On with the silliness ...

Don'tcha love this picture!!!

Anywho, there I was waiting for my broccoli to turn into an unedible mush when I decided to look up some sillies on the web. Read on for some stuff wot tickled me ...

As a fan of certain female “attributes” I was interested, nay, distressed to read that the Mayor of Neuville-en-Ferrain, France had a statue removed from Le Mairie (that’s the town hall to the mono-lingual among you) because its breasts were too big.

How very dare he?

Mayor Gerard Cordon persuaded councillors to approve 900 euros in this year's budget to buy a replacement, a more conventional bust of “Marianne” (a French symbol of Liberty and Reason) modelled on the statuesque French model Laetitia Casta.

The artist who made the rejected bust, Catherine Lamacque, said she gave it outsized breasts deliberately, "to symbolise the generosity of the Republic." And why not, say I?

Strangely, the statue has been in residence since 2007 and it has taken until now for the mayor to be offended by it.  What happened monsieur? Did you change the prescription on your glasses? Have your testosterone levels fallen to an unprecedented low? Or did you fancy a younger model?

Being a techno-phobe and largely computer illiterate, I was also disappointed to read that "Google Motion" was an April fool’s hoax.

Google reported that they had found a way of combining your webcam and Gmail to dispense with outdated technology such as a keyboard and a mouse. Their hoax read thusly ...

 “By standing a safe distance from your computer, you will be able to issue commands by using different body shapes.

With a helpful motion guide, Google say that "movements are designed to be simple and intuitive for people of all skill levels". Leaning to your left will go to your inbox, while bringing your right arm up to your head with a closed fist will reply to the email.

It didn’t say what might happen if you inadvertently gave your crotch a vigorous scratch while you were on-line.

Fascinated as I am by body parts (one day I will grow up), the following article was bound to attract my attention ...

An English baker has brushed off a letter of complaint and petition after locals criticised his Nice Baps bakery. (For my overseas readers I have to jump in here with an explanation. “Baps” is a euphemism for breasts.  Yes. We are childish.)

Proprietor John O'Toole, 42, claimed that the name for the shop in the Bedfordshire village of Henlow came from his wife, the local rag reported.

Of the complaints, O'Toole said: "A little petition was handed in and I had a letter from one of the local schools who said they thought the name was trashy.

"So I tried to explain to them that I do small baps and big baps and they're nice and firm!"

So, that’s alright then. Power to your baps, Mr O’Toole. Keep the name, sir. It would make me smile as I passed by – and I would probably come in and buy a large firm pair. Perhaps modelled on the deposed version of Marianne.

Laters,

Michael

An Interview with Anne Hamilton author of A Blonde Bengali Wife

“Well, they all said that Bangladesh would be an experience. I don’t know about you, but this is the first time I’ve slept with someone three minutes after meeting them.”

For Anne Hamilton, a three-month winter programme of travel and “cultural exchange” in a country where the English language, fair hair, and a rice allergy are all extremely rare was always going to be interesting, challenging, and frustrating.  What they didn’t tell Anne was that it would also be sunny, funny, and the start of a love affair with this unexplored area of Southeast Asia.

A Blonde Bengali Wife shows the lives beyond the poverty, monsoons, and diarrhoea of Bangladesh and charts a vibrant and fascinating place where one minute Anne is levelling a school playing field “fit for the national cricket team,” and then cobbling together a sparkly outfit for a formal wedding the next.  Along with Anne are the essential ingredients for survival: a travel-savvy Australian sidekick, a heaven-sent adopted family, and a short, dark, and handsome boy-next-door.

During her adventures zipping among the dusty clamour of the capital Dhaka, the longest sea beach in the world at Cox’s Bazaar, the verdant Sylhet tea gardens, and the voluntary health projects of distant villages, Anne amasses a lot of friends, stories...and even a husband.

Having loved the book, I thought it would be nice to have a wee chat with the writer, Anne Hamilton and post the results here for my discerning readers ...


Me - You have 3 words. Pitch me A Blonde Bengali Wife.  


Anne - Jolly Good Story, or Bangladesh for Beginners, or Ways With Rice...


Me – Now (how generous am I?) you have 21 words to play with.


Anne – Ok. A Blonde Bengali Wife lives a hundred lives beyond the poverty, monsoons and diarrhoea of Bangladesh and charts a sunny, funny and unexpected travel memoir.


Me – That’s 25, sheeeesh. How did you get from a working holiday in a new (and unusual) destination to a book?


Anne - It was never meant to be a book, just a personal diary, scribbled by torchlight, to while away long evenings and to help process this mental whirlwind of a trip.  Everything about Bangladesh was new, foreign, exciting, overwhelming; so how terrific would it be, I thought, to have a record to look back on in 5 or 50 years time.  Once back home, I was at risk of becoming a total Bangla-bore and soon my all friends knew all the anecdotes. 


Sitting on a train one rainy Monday, I realised what better way to accost perfect strangers with it, than to write a book... Like a woman in love, I wanted everyone to know everything about this little-known, little-understood, often underestimated, fabulous country.

Me – Which begs the next question from a travel illiterate like myself, why the feck did you choose Bangladesh? 

Anne - You might equally ask ‘why not’? 

Me – Ok, why not?

Anne - It was a purely random choice.  The organisation with which I was working – VSI Ireland (known internationally as SCI or Service Civil Internationale) – was seeking volunteers for India, Nepal and Bangladesh.  There were others interested in India so I discounted that; Nepal was suddenly the subject of a Foreign Office advisory as the Crown Prince had attacked the royal family causing international borders to close, so that left Bangladesh.  Since I had no idea as to its capital city, national language, currency, religion... I decided I should learn, and learn by going there.  I was way out of my comfort zone and couldn’t decide if I was adventurous or ridiculous.  Even now, I’m not really sure whether the book answers that question!

Me – Having become familiar with Bangladesh – and it has to be noted that all of the proceeds from the book will be going to the charity “Bhola’s Children” – more of which later - what do you see as the future for this country? 

Anne – The future? Bangladesh is a country of many sides.  It’s topology means the annual extremes of weather and subsequent social and health problems, can’t be ‘cured’, just planned for and dealt with accordingly.  But it’s a country of 140 million people, it’s one of the most poverty-stricken places in S.E. Asia, and whilst it is a democracy in name, nepotism is rife and the government and the opposition – whichever of them is in power – are in a constant state of bickering.  On that level it looks bleak.  But there are local initiatives, charitable organisations, inspiring individuals, which are slowly effecting change in small but significant ways.  In recent years, the arsenic contamination in water is being addressed, girls are more likely to attend primary school than ever before, the infrastructure – building of bridges rather than relying on waterways – has begun to progress. 

There are many organisations like our own Bhola’s Children, tiny in the great scale of things but making a huge difference to local communities.

Me – Most writers have half a mind – or at least half a dozen brain cells continuously thinking about their next project. What’s next for you?

Anne - Writing has taken something of a back-seat to motherhood over the last seven months.  The  BLOG  has wobbled along and I've continued with a PhD in Creative Writing, the outcome of which will be a novel.  This is located on the island of Cyprus (another place I know reasonably well) with two interlinked story lines, one contemporary, one set during the 1974 war there.  In the meantime, I'm paying the bills with some tutoring and embarking on a project as a ghost writer.

Me – You can’t leave it like that ... Ghost writer? And if you were a real ghost (c’mon guys I have to stick in a silly question somewhere) which ghost would you be?

Anne - As the age-old saying goes, if I told you the identity of the ‘ghostee’, I would have to kill you... Actually, I don’t know the protocol of naming names just yet, so all I’ll say is that the lady is an ex pro-golfer and glamour model who has a very lively story to tell.  Kiss n tell blockbuster?  Misery memoir?  Learned biography?  You might ask but I couldn’t possibly comment... 

But if I were to be a proper ghost, I’d want to be a freelance one.  You know, flitting between hauntings,  a white sheet here, a headless horseman there.  Better still, have you seen that TV programme ‘Quantum Leap’ where a guy called Sam jumps in and out of people’s lives and changes history?  I’d like that job.  Or I’d like to be an angel, but definitely not the plain-clothes sort, a proper one with wings and a halo.

Me – Wings and a halo. Right. Anywho ... tell me about your time in Cyprus – and did you manage to elicit any marriage proposals there? (He cunningly brings the interview round to an anecdote told in The Blonde Bengali Wife)

Anne - Cyprus is fascinating – how many of the clubbers in Agia Napa know they are in a country that has the last divided capital city in Europe? Cyprus is Aphrodite’s love nest, is year-round sunshine, is archaeological heaven, is Cypriot-Delight in a sticky box picked up in the duty-free after a fortnight’s clubbing.  

But dig deeper than the Dionysian mosaics and find that Aphrodite was enmeshed in an incestuous, dysfunctional family, there is snow in the Troodos mountains at Easter, and is your box of sweets really Turkish Delight or Greek?   Or I could just say no; no marriage proposals, in fact no proposals at all, indecent or otherwise.  But then again, I had so many in Bangladesh, it would have been sheer greed to seek out more...

Now for the advert folks – A Blonde Bengali Wife is a wonderful book. It details with affection the challenges faced by a fascinating country and an equally fascinating people. The prose is a delight and chimes with poetic sensibility.

Given the troubling nature of the lives of many of the people you read about in the book this is never a difficult read due to Anne’s light touch and hugely readable style – but don’t think that for a moment she swerves from telling it like it is. She talks about the characters she encountered on her journey with honesty, affection, warmth and humour. Believe me you will not leave the pages of this book unchanged.

You can buy the book BY CLICKING HERE

And if that is not enough to get you to release some of your hard-earned – all profits go to the charity that was set up as a direct result of Anne writing this book. And you can learn more about BHOLA'S CHILDREN by accessing the link.

CRIME EXPRESS

Those clever peeps at Five Leaves Publications have announced their plans to re-launch their Crime Express imprint in April.

There are four novellas hitting the stands on the first of next month –

Claws by Stephen Booth is the story of DC Ben Cooper’s assignment to the Rural Crime Squad. He steps into the middle of an age-old conflict on the wild Peak District moorlands, where not all the victims are human.

Graven Image by Charlie Williams is noir at its best. Brothel bouncer Leon has to rescue his daughter from Graven, but everything goes wrong. Badly wrong.

Not Safe by Danuta Reah is a powerful story about a detective’s investigation into the apparently closed case of a refugee’s brutal murder.

California by Ray Banks is gritty and dark, it follows parolee Shuggie Boyle’s increasingly desperate attempts to get from California (Falkirk) to California (America).

At £4.99 each these small but beautifully formed works of art are ideal for those long boring journeys into work, soaking up the bubbles in the bath or even those inevitable long waits in dentist waiting rooms.

The novella is a much ignored literary format these days and an ideal one for the crime genre, so hats off to Five Leaves for having the cojones to give us fans of the genre another way of getting a fix. They deserve our support so hie ye off to   CRIME EXPRESS  and give your credit card an outing.

Talking of writing...

It’s that time of year again. The mists dissolve and the writers gather round the large room to hear words of support and wisdom from other more experienced writers.

Yup, it was Scottish Association of Writers’ Annual Conference time.

We call it the S.A.W. (We’re people too, you know. We use shorthand.) Except the hotel had signs at the door that read SAW. For the want of a series of full stops we assumed the appearance of a horror movie convention.

And that’s the power of the full-stop, my good people.

The speakers were excellent, the adjudicators worth their weight in the proverbial shiny material and the committee did their usual sterling job of making it all possible to bring these people together.

Jane Wenham- Jones was the special guest on Friday night and she was a hoot. She talked about a number of things that should be important to writers, including those old chestnuts of persistence and belief. She also talked about being searched at the airport on the way up from England and being worried that the searchers might find her lipstick-shaped vibrator in her hand luggage. Only her and the airport security people know whether this was a gag or not. Whichever it was, it had more than a few people chuckling.

Saturday’s speaker was Peter Kerr. The writer of several non-fiction books and several crime novels. He had a quiet charm and warmth about him that made him a very easy man to listen to. (Mind you he did take a while to get to the point.) His non-fiction books detail the years he took his young family to live in an orange farm on the island of Majorca.

One of my favourite anecdotes in his speech was when he recounted some of the adventures he and his family had while learning to speak the language. (You know us Brits. Few of can be arsed with the whole multi-lingual thing) It was a new year. His wife was in the local fishmonger’s – who unbeknown to her had just had his haemorrhoids dealt with. In her best Spanish she wished the fishmonger a Happy New Year. Except the Spanish word for “year” and “arsehole” are frighteningly similar, and she chose the wrong one.  Needless to say Mrs Kerr got an ear full of Catalan to go with her sardines.

Oh and during the course of the weekend I met up again with a little Irish lady – who I’ve known for a good few years and she told me her nephew is John Connolly (Every Dead Thing etc) Do you know him, she asked? Know him? I choked on my Glenmorangie over ice. He’s only one of my favourite authors. The next ten minutes passed in a pleasant fog/ day dream kinda thing where little Irish lady introduces me to JC and a bromance ensued. He’s now my new best bud, I’m riding his successful coat-tails and not the least bit embarrassed.

Then I ordered another whisky... and the mists claimed the halls  and everyone went home. 

Until next time.

Pants on fire...

I'm guesting over at Crime Central. Why don't you clickety click HERE for a wee nosey.

laters,

Michael

Book Review: Star Island by Carl Hiassen

I reviewed this recently over  at Crimesquad.com  - there's more good stuff on the Crimesquad site. Why don'tcha pop across for a nosey.

(BTW - apologies to UK readers. The Amazon link is stuck on the U.S. version and I really can't be arsed looking into  how I should fix it. So there.)

Anywho, the blurb reads as follows...

Twenty-two-year-old pop star Cherry Pye is attempting a comeback from her latest drug and alcohol disaster. Ann DeLusia is Cherry's 'undercover stunt double', standing in for Cherry whenever the singer is too wasted to go out in public. But, one night, Ann-as-Cherry is mistakenly kidnapped from a Miami hotel by an obsessed paparazzo named Bang Abbott.

Cherry's entourage comprise of the world's pushiest stage mother; a perverted record producer; nipped-and-tucked twin publicists;  and a bodyguard who has a weed-strimmer as a part of his prosthetic arm. The task for this collective is to rescue Ann while keeping her existence secret from the public.

Will Bang achieve his fantasy of a private photo session – a la Marilyn Munro - with Cherry? Will Cherry sober up in time to lip-synch her concert tour and promote her new album, Skantily Klad? And will Ann escape from Bang Abbott and Cherry's shadow?

My humble opinion reads thusly...

Nobody does it quite like Hiaasen and in Star Island he carries on his tradition of making his reader laugh while tweaking their conscience. This is a book I would have loved to have the wit and intelligence to write.

Star Island is a laugh-a-paragraph romp through South Beach, Florida, but it is much, much more than that. It is a great big V-sign to the celebrity culture that seems to fill our every waking moment. You want to see the paparazzi get their comeuppance? Get yourself down to your local bookshop and pick up a copy of this book.

Crime fiction as a genre is one that normally trades on a realism that’s sharp enough to cut your nails with, but with Hiaasen you have to set that notion aside as soon as he starts describing his characters. 

Kooky, is only the half of it.

Chief nut-job this time round is Bang Abbott; the depiction of a character so vile he will have every paparazzi dialling their lawyer. He’s fat and rancid (washing gets in the way of stalking time, dontcha know?) and his moral condition is permanently dialled to “Couldn’t Give A Flying Fuck”. He has only one thought in his mind: to get the one photo that will ensure his fortune.

We first meet Cherry Pye, the star of the story when she is vomiting into a silver-­plated ice bucket, en route to hospital after swallowing vodka, Red Bull, hydrocodone, birdseed and stool softener in the drug-enthused belief that she might be reborn as a cockatoo. Getting the picture? But not to worry. Ann DeLusia, Cherry’s “undercover stunt double,” is already on the job, impersonating the dozy diva while Ms Pye is driven off to rehab.

Given the larger-than-life aspect of most of his characters, Hiaasen could be accused of assembling a cast of caricatures, but he is so deliciously funny, as a reader you really don’t care. The satire and the humour is all.

I could go on... and on and frequently do when I’m talking about a Carl Hiassen novel, but you should really find out for yourself. Newbies to Hiaasen, I envy you; familiars, you are in for more wonders.

Book or Movie???

(Denzel Washington and whatsisname in Cry Freedom)

For me the book will always win in a competition against the movie.  The total immersion of the book – getting right inside the characters’ mind makes the book a winner for me every time.

There are occasions, however when it is a close run thing.

Here’s my top ten... in no particular order, cos I can’t be arsed putting them in any particular order...

Shawshank Redemption – Morgan Freeman and that other guy give great performances in the famous jail drama.

Cry Freedom – first time I remember seeing Denzel Washington in a movie. Impressive South African accent, DenZEL. The movie was based on the books Biko and Asking For Trouble by journalist, Donald Woods which highlighted the plight of Steve Biko, the anti-apartheid activist. Directed by Richard Attenborough.  Important piece of film-making from Dickie.

Schindler’s List – Ralph Fiennes was utterly convincing in this. Think if I’d seen him in the street afterwards I’ve have been on the phone to the Nazi hunters.

No Country for Old Men – loved the book, loved the movie. Watched the movie first. Perhaps that’s where the trick in this book versus movie thing lies. If I read the book first, the movie is usually a letdown.

Lord of the Rings – see above and this is the exception ‘cos I read the book sooooooo long ago, as a teenager. And Peter Jackson did an awesome job.

Trainspotting – gave the world smiley-fella, Ewan MacGregor.

The Silence of the Lambs – and the serial killer franchise really took off. Harris has a lot to answer for.Think I preferred the book, Red Dragon.

L.A. Confidential – a classic. ‘Nuff said.

The Diving Bell and The Butterfly – this is one where the movie actually enhanced the book. Yes, it can happen. If you don’t know the story, the author of this book was hit by an illness. All he could move was his eyelid. He worked out a sort of morse code and narrated this book by blinking to a friend. A reminder of how resilient and inspirational people can be when struck by tragedy. You've got to read/ see this.

Oh... and then there’s The Godfather, The Shining, The Green Mile, (maybe Stephen King should have his own list) The Prince of Tides, The Bourne  Series, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, In Cold Blood, Papillon, To Kill a Mockingbird, Winter's Bone ... awfurfecksake why did I start this?

Any faves of yours missing from here? Or are there any books you’d like to see being given the Hollywood treatment?

The Week That Was ...

Seeing as I have been posted missing (see what I did there?) from this blog for the last week I thought I’d give you a sneak peek into where my head has been at over the last few days...

Diary w/b Mon 21Feb

The media determination to drive us into a perpetual state of fear and worry continued today with the much reported story that parents are limiting the size of their family because of the fear and worry about the state of the economy. Parent’s fret (apparently) that more children will mean existing loin-fruit won’t be able to get designer gear and exotic holidays.

One “expert” posited the view that children are much more brand aware than they have ever been. It (whatever “it” might be) simply won’t do if Tarquin or Emilia are not clothed in designer labels from head to foot. Parents are therefore limiting the number of babies they have so the ones who have already crawled into this mortal coil can get the best of possible starts. One woman said she was desperate (her voice went all plead-y) for a 3^rd wean but holidays and brand clothing were just getting too expensive. Which prompted me to roar at the radio – getafeckingrip, missus.

Not that I’m an advocate of violence but some people need slapped till their lobes swell to the size of a melon.

Tuesday 22 Feb

Thing that amused me most today was an article about job applications mess-ups. They included CVs that were accompanied by a photo of someone else – caused all sorts of confusion at the interview. Someone else said in their CV that they were direct descendants of the Vikings (this is the UK - aren’t we all?) Another fave was the eejit who claimed God as his reference, but apologised for failing to provide contact details.

Brings to mind an interview I had a few years back. I got the job and a mate didn’t. My new boss, not realising I knew who she was talking about mentioned a few weeks later that a guy she interviewed the same afternoon as me, when asked why he wanted the job replied – “for the money and anyone who tells you differently is a fucking liar.”

Not quite sure whether to admire the man’s honesty or award him the Numpty Knobhead of the Decade.

Wednesday 23 Feb

I was at the launch of J.David Simon’s book, The Liberation of Celia Khan. David is a thoroughly nice chap and I hope lots of people buy his book. I’ll be reviewing it shortly on this very i-space.

My publisher, Ross was also at the event, cos David is one of his – and I got to meet him for the first time. Again, thoroughly nice fella. Looking forward to working with him.

David’s book is set in 1915 Glasgow and is about a young Jewish girl in a city that is in turmoil over the threat of socialism and feminism while trying to deal with the ongoing effects of The Great War. I’ve only dipped in so far but I am happy to report that David appears to be one of those writers who marry a fine literary style with an ability to tell a damn good story. Really looking forward to getting the time to dive in.

Thursday 24 Feb

Much laughter today at work. Which is nice.

Story in the news that piqued my interest was a shooting incident at a nearby school. Sky News had a good go at exaggerating the whole shebang. But further investigation detailed that it happened round the corner from the school, not at the gates and the weapon involved was an airgun. A pellet from one of these mutha’s is still going to hurt – but a massacre it wasn’t. Thankfully. Just a marriage of colossal stupidity and a slow news day.

Fri 25^th feb

While waiting for Treme to come on TV (10:15 Sky Atlantic) I allowed the wee fella control of the remote. (Makes it sound like I ever have control of the remote.) Anywho, he was channel surfing.

First some music channels –  ‘Madonna is so OLD why is she still trying to make music?’

Then it was Jersey Shore – ‘Why do people watch this? They’re stupid.’

Some trailers for an English programme – ‘I find strong English accents annoying.’

Then he hit on a new low in TV scheduling – Bridalplasty. I think I’ve got this right, but it appears that women who are about to be married compete in a variety of tasks to win a plastic surgery procedure of their choice. So they can look their very, very best on their big day. 

How fucked up is this? Let me count the ways.

Memories of a friend

It is my experience that there are occasions – provided you are open to them- when people come into your life at just at the right time. They offer guidance, a sounding board and friendship just exactly as you need it and for as long as you need it.

I was at the funeral yesterday of just one such person. Many years ago she welcomed me into her home and her family at a difficult stage in my life and probably contributed a great deal more to the man that I have become than she ever realised. She offered humour and compassion and expected nothing in return.

Her sons, my oldest friends, spoke eloquently from the pulpit about their mother. The main thing they talked about was how much of a joker she was. Her favourite involved an empty cup and saucer. A first time guest would be offered a cup of tea. She would carry it carefully from the tea tray and pretend to stumble just as she reached them. The cup would fall. The guest would jump back into their seat expecting a lap full of boiling water but all they got was an empty china cup and a slice of laughter. The ice was broken and the mood was set for the remainder of their visit.

It’s easy to almost deify the recent dead but she really was one of the nicest people I have ever met. I never heard a cruel comment from her and everyone who knew her had nothing but good to say of her. Being in her company was a constant joy.

I wrote the following poem – not for her – but for someone else who came into my life just when I needed them – but the sentiment and the appreciation is shared equally between them.

Here’s to all of our guardian angels... may they continue to find us when we need them and may we all be given the opportunity to provide the same service for others.

Father Martin.

The years have cast a haze

over the man who gave me the chess set.

The line of his nose may have been broken

by spectacles, his hair

may have been seasoned grey.

I was so short. He seemed a giant.

He was a giant, but was he tall?

He taught me how to play,

where to find whelks,

how not to abuse privilege.

All of those lonely, convent children

and he gave the chess set to me.

I found it in a cupboard

unopened  after three house moves

and twenty-five years.

One piece missing

its foam outline empty

as the space behind a mirror.

The set is dusted with memory of his voice,

“Guilt and religion should be strangers.”

“We grieve for ourselves, not our dead.”

“Going to Mass weekly, is not the measure of the man.”

I was nine.

I understood every word.

After the funeral family and friends had tea and sandwiches at a local hotel and a wheen o’ blethers (translation – we talked a LOT)

When I got home I had trouble sleeping, my mind full of the day. Just before I turned off the TV, I was channel surfing. I caught the last ten minutes of the movie (based on the book) Tuesdays With Morrie. The old coach on his deathbed offered support and advice to his friend who was grieving in anticipation of the his passing.

The old fella offered this – “Death means the end of a life: not the end of a relationship.”

God bless you, Marie and thank you for everything.

Adele - Someone Like You

Here's an antidote to all the over-produced pap the record industry are serving up these days. An incredible voice, affecting lyrics, emotion by the bucket load - and a piano.

Enjoy....

Where Ideas Come From

One of the most common questions writers are asked is “Where do you get your ideas from?” As a writer I can understand why someone being asked this question for the gazillionth time might leak out a groan. On the other hand I can also understand why a reader might ask.

The brain is a like a receptor for ideas you just need to tune it in... and whisper it – with enough practise, anyone can do it.

Remember the last time you bought a new car. Before the moment you got behind the wheel of your new car you rarely saw that particular brand. Perhaps, that was one of the reasons you liked it? However, now that you’ve got on, you see them every frickin’ where.

There aren’t suddenly more of them on the road. You haven’t started a new fashion, dude. It’s just that your awareness has been switched on. Your receptor has been alerted and is working on that particular issue.

It’s the same with ideas.

I went through a writing challenge with a writing buddy a few years back. I moaned to him that I hadn’t written a poem for yonks. He set me a challenge. I was to send him a fresh new poem every day by midnight.

Aye, right, says I. I’ve got a life. How about 1 a week? Naw, says he (in a Canadian accent – on account of the fact he comes from Canadia) how about 2 per week. Awright, says I (in a Scottish accent on account of I come from Scottishland.) And all of this by email! Amazing!

That set off one of the richest writing periods of my life. For 9 months I wrote 2 poems per week and emailed them to MK (on account of that’s his initials). Midnight Wednesday and Midnight Sunday were the deadlines and it was not a rare occurrence that I’d be chewing on my pencil at nine-thirty pm on a Wednesday, wondering just what the fuck I was going to write about. The expletive is necessary because that’s just what I was thinking.

BUT...

... something always turned up. I saw a poem EVERYWHERE. Other writers’ writing would set off a chain reaction of thought – a couple in a cafe – an old man hunched over a newspaper in a library – the sound of kids laughing outside my window... the sound of kids crying outside my window... for much of that nine months I went about in a creative daze and the world was my muse. Sounds a bit wanky, but that’s the way it was.

Until work got a bit horrible and drove any thought of being creative from my mind. 

And the jolly nice thing was that most of the poems wot I wrote in the period were jolly good. Even if I say so myself. Most of them even got published. So there.

Then crime writing kinda took over and my receptors were dialled in to the darker side of the human mind.

One day, a number of years back, I was on a London train making my way to a poetry event run by the afore-mentioned MK. The carriage I was in was full. We’re talking arms pinned by your side; someone else’s bad breath fouling your ear space kinda full. To my left, by the door was a group of American tourists. Four girls in their early-twenties; shiny with an un-lived life and pink with promise. They were completely un-mindful of anyone else, totally locked in to the importance of their own existence. One of them said something. Another shouted, “Shut up!” They all giggled.

A man to their side edged closer. Leading with his groin. He was tall, gaunt, face angled in shadows and he studied the girls as if they were the meat and he was holding the knife and fork. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a look on another person’s face. There was no sign of humanity. These girls were things. Porn, with their clothes still on.

My mind started racing. This man would hurt these girls as thoughtlessly as I might throw a chocolate wrapper into a bin. I wanted to warn them. But how? I couldn’t reach them. I was seriously penned in. And what if I alerted them and this was all part of an over-active imagination? Camera phones weren’t as prevalent then as they are now, or I would have taken his picture and sent it to the Met with the tagline – don’t know who he is but he’s got to be guilty of something.

He fixed his gaze on the loudest girl. She had long, black shiny hair, her skin looked freshly poured. His look wasn’t sexual. There was no hint of a leer. It was even more predatory than that. I couldn’t wait until the next stop. The plan I hit on was that if none of them got off I would pretend I was leaving, then do a big dramatic tut as I realised I was making a mistake and then stepping back into the train I would position myself between the man and the girls.

No mess. No fuss.

The train reached the next stop. The mad rush of passengers on and off began. I made my move... to  find the girls had stayed on and the man had vanished.

Did I imagine it? Was this man some sort of predator or a projection of a mind set to seek out the dark side?

Who knows, but it’s going to make a good scene in a future book.

So, where do YOU get your ideas from?

                        

Bob and my Kindle

The Great Kindle experiment, for me at least, is over. For now. Why, I hear you chime in response?

Because the dog ate it.

I’ve not had to say that since I was ten and a teacher asked me where my homework was. 

Yes, like many other people’s dogs, our Bob has a taste for the written material. I could just about handle it when he ate Lee Child’s latest hardback. Next up for a gnashing was Jim Butcher’s “Changes” and that earned Bob a swift rebuke. For “rebuke” read a loud voice, a skelp on the bum with said book and being ejected into the back garden.

The wee fella was watching and said, ‘Dad, you over-react. It’s only a book.’

Only a f~/&*ing book? Luckily, I had finished both books. (BTW, Jim Butcher is very, very, very good. You like vampires, wizards and fast violent action? JB is your man.)

Next up for use as a teething toy was myKindle. I was in the middle of Bill Kirton’s The Figurehead as well. i was reading into the wee hours, eventually went up to bed and yes, I left it in the wrong place and yes, it is now gubbed. Bob was satisfied with a chomp at the top right hand corner of the machine so the bottom half of the screen is perfectly readable. I just have to guess at what Bill is saying for the first ten lines of very page.

See me? Not a happy chappy.

If any of you kind people at Amazon are reading this and you would like to donate a kindle to the May Contain Nuts community leader – i.e. me – please don’t dilly dally. First class should get it here before Sunday.

To be honest though, my reading habits hadn’t really changed that much. I bought the thing early December. I downloaded about half a dozen books and read one and a half. (The half read piece being the afore-mentioned The Figurehead. Bill, I’m trying to give you as many mentions as possible; is this ok?)

In comparison, over the same period of time I have read, oh at least a dozen novels. True, most of them are free, but still.

Conclusion? I’m never going to go full-on-digital with my reading material. I LOVE browsing in book shops. I LOVE holding the weight of paper in my hand and flicking through the pages.

However the e-book debate rages on with the media desperate to tell us that the paper book is dead, long live the e-book.  We’ll see. The only thing that’s for sure is that the times they are a-changing. And some “mid-list” – gawd, what a horrible term – authors are seeing their books sell in previously unimaginable numbers. Which is nice.

Allan Guthrie, one of the finest crime-writers in these here shores has a blog where he talks about e-books that sell. Go HERE   for a wee read.

Friend of this blog, all-round good-guy and wonderfully talented crime-writer Declan Burke is selling his e-book. Got a spare pound or two?  click HERE Give him a try. Guaranteed enjoyment. Word.

What do you guys think? Have you made the switch to E? 

DON'T INTERRUPT ME...

People, you are on notice.




(With a hat-tip to Thea)

Smiling with Rabbie.

I had my annual dose of Burns the other night. Let me re-phrase... I was at a Burns Supper last weekend.

300 men in a large hall, eating haggis, drinking whisky etc, listening to Burns’ poetry and the guest speakers’ dirty jokes. What’s not to love?

For an evening all of these men are kept enthralled by the great man’s work, but the shame is... and I’m making a guess here, but I would think the bulk of the audience then forget about him until next year’s Burns’ Supper. As for looking at other poetry? Fuggedaboutit.

Also... I’m all for being proud of our national bard, his work is known throughout the planet and brings a gazillion visitors to our shores every year, but can he not be the be-all-and-end-all? Scotland has a host of fantastic poets and authors and guess what? Lots of them are still alive!!!! And what’s more lots of them could do with making a living at it.

Don’t get me wrong, Burns deserves his place, but too much attention on the dead guy gives no room to the peeps who could turn out to be the nation’s future literary stars.

Just sayin’.

Anywho, back to the Supper. The speakers and performers were, to a man, brilliant. As usual I spent the night laughing at the anecdotes and jokes and thinking; I must remember that, I must remember that, I must remember that.

Here are a couple I managed to store in the old gray cells.

One speaker tried to give a definition of poetry in comparison to prose.

He said, “There was a young woman from Madras.

Who went in to the water up to her knees.

This is prose. If she had kept on walking it would have been poetry.”

Another speaker talked about young Johnny who was asked a question by his teacher. There are 8 crows on the wall, the teacher said, if the farmer shoots one how many are left?

None, said Johnny. Because the sound of the gun would have made them all fly away.

The actual answer is 7, said the teacher but I like the way you’re thinking.

I’ve a question for you, said Johnny. There are three women on a park bench eating an ice-lolly. One is licking, one is biting and one is sucking the lolly. Which one is married?

The one who is sucking, said the teacher.

No, said Johnny, it’s the one wearing the wedding ring. But I like the way you’re thinking.

Another guy talked about visiting his old stomping ground (a local small seaside town that has a bit of a rough rep) when he still worked in the local police force. He walked along the seafront to a public convenience. He was delighted to recognise the caretaker from his time there all those years ago. ‘Howzitgaun?’ he asked the ol’ fella.

The ol’ fella mashed his guns before replying. ‘Know what? With all these dope-heads, junkies and homosexuals, it’s a breath of fresh air when someone comes in here for a shite.”

And on that note, I’m offski.

Laters.

ps

If any of the jokes I've replayed cause offence you can register said offence at www.whogivesafuck.com

and the winner is....

Everybody who left a message made me smile. See how easy it is to get a response like that from me? Just leave a message.

Anywho - instead of a judgement being made on the width of my grin I decided to do it the old-fashioned way and draw the names out of a hat. Well, a coffee mug actually.

So, the winner of a copy of Dennis Lehane's latest novel, Moonlight Mile is...

RICKY!!!!!!!

Send an email to mickmal1@sky.com, Ricky - with your address - and I will get the book to you in the post. Just as soon as I get my fat arse down to the post office.

Up For Grabs; Lehane's Moonlight Mile

Those nice peeps at Little, Brown  sent me a copy of Dennis Lehane’s new book Moonlight Mile. See me with the fast, happy handclaps.

I first came across The Man after watching Eastwood’s (that would be Clint, in case you are having trouble keeping up) take on Mystic River. I liked the movie so much I read the book. I liked the book so much I read anything by Lehane I could get my hands on.

But don’t take my word for just how good Dennis Lehane is. Here are some quotes from other like-minded peeps...

“THE WELL-OILED PLOT MECHANICS, EDGE-OF-THE-KNIFE DIALOGUE AND EXPLOSIVE BURSTS OF VIOLENCE ARE POLISHED AND PRIMED IN THIS HARD-BOILED SHOCKER.”

-The New York Times Book Review

“IN THE MISERABLY HOT SUMMER OF 1999...THE SUPERB DETECTIVE NOVELS OF DENNIS LEHANE--BECAME A KIND OF LIFELINE FOR ME.”

—Stephen King

“AN ANSWERED PRAYER FOR A SUMMER MYSTERY READER...DENNIS LEHANE SHOWS A GIFT FOR STRINGING OUT SCENES AND CREATING TENSION—SEXUAL, HOMICIDAL, YOU NAME IT—THAT MAKES A READER EAGER TO FIND OUT WHAT COMES NEXT AS KENZIE PUZZLES HIS WAY TOWARD A SADISTIC KILLER. BUT DON'T RACE AHEAD AND CHEAT YOURSELF OUT OF THE LOCAL PLEASURES.”

-People Magazine (Beach Read of the Week)

“DENNIS LEHANE DELIVERS A COMBINATION OF HIGH-ENERGY THRILLS AND DEAD-ON PORTRAYALS OF KILLERS AND OTHER BAD PEOPLE.”

-Chicago Tribune

“LEHANE IS A MASTER AT BALANCING THRILLER GIMMICKS WITH WONDERFULLY ROUND CHARACTERS. THE LATTER MAKE THIS AN A-PLUS NOVEL—THE PLUS IS FOR THRILLS.”

-Philadelphia Inquirer

The blurb for “Moodlight Mile” reads thusly...

Sixteen-year-old Amanda McCready has disappeared. Her anxious aunt contacts Patrick Kenzie to investigate. It is not the first time she has gone missing, as Patrick well knows - he was the investigator who worked on her case when she was kidnapped before, as a four-year-old. 

But this is not a simple case of a runaway girl. In fact, nothing in Amanda's life has been simple: brought up by the world's worst mother, neglected throughout her childhood, she has nonetheless blossomed into a formidably intelligent young woman. A young woman so bright that she can seemingly out-think and out-manoeuvre anyone...

For Patrick, the case leads him down Boston's darkest, most dangerous streets and into a world of shocking secrets that will threaten not only Amanda's life, but also his own and that of his partner Angie Gennaro.

So there you go. And why have you not bought one already? Oh, right, you read FREE BOOK into the title and wondered where I was going with it?

Anywho, those nice peeps at Little, Brown forgot they sent me copy#1 and sent me another. So I thought I would offer it up for my bloggy pals here on May Contain Nuts.

To win all you need to do is leave me a message that makes me smile. The one that ranks highest in the smile-o-meter gets the book.

Nice ‘n simples.

So talk to me already...

Do you has good taste?

“Guilty pleasures” is a phrase that has worked its way in to modern parlance and from there it’s only a small skip and a jump to overuse and cliché. In case you are not down with its meaning (I am SO down with the kids) it means something you enjoy buy feel “guilty” for doing so. Any guilt involved is apparently to do with being caught participating in an activity which is thought to be deeply un-cool by your peers.

The more I hear this phrase, the more it annoys me. One the one hand I can understand that at our deepest level we are social creatures and anything that puts us at a remove from our social group is something to be avoided. A l’autre main, we are individuals and if whatever I am doing doesn’t harm anyone else why should I care what you think, fool?

And who gets to decide what is cool or un-cool? Is there some arbitrary notion that hypnotises en masse? Or is it all influenced by a media that browbeats us every minute of every waking day with their choices?

The media is run my people just like us. Why do they get to decide what we should and shouldn’t watch? Someone gives them a job on a newspaper, magazine or TV programme and we should suddenly listen to them like they are the Great Guru of Taste?

Sheep. That’s we are, the fecking lot of us. Fecking sheep. Something is given the glamour of popularity by the chosen few and we rush to show that we are as cool as everyone else.

Baa, baa, baa.

And I can be just as baaad as anyone else. Up to a point. Then I tend to make my mind up for myself.

(Recently I noticed that women were carrying about handbags with a wee dog on them. Radbury? ‘Cos they had a small piece of leather in the outline of a dog they were suddenly desirable. Like most men I don’t get the fascination with bags, but a leather doggy-tag? WTF?)

What instigated this mini rant-ette was my viewing on Youtube the other night. I began watching music videos by John Legend (cool?) and Quincy Jones (mega cool?). Which led to Melinda Doolittle (the best singer never to win American Idol – as far as the cool score goes your guess is as good as mine) Beyonce (cool?) and then on to Barbra Streisand (mmmm? She was more cool when she wasn’t singing all that Lloyd Webber stuff.) and Barry Manilow (deeply uncool?).

An hour or so of “guilty pleasures”? Quite a journey and one that would have had my mates pissing themselves laughing.  But to be frank I couldn’t give a shit. These peeps all produce great music, great vocals and great tunes.

I caught and stopped myself using the GP phrase just recently when I was talking about books. I almost said Wilbur Smith was a  #hangs head in shame#  guilty pleasure. For the briefest of moments – I was talking to someone I wanted to impress –I worried that enjoying Smith’s books might make me look less of whatever I was trying to be. As I said, I caught myself and proudly noted that I was a fan.

Are you a literary snob? Do you only read the classics? Are your shelves filled only with the likes of Atwood, Conrad, Austen and the latest Man Booker/ Pulitzer prizewinner? Do you rush to hide the latest Stephen King or James Patterson when you hear a knock at the door? Why is popular fiction derided as somehow being unworthy? Our own P.M. David Cameron tried to excuse his “poor judgement” by writing off his holiday reading as “trashy novels”.

Making me think, what a twat!

(And don’t you love democracy? In some parts of the world that would have earned me a few nights stay in a cell, an episode of water-boarding and a police baton wedged up my arse.)

IMHO there is only good writing and bad writing. If the book grips or entertains me why should I worry if the taste police look down on me?

If you find yourself kow-towing to this needless waste of energy, stand tall and announce your preference with pride and offer a biblical pox on the decision-makers of “good” taste.

What books/ writers are you now going to proudly proclaim as favourites?