Two Decades of Venom

Happy 20th birthday to Serpent's Tail. Not sure when the exact day of it is, but last night was the party so it must be around now. Great party, BTW. Very Serpent's Tail.

An interesting point was made by either John Williams or Stella Duffy (who both gave little speeches to honour ST), I forget which. Pete Ayrton is one of the few remaining bone fide publishers. By "publisher" I mean a guy who selects his list according to his own taste. Of course he has his editors (most notably John), but everything goes through Pete (15th most "powerful player" in publishing?), which is why this independant publisher has been able to survive and thrive in today's corporate book world. The role of "publisher" used to be a much stronger one, with guys like Jonathan Cape, Victor Gollancz, and John Murray giving their names to their lists (which survive today, of course, albeit in disembodied form). So really Serpent's Tail could be known simply as "Peter Ayrton".

The Bollocks

Every now and then I read a book and it reaffirms the possibilities. The things that you can do with the novel format, the kind of risks you can take. I only come across about one a year. And I need them. Without them, these little reminders of why I'm doing this at all, I might as well give up. There have been many of these books over the years. First of all they got me into reading, then they showed me that I could never be a writer, then they showed me that I could be a writer, then they showed me how I could carry on being a writer. Some are big, famous books. Some are unassuming and seemingly of little consequence. As long as they hit me somewhere, or make my eyes widen a bit, it doesn't matter.

Matt Haig's THE LAST FAMILY IN ENGLAND did both.

It's hard to say why this novel works. It's easy to say why it shouldn't work. The narrator is a dog, for fuck's sake. A black Labrador. Like all good Labradors he is an adherent of the "Labrador Pact", a treaty which places duty and the (human) family above all else, while other breeds (led by those irresponsible Springer spaniels) have abandoned themselves to the anarchic pursuit of pleasure. This is a great idea. Dogs are bloody everywhere, for God's sake. Why hasn't anyone thought of transposing a political ideology onto them before? OK, maybe they have. But it's the other stuff that elevates this book. It's the creeping agony of watching a family disintegrate from within, and taking it all from the loyal Lab's anxious POV.

Ah, shit, there's so much to recommend about this book. Can I use the term dog noir? If so, this is dog noir. It's a lot else besides that, but if you look at the bare requirements of noir this has them all. And a talking squirrel. Despite all this, the book does not come across the slightest bit whacky. A little over over-cute at times, but you forgive that. You're a Labrador, and you have to forgive every human failing. No, THE LAST FAMILY IN ENGLAND (first published in 2004 - I'm always late with these things) is not whacky. I probably come across as whacky in the way I'm talking about it, but it ain't.

Outrageously inventive, yes.

By the way, this book came to me via an unsual (and probably unprecedented) route. My mum gave it to my wife, raving about it. My wife raved about it and gave it to me. At this point, I usually get suspicious and steer clear, but for some reason I gave in. And now here I am, raving about it and giving it to you.

Turkey Lurkey

Hey, I'm still here. I went to Turkey for a week. It was great, other than the last night when my son puked a bucketload down my shirt. Serious projectile stuff, carrot chunks ricocheting everywhere. He's alright now.

Other experiences were infinitely better, such as the reading of Ray Banks' lager-fuelled SATURDAY'S CHILD. Although I was kind of looking forward to getting out of England for a while, Banks carried me back to the more squalid corners of Manchester and Newcastle... and I loved it. He writes about the kinds of people and places that I like reading about (ie: losers and shit-holes), and does so without flinch or compromise. This is a full-on bollocks-out thriller without all the airbrushery that you normally get. And the entirety is embued with a noir as thick as two-day-old motorway espresso. Roll on more Ray Banks books. This country needs HIM.

Incidentally, I followed SATURDAY'S CHILD with Hemingway's THE SUN ALSO RISES. Between those two books, believe me, that is A LOT of sauce getting sunk on the page. The Hemingway was also of interest to me because I know all the locations pretty well, except Pamplona. I was all set to head down there for the bull run in 1992, but something happened to thwart my crazy plans. I forget what, but it probably involved Hemingwayesque/Banksonian amounts of drink. For the best, I've no doubt.

I put every damn pipe in this neighbourhood

I've had a short story accepted for BULLET (a superb magazine which is British, print, and crime - sadly a rare trio of qualities these days). My story is called KING SHIT, and I had a fine old time writing it.

Congratulate, if you will, Bullet regular Mr Raymond Banks, who has achieved an eye-watering level of success in having his books SATURDAY'S CHILD and DONKEY PUNCH taken up by the big hitting US publisher Harcourt. While you're congratulating him, buy this.

And for anyone who wants to play the quote game (hey there Ana), check the title. Another piss easy one, I'm sure.

"I got a rash on my ass so bad I can't hardly sit down"

Just be clear, I haven't really got a rash on my ass. Or anywhere else, right now, to my knowledge. I just wanted to float that quote. Anyone name it? Sure you can.

In other news, I'm still here. It's cold. I've just written THREE short stories, which makes me a short story writer again. It's pissing down with rain out there. The History of Violence is an ACE film. I got a rash on my ass... Ah, no.

Ghost in the Capri

For a while now, amongst people who I actually have face-to-face communication with (and who know I write these books), a debate has been raging. (OK, not really raging. Breathing?) It's about the cover of KING OF THE ROAD. Go ahead, have a look at it and see how many people you think are in the car:

One, right? The driver. But what about a back seat passenger? Is there a woman sitting behind him or not? Every time I look at it I have a different opinion on this. Either there's a woman there (quite an attractive one, I must say), or just a bunch of random reflections and glints that create that impression. Or...

Look, I've told them. 'Ghosts don't exist,' I say. 'This ain't Scooby Doo, mate, this is KING OF THE ROAD, hailed in The Times as "a great mystery", lauded in The Grauniad as "gloriously funny stuff", proclaimed in The... Hey, wake up!'

But then I look again at that cover, and I wonder...

News from the hinterlands

After a gap of nearly five years, I've managed to write a couple of shorts stories. At least one of these will be published some time soon (in BEST NEW NOIR from Point Blank Press, which will feature (and I quote) "original stories from Ken Bruen and Charlie Huston [as well as reprints from many others]. And a poem (Donna Moore). And two stories under 500 words, for people with poor concentration". Speaking of which, I also nailed two flash stories - one already up at el Tribeo's Flashing in the Gutters (damned if I can locate it, though), the other for the forthcoming THE FLASH anthology.

David Veronese is a wild, transgressive, and dangerously overlooked novelist. How come there has been no follow-up to 1994's JANA? We want something else, Dave.

Paul Meloy is the best writer of short stories in Britain. Possibly the world. Probably the world. I'd bet money that he'd top the list for the whole of creation, if only we could measure such a thing. Find his stories in the Third Alternative. We all have an imagination, but it's about how purely you can tap it, and Meloy lays it down uncut. Temper that with his gift for cranking up the pace, and you have stories that have the effect of simultaneously snorting cocaine, tripping on acid, and experiencing a spiritual epiphany. This man will have one hell of a collection out sometime soon, let me tell you. He'd better, anyway. I'll do myself if I have to.

I've run out of decent whisky. Shit.

At the Harrogate Crime Writing Festival (July 20-23), on the Friday, I'll be doing a panel on "Unique Voices" alongside Stella Duffy, Shane Maloney, and Marcel Berlins. Check their website shortly for all the other great events they're doing.

My daughter Elodie is getting into pre-Monsters Bowie. Duncan is still stuck on Iron Maiden, however.

Just where are the hinterlands? "Remote and undeveloped area", the definition goes. Etymology: Ger. Hinterland, from hinter "behind" + Land "land". Looks like they're in Herefordshire, then.

"Catch me if you can, cos I'm an England Man"

I don't understand. OK, I understand the concept of the World Cup Song, which gets the nation singing along and supporting the team. But why choose the shittest band on the entire planet to sing it? I mean, does anyone actually NOT hate Embrace? Would anyone NOT like to destroy them by dropping a huge boulder on top of them while they're "performing"? Or maybe we could build an enormous wicker man, pop them inside (bound and gagged) with some chickens and a couple of sheep, and sacrifice them to Tom Waits?

Why can't we just have "This Time (We'll Get It Right)" again? Or we could steal "I Have A Dream" off Scotland? It's not as if they need it.

In other news, I've found some photographs from Left Coast Crime in Bristol.

Viva

And it's not the car on the cover of DEADFOLK that I'm referring to, which is a Vauxhall Viva (not the Ford Capri 2.8i you would expect). No, it's the Spanish word I'm talking about here, which means... I dunno. Maybe it just means "Vauxhall Viva"? Which makes "Viva Espana!" a bit puzzling. But no, I am joshing you just a tad. I've done enough knocking around the Euro scene to know that viva means "live!", or something. Which is a bit strange, when you think about it. Fancy going up to someone and saying "Oi you, live!" You can see where the phrase might come in handy (if you worked for the Samaritans, for instance), but even so.

Anyway, that was your preamble. I just wanted to talk about the Spanish edition of DEADFOLK, which they called GENTE MUERTA. I got a copy in the post yesterday and, wow, it's a fine object. Kudos to Factoria De Ideas for putting out such a lovely book. I know they got it out pretty sharpish to bolster their "Black Street" line of books, and I really hope it sells a few for them. So if you're reading this and you'r Spanish, and you don't understand any English, go here and buy the book. OK? Or go into a Spanish bookshop. What do you mean, "que"?

Ah, Spain... Did I tell you the story about when I went out drinking in San Sebastien and got lost, and was later woken up by two irate coppers on a park bench? (As in I was on the bench, not the coppers. It would be pretty odd if it was the other way around, wouldn't it?)

So, GENTE MUERTA is a lovely book, and nestles up there on the shelf, next to THE TRILOGY.

Junior Playlist

I accosted my two children the other day and demanded to know what their favourite song is. I was expecting something from Mary Poppins, or maybe some awful sugary pop song. But no, these infants surprised me with their maturity. My daughter, aged 6, went for "Streams of Whiskey" by The Pogues. Not bad, I thought. Getting in touch with her celtic roots, whilst showing a healthy deferred interest in a legitimate beverage (ie: she did NOT choose "Streams of Alcopops"). The boy, aged 4, was equally impressive, narrowing it down to "Run For The Hills" by Iron Maiden. Besides being a nascent headbanger, he is taken by the plight of the redskins, chased by the white man from their rightful home (to be fair, I think he's got a mental image of the Abominable Snowman invading a beach of sunburnt English people). So, all in all, I thought they gave the right answers. I tossed them a shilling each and let them go.

Mind you, they were both perilously close to choosing "Communication" by Spandau Ballet, which would have meant no shilling. (But at least it wasn't "True". That would have meant a year-long pocket money ban, suspended until they start receiving pocket money.)

King of the Kongs

I saw King Kong last night. The new one. At least, I could have sworn I did. I spent the first couple of hours of the day thinking "shit, that was one scary film". Then I had some coffee and worked out that it must have been a dream, since I don't recall going to the pictures. But it really was as if I saw an entire movie, and it was Peter Jackson's King Kong. Only, I was in it. I was the lead role. And the story was way different from the original b&w version, which I have always loved. In my version, Kong was a real bastard. He was a bad gorilla, chasing me all over the place (sort of a fictional city encompassing aspects of many places I have lived over the years, as usual), turning over cars, ripping off roofs (rooves? Ah, I hate English sometimes), and just being a big black bastard. (Can I say that? Come on, we're talking about a large animal with black fur, OK?) And to make matters worse, he knew. I don't know what he knew, but I knew that he knew it. And it was about me. He knew my weaknesses. And somehow that was worse than the threat of getting crushed and eaten by him. But I did OK for most of the film, and managed to keep ahead of him. Right at the end, though, when I was walking around in some sort of indoor municipal swimming pool that had no water in it, he appeared behind me, and I knew I was cornered. That's where the film ended.

Has anyone here seen the Peter Jackson movie? Does it go something like that?

Left Coast

Yep, I was there. Due to the constraints of real life I probably only saw about half of it, but I had a great time. This was my first "con experience", and if they're all like this in some way I'll defo be along to more.

It was superb to finally meet Allan Guthrie and Donna, Ray "the Truth" Banks and Ana, Sarah Weinman, Kevin Wignall (in disguise), John Rickards (those two have identical hair, believe or or not), Russel McLean (nice coat), Jason Starr, Donna Moore, (I really didn't intend this to sound like an Oscar speech), Maddy Van Hertbruggen, Adrian Magson, Pat Mullan, McKenna Jordan and David Thompson, Martin Edwards... There are others I met who I just can't remember the name of, or couldn't hear it when I asked. I've got a problem listening to one voice in a crowded and noisy room, and it becomes a bit embarrassing when you have to keep saying "What was that?" four or five times. There comes a point when you just have to give up and say "Oh, right. Nice name" and get on with it.

Even greater than meeting those guys were the folks who came up to me when they didn't have to, to get a book signed or just to say hello. I'm incredibly grateful for those, and to anyone who came to the two panels I did (especially the first, which I moderated).

Ah, those panels. One of them was great. Donna Moore moderated it smoothly and with great aplomb, and the other panelists (Al, Ray, and Jason) revealed themselves as natural entertainers in the Bruce Forsyth mould. Everyone seemed to enjoy it, and I certainly did. Then there was the other panel, which I actually moderated. All I can say is thanks to Greg Rucka, David Lawrence, Peter James and Catherine Aird for keeping things going. And Greg - sorry I kept going on about your comics, rather than the Atticus Kodiak and "Queen and Country" series. I just couldn't get the word "comics" out of my head. I think I might even have asked Catherine if she'd ever written any. Or read any. Or just thought about comics in any way.

Congrats to Tony Broadbent for winning the Bruce Alexander Award and Peter Guttridge for the Lefty (like they'll ever read this). FAGS AND LAGER was up for a Lefty but, hmm, it didn't win. Apologies for those near my table who caught shards of broken glass, and to the staff who had to clean all the red wine off the wall. I've calmed down now. You can let go of my arm, really. I'm not going to throw anything else.

Well done to Myles Allfrey, Adrian Muller and co for organising it all.

Jesus, why am I still writing this? There were some people who I intended to "approach" but never got around to it. Stuart McBride was one of these. He probably would have spotted a nutter coming and made off (as did Jeffrey Deaver) , but I recognised him from his blog, and meant to go over but couldn't shift my arse from the comfy sofa. I was also going to have a word with Peter Guttridge, and ask him if I could just hold his blue glass Lefty award for a few seconds. But after the ceremony, when they'd let me out of the secured room, I had this strange electronic device around my neck that induced debilitating head pain whenever I came within ten feet of him. And I was going to say hello to Lee Child, and maybe swap suaveness tips. Sorry, Lee, you'll just have to stumble along as best you can until our paths cross again. And there were others. Oh yes, many others that I wanted to meet. But let's face it: I'm just not a good networker. I mean, come on, I'm a writer.


PS: Ray Banks would have you believe the only thing that separates us in height is my big hair. This is untrue, and I will prove this by having a "number 1" the next time we meet (interpret that how you will). And the big hair, I assure you, was down to the extremely windy conditions outside the hotel, and my inability to look in a mirror.