Zidane Ban

So Zidane gets banned for 3 games and fined a paltry sum for his iconic butt on Matterazzi. What I don't understand is... why did he bother turning up to the FIFA hearing at all? The man is now retired from footy. What are they gonna do if he flicks the V and tells them where to go? It's like doing a Saturday morning detention the week after you've left school. Tell them to fuck off, Zidane.

As if I didn't have anything better to do...

I set up a Myspace page. I'm not even sure what Myspace is, but I set up the page (Thanks to Anastasia for advice and blunt criticism.) Anyway, take a look:

www.myspace.com/nathanthebarman

What is supposed to happen now? I don't know and don't care. I'm off to the Harrogate Crime Writing Festival to do a panel on "Unique Voices", meet a few writerly folks, and get bladdered.

Reality Guys

Back around 1980, when I was a whippersnapper, there was a bloke in Worcester known widely as Mad Colin. He would turn up at any kind of public gathering, such as the annual bonfire and firework display at Pitchcroft, and hang around the periphery on his Raleigh Grifter bike, which was like a sort of forerunner to the BMX. I had a Grifter too (blue), as did my brother (red) and most other kids around Worcester (unless they had Choppers). But Mad Colin was not a kid. He was in his 20s (at a guess). And no one ever spoke to him. In my memory, whenever approached, he kicked the pedals and disappeared on that Grifter. He looked a bit like Wayne Rooney, before anyone had ever invented Wayne Rooney. I have no idea who coined the name "Mad Colin", but it really worked, if you know what I mean.

Not long ago I finished writing a novel entitled MAD COLIN (my first one since the three Mangel books). I started out wanting to tell a story about the real Mad Colin, but it kind of shifted (as these things always, ALWAYS do) until all I was left with was the name. But the name really works for it, if you know what I mean. (Hopefully you will see this book some day soon.)

It made me think of writing. Nearly every piece of fiction I start is grounded in reality. A real person, event, place, or (usually) all three. But you set out to use those real things in your story, maybe tell the story how it truly happened, and you realise you have no control. The story takes over. Those reality guys are not your characters at all. Your characters are different people entirely, and if you try to bend them into the shapes of the reality guys, it ain't gonna work.

However...

There is one character in DEADFOLK and FAGS AND LAGER who is real, right down to the name, and what you see there on the page is exactly what you got in real life 20 years ago. I tried to make him different in some way but he just wouldn't budge. Not even his name. Stubborn bastard.

Let's be careful out there

The "Charley says" series of public service films are legendary. Shown on British TV in the 70s, they featured a wise cat (Charley) who warned kids not to do stupid things like setting themselves on fire with a box of matches, drinking a bottle of vodka, knocking over your dad's bottle of light ale, or hanging around with strange men. 30 years later many of those dangers have disappeared. Kids these days carry lighters, for example. And light ale is only found at larger branches of Tesco. But strange men are still a very real and present danger, and kids would do well to listen to Charley's warnings about climbing into their cars. However, Charley is gone.

But all is not lost.

This is a Hoff world, remember.


[A nod to Mrs Anastasia Banks.]

Provocation

Isn't this natural? I mean, why is everyone jumping to condemn? Zidane has spent his football life holding back, staying cool, keeping his head. Minutes to go in a game - his final game - that is destined for stalemate (penalties are a sordid affair and no way to go out). Matterazzi provokes him and for once Zidane thinks "Well, fuck it. Nothing to play for now so I'll just turn around here and show that fucker..." Jesus, it wasn't even like he butted the guy's face. It was the ram of an incensed Billy goat. And, come on, it was beautiful, wasn't it?

As for all those who are going on about kids watching the game and what it will say to them... what do you think it will say to them? That you win games by crazy goat tactics? No - that you get sent off for it and do not win the World Cup. A guy takes issue at something and there is a moment of violent retribution. Let the kids see it. It's the way of the world. They'll be seeing worse.

Zinedine Zidane - STILL A HERO.

A Cracker of a post

Chandelier Hoff

AP via New York Times:

LONDON (AP)-- Former ''Baywatch'' star David Hasselhoff had surgery after severing a tendon in his right arm in an accident in a London gym bathroom, his spokeswoman said Friday.

The 53-year-old actor, who played lifeguard Mitch Buchannon on the TV beach drama for 11 years, was shaving at a gym in the Sanderson Hotel on Thursday when he hit his head on a chandelier, showering his arm with broken glass, his publicist, Judy Katz, said.

Doctors operated to repair the injury and Hasselhoff spent one night at St. Thomas' Hospital in central London, Katz said.

'He's fine,' Katz said by phone from New York. 'He's out of the hospital and will resume filming tomorrow.'

Hasselhoff is working on an ad campaign for Pipex, a British internet company, she said.

Hail Hoff, king of kings. If Hoff jumps very high in the air whilst shaving in a London gym, hitting the chandelier, then it was for a reason. Hoffworld is located on a plane far higher than our own, and events that occur there are outside our comprehension. All we know is that they happen for the greater good of humanity and creation.

Thanks to Jenny for spotting this.

Bend It

I'm not doing a good job of blogging. I know, I know, I know. Blame it on the world cup. I'm also trying to get a new novel together and it's occupying my thoughts rather. I will blog something soon. Honest. Maybe. No. I mean yes.

There are not really explosive kegs between my legs

...just in case you were wondering. I mean, I haven't posted for over a week, and for all you know I might have blown myself up, with those dangerous kegs nestled down there.

Did you know that I live between the M5 motorway and the Malvern Hills? Look out one side of the house and you see the snaking panorama of those hills. The other, and it's the motorway. I consider this of significance. The M5 motorway is the main arterial road that takes you from Cornwall to Birmingham (that is to say, from heaven to hell). The Malvern Hills are like the last ramparts between the East and the West (or England and Wales, if you're looking at an old map). They inspired Elgar to write all that music. You look at them and you just know there is some kind of energy inside them. People who live on them... believe me, there are some strange people up there (especially in West Malvern). There's a theory that the hills inspire creativity (see Elgar), but if you get too close, you get madness.

Just East of them there used to be Powick Hospital, which for years was called Worcester Pauper Lunatic Asylum. My mum worked there when she was young and, going by the stories she's told me, it was exactly what you imagine (eg: escaped madmen roaming the countryside). Was it such a good idea to put them all so close to those hills? Maybe not. Then again, perhaps all those crazies who live on the hills are just the escapees they never found?

I live at just a nice distance from them hills, ta very much. The M5 motorway, I dunno what that inspires. It's nice to see though, all those stressed commuters stuck in that time/space warp while I'm chilling in my back garden with a beer and a book.

There are explosive kegs between my legs

I seem to be forever posting here just to knock off the last post, which has become embarrassing. (For the record, I don't wear those trainers with those trousers usually. I was just... ah, never mind.) Anyway, the new issue of BULLET magazine is now out there and raising hell, like a class when the school bell rings. Issue #6 features stories by Ray Banks, Al Guthrie, Chris Morrow, and many others. I officially declare BULLET the best fiction mag in Britain. I strongly urge you, dear lover of sweet lies on the page, to go and buy it (or place an order). The mag has style, the mag has grace, Rita Hayworth gave good... Er, I mean the mag has great stories, and is on a mission. Get on the Bullet Train right now.

Llanelli Confidential

Congrats are due to Robert Lewis, whose debut THE LAST LLANELLI TRAIN has been shortlisted for the Bollinger Everyman Wodehouse Prize for Comic Fiction (bit of a mouthful that). I really hope he wins, because the other nominees look mostly dull (though, predictably, famous), so keep your fingers crossed for him. Readers of this blog will know Robert from the little "tour" we did last year, touting our dubious wares. To jog your memories, here's a shot of me and him at the Port Eliot Festival, singing 'OK Computer':

Other big congrats go to Ray Banks and Jenny Davidson, who have both scored big on the deal front.

So, yay!

The Smiths

With great pleasure I announce that my story SWEET AND TENDER HOOLIGAN is going to be in the Smiths-themed anthology PAINT A VULGAR PICTURE (edited by Peter Wild and due from Serpent's Tail some time). The idea of the antho was to take a Smiths song and use it as inspiration for a story, using the title. I think I came up with one of my best stories. Look out for other music-themed anthos from The Fall and Sonic Youth.