The End of the Affair

I used to love Iain Banks. (When I say that, I don't mean "love" as in I Wanna Know What Love Is by Foreigner, or The Power of Love by Jennifer Rush (or even Frankie Goes to Hollywood)... I just mean love as in... hmmm.... a pint of cold beer on a warm summer late afternoon, say... or finally locating Coup de Torchon on DVD (for 5 quid). No, it's more than that (my former love for Iain Banks, not the DVD price). But you get my drift.).

But now I don't.

It's not a sudden thing. We went along fine for a while, our relationship - sparked initially by the sublime THE WASP FACTORY - bolstered by COMPLICITY, THE BRIDGE, THE CROW ROAD. I was smitten, so much so that I could forgive him for spending so much time in the arms of others (his SF novels - sorry, I just don't get them). But then he wrote this shit, and the rot set in.

I started looking at him differently, wondering who he really was beneath that bearded, enigmatic exterior. I thought I knew him, but the embarrassing shower of shite that was THE BUSINESS proved how wrong I was.

Still, my love endured. I was prepared to forgive and forget, as long as I could see at least some of the old Iain shining through. As long as he made an effort, rather than flailing around with imploding plotlines, or using his narrator to rant about his own political bugbears rather than tell a story. But then... But then...

But then I read RAW SPIRIT.

Now, don't get me wrong. This is a good book in publishing terms, and I can see folks liking it. He goes on and on about malt Scotch whisky. He drives around Scotland, talking in detail about how great all his cars are. We get to see how witty and earthy all his great friends are. We find out that 99% of Banks' driving (and there's a lot of it) is purely for pleasure. We see that he opposes the Iraq invasion, and a lot of other things (all left wing). We are told countless drinking stories, and find out that Iain once jumped off a 10' high wall and was caught by his madcap (but eternally loyal) pal. For a laugh.

Iain, you have a great life. You have worked hard at your writing, have put out some of the best novels of the past 20 years, which have been published properly and have sold well. You have had the breaks, yeah, and probably been in the right place at the right time. But none of that takes away from the fact that you are a fucking marvellous novelist who deserves the rewards of fame, fortune, and happiness. But do you know what?

I DON'T WANT TO FUCKING HEAR ABOUT IT.

I'm sure lots do. I'm sure there are plenty more fish in the sea - fish who will gasp at your descriptions of distillery visitor's centres, and your hilarious tale of how you wrote off that Porsche 911. But I'm not one of them. And that's it between you and me.

It's over.

Needs? You want to talk about my needs, now? OK, I need:

trouble
strife
conflict
turmoil
flickers of hope
absurdism
more trouble and strife
blood (spiritual if not biological)
(preferably both)
hardship
mental illness
dirty sex
laughing in the face of certain death
betrayal
sudden violence in pubs
weirdness
searching searching searching (but for what?)
bodily fluids
crapness
more conflict
and finally, resolution.

Or at least some of all that.

Maybe you can find it in you to give me some of that, in your own way. Maybe, just maybe, we can get back together again one day. They say an old flame never goes out.

Until then, there's the memories.