing written over two and a half centuries before, I felt first of all excited, and then the tears came to my eyes. It was so moving, so eloquent, so touching. That's the sort of discovery that keeps me researching.


Oooh - that last answer gave me goosebumps. Most people will use the internet to do their research nowadays and from what you were saying it sounds like they are missing out on the real thing. Can you give me a visual on the research materials you found? What did the papers look like, smell like, feel like?

Those letters from Jacobite soldiers were written on odd scraps of paper, just what came to hand at the time, I imagine. Odd sizes, thicker than modern paper, the handwriting and spelling often not very good - although 18th century spelling was generally atrocious. You try to touch the paper as little as possible, of course, in order to preserve it for future generations but it is terribly moving to have it under your hand and think of the connection that it provides between you and the person who wrote it so long ago.

They say the purpose of history is to teach us, here, in the present - what lessons can we learn from the characters you write about in BAB?

I think some of them stood up with great bravery for what they believed in. I think others were devastated that Scotland was plunged into fighting and bloodshed and just did their best to keep their heads above water. The people I really admire are the ones who took what fate was throwing at them and somehow managed to help other people and deal with great humanity with friend and foe alike.



And to finish off I'll need to think of something off the wall to ask you...mmmm...I read recently about a writer (I think he was French) who used to write using the naked back of his lover as his desk; what writing peccadilloes do you have?

Can't match that one, I'm afraid! I just try to get to my computer as early in the morning as possible, when I'm still close to my dreams, still lost in the creative dwam. I write straight onto the computer but will write by hand if I'm stuck, on a train or whatever and I always think it's best not to get precious about when and where you do it.




So there you go people...if you are a lover of history, a lover of Scotland, a lover of good writing and excellent storytelling, then you need to get yourself a copy of this book. Don’t delay – hie yourself to your local bookshop, crack open your wallet and get shopping!




If you want to know more about Maggie and her books below is a link to her amazon page and a link to her website.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Maggie-Craig/e/B001K8E4OE/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0
Maggie's homepage

Long Time Dead

Hat tip to Paul D. Brazil - his blog is over there on the right, no, the other right. (You do that everytime, Michael, you say. I say, I know but it makes me laugh everytime.) Anywho the hat-tip is for the link to Tony Black's promo on you tube.

I just received a review copy of Tony's latest, Long Time Dead. Irvine Welsh says he's his favourite Scottish crime writer. Go get a copy and judge for yourself.

Fun Friday

So there was I having a laugh on a Friday and I thought I should share it with you...

It was a dark and stormy night...

"It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents--except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness."

--Edward George Bulwer-Lytton, Paul Clifford (1830)



The Bulwer-Lytton competition sprung from such worthy nonsense and has become one of the literary world’s highlights for spoof bad writing. The website is  HERE  and has just announced this year’s winners.

Winners from last year included...

Folks say that if you listen real close at the height of the full moon, when the wind is blowin' off Nantucket Sound from the nor' east and the dogs are howlin' for no earthly reason, you can hear the awful screams of the crew of the “Ellie May," a sturdy whaler Captained by John McTavish; for it was on just such a night when the rum was flowin' and, Davey Jones be damned, big John brought his men on deck for the first of several screaming contests.

David McKenzie of Federal Way, WA

And

The wind dry-shaved the cracked earth like a dull razor--the double edge kind from the plastic bag that you shouldn't use more than twice, but you do; but Trevor Earp had to face it as he started the second morning of his hopeless search for Drover, the Irish Wolfhound he had found as a pup near death from a fight with a prairie dog and nursed back to health, stolen by a traveling circus so that the monkey would have something to ride.

Warren Blair, Ashburn, VA

And

Winner: Fantasy Fiction

A quest is not to be undertaken lightly--or at all!--pondered Hlothgar, Thrag of the Western Boglands, son of Glothar, nephew of Garthol, known far and wide as Skull Dunker, as he wielded his chesty stallion Hralgoth through the ever-darkening Thlargwood, beyond which, if he survived its horrors and if Hroglath the royal spittle reader spoke true, his destiny awaited--all this though his years numbered but fourteen.

Stuart Greenman of Seattle, WA


Hehehehehehe.

Anybody fancy having a go? There might even be a prize for the best one posted in the comments box. An example of some good writing to compensate for the bad.

Go on, go on, go on...you know you want to.

No Sex We're an English Team

As the world gets crazier by the day music legend Mick Jagger is being blamed for Brazil's World Cup exit.

Brazilian internet sites point out that Jagger had backed the five-time champions to beat the Netherlands in the quarter-finals, but the Dutch won, aided by the Curse of Jagger and some horrific defending.

The rock star had previously lent his support to the United States and England. And we all know what happened to them. (For those who find football as interesting as toe-nail clippings both the USA and England crashed out in the last 16.)

Spotting Jagger's appearance with Lucas, his Brazilian son by Luciana Gimenez, at Friday's game against the Dutch, the media made him an easy target.

"Who will the Rolling Stones singer support next?" several websites worried themselves into a frenzy.

"The curse of Mick Jagger continues," said sports daily Lance: "With his support for the United States and England and Brazil the leader of the Rolling Stones has been collecting only defeats at the World Cup."

O Estado de Sao Paulo speculated: "After putting out the USA, England and Brazil - which will be the next team that Mick Jagger throws his support behind?"

Crazy as it seems I get this way of thinking. See me and Andy Murray? Every time I turn the TV on to his match he loses the next game. So I protected his Wimbledon efforts by only watching the highlights of games...until the semi with Nadal. And we all know what happened there. I’m afraid after a very close game – Rafa won 96 points and Andy won 91 – the deciding factor could only have been me.



Meanwhile back in Blighty and the footie - the “investigation” continues as to why England failed so abjectly. Wayne Rooney says he was NOT injured despite being forgiven for looking for an excuse after being voted No. 1 on most people’s blame-list. Did these people forget that Rooney is a striker and therefore by definition dependant on team-mates getting the ball to him. No ball= no goals. To be fair on the rare occasion he did get it he was as hapless as the rest of the team. Joe Cole blames their crap-ness on the success of the English league and it’s over-reliance on non-English players. Steven Gerrard along with everybody and their granny are claiming that we need technology in the game. Clearly that disallowed goal would have stopped the whole German team from getting anywhere near the English goal line for the entire second half. And the Mirror blames Ashley Cole and his 100 plus sex-pest texts on the eve of the Germany game. Don’t you just love a Sunday headline? What The Mirror has conveniently forgotten in their rush to demonize is that Ashley was easily one of England’s best players.

Just a thought; maybe they all needed to be giving their thumbs and febrile imaginations a workout? Wives and girlfriends (WAGS) were forbidden for this competition after they stole all the attention at the last world cup.

Perhaps on this occasion the whole “no sex we’re in a competition” thing was the real culprit. If they’d been allowed a wee bit of houghmagandie (it’s Old Scots – look it up) maybe they’d be in the semi-final against Spain.

I really must draw up a memo to Fabio Capella (for the uninterested he’s allegedly their manager). It’ll come with the title: Let the Boys Have Their Nookie and They’ll Be Champs Not Chumps. And this will tie in well with our preferred style of newspaper reporting, meaning the spy in the camp can sell it on to the tabloids saving the wee lambs the effort of thinking up any real stories.

Anywho, back to the gratuitous titillation....it seems our Ash is so devastated by the demise of his marriage to the nation’s favourite lollipop head, sorry, Nation’s Sweetheart, Cheryl (see how easily I pick up on tabloid cliché) that he’s developed an over-sized sexual appetite – nothing to do with the fact that he’s young, very fit, wealthy, in an all male environment and about to crawl up his own arse with boredom. An over-sized sexual appetite that demands he sends a random young woman texts (139) and pictures of his naked body, listing things he would like to do to her. (And no, ladies I don’t have the pictures.) The Mirror refuses to detail any of these texts because – get this – they are a family newspaper. They must think that reading sexual scandals and sensationalist crap over their cornflakes and semi-skimmed of a Sunday morning helps keep families together.



And finally...

To all my American visitors – Happy 4th of July. Ignore us nutters over this side of the pond and enjoy your party. Once you’ve sobered up, perhaps you’d like to leave a comment and let us know how you celebrated?

Its the first of the month and that means...

...it's fresh reviews being posted over at Crimesquad

I was lucky enough to be sent a copy of Walter Mosely's new novel "Known to Evil" and here's how it appears over on the site. There are loads of other fantastic books being talked about over there, so click on the above link for a wee nosey,

Here's what I had to say about Walter...

Leonid McGill, P.I. is struggling to stick to his reformed ways while the people around him pull him in every direction. He has split up with the only woman he has ever loved, Aura, because his conscience won't let him leave his wife. Meanwhile, one of his sons seems to have found true love - but the girl has dangerous men in her past who are now threatening the whole McGill family. And his other son, the charming rogue Twilliam, is doing but facilitating the crisis.

Most worryingly of all, Alfonse Rinaldo, the mysterious power behind the throne at City Hall, the fixer who seems to control every little thing that happens in New York City, has a problem that even he can't fix - and he's come to Leonid for help. It seems a young woman has disappeared, leaving murder in her wake, and it means everything to Rinaldo to track her down. He won't tell McGill his motives - but turning down Rinaldo is almost impossible to even contemplate. To make matters even worse important people at the NYC police department want McGill to pay for past demeanours and it doesn’t matter how they get to put him behind bars, so long as that’s where he ends up.


Leonid McGill is an anti-hero, a fallen man who is working to redeem himself, but is constantly held back by the murk of his past. This is a device that has been worked well in the past by other writers and this does nothing to detract from Walter Mosely’s achievement with Known to Evil.

McGill’s actions were not mere misdemeanours but serious crimes against his fellow man that should earn our opprobrium, but because McGill is such an engaging character and because he is so serious in his intention to repent we are not only pulled onside, we are there with him shouting into his ear. Of course we want McGill to find the girl and then save her life, but we also want him to make the right choice between his wife and his mistress, to resolve matters with the men he has wronged in the past and to be there to be a positive influence on his children.

Following on from the much loved Easy Rawlins, Walter Mosely has created another serial character of complexity who, I’m certain, continued to breathe out of sight whenever I closed the book. Which I did often as I was keen to savour every sentence. For many writers I greedily consume their words as I anxiously race to the end, but with Mosely I find that I consciously slow down so that every insight, each description, every word is rubbed against the microscope of my thoughts.

Known to Evil has three plot strands and each one is worked with virtuosity. Threaded through the plotting, like delicate strands of silk Mosely offers up themes of guilt, atonement and ultimately, dissatisfaction. McGill deflects his own sense of this on to his fellow passengers on the New York underground describing them as going to a job they don’t want to do and leading a life they never wanted. As for McGill himself, no matter if he is making a choice that will lead to an unhappier existence, he will do whatever he thinks sits well within his strict moral code.

And then there are the words on the page. Mosely is keenly aware that a good story also has to be well written and his prose manages to be textured, rich, energetic... and at the same time economical. Descriptions are brief, layered with meaning and on the button; his dialogue has all the musicality of a jazz musician riffing among friends in a smoky filled club. There is no doubt about it, Walter Mosely has earned his place among the greats of modern fiction and Known to Evil is yet another work of excellence to cement his position there.

 
So what you waiting for? Get your lardy/ cute butts to a bookstore now and buy a copy. Tell them Michael sent you.

In conversation with...

BILL KIRTON

 In 3 words describe The Figurehead.


Love and death.

Now you have another 21 words - give us some detail of the plot.

In Aberdeen in 1840, a shipwright dies and John Grant carves a figurehead, solves a mystery and starts falling in love.

Do you ever write naked?

I live in Aberdeen, ergo naked writing = hypothermia. Anyway, why let reality spoil my mental image of myself as a Lord Byron figure (without the bad leg)?

Why 1840?

I wanted it to be 19th century, near the Romantics because my PhD was on Victor Hugo’s theatre and I like all that excessive Romanticism stuff anyway. Narrowing it down was easy because Aberdeen Library had an ordnance survey map of the city in 1840. Then I discovered that the Scottish Maid, the first ship to have a clipper bow, was designed and launched in Aberdeen in 1839, exactly 100 years before my birthday. And sail was being threatened by steam, and a new-fangled thing called a propeller was being demonstrated, and emigration to the Americas, Australia and New Zealand was big business – so it’s a great time. (And there’s no DNA or CSI to worry about, either.)

Suits me. I hate all that DNA malarkey. If I want a science manual I’ll go to the non-fiction department thankyouverymuch. You've published crime and now with The Figurehead there appears to be an element of romance. You going soft on us?

This harsh exterior hides a gentle, tender soul. Anyway, The Figurehead is still a crime novel. It just so happened that the carver, John Grant, and half his model, Helen Anderson, started fancying one another so who was I to stop them? I think it’s a shame that we have to be genre-labelled, anyway. It’s inhibiting. I only became a crime writer by accident.

You have a bad leg? Awwww. What other faults would you like to tell us about?

No, no. Byron had the bad leg – club foot. It hurt like eff, so he drank hock and soda water to take his mind off it. (Works for me.)

As for my own faults, my first impulse was to claim that I’m almost flawless (‘almost’ because my generosity, compassion and modesty are excessive). But it’s hard to signal something as a joke in writing, and self-deprecation doesn’t always work. I was once very embarrassed in the USA where I directed As you like it for the URI Theater Department. After the last show, they gave me some lovely, thoughtful gifts and, in my thank you speech, I said the show had been wonderful thanks to the director. They all applauded and agreed but no doubt thought I was a wanker when all I wanted was to get a laugh.

So let’s see – there’s selfishness, laziness, occasional gluttony (eating whole tubs of Ben and Jerry’s as I watch football), impatience with politicians and an extraordinarily low attention span. Those are just a few off the top of my head – interview my wife to get the rest.


I called her. She says she’s going to keep all the good stuff until you have shuffled off this mortal coil, and then make a fortune.


When it comes to violence in fiction how far should you go?

This is a perennial problem, isn’t it? I remember writing a blog about it way back and I’m still puzzled by our appetite for (or tolerance of) it. It’s clear that lots of readers expect to find a bit of gore dripping off the pages. One psychologist/critic (can’t remember who) said crime writers ‘stylise’ murder, make it acceptable by turning it into something other than a grotesque invasion of one person by another. I don’t buy that. I think we’re satisfying some incomprehensible but very real appetite. We rubber-neck at accident scenes, the papers dwell on the gruesome details of stabbings, rape, torture, murder. Unlike with their politics, they’re not forming our tastes and opinions, they’re meeting a demand. I don’t imagine for a moment that many of us would be capable of doing any of those things ourselves but the fascination with them is definitely there.

Having said all that, I have a nagging concern that we don’t really know what we’re unleashing when we invent our nasty episodes. The arguments about video games apply to our violent scenes, too – copycat killings, kids using knives so casually, and the whole excitement and glamour of violence. It’s fine for me to sit here, sun shining on the garden outside, and decide to eviscerate someone with a blunt breadknife and wrap up the bits in cling-film. My imagination can conceive of it but I’d never be able to do it. But we don’t all share the same morality and there may well be readers who find such words and images ‘cool’. That makes me shudder more than the fictional gore-fest.


See question above and tell us what you think about any responsibility that the author might have...

I’ve sort of answered that already (even if it’s by a ‘don’t know’). But I think there’s another angle on it. Just as writers get caught up with their characters and their autonomy, so they get dragged into their motives and the situations in which they find themselves. In a way, it’s possible that the writer’s an accomplice but the real responsibility lies with the character.

OK, I need to explain that. When I wrote my first procedural, I decided it had to have some nastiness because that sells books. That sounds glib, irresponsible maybe because the scene I wrote, towards the end of the book, is quite shocking. But I didn’t sit here dreaming up torments – they all came straight out of the character involved and the motives behind the violence. It was a necessary part of that person’s psyche and essential to the plot. Mind you, it still didn’t stop my agent at the time happily introducing me to a friend as ‘a nice man who has very nasty thoughts’. When asked to do readings or give talks, I never read such passages, though, and I actually find them disturbing when I look at them now. So the writer in me writes them and enjoys the process, but the reader in me finds them hard to take. Over to you, Mr. therapist.


Hey, I’m not your therapist, dude. Although I am available for a fee and therefore happy to make some shit up to earn it...and what responsibility does someone like yourself have who is, and I quote "almost flawless"?

I knew I shouldn’t have given you that whip to beat me with (see what I did there?). It’s actually scary to think that what I write could have a consequence other than just entertaining the reader, and nowadays I don’t exploit the commercial potential of violence at all. There was a rape in my second book (which I rewrote after my wife read and commented on it and gave me insights into the victim’s responses which I hadn’t had myself). Again, it’s nasty and again it’s necessary. Luckily, when the late Susanna Yager reviewed it in the Sunday Telegraph, she acknowledged that it wasn’t ‘there to titillate, but to carry the story forward and ultimately bring about the climax to a thoughtful and thought-provoking book’. I think if I were to discover that something I wrote provoked or informed actual violence to a real person, I’d feel very guilty. So I acknowledge the responsibility – and yet I still go on writing that sort of thing when it’s necessary. Is that me copping out? Come on, you’ve reviewed umpteen crime novels, you tell me.


 I like what Stephen King says about a contract between the writer and the reader and the writer’s duty to write about his/ her character with honesty. Anywho, this isn’t about me. For once. So...moving on...when giving writerly advice, Oliver Wendell Holmes said that when writing about a frog you should inhabit your frog-ness. How do you inhabit your frogness?

The temptation to discuss my genuine Francophilia is strong but I’ll resist it. One response that your question does provoke, though, is that doing something and thinking about how you do it are distinct things. On one hand, you’re the writer – absorbed in the work, unaware of self or the passage of time, part of the fiction that’s being created – on the other, you’re stepping back from the process, analysing it objectively in full awareness of who you are and what your aims and intentions are too. So my answer is that I definitely do ‘inhabit my frogness’ but if I start trying to say how I do it, I might be inventing something which wasn’t necessarily true. (Interestingly – to me anyway – this answer reflects what I was saying about my attitudes to violence as writer and reader – the writer is wrapped up in it, part of it and can therefore do it; the reader is further from it, more capable of the necessary objectivity you need for analysis.)


Talking about Stephen King - we were, people. Keep up. What was the best piece of writing advice you ever received?

I’ll tell you a secret. At school and university, I used to write the occasional letter to the editor and even an odd article here and there. I was too idle to actually become a student journalist or anything and writing was just for fun. So the aim was rarely serious but a couple of times I got very enthusiastic responses from teachers, lecturers, even profs. And yet no one ever suggested that I should look for a career involving writing. With hindsight, it was the obvious route for me to follow.

So some people said nice things but I don’t think I can pinpoint a specific piece of writing advice given to me personally. As a student, reading old critics such as G Wilson Knight and others made me realise for the first time how writing can have so many layers of significance (not that I’m claiming that for my stuff). And the ‘rules’ of Elmore Leonard are brilliant and spot on. I only ever give two bits of advice myself – read what you’ve written aloud to test for rhythms, gaps, mistakes, etc. and cut, cut, cut.


Are you a plotter or a pantser (as in, you fly by the seat of your pants - and if you know where that expression comes from, do tell)

As part of my slavish desire to please you, I checked the expression and it’s probably British from WW1 – planes with few or unreliable instruments, so the pilot made his judgements on how the aircraft was moving, shuddering etc. – all of which he felt through his chair. But for once, your question’s easy to answer. I’m a rudimentary plotter but, once the words start appearing, the pantser takes over. I have a general overall idea of where I want to get to but I let the characters take me there (or somewhere else if that’s what they decide). I even laugh at their jokes. Maybe authors should all be sectioned to protect society.


I’m liking this slavish desire you have to pleasing me. Now...while I come up with ways in which I can take advantage of this tell us all how to buy a copy of The Figurehead and what formats it is in.

The formats take me into new territory. It’s the first time I’ve had a book published simultaneously as e-book, e-serial and paperback. It’s already available in the USA but an ISBN number glitch has delayed it in the UK. I’m assured that’ll be cleared up very quickly. People who registered with Virtual Tales (the publishers) get the first 4 chapters free and a 40% discount on the cover price. I don’t know if that offer’s still open but all you have to do is send a blank email to figurehead@virtualtales.com to find out. The relevant web page is at http://www.virtualtales.com/Mystery/Crime/Figurehead.html. Most of all, it would be nice if readers went into their local bookshop and, if it’s not on the shelves, expressed, in very loud voices and at great length, their amazement at such a shocking lapse on the part of the manager.



Like this, people... “ohmyGOD, you DON’T have a copy of The Figurehead by Bill Kirton?

If what you have read here doesn't slake your desire for all things Bill, he can be found on his blog and the link is on the right-hand side of this page. No. The other right. Or you could post a question in the comments section and as he, by his own admission, is a devoted fan of May Contain Nuts, he will spot it and reply quicker than a very quick thing.

Earth Sick

 

I don’t normally get political on this blog, but as a citizen of the planet (yeah, I know it sounds wanky) I want to share my concern about the continued struggle to tap the oil leak in the Gulf of Mexico.

See below for an article from the Wayne Madsen Reports, an online news program, which says that there may be a 200 mile radius dead zone around the BP oil spill, in which all life will be threatened and which may have to be evacuated in the area we live in. Wayne Madsen is a former National Security Agent, now an investigative reporter. Madsen scoops the mainstream media on many important stories because much of his info comes from current and former members of various intelligence operations, but these are usually anonymous sources.

June 23, 2010 -- Government insiders: Get ready for the Gulf "dead zone"

Bad news concerning the Gulf oil disaster continues to come from WMR's federal government sources in the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) and the US Army Corps of Engineers. Emergency planners are dealing with a prospective "dead zone" within a 200 mile radius from the Deepwater Horizon disaster datum in the Gulf.


A looming environmental and population displacement disaster is brewing in the Gulf. The oil dispersant used by BP, Corexit 9500, is seen by FEMA sources as mixing with evaporated water from the Gulf and absorbed by rain clouds producing toxic precipitation that threatens to kill all marine and land animals, plant life, and humans within a 200-mile radius of the Deepwater Horizon disaster site in the Gulf. Adding to the worries of FEMA and the Corps of Engineers is the large amounts of methane that are escaping from the cavernous grotto of oil underneath the Macondo drilling area of Gulf of Mexico.

On a recent visit to the Gulf coast, President Obama vowed that the Gulf coast will "return to normal." However, federal officials dealing with the short- and long-term impact of the oil disaster report that the "dead zone" created by a combination of methane gas and Corexit toxic rain will force the evacuation and long-term abandonment of cities and towns within the 200-mile radius of the oil volcano.
Plans are being put in place for the mandatory evacuation of New Orleans, Baton Rouge, Mandeville, Hammond, Houma, Belle Chase, Chalmette, Slidell, Biloxi, Gulfport, Pensacola, Hattiesburg, Mobile, Bay Minette, Fort Walton Beach, Panama City, Crestview, and Pascagoula.
The toxic rain from the Gulf is expected to poison fresh water reservoirs and lakes, streams, and rivers, which will also have a disastrous impact on agriculture and livestock, as well as drinking water, in the affected region.
FEMA officials also claim that the $20 billion compensation fund set aside by BP is not nearly enough to offset the costs of the disaster. The FEMA sources say the disaster will cost well in excess of $1 trillion, and likely closer to $2-3 trillion.



‘Nuff said.

A different version...

Here’s one for those people who are tired of the English football commentators…you know that delusional chat to the camera that comes from trying to convince yourself and the nation that what you are seeing is not the actual truth of things?

It came from by brother in Ireland and it’s a comparison of what people were saying during the recent England games, when they didn’t have an axe to grind or a paymaster general to please.



Oh yes…it’s Irish TV versus the BBC.

(and to help you with the nationality of the speaker there's a wee bit of colour coding.)

Hansen: “Once England got the goal the confidence levels surged, they were excellent.”

Eamon Dunphy: “They just didn’t grow in confidence at all after the goal.”

Lineker: “The goal really settled them, didn’t it? They pushed on from there.”

Ronnie Whelan: “You’d think they’d have kicked on from when they scored, but they actually got worse.”

Roy: “England’s crossing has been absolutely outstanding.”

Giles: “Some of the crossing was just awful.”

Shearer: “Rooney looks more confident, he’s getting around the pitch a lot better.”

Dunphy: “It’s shocking to see Rooney so subdued, he’s been reduced to a shivering wreck.”

Shearer: “They look much more comfortable on the ball, they’re passing it with a purpose, with pace, they’re closing down – a much better performance, it’s encouraging.”

Giles: “They’re much better than they have been, but they couldn’t have been worse.”

No arguments, then. Second half. England held on. Full-time. Ready?

Lee Dixon: “A great performance.”

Dunphy: “Shocking . . . absolutely incredibly bad . . . pretty awful stuff.”

Hansen: “The commitment was there, the spirit was there, the enterprise was there, the creativity was there, they passed it better – they could have scored five or six quite easily. Capello will obviously be delighted with the performance.”

Giles: “If that’s the shackles off what’ll they be like when the shackles are back on?”

’Arry Redknapp: “We played with pace, we got after them, we pressed them, there wasn’t a weakness in the team.”

Dunphy: “They were astonishingly poor.”

Lineker: “He looked more like the Rooney we know.”

Ronnie: “Rooney is a major worry, his form, his body language, his demeanour, everything.”

Dixon: “Gerrard was outstanding.”

Dunphy: “I can’t believe how bad Gerrard was today.”

’Arry: “Across midfield we were top drawer.”

Giles: “Barry got worse as the game went on, Milner, Gerrard and Lampard the same.”

’Arry: “Bring it on! Whoever we play we’ll be difficult to beat.”

Ronnie: “If they don’t improve they’ll go straight out, it was a very, very inept performance.”

School's almost out...

The wee fella was in the end of term school musical last week. He was a policeman in The Pirates of Prestwick and he wielded his truncheon with an energy and self-belief that had me fair wilting with pride...or maybe that was the heat. The school hall with its large windows and wooden frame was doing a fair impression of a sauna, minus the plunge pool and the Scandinavian babes. The closest they came to having air conditioning was the pirate sword holding the door open up the back of the hall.

The eagle-eyed among you – or at least the geographically articulate will have noticed how the school “musical director” changed the name of the musical to reflect the school’s situation. Geddit? Prestwick instead of Penzance? Gilbert and Sullivan. What the fokk is that all about? Prissy, self-congratulatory and antediluvian musical mush.

“I am the very model of a modern Major General,

I've information vegetable, animal, and mineral,”

What utter mince. I HATED their stuff when I was at school and they still make the poor kids sing it all these years later.

Fokkers. You can tell I was scarred can’t you?

To be fair the kids (11 and 12 years old) gave it their all. If Amanda/ Piers/ Simon/ Louis/ Cheryl/ Danni had been present they’d have been told that they made it their own. But they would have no doubt questioned the choice of songs, suggesting that they sing something the audience would be more familiar with. Like a Lady Gaga cover.

I overheard one of the leads speak to his girlfriend on the way out. She was like a full two heads taller than he was. Apparently he told her he fancied her during the rehearsals. I’m guessing the glamour of showbiz was enough for her to overlook (see what I did there?) the height thing.

All that effort – he said to her, his wee face flushed and his stage makeup running down his cheeks – I’m not sure the pleasure I got from performing was worth it.

That’s Gilbert and Sullivan for you, mate.

A Song for Summer Solstice...

Listen to the words, kick of your shoes and dance around the living room like no-one's watching.

You gotta laugh, cos if you don't...

The one where I'm having a short break from the World Cup...

My sticky willie is rampant. And the grass looks like I trimmed it with a blowtorch. Any green shooting through the turf is actually a weed.

This is me taking a break from the World Cup – well, I’m recording the game, while I attend to the catastrophe that is my garden. There is a great Scottish word for just such a mess; a mogre. I think that’s how you spell it. You pronounce it like ogre – just add the “m”. See the stuff you learn on this blog!

As for the sticky willie I just looked it up on google (all hail google) and it has all these names; Beggar’s Lice, Catchweed Bedstraw, Cleverwort, Everlasting friendship, etc etc etc. It’s nice having all these names and everything but it’s a fokken nuisance.

Just so you know, in honour of the South African hosts of the footie, I’ve decided I should swear in their language. If you don’t like it you can fokken sue me.

This is just a wee posting today – unlike my sticky willie – ‘cos I have been lax with my blogging duties of late.

Anywho, the garden is still calling me. But this time it’s for a bout of sloth. I feel some lethargy coming on and it would be rude to ignore it.

Have a good weekend, people.

Awww bless...

Awww, bless.

And for those of you who weren’t enjoying/ lamenting the above moment...this is where the England goalkeeper allowed the USA to equalise at the World Cup, Saturday June 12, 2010.

All of which is fun and allows us Scots a wee chuckle at the cost of our near-neighbours. Yes, I know we didn’t make it to the Big Party. Again. But our attitude is quite different. Our fans sing a song that goes “We’re shite, but we know we are.” Whereas in contrast the English media behave with jingoism, parochialism and an arrogance that makes you wonder why there aren’t more England strips burning on Scottish, Welsh and Irish barbecues.

Mmm –doesn’t that red cross and white background go nicely with lamb skewers?

I’m not going to list their transgressions but if you are sitting in a living room in Scotland, Wales or Ireland watching an English broadcast of ANY World Cup game, I’m guessing you’re watching with the volume turned down.

Which brings me, rather nicely I might add to an article that appeared in a bastion of Englishness (The Mail) the other day. In said article some poor journalist got his gusset all hot and scratchy over the demise of the Queen’s English.

It seems that American English is taking over and this form of cultural imperialism is one that everyone on this side of the Atlantic should be resisting. Get your mind into Chambers and your eyes off the telly is the basic message.

One also wonders (note the grammatical excellence, people – which I then ruin by using the popular Americanism of “people”) whether the timing of this article had anything to do with the impending football/ soccer game with England taking on the USA on the playing field. After all, the guardians of all things English might argue, this is our game and you even jolly well changed its name. Poppycock and piffle of the highest order.

I admit that I have a certain amount of sympathy (this is me holding my index finger and thumb slightly apart) with this message. There are certain corporate clichés that surely originated in a US boardroom which have taken over and – if I give good English a rest for a moment – get on my tits.

Utilise – this is surely an attempt to demonstrate that the speaker has an extensive vocabulary and proves the exact fecking opposite.

Going forward – whenever I hear this one I lose the speakers message and all I can think is, fuck off and die.

There’s also the one about flying an idea “up the flagpole”, presumably to see which way the prevailing wind (general opinion) affects the idea.

However as a fan of fiction and American crime fiction in particular I think these moaning myrtles are losing a trick here. Yes, English is an incredibly rich and expressive language but it is a growing one with new words being added to the lexicon on almost a daily basis. There’s always an upside (I bet they hate that one too).

Many authors writing in, dare I say it, American English display a vibrancy of use and brio that makes the journey of their novel a more stimulating and colourful experience. And now you’re gonna ask for an example. You think I’m that well prepared? This is a flow of consciousness job I’m working on here, people. Why don’t you go and look for yourself? Pick up any of the following and savour...

James Lee Burke, Don Winslow, George Pelecanos, Walter Mosely, Elmore Leonard, Michael Malone (the American one), Jim Thompson, James M Cain, etc etc etc.

Being an erudite and well-read bunch, you guys are bound to have your own ideas here. So who would you add to this list?

the one where Bill takes his daughter and her friends out for the day and tries to grab some of the limelight...

Ladies Night In....or not.

With all of the money that Tesco have at their disposal you’d think they’d be able to target their promotional emails a little more carefully. Here is an excerpt from one I received last week...

Dear Mr Malone,


This week at Tesco.com we're celebrating the highly anticipated release of Sex and the City 2 with these fantastic offers to help you have the perfect girl's night in. From wine to dips and pizza to desserts, we've got all you need for a fabulous night in with the ladies.



Now, I don’t mind a wee drop of wine, the odd pizza or dessert and I wouldn’t be averse to a night in with the ladies – do Tesco provide them as well? The advert didn’t say. But celebrate SATC 2?

Puh-leeze.

I’d rather sit and watch a party political broadcast – for any political party - scripted by Katie Price, starring Piers Morgan, with music by Jedward and directed by Chris Moyles.

euuuggh

A trailer for SATC 2 was on the TV the other night and the wee fella reminded me that my attempts to socialise him are failing and that the age of Political Correctness has completely passed him by when he ranted – I don’t get it, dad. Why are they making a fuss about these women? They’re old and they’re ugly and that one – Sarah Jessica Parker flits across the screen in some designer blah – has a face like a horse.

Ouch.


Tesco.com were more on course with their marketing this week when their promo talked about the World Cup (this is me jumping up and down and screaming, I can’t wait!) and offered cheap beer and crisps.

D’ye think if I get in some wine, pizza and desserts the ladies will come along as well?

Art, Poetry and Britain's Got Talent.

Having a good day people. See me with the big smile.

Started off by visiting my local library. Yeah, I know, I buy loads of books, receive more than a few freebies to review for crimesquad.com AND I go to the library. I am the book world equivalent of Imelda Marcos, so sue me.

I had some books that were overdue; they had to go back today and lo, I walked in to see that the Library staff have revamped their crime fiction section and verily it is freakin’ fantastic. I’m way too manly to squeal and do the fast handclap thing, but for a moment it was a close run thing. 10 minutes later I left with a Ken Bruen, a three in one of George Pelecanos, an Elmore Leonard, a slice of Walter Moseley and some homegrown talent in the shape of Karen Campbell.

Oh man. Somebody tell my boss I won’t be in next week. Love it, love it, love it.

The library was a wee detour on the main business of the day which was a poetry reading the divine Miss Sheila T and myself were giving in Ayr Town Hall. This was part of an Ayrshire Arts Network event. There was an exhibition in the main hall of various art groups including the literary, visual (paintings/ crafts) and auditory (opera/ choral) and some events in meeting rooms where various arty types got to do their thing. Which was where Sheila and I came in.

This part of Ayrshire (south) has a poor record in the arts and this was a brave salvo from the organisers to get something going in the local scene. Given the parlous financial state of the country there is very little in the way of funding available for the arts; it is up to the people to do something about it. So this is me tipping my hat to the organisers.

To be honest, the reaction from the public was nothing short of pathetic. Was this to do with the weather? It was a beautiful day; most people would be on the beach/ in their garden? Or was it due to poor marketing? Or perhaps a lack of appetite for these things? You just know that if people got off their collective arse they would enjoy this stuff. But it’s not fronted by Simon Cowell or featured in the gossip rags we call newspapers so it passes completely by the great unwashed.

If folks (and I include myself in this) could get their snouts out of the trough of populist entertainment for just an hour a week it would make a huge difference. Art is not a luxury, people.

I know, I know, I’m pissing into the wind.

Anywho, first thing we did on arrival was to go to the hospitality room. Man, was the food good. All local produce lovingly produced and beautifully presented. Well, the “chef” was an artist. And as for the desserts!!! A pavlova the size of my garden table, crested with a mound of summer berries and a chocolate tart that was so deliciously gooey it stuck to the knife. Yum. My teeth were sweating just looking at them. Oh right...that was saliva?

Being violets of the blushing variety, Sheila and I were first to the food...and first to break the crust on the pavlova. It was almost a sin to disturb it. Almost.

Fed and watered, we made our way to the room where the poetry reading was to take place – with no real expectation. If there were more of an audience than there were poets, well that would have been a success and ...I’m happy to report we had around 18-20 people.

The audience were appreciative, fully engaged and asked some fascinating questions. Modesty prevents me from repeating the comments afterwards (yeah, right) but it is fair to say that Sheila and I were chuffed to go down so well.

After all that art stuff, I have an evening in front of the black box and the final of Britain’s Got Talent. See, I can do popular entertainment. But I’ll record it and watch later. (I have part 2 of Mesrine to watch on DVD) Then when I watch BGT I can speed past the cloying fillers with the contestants repeating “this means the world to me” ad nauseum – can someone not teach them to say something else? I’ll also be winding past the comments of the judges, especially Piers Morgan and Amanda Whatsername. Who are they? The former editor of the biggest rag of them all and a – what is she famous for again? Feckin’ clueless the pair of ‘em. With the people they put through into the semi-finals we should change the programme title to Britain’s Got A Little Talent, Quite a Few Transvestites and Plenty Bullshit Artists.

I prescribe a day out at a local art fair for Piers and Amanda. Might learn something.

Nut News June 2010

Ever worried about falling asleep on the bus or train? You have a night out, one or three too many and you miss your stop ending up in a strange place? Well spare a thought for a woman called Ginger McGuire who fell asleep in a plane.

The somnambulist fell asleep on a late-night United Express flight from Washington, D.C., to Philadelphia. She failed to wake up after the 50-passenger plane touched down at 12:27 a.m. local time and everyone else disembarked.

A cleaning crew eventually roused her, but she was kept locked in the plane until federal officers were satisfied that she was not a terrorist. They were clearly concerned that the latest terrorist tactic is making an ass of yourself.

Ginger, exhibiting that uniquely litigious bent that the American legal system supports is now suing for false imprisonment, infliction of emotional distress and negligence.




Just when you thought the anti-smoking campaign might be working, along comes a news story that proves otherwise. Ardi Rizal, aged two years, has a 40-per-day smoking habit. His mother has tried to get him to stop, especially since the government has offered to buy the family a new car once the child quits, but she says he is entirely too addicted. His father, on the other hand, doesn't see any problem - "He looks pretty healthy to me..." In the meantime, Ardi's health is such that he can't run around and play with the other kids. Instead he rides around on a plastic toy truck while puffing away, looking like a parody of a middle-aged truck driver.




In other news, it turns out that that a guy who exposed his own Social Security Number in his promotional material in order to sell his "LifeLock" identity-protection service has--oops!--had his identity stolen at least 13 times since he started advertising it, but hey, customers keep coming, at $10-$15 a month.



And this one’s for Thea – how’s the new job? - last Week in Texas . . . lawyer Carolyn Barnes, 53, was jailed for allegedly firing five shots toward a U.S. Census worker who didn't leave her property fast enough. Her plea in mitigation was: "I've been practicing law since 1984, and I haven't shot anybody yet ..." Oh, well, that’s ok then.

Its the first of the month and that means...

...there are fresh reviews on CRIMESQUAD.COM

A few of mine are sitting there waiting for your delectation, including John Connolly's The Whisperers and our Book of the Month, Cross Country Murder Song by Philip Wilding.

Also included is a review of a new novel by a friend of this blog; Donna Moore and Old Dogs. Donna has her own blog - absolutely well worth a read - go here bigbeatfrombadsville in which she (mainly) highlights Scottish crime fiction. Bless her wee cotton socks and thigh-length boots.

Donna's latest novel was described by book reviewer extraordinaire, Declan Burke as being like an Ealing comedy with salty Glaswegian patter. Or somebody did. I should check but I don't have time/ can't be arsed.

Here's what I had to say over at Crimesquad...


Having established her credentials with her first published novel “Go To Helena Handbasket” Donna Moore turns her wit and attention on to the world of the crime caper with gut-achingly funny results.


With care and precision Donna introduces her main players and their foibles and then very cleverly drops them in and out of the action to maximum effect. How she orchestrates her comic set-pieces is nothing short of genius and designed to eke out every last piece of humour.

An extra ability added to the already impressive list of skills that Donna exhibits in her writing is the ear she has for dialogue. For someone who is not a natural Scot she has the accent and the patter down to perfection.

If Alexander Pope was here to turn his attention to crime writing rather than philosophy he might have said, to laugh is human; to make other people laugh is divine. Donna Moore shine your halo.




Now people, go do yourself a favour and buy a copy.