RIP Free the Mangel One

FREE THE MANGEL ONE, the Facebook group set up to rescue Royston blake from publishing oblivion and get his next adventure published, is due to be archived. Thank you to anyone who joined it. The book got published, and that is down to you. Here are the acknowledgements from the inside of the book, for those who haven't read it:

"Thanks go to the many people on Facebook who supported this series and helped to get this book published. All hail the power of social networking, even if it means that people are looking at screens instead of reading books. To Alex Carr who took a chance on something unusual and is responsible for this edition that you are holding. To all the bloggers, journalists and fans who publically stood up for Royston Blake when the chips were down for him. He will repay you in the next life... which is in Mangel. To John Williams and Peter Ayrton who are the ones who got this series going in the first place. It is fair to say that without them I would be on a park bench somewhere, drinking Brasso and shouting at passers-by. This paint stripper is much nicer - cheers for the tip, guys."

One Dead Hen at Amazon UK

One Dead Hen at Amazon US

A Book in your Face

Ladies and Gents, the FREE THE MANGEL ONE Facebook campaign has worked. Royston Blake is on his way back! Lock up your daughters, your drinks cabinet and your toolbox!

More here.

And have a top weekend.

Mangel in the paper

Here is an interview with me re the Mangel books in last Sunday's Birmingham Sunday Mercury. Nice that Blakey is not forgotten, though he is taking an extended break in a holiday camp called oblivion at the moment. When he comes back, rested and raring to knock heads, only the faithful (and those willing to be converted) will remain unmolested! Not that Blake's a molester of anything.

GUEST BLOGGER: ROYSTON BLAKE "I believe I can fly"

The FREE THE MANGEL ONE campaign has now hit 373 members, which is pretty fucking not bad at all. A few more and we'll be on quite good. But you know what level I'm aiming for, don't you, blokes and gentlemen? I'm aiming for top fucking banana.

Ain't there a plane called a 373? A Boing 373 or summat. I ain't been on a plane before but I have been on a helicopter. There was one up by the East Bloater Road once, a big red one parked near a recent road accident, by coincidence. Me and Finney were out there having a laugh in a borrowed Cosworth, pretending like we was American and driving on the right. Mind you, the feller had plenty of time to see us coming so I dunno why he swerved off the road like that, smashing into the bus-stop. Anyhow, me and Fin were alright, parking up behind some trees and coming back a bit later to see if there was anything worth seeing, sticking out bones and stuff. It was Finney who saw the chopper. Engine idling, no one in it. I mean, that is a fucking gift, right?

We got about twenty yards, and it was Finney's fault. I should have taken the wheel, I know. Or the rudder, or whatever the fuck it was. Why did I believe him when he said he'd drove one of them things in the army? Fin wasn't in the army, for fuck's fucking sake. He's a fucking gyppo, for starters, and I'm pretty sure they ain't allowed to join. Not that the bloke chasing us knew that. Fin could have been a general in the SAS for all he knew, the twat. So that's why it was his fault, really, when Fin veered sideways and took some of the bloke's head off with the blades. Just a bit, at the top.

But the main thing to know is we got away and no one saw us. And everyone was alright in the end. Except the bloke. And whoever had to put out the chopper, after we jumped out and it crashed into a conker tree, blowing up a bit. But I ain't ever been in a plane, no.

Not yet anyhow.

Blakey in the Graun

Sam Jordison has written this feature on Royston Blake's predicament in the Guardian books blog. It's a great piece and pretty topical about the state of publishing. Inevitably some of it is doomy and gloomy (especially in the comments section) but I feel that Royston Blake will rise again in book form. Perhaps as a zombie. I could call it Deadfolk! Oh...

Many thanks to Sam for championing the Royston Blake cause.

Guest blogger: ROYSTON BLAKE

I see the Writer has been spouting shite again. One mention of him in an article in one of the brainy papers and he's off down the pub, going on about how he's "at the vanguard of a new wave of young writers kicking against the cliches and producing ambitious, challenging, genre-bending works", or whatever. Well...

My dad used to have a mate who drove a Vanguard. And let me tell you, it was a fucking nail. All I remember about it was blue smoke out the back and dust up front as motor after motor frog-hopped you. So being a Vanguard is fuck all to be proud of, you twat.

Plus, right, who's really doing the graft here? The one who sits on his arse and types? Or the one who gets out there and makes things happen, pinging swedes and fighting for peace and justice and keeping them out who ain't welcome? He writes down stories... I fucking AM stories.

Who's the Vanguard now, eh? Actually can I be a Ford Zephyr? Zodiac MK4 at a push.

So if you should see the Writer down the pub, giving it that and bragging about how he's "kicking against the cliches", you just remind him who's wearing the size-twelves here and who's got the steel toe-caps. Then sit back and watch him get wankered on less than fifteen pints. The fucking lightweight.

Oh yeah, and join FREE THE MANGEL ONE, cos there's fuck all point doing "girder-bending works" if they ain't getting published.

Dying deadfolk

I recently heard that DEADFOLK has gone out of print. You can still pick up copies here and there but there is no longer a ready supply of it. And you know what that means, right? He's getting weaker.

Royston Blake is starting to fade away.

If FAGS AND LAGER and KING OF THE ROAD end up going the same way, poor old Blakey will be nothing more than a memory. "Royston Blake?" people will say in pubs up and down the country. "You know, that almost rings a bell but I can't quite... Nah, it's gone." How can we let that happen to a character described by Ken Bruen as "wondrous" and by the BBC as "a dazzling creation of well-intentioned prejudice and overblown machismo, dripping with dramatic irony, who would rather spare the upholstery of his 2.8i Ford Capri than ferry a wounded mate to hospital"?

Those kind of guys are like gold, right?

"He makes the insipid heroes of lad lit look like a bunch of big girls' blouses," sayeth the Guardian... but those blouses will be free to rule the roost if that fateful day comes when Blakey has nothing in print. Do you really want blouses ruling the literary roost? Oh yeah, I guess they do already... But do you want them to do so unchecked, without a pound-for-pound doorman and community pillar watching over them with a cold eye and a colder pint of lager?

Spread the word...

FREE THE MANGEL ONE

CCCP

...meaning 300 punters. (Do you get it? Roman numerals for 300 plus the letter "P", which means... ah, forget it.) Anyway, that's how many have joined the FREE THE MANGEL ONE facebook campaign so far. And in time honoured (about three weeks worth) tradition, I will be drawing lots later this afternoon to identify the lucky person who will receive two books selected by Mr Royston Blake himself, sort of. I can tell you that one features him, and the other has a picture of one of his cultural touchstones on the cover and is subtitled ": THE UNTOLD STORY".

So, if you want a chance of this magical prize, join the campaign now.

Blakey at the Gates of Dawn

Royston Blake is dead, we all know that. He was murdered by the accountants, condemned to death because his true stories were deemed unprofitable. They took him out at dawn - gagged, cuffed and hooded - and hanged him high over Hurk Wood... where all other writers could behold him and quake. 'Heed this warning!' the accountants shouted. 'Any of you bastards gets any bright ideas about unusual settings and fancy narrative devices, this is what you get. FUCK your originality - we want sales. We want cold, hard numbers!'

For two days and nights, no one dared approach the hanged fictional character. His hulking silhouette filled the townsfolk with dread, oversized feet and hands hanging down like meat pendulums, massive head bent terminally sideways at the noose. Only crows would come, pecking at his eyeballs and pockets, which were lined with crumbs and bits of stray tobacco.

Then one morning the townsfolk, emboldened after an all-night scrumpy session, went up to the gibbet at dawn to cut the victim down. They were going to give him the burial he deserved, commit him to the earth with a few ritual elements he might have appreciated. Two of them set about digging a grave - six foot deep, eight long and five wide. The rope was cut and the corpse fell hard, sinking a couple of inches into the boggy turf, and they gathered round. Nathan the barman uttered an incantation that no one understood beyond the words "Balboa" and "Ford Capri". Then the offerings were brought forth.

Alvin carried a double doner kebab with extra chili sauce and chips instead of salad. He placed it in Blake's right hand and stepped back, head bowed.

Fat Sandra from the arcade stepped forward and placed in his left hand a plastic bag filled with tokens, along with a note saying his life ban was henceforth lifted.

Doug the shopkeeper approached with a plastic bag from which he produced a can of lager and ten Embassy Regal. He lit one of the cigarettes and wedged it in the corner of Blakey's mouth, pointing chinwards so as not to set fire to his moustache. Then he cracked the can open, held it up to the rising sun and poured the amber nectar between those blue, lifeless lips.

The silence that followed was total. Even the birds withheld their song. Mother Nature herself paid her respects by lulling the breeze. Then it happened:

Blakey's hand moved.

He sat up, coughing and spraying lager and bits of Regal everywhere. The townsfolk stepped back as he got on his feet and lurched back and forth, punching his own head and trying to get his neck unbent. With his head finally upright he took a huge bite of the kebab, threw the rest in the air and roared.

Several miles away, in the big city, accountants looked up from their screens, wondering what that distant noise was.


If you are a townsfolk and you support Blakey, or are just afraid of him, please join this Facebook group. Or buy one of his "memoirs" and show the accountants they are wrong. And have a good weekend

Free the Mangel Books

At about 5pm today I will be picking someone randomly from the FREE THE MANGEL ONE group on FB to receive one of my books PLUS a couple of authentic Fags and Lager beermats PLUS an old book that may or may not be to your tastes, who knows? Obviously it's in your interests to keep the number down and max your chances, but it would be good if we got a few more to join, wouldn't it?

...AND...

I will be doing this for every 100 new punters we reach up to 1200 (which is as far as my store of self-authored books goes). Will we ever get that far? I dunno, but that's a lot of packing and posting from me if we do. And do you know what? I don't care. I just don't care.

So if you know people who like free books, please get 'em to join.

Guest blogger for Easter: Royston Blake

Brothers and sisters, today is Good Friday. On this day in history, in 1066, Pontius Pilot and his brothers did a number on Jesus Christ, snatching him off the streets of Bethlehem and carting him out to Calgary (in the back of a horse and cart version of the Meat Wagon, like as not). And do you know why they done that, friends of mine? They done it, right, cos they deemed him to be a danger to the status quo.

I know what you're thinking. 'What the fuck has Easter got to do with heavy metal?' you're asking yourselves. Well, status quo ain't just them headbangers who done "Whatever You Want" and "You're in the Army Now", it is also a French word meaning, erm... hang on a min.

Alright, status quo means "the existing state of affairs" (according the Nathan the barman, so if he's wrong you can take it up with him). And Jesus was a danger to that, Pontius reckoned. See, Pontius was shagging a lot of birds behind his wife's back, and Jesus found out about em and was about to spill the beans to all and sundry, thereby getting Pontius in the shite with her indoors. But there was another thing as well, the thing what made up Pontio's mind to get some of the lads together with a few beers, a couple of pitchforks, some nails and a massive cross...

Jesus told things like they was.

Wherever you found him - down the market, the pub, the arcade... anywhere - you'd always find Jesus talking to folks, opening their eyes to matters and showing em how wrong they had it. And he weren't being nasty about it. He done it in a nice way, calling em his lambs and giving em fish and chips and glasses of wine and that. Because it weren't their fault that they had things wrong in their heads. It was the fucking powers that be, weren't it? And we're coming back to the Pilot brothers here.

Now, I want you to look at my current situation. The powers that be are trying to shut me down, just like they was with Jesus. Instead of the Pilot boys I got the publisher bloke and his cronies. It's cos I'm doing just what Jesus done, telling the truth to all who will listen, pulling the scales off their eyes with a quiet word, a loud voice or sometimes a slap, if they're a bit slow. Only difference is that they're too fucking scaredy to having a go at crucifying me. Folks have tried similar things before and they don't work on me, and every cunt knows it. So instead, right, they're refusing to publish my true story, WRONGUN. Jesus got nailed to the cross, I got my book held back.

It's the same fucking thing, separated by about two hundred years.

But Jesus rose again, didn't he? After forty days and forty nights, on May bank holiday or thereabouts, Jesus got up and went walkies, scaring the shite out of most folks I would reckon. And I can do that as well - Royston fucking Blake can rise up from the dead, in book form. And you can help me, brothers and sisters, by joining this here Facebook thingio.

Your mate

Blakey

FREE THE MANGEL ONE

Five For ?

Back in '09 I did a "five for" interview with Susan Tomaselli for 3am magazine. Well, now it's my turn to put five questions to an interviewee. Some of you may know him, some not, but you should all check this out. His name is Royston Blake and he is the former head doorman of Hoppers Wine Bar & Bistro.

Blakey gets a Brazillian

The very brave Paul Brazill has interviewed Royston Blake. Provocative questions and incisive answers, I think you will agree. check it out and join the campaign.

Brits, grits and shi...

...ny new things for you to read. Such as Royston Blake having a rant over at Alan Griffiths' Brit Grit blog. He's trying to get you supporting his Facebook campaign, and who am I to tell him nay? Who is anyone to tell him that? Oh yeah, Serpent's Tail... But they will relent. When the see the sheer power of the FREE THE MANGEL ONE campaign (erm, currently 103 members... we need you!) they will see the light and get publishing.

Me and my guest blogging turn

I've got a guest blog post over at Scott Pack's Me and My Big Mouth today, talking about Royston Blake, Wrongun and why I am trying to make Wrongun a reality by creating a Facebook campaign. Sounds a bit weird, me putting it like that. And it probably still sounds weird even after you've read the piece. But it's there all the same if you want some more skinny on why the book has not yet been published. Scott posts regularly on his blog so you should keep an eye on it (especially the fire station book swaps).

FREE BLAKEY update

62 group members already. That is bloody amazing, and cheers to everyone who has joined the fold. Do you reckon we could make it a hundred before next week? If you want to help, check it here: FREE THE MANGEL ONE.

We have a figure, by the way. We have a goal to aim for... a theoretical number of group members before WRONGUN will be made a reality. That number is one hundred

thousand.

100,000

*Ahem*

FREE THE MANGEL ONE

Some people know I wrote a fourth Mangel/Royston Blake novel. Most people wouldn't even know there was a first, second and third, but I can't worry about them. I can only worry about the folks who liked one or more of the first three, and might be up for helping to turn a trilogy into a series. To be honest, I don't even worry about them, really. Why worry? But if you are a Blakey fan (or even even if you're not), please join this Facebook campaign.

In the era of Barack Obama, I believe that anything is possible. Which is why I think Royston Blake - a former nightclub bouncer with a history of mental problems - could become prime minister of... Oh, no, we're not trying to do that. All we're trying to do is get him back out there, in book form, doing what he does and kicking the shit.

Does this "campaign" have a goal, an attainable target? Hopefully it will soon. I'll keep you posted. Meanwhile...

FREE THE MANGEL ONE