Alabama 3 - Manchester Academy, 26th April 2008

We arrived at the Academy just as the crowd were doing that bunching-towards-the-front thing they do when the band comes on stage. There was that delicious feeling you get from a large space, excited people and thumping basslines. It’s a while since I’ve felt that. The baby appreciated it too and started dancing enthusiastically along.

Speaking of which, I’d been a bit trepidatious about my seven-months-pregnant ability to stay on my feet for a long time, and the barn-like Academy had even less seating than the last time I was there (as in, none at all). But I needn’t have worrried. The Alabama 3 have magical powers, and even hefty women with limited energy reserves can dance - have to dance - when they’re on stage.

The sound was muddy - the treble end of things, particularly the guitars, were hard to distinguish from the general sound - and I’ve never thought much of the Academy. It’s a large square box with no soul. And maybe Larry Love and D Wayne were a bit lackadaisical at times, strolling around the stage as though there were only a handful of bored people in front of them rather than a thousand or more enthusiastic fans, but those are my only criticisms. The experience would have been better - as it always is - right up at the front, but I was worried about fragile foetus eardrums, never mind sharp elbows and less-than-careful feet.

They opened with Mao Tse Tung, only one of their many outstanding tracks. Nearly every song they played - and they played a lot - was a personal favourite of mine, and even then they missed some out (Peace in the Valley for instance, or Wade in the Water). It’s astonishing. They’ve been going for ten years or more and can still draw a crowd like this, can still write good new music.

Mao Tse Tung is a good example of their sophistication, multi-dimensionality and sheer irreverence. Who else could use original samples of Reverend Jim Jones, the Christian cult leader who led hundreds of supporters to a mass suicide in Guyana in 1978, as the key motivator in a thumping techno country acid house blues anthem which stirs the audience to a frenzy and ends with everyone raising their left fist in the air, as they agree that change must come through the barrel of a gun?

Yes, they’re taking the piss. Yes, they subvert these messages. Kind of. But kind of not. As Robert Spragg (aka Larry Love) has said in interviews, they’re not anti-religion. They’re saying something about alienation, about spirituality, about a fucked-up world full of murder and injustice where sometimes religion is the only thing that keeps people going. That there’s real power in people uniting, whether through music or revolution, and fighting back.

Despite the high I felt when I first walked in, it took a while for the gig to warm up. But when they reached the climax of Up Above My Head (a more recent track from Outlaw, 2005), the whole place exploded. Proper leaping-about-with-hands-in-the-air stuff. Delicious.

Zoe Devlin, the female vocialist, was energetic and spectacular throughout and more than made up for her laid-back stage mates. And there were some great moments.

Hypo Full of Love (from Exile on Coldharbour Lane, their first record and still a top listen), contains within it a Twelve Step Plan, during which disciples are exhorted to remove all their clothing in order to become “powerless and demeaned” under the great Reverend D Wayne. At the Academy they had their very own disciple on stage in the person of Billy Morley, a man well known to hard-core A3 fans in Manchester. I could write another whole piece about Billy, but instead I’ll just tell you about his hair. It’s very long, and very dreaded, and - I’m assuming - very old, as it hasn’t changed much - just got longer - in the ten years I’ve known him. Unless prisons make you cut your hair off. Do they? I don’t know. But now Larry Love has cut it all off. During the climax of Hypo Full of Love, to raise money for St Ann's Hospice, Manchester (£1080 was given). Billy is one hell of a nice guy, and Billy’s brother has cancer.

It was moving, exciting, energizing, bizarre (and there’s a video of the whole thing here)… only with the Alabama 3.

The encores were pretty ace, too. They took a long time coming back, but as my companion and general life partner pointed out, they’d must have had to leave for a fag. They played Holy Blood first. It was a bit slow and gentle for my liking, filled as I still was with adrenalin from Billy’s stirring hair-removal strategy. But then it built to its wonderful climax, and everyone was leaping again. They followed that with Speed of the Sound of Loneliness (such a favourite that me and Him Indoors performed a cover at our friend’s wedding), and then built to another great climax with Sweet Joy. I do love a good climax.

And then the lights came up and we all got to admire each other in that strange wet post-gig place of bright lights, floors strewn with rubbish and beer and shiny people drenched in sweat, a good proportion of them eagerly congratulating me on my ginormous, and now exposed, bump. I’ve written about it elsewhere, but I did love the way they took to my bump. Life-affirming indeed. As was the gig.



They're ace. And you can buy their latest album here. Further live dates can be found here.


Addendum:
I may be a writer, but I’m a pregnant writer, which means I have an excuse for forgetting my pad and pen. To make up for this, I created a sort-of-story as the gig went on. So if you want to know (some of) the tracks played, you’ll just have to decode the contents of my head. Here you go:

According to Mao Tse Tung, the doctor woke up on Monday morning and got busted for not dancing 2 tekno any more, but was then rehabilitated by the soldiers in the army of the lord, which made Amos Moses sad, so he went and sat on a rock and drank honey, then up above his head, he heard music in the air. And lo, Johnny Cash and Billy Morley appeared, and Johnny cut Billy’s dreads off then shot him up with a hypo full of love. ‘Encore!’ said Amos, so they lit torches full of holy blood then left, at the speed of the sound of loneliness, singing sweet joy as they went.


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Jasper and the Traveller

A week or so ago I did some (amateur) storytelling at the Chopin Bar in Chorlton, Manchester. I'm still gathering new material so I try and tell a different tale(s) at each event I do, and I'm always on the lookout for some new way of doing things.

This time, I'd seen a film on television a couple of weeks previously, and had loved it. I jotted down the plot of the film, thinking it might make a good story. In the end the film was way too long and tortuous, particularly as I only had a ten-minute slot. So I stripped the plot right back. And then I changed the ending, which I didn't think was satisfying enough. And then I transposed the whole thing into a different era, as I thought the modern setting might stand in the way of your average storytelling audience's appreciation.

It's a bit cliched but to be honest, but I do love a good dollop of cliche every now and then. And it's fun to strip stories back to their bones.

Here's the result. See if you can guess what film it was.


Jasper and the Traveller

There was once a young man named Jasper, who wanted to seek his fortune. So he visited the local squire, who offered him work. He asked Jasper to take a carved wooden carriage over the hills to another county, where the squire’s daughter was to marry. The carriage was beautiful, with seats that were lined with silk, velvet curtains at the windows, and led by two white horses.

Jasper was pleased, and set off early in the morning.

After a while he saw a man at the side of the road, asking for a lift. Jasper was glad of the company, and it wasn’t until he had reached out a hand and was pulling the traveller up beside him that Jasper noticed his eyes. They were cold, and grey. The man himself said nothing but “Drive,” in a nasty splintered voice.

A little further along Jasper saw another carriage, on its side in a ditch. He could see the head and shoulders of a man, still holding the reins of two horses, one dead and one injured. The man was groaning, and Jasper slowed down in concern. But the traveller at his side grabbed hold of his reins and urged the white horses on. His shoulders were broad and his arms were strong, and Jasper couldn’t stop him.

Jasper was scared.

“What do you want?” said Jasper.

The traveller only laughed.

“What happened to that carriage?” said Jasper.

“He were in need of fresh horses,” said the traveller.

“Who was holding the reins?” said Jasper.

“Why,” said the traveller. “You worried he won’t be getting no fresh horses?”

“Yes,” said Jasper quietly.

“You’d be right there then,” said the traveller. “Because I cut his legs off.”

And at that, the traveller handed the reins back to Jasper and took a bloodied knife from his pocket. He held it up to Jasper’s cheeek, and Jasper could feel the cold of the blade and the wet of the blood.

“I’ll do anything you want,” said Jasper.

“You can say me four words,” said the traveller.

“OK.”

“Say, ‘I want to die’,” said the traveller.

“I can’t! I can’t say that!”

The traveller threw his head back and laughed, with no real mirth nor warmth but with relish enough to compensate.

Only while his head was back, Jasper saw his chance. He gave the traveller a good strong shove, and even as the traveller was falling to the ground Jasper was urging the horses on as fast as they’d go.

He drove full speed for some time, until his breath began to slow and he saw a small cottage at the side of the road, a curl of smoke rising from the chimney.

Jasper stopped and knocked at the door, which was answered by a young woman with a mole on her cheek and a crinkle to her brow. Jasper tried to speak but his breath came in coughs and nothing came out right. She sat him down and brought him some broth, until finally he was able to tell what had happened, and she sent her young brother out running, to fetch the soldiers.

The soldiers came and came quite fast, but on their way they passed the carriage in the ditch, and when they arrived and saw Jasper with blood on his cheek, they hauled him out of his chair and pushed him roughly against a wall, where they searched his pockets and found the knife. The knife which the traveller had placed there, still covered in blood.

The soldiers took Jasper away to the gaol, and locked him up in a cell. Jasper sat tired and broken on the hard stone floor, until finally he slept. And dreamed, of blood and knives and cold grey eyes.

When he woke, his cell door was open. He rose cautiously and crept out into the passageway. He could hear a drip, drip, from elsewhere in the gaol. A door opened, and a dog appeared. It glanced casually at Jasper then disappeared through another doorway. Jasper followed the dog, and found it licking at something behind a desk. It was the severed neck of one of the soldiers. Three other soldiers lay nearby, and all of them dead.

Jasper heard horses’ hooves, and looked out of the window to see more of the king’s men arriving. He didn’t hang round to take the blame. He pulled a knife from one of the soldiers’ belts, climbed through a window at the back, and ran. He ran and ran, ’til his feet were sore and his breath was scraping his throat like a rusty blade, but at least he could see a destination.

At the bottom of a valley was an inn, and that’s where Jasper went.

“What’s happened to you?” said the innkeeper.

Jasper couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but sit at a table with his head in his hands, where he was brought a drink which sat at his elbow and remained untouched. He sat there some time, sad images flicking through his mind, until he felt a presence on the other side of the table.

He looked up, to see cold grey eyes.

And at that moment the last few hours built up in Jasper and burst from his mouth in a yell, even as he reached for the knife in his pocket.

But the traveller only laughed. “You won’t do no damage with that poor thing,” he said. “It’s old, and broken.”

And as he spoke, the knife fell apart in Jasper’s hands.

The traveller looked sympathetic. “Maybe you’d be better off dead,” he whispered, and he reached into his pockets and drew out two coins. He placed these, one on each, on Jasper’s eyelids.

Jasper didn’t move. For a long time he sat there, until he was sure that the traveller was gone.

Just as he was blinking the coins from his eyes, he heard hooves again outside the window, and this time he looked to see the young woman with the mole on her cheek, driving Jasper’s beautiful borrowed carriage.

“You left something behind,” she said simply, pulling him up beside her.

“Drive,” said Jasper.

And drive they did, as far as they dared without harming the carriage or the horses, until they reached another inn. It was perched at the edge of a high cliff, with a view stretching out over flat plains beyond.

The innkeeper assumed they were married, and gave them a room. They didn’t argue. They curled together on the bed, fully clothed, quiet and calm. After a while the woman fell asleep, and Jasper got up carefully. He went out onto the balcony and stood there looking at the view as the sun set around him.

The woman woke, and stirred. There was a strong arm around her, and a hand stroking her cheek. She lifted her own hand to stroke it in turn, but the other was gnarled and rough. She tried to pull away but it was over her mouth and the arm was dragging her off.

When Jasper turned back to the room, the woman was gone. From the other side of the inn he heard horses whinnying, and he crossed the passageway to see through the window, the carriage. And tied to the carriage, the woman’s hands. And to a nearby tree, the woman’s feet. And the carriage itself, balanced on the edge of the cliff. The horses gone. And the only thing stopping the carriage from following them was a rope, held straining in the hands of the traveller.

Jasper was terrified. The woman was screaming, and he called back through the window, said he would come to her aid. He ran down the stairs, out the back, to the yard, where he stopped suddenly at the sight of those cold grey eyes above a cold hard smile.

“Hello, Jasper. How nice to see you,” said the traveller.

He started forward, his eyes on the woman, whose own eyes in turn were pleading with him. He was desperate to help.

But the traveller moved his arm slightly, the carriage moved slightly over the cliff, the woman screamed. Jasper didn’t dare move.

“What do you want?” he said in desperation.

“I want to die,” said the traveller, his eyes glinting with amusement.

“What?”

“Look down, Jasper.”

At Jasper’s feet was a crossbow, and the traveller nodded at it. “Pick it up,” he said. “Shoot me.”

And Jasper did pick it up, and he raised it, and he aimed it, and it felt as though maybe, finally, it could all be over.

“Jasper,” called the woman. “No!” He couldn’t shoot. The traveller was the only thing stopping that carriage from pulling the girl apart.

The traveller was laughing. It was a hideous sound.

And suddenly, Jasper knew what the traveller would do. He ran forwards, but it was no use.

“You’re pathetic,” said the traveller. And he let go of the rope.

And the sounds, they were awful. Creaking, and crunching, and one last scream.

Jasper switched direction, running to the woman instead.

But he was too late. He found himself clutching at flesh and covered in blood, and when he looked up, the traveller was gone.

Jasper ran again. Through trees, across fields, down dark country paths until he found himself at the side of another carriageway.

Towards him was coming a carriage, beautiful, and driven by a smiling young man.

Jasper held his thumb out for a lift.

The young man stopped, and as he reached out and pulled Jasper up beside him, Jasper did nothing but turn those cold, grey eyes and say very quietly, “Drive.”


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New Kids' Book: The Secret Cake

I've just published a new children's book, called The Secret Cake.

It's a simple illustrated book for young children, and was a collaboration between me and the illustrator Lynda Mangoro.

It's aimed at children aged 2-5, and would also be a great learning-to-read book for 4-, 5- and 6-yr-olds. This is the blurb:

"Katy's gran is 90 years old today. That's quite old. Katy wants to bake her a cake, but can she keep it a secret?"

You can "try before you buy", so to speak, by viewing a preview here.

Click here if you want to buy (£5 per copy).

I'm also collaborating with some other illustrators on a couple of books for slightly older children... watch this space.


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Petite Anglaise, the book

OK, I can't deny it, I'm a nosey parker. Being a fiction writer I can excuse myself on the grounds of collecting material. That's why I'm so intrigued by people and the things they do. That's why I'm such a gossip. And that's why I love personal blogs.

It's also why I was hooked on Petite Anglaise's blog when her life got so intriguing, around the time she started having an affair and left her partner of eight years. And why I got frustrated when she felt unable (understandably) to blog every last detail of her personal life. And, therefore, why her book is so very satisfying.

It's not the book of the blog, not at all. Very little material is taken directly or indirectly from her website. A better description would be that Petite Anglaise: In Paris. In Love. In trouble is the book behind the blog. Not only does she fill us in on the background of how she came to be in Paris in the first place, she also describes how it felt when her blog started to become the immensely popular soap opera of her life, and to what extent she started to live her life in order to colour her blog.

That in itself is fascinating, but she also fills in the details behind all those necessarily cryptic and teasing blog posts. What actually happened the week she posted her open letter to her partner? How exactly did it feel to have a passionate relationship with one of her blog readers, and how did that affair end? It's not surprising that a big-nose such as myself should have become glued to this book and unable to put it down.

But it's not just about the material. Catherine Sanderson has a real knack for describing intense experiences in a way which is compelling as well as instantly recognisable to anyone who has ever felt anything. As a francophile myself, I particularly loved the passages describing her love affair with France and the joy of visiting France for the first time as a teenager, but I could also relate to her descriptions of falling in love (both as an adolescent and an adult), and of the hard slog involved in being a working mum. And of course, having visited her in Paris I loved being able to picture the streets and parks of Belleville exactly as she describes them, not to mention her immensely cute daughter Tadpole.

Cath has a real way with words, a great ability to tell a story, and what really makes this story bite is her honesty. Her commenters have sometimes criticised her, for being a bad mother, a bad partner, a self-involved lover. But who hasn't been all of these things? If she weren't so unflinching in describing her failings, there'd be nothing for her critics to latch onto.

We all knew Cath had a talent for blog-writing, but there was no reason it should translate into book-writing - where an overall narrative, a higher standard of language and a flow which lasts longer than a blog post are all required. Well, she did all that. And now I can look forward to reading the novel she's writing next.


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Dear Reader

I live in a house full of books I haven't read. This is partly because I share my life with a journalist, who used to review books for a living. But it's partly because my eyes are bigger than my literary stomach, and I'm forever acquiring tomes I don't have time to read.

And then there's the fact that for the last six months I've been unable to read - prevented by the nausea of pregnancy. Is it only me that finds it impossible to read when nauseous? Even when I'm not nauseous, if I'm in a situation which renders me vulnerable to nausea - like being a passenger in a car, or being in the first six months of pregnancy - I only have to scan a page or two to become suddenly emetic.

Well, anyway. I've finally escaped hyperemesis and all its atttendant woes, and in the last two weeks I've read two books! The first I've read since September '07! Woohoo!

One was a thriller called Basket Case, by Carl Hiaasen. This was because I was surfing the net trying to find out who else my German publisher - the Random House imprint called Manhattan - published, and Mr Hiaasen's name came up. And then I spotted one of his books on our shelves, probably cos my other 'alf reviewed it some time.

The other was Petite Anglaise, the book from the blog by Catherine Sanderson. I spent most of today recovering from a touristy week with my son in London by burying my nose in PA, engrossed and enjoying it thoroughly. Hopefully the next post on this very blog will be a proper review. Although I do have a habit of making promises like that and not getting round to keeping them...


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Hits and Exit Wounds

I was excited when I was asked to review the latest Alabama 3 CD. I was a bit disappointed when it turned out to be a greatest hits affair, but I forgave them when I saw the title (Hits and Exit Wounds), and again when I remembered they are my favourite band and can therefore do no wrong, and yet again when I realised it meant I could just talk about the band and not have to pretend to know my complex musical sub-genre from my elbow.

OK, so that was rather a long sentence. Sorry.

I can’t remember my first. I’ve been to so many A3 gigs now, and the early ones in particular are a bit of a blur. I do remember being snuck backstage - not difficult as the band themselves are inveterate liggers and so are all their friends - and singing a song wot I rote and hoping they might get bowled over by my talent and ask me to join the band. It’s one of those memories which makes you suck an imaginary lemon and shrink in your seat. They were very nice about it all, but oh. Ouch.

And never mind me. I know of no other band that delivers live music with such consistent quality and enthusiasm, nobody else whose gigs I would attend without thought. It’s not just the walloping bass lines, or the inspired combination of c+w with thumping dance music. It’s not just the Jim Jones samples and evangelical sermons of the A3 front man, Reverend D Wayne, First Minister of the First Presleyterian Church of Elvis the Divine UK. It’s not just the VI Lenin backdrops, or the lyrics which mix revolutionary socialism and religion with a genuine fervour and a tongue placed firmly in cheek. It’s not just the giant hypodermic syringes held by sparkly dance girls when they perform Hypo Full of Love, or the way they use c+w song formulae to sing about drinking too much and partying too much and coming down too much in the wee small hours, it’s not just the fact that a show as cool as The Sopranos use an Alabama 3 track as their theme tune, it’s not just because they actively support victims of legal injustice or are planning an unplugged gig at Brixton prison in honour of Johnny Cash (if you’ve never listened to At Folsom Prison, you should), it’s not just the astonishing wit, intellect and uncompromising political astuteness of both Larry Love and Reverend D Wayne…

It’s all of those things, and some other stuff which I’ve forgotten, which makes the Alabama 3 My Favourite Band Ever.

So. Go and buy Hits and Exit Wounds, see them live on their upcoming tour, and once they have you converted… realise there’s a whole back catalog of brilliant music just sitting there waiting for you. Buy every last piece of it.


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Samson & Delilah

I'm not exactly back... it's just that a snatch of song came into my head just now and try as I might I can't find any reference on Google, and it's puzzling me...

I learnt this song at junior school, in the mid to late 70s. I have no idea where it comes from, but it has the definite feel of something out of a musical. Indeed, it's got distinct Tim Rice / Andrew Lloyd Webber leanings. Was there maybe a musical called Samson and Delilah? I don't know. I'd love it if someone else remembered the song too, or could even tell me where it comes from. Here's what I remember of the lyrics, but I may have mangled them a bit in my ageing memory:

Samson was a hero in the days of old
The spirit of the Lord had made him bold
The muscles on his arms stood out like iron bands...
...and he had big hands.

I do love that last line. It always made me giggle.

So, any ideas?

Update: Hurrah for never throwing anything away. I just had a bit of a hunt about and found the original 30-yr-old typed songsheets from when I was 7 or 8. There are six songs here, all about Samson and Delilah, and the whole lot is entitled "Swingin' Samson". And a bit of Googling reveals it was a "popular cantata for children's groups", by a bloke called Michael Hurd. From here:

"The composer, choral conductor and writer Michael Hurd ... [had a] long-standing association with Novello & Co, who not only published almost all his music, but also his books, and whose history, Vincent Novello & Company, he wrote in 1981. When, in 1983, Novello issued a brochure listing Hurd's works published by them, it ran to 12 pages.

His many commissions came from local societies such as the Havant Symphony Orchestra and Havant and District Schools Music Festival, Southern Orchestral Concerts Society, the Farn-ham Festival, the Petersfield Music Festival, the Stroud Festival and the Hampshire Federation of Women's Institutes. Out of these, Hurd developed an accessible line in popular cantatas for children's groups including Jonah-man Jazz (1966), Swingin'Samson (1972), Hip Hip Horatio (1974), Rooster Rag(1975) and Captain Coram'sKids (1988), which for perhaps 20 years were widely performed."

I wonder if it was commissioned by the Hampshire Confederation of Women's Institutes??


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One in Four

Copied from elsewhere (i.e. I can't take credit for the words):

"Caroline Smailes has done a thing of such fabulousness I can scarcely find the necessary superlatives. First, she's written a book - a wee book, a novella - called Disraeli Avenue. That is the street where the central characters lived in her debut novel, In Search Of Adam. The novella is made up of 32 flashes from the houses in that street. 'Tales of debt, infidelity, love and loss all combine and weave into a mosaic of working class life,' says Caroline.

And second, she has persuaded her publisher, her typesetter and her cover designer to give their services free, so that the book can be published as an e-book for free download to raise money for charity. The charity she has chosen is One In Four, which is run by and for people who have experienced sexual abuse. People will be given the opportunity to make a donation in return for the book.

Caroline announced the project on Wednesday here.
One in Four's website is here."

Buy Your Very Own Sister Spinster

Just got an exciting email from Thomas Truax, who is a genius musician, performer and inventor of home-made instruments. Follow the links at the bottom to find out more,

If only I had any money at all, I'd be bidding enthusiastically. But if there's any sense or justice in the world I'm guessing they'll be going for a high price. What a brilliant idea, I hope it earns him some serious money!

I'm just going to paste the original message from Mr Truax in wholesale, as I ain't well enough for editing:


"Hi!
After a lot of interest has been expressed over the years some of you
will be happy to know I've finished the first of a VERY limited number
of MINI SISTER SPINSTERS.
Each of the Mini Spinsters is to be individually built by yours truly
from a mix of found, one-of-a-kind plastic and metal parts I've been
collecting over the years as well as more commonly available hardware
and special bits, so though there will be a family similarity, they'll
all have a unique personality. I'm looking at them as a small series of
art pieces. Could be a coffee table curiosity or an exciting mantelpiece
decoration, or perhaps something to play your ukulele to.
The prototype of these I made this past summer as a wedding gift for my
dear friends Paul Stone (of the band The Chemistry Experiment) and his
lovely wife Sara. (Flatteringly, they claimed it was 'the best present
ever').
This first of the few I'll be offering for sale is called Wild Jane. She
stands about 6" tall and plays a mean galloping rhythm. She also lights
up. There's a quicktime movie of her playing at my website (link at the
bottom of this email). No need to feed or water her (though you might
have to replace the batteries at some point).
Each machine is/will be unique in some way; one of a kind, signed and
numbered. As they are individually crafted by hand, they will probably
have some evidence of the 'human touch'. Each will be motorized and
play a single simple, but unique rhythm, similar to those featured in
those of my own songs that feature my mechanical drummer Sister
Spinster.
I'm offering the first of these for auction on Ebay. Again, this is not
mass production. As they are quite time consuming to build, I will only
make a few of them, and not all of them will be for sale. I'm going to
make a recording of each one before they leave home, so there's a chance
that those recordings may eventually show up somewhere on one of my
future albums.
To see a small quicktime movie of Wild Jane in action go to:
http://www.thomastruax.com/Images/Mini%20Spinster%20pictures/mini-spinster-1(240).mov
or
http://www.thomastruax.com/mini-spinsters.html
to bid for a chance to make Wild Jane yours go to
http://cgi.ebay.com/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&item=190183408073
or search for Truax Mini Spinster"

TheManWhoFellAsleep and Dave Hill

Those of you who've been aroudn for a while may remember when I reviewed Dave Hill's book The Adoption. Then again you may not. I've just copied it to Bookarazzi over here.

I've also copied my interview with TheManWhoFellAsleep, which includes such questions as "Do you like Marmite?", "Have you ever wanted a pet monkey?" and "Do you have a friend in Jesus?", and which - though I say it myself - I'm rather fond of. It's here.

There's a lot of content going up in Bookarazzi these days; it's worth keeping an eye on.


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Dead Lovely, by Helen Fitzgerald

Dead Lovely is published by Allen & Unwin in Australia. It will be published by Faber in the UK in 2008. Helen Fitzgerald has a website here.



In the first few pages of Dead Lovely we discover that its narrator is not only a murderess, but a hedonistic adulterous one with a habit of giving blow jobs to her best friend’s husband while her friend lies only inches away.

More here.


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The Self-Preservation Society, by Kate Harrison

Kate Harrison blogs at Wordgirl’s Work in Progress: Brit Chick Lit Diary. The Self-Preservation Society is available here.

When I was 13, I was in youth CND. I watched all the videos and read all the leaflets and worried that the planet would be destroyed by nuclear war. But I was young and optimistic and I never really believed I’d end up camping out for weeks under the stairs or watching, powerless, as my skin slowly fell off.

More here.


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Two Oliver Moon Books - Christmas Cracker and Spell-Off

Sue Mongredien is the author of many children’s books, and Oliver Moon has his own website.

Oliver Moon is a favourite in our house, so I got an enthusiastic response when I asked my nearly-six-year-old son Felix if he’d like to help me review his two latest adventures - Oliver Moon’s Christmas Cracker and Oliver Moon and the Spell-Off.

Oliver Moon comes from a family of wizards and attends Magic School with his friend Jake. Previous adventures have involved baby dragons, friendly werewolves and cheeky nipperbats. As with all the Oliver Moon books, the style in these two is light, cheeky and refreshing, and jam-packed with such delicious references as post-ghosts, witch-watches, prickle trees and wand warmers.

More here.


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Paris Pictures

From our trip to Paris in October...



The view from the massive rock in the middle of Parc des Buttes-Chaumont over to Sacre Coeur.




Oscar Wilde's grave in Cimetiere Pere-Lachaise, sculpted by Epstein and covered in lipstick kisses.




The waterfall in Parc des Buttes-Chaumont. It's bigger than it looks.


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Nirvana Bites, by Debi Alper

Nirvana Bites is by Debi Alper, who blogs here. The book is available here.

As soon as you meet the victim of the crime - Stapled Stan - you know this book won’t be a standard or boring detective thriller. Stapled Stan has a dick full of staples and a life full of problems, but that’s fine because Jen is here to help him out.

More here.


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e-luv, by Dave Roberts

e-luv is the name of Dave Roberts’ blog, as well as his book. And a great book it is too.

Have you ever decided that someone you met online was your soulmate? Or that they were really cool and had to be your friend? Or even that they were the devil incarnate?

A lot of people are chatting online right now this minute, and coming to all these conclusions and more. They start with a bunch of selectively-chosen and not-always-honest characteristics, fill in the rest according to their own prejudices or desires, and come up with their ideal hero. Or villain. But then maybe they talk to them on the phone, even meet them... and the reality is not quite as they imagined. Or perhaps they fall in love and everybody lives happily ever after.

More here.

Kairos, by Barbara Smith

Today I'm revciewing a book of poetry - Kairos, by Barbara Smith.

These poems are sometimes sharp and sometimes gentle. Often they pull you with smells and images into a land of nostalgia, so that you too can feel the warmth of someone else’s memories and merge them with your own. Occasionally they stop you short with a phrase - a pillowed future, or she-scent or pike baited or furious porphyry.

Read more.


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Gods Behaving Badly, by Marie Phillips

Apparently, Greek gods are pretty badly-behaved creatures. I say apparently, because… oh all right, I admit it. I know fuck-all about Greek mythology. I know I should. I don’t. But that’s one of the many beauties of Marie Phillips' debut novel. You don’t need to know anything about Artemis, Apollo, Aphrodite or the rest in order to enjoy Gods Behaving Badly. But the high-falutin’ subject matter means the book will also appeal to all those classically-educated people eager to have intelligent conversations about, um, all those allusions Ms Phillips makes to… er… well, I didn’t say I’d talk about that stuff, did I?

More here.


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Any Way You Want Me, by Lucy Diamond

Over the last few weeks, I've read a lot of books written by fellow bloggers, and have kept promising to write reviews and then, um, not. But now I have! In one giant splurge I've written reviews of eight books (I know, I had no idea I'd read so many) in one go. But it would seem ever-so slightly insane to post them up all in one go, so I reckon I'll do one per day until I run out of them.

The first will be Any Way You Want Me, by Lucy Diamond.

Sadie feels bored, put upon and fed up with the weekly drudge of feeding the baby, mollifying the toddler and sitting at the end of the phone on a Friday night as her not-husband tries to excuse yet another late night down the pub.

More here.


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My Boyfriend is a Twat Virtual Book Tour, Day Five

Oh 'eck, I just made the mistake of visiting Troubled Diva and now I've got book tour envy and gone all tongue-tied!

How can I beat that fabulous game of Mr and Mrs? Well luckily, I don't have to. I only have to write a review. Phew. I am a bit jealous though. I wish I'd thought of something more imaginative than a review now. But I've been a bit under the weather this week and my hormones are making me grumpy and you wouldn't believe how good I'm getting at making excuses for not doing stuff...

Ahem. Zoe's book.

My Boyfriend is a Twat is the stupendously successful blog of Zoe McCarthy, also known as Zed. People keep giving her awards and stuff. And now The Friday Project have twisted her arm and talked her into turning it into a book.

The thing about Zoe is that she, like me, can be a bit... um... grumpy. Just a teensy bit. Sometimes. But her boyfriend is a twat, so she has good reason. And here is a whole book devoted to just exactly why, and how, and when, and precisely in what very detailed ways, her boyfriend is a twat. And he is. He does things like sawing his own leg off (well, near enough) and refusing to go to hospital. Or being less than supportive when Zoe is feeling a bit off. Or, and this surely has to be the most twattish thing of all... setting up a blog for his girlfriend with the title, "My Boyfriend is a Twat" and encouraging her to tell everyone what a great big bloody twat he is.

That's why it's all so appealing. Cos he obviously isn't a twat at all. But he is. But he isn't. And similarly Zoe is not really grumpy and mean to all her nearest and dearest. But she is. But she isn't. But she is, and anyway they deserve it.

Seriously though, this is why Zoe is such a lovable character, and why her blog keeps winning all those awards. She's got no front, she's not trying to impress, she's just getting on with her life and her family and writing about it. Naturally, and hilariously.

If you like the blog, you'll love the book. So buy it. That is all.

Oh no, hang on, maybe it isn't. I was going to share a couple of my favourite Twattisms with you. Cos they're funny. And they're about boobs.

Zed: "Oh Christ, I need a boob-lift."
The Twat: "Why don't you just get the rest of your body lowered?"

Zed: "Oh shit, I think I've put my bra on back-to-front."
The Twat: "That's alright, hon, just turn your tits around."


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Underground, Slung Low Theatre Company

I wrote about a great theatre production I went to see last week here, but at the time I didn't know the names of writers, director or cast. I've updated it now, and also have the following info: The show will also be in Bradford at the beginning of November (1&2, Alhambra Theatre Studio).

I highly recommend it, if you can get to it.


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Underground

"The last time I went to a Slung Low production it was atmospheric, hugely entertaining and thoroughly confusing, so I was expecting something similar from Underground at Contact Theatre in Manchester last night.

But it was completely different. On a stage, rather than in a car park. With identifiable characters, instead of shapes flitting about in the dark. And the yelps and screams were replaced by belly laughs. But still it was atmospheric, hugely entertaining and thoroughly confusing - which is the kind of consistency I like."

More here.


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Cosmopolitanness

Hey, does anyone remember those little chocolates called Neopolitans? They were made by Terry's (of York) and you could buy them by the quarter (or at least, you could in York), and they were all like minitaure chocolate bars, and came in many different flavours. Do they still exist?

One of the problems of growing up in a town with a thriving confectionery industry (Craven's, Terry's, Rowntrees) is that sometimes you get used as guinea pigs for yummy products which never take off and which nobody else has ever heard of. Oh God, I still dream of a short-lived-and-now-obsolete Taste Sensation called Mintessa. But I don't know if Neopolitans fall into that camp.

Anyway, I digress (it was the "opolitan" that distracted me).

We went to Paris this weekend. And as usual when I do something apparently noteworthy, I can't think of much to say about it.

Monkey was good but the theatre was too hot, but it was the last night of the Paris run and Damon Albarn and Jamie Hewlett came out on stage and did loads of bows with the cast and got a standing ovation and it brought a tear to my eye and the music was beautiful and the acrobatics were pretty good and the actor/acrobat playing Monkey was wonderful (ha, how's that for a professional review?).

And we went to Cimetiere Pere-Lachaise and Jim Morrison's grave was pretty boring but Oscar Wilde's was great (covered in lipstick kisses and exhortations for people not to deface it, but I'm glad the lipstick was there), and the cemetery was full of feral cats and people with handfuls of cat food. And ENORMOUS.

And bloody hell, but the Parc des Buttes-Chaumont is fucking spectacular. If only we had inner-city parks like that. It has a waterfall, and a giant cave, and stalactites and stalagmites and a folly on a cliff and wonderful views of Montmartre and Sacre Coeur.

And we wondered around Belleville and Menilmontant and found loads of cute streets, and Petite was a wonderful hostess as ever, and Tadpole's aliens had left and she was therefore super-super-cute.

And I made a bus full of people laugh when I raised myself briefly from a spring-back seat to adjust my rucksack and then sat back down on the (unexpected) floor with a bump and a bang to the head. And I read a whole book (The Weirdstone of Brisingamen, by Alan Garner) on Eurostar and other trains and it was so good I'm missing it. And we got first class tickets by accident (still not sure how that happened) (or why people pay so much money for a slightly wider seat and a free cup of coffee).

And I would like to put out a Public Request: Please do not put an alarm clock in your suitcase and then leave it in a luggage rack out of your earshot but in everyone else's. And if your alarm clock goes off in your suitcase and you do hear it, in the name of all that is holy SWITCH IT OFF! I have conducted a scientific experiment and can state quite categorically, that the sound of an electronic alarm clock is The Most Stressful Noise You Will Ever Hear, particularly when it is of the continuous variety. "Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep" for a WHOLE HOUR on the train, with no hope of escape! See what I mean??

I very nearly went up and down the train prodding people and accusing them of owning alarm clocks, but I didn't. I should have done.

Still, Monkey was great. Oh, and there was some rugby thing going on. I wasn't very interested in that.


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Theatre du Chatelet

This is where we're going to be on Saturday night.



Getting excited now, on all fronts.


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Old York, London, Paris, Frankfurt!

This week I have been mostly looking for IT contract work, having eyedrops put in my eyes, Doing Sums, Dreaming About The Future and dreaming about the future.

I've decided the obvious solution to all my money-earning woes is short-term software engineering contracts, and I'm not sure why I didn't think of this before. I guess I was a little bored of software engineering, but you know what they say about absence... after spending a day last week reading this site here, I got all nostalgic for my days of geekery and now I want to be a software engineer again. Just for a little while. Just while I earn a pile of dosh (it's SHOCKING what IT contracters get paid) And then I'll stop and be a novelist again. And that way I'll never get bored of either of them! Hurrah!

And in the meantime I might even get a publishing deal. Did I mention my book is going to Frankfurt? Well, it is. This weekend. Eek!

I had a lovely long telling-bone conversation with another writer-woman the other day, and she was full of praise and plaudits for my literary agent, who is also her literary agent, and apparently he's really rather good at this selling-books business, and blimey maybe he might actually sell my book too. But even if he does it'll take ages for any money to come through so I'll still need to do the short-term IT contract thing but still and all the same... ooh!

Oh, and today an optician put drops in my eyes and dilated my pupils and blinded me for three hours and it was really weird cos it made me feel like I was on drugs and made me realise how hard it is to see proper when your pupils are dilated and he looked at my eyes under a microscope and I have an area of pigmentation called a nevus (sp?) on my left retina and I was ever-so-slightly worried about it but it's OK and really it's just a freckle and I like the idea of having a freckle on my retina.

And that is all.

Oh, and I'm going to Paris! On Friday! To see a Chinese Opera! But I'm barely even aware of it cos I'm too busy being excited about Frankfurt.

And I'm going to York tomorrow. I'm only mentioning that so I can give this post the title it has. But never mind that, my book's going to Frankfurt.

Oh 'eck.


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The Girl in the Cafe

A DVD of The Girl in the Cafe - a film starring Bill Nighy and Kelly Macdonald - has been circulating blogland, in an attempt to bring it to a wider audience. You receive it, you watch it, you review it, you pass it on. Last week was my turn.

What I loved about this film was its slow subtlety. There's not a lot of action, and yet it always held my attention. The performances are understated and the characters are self-effacing, but you want the protagonists to get together and it's gorgeous when they do. I'm a sucker for a love story, particularly one as beautifully teasing as this.

There were some lovely little moments: there was a misunderstanding with some "small towels" (flannels), I clapped my hands with glee when they finally kissed, and I loved the less-is-more-ness of the female lead's back story being barely touched upon. Nothing happens, but so much happens.

And then there's the politics. Hmmm. Y'see, I'm so much more of a cynic about politics than I am about love. It was a lovely message, and everyone loves an underdog, and worms that turn, and Innocent Small People standing up to Corrupt Big People and all that, but come on. Did it really tell us anything we didn't already know? And was it even slightly believable or possible? Of course not. The British politicians were painted far too sympathetically at the end of the film (sorry, but they really aren't that nice and don't have that many scruples), and there was a ludicrous naivete about the whole thing.

As for its intention as a piece of propaganda, I find that slightly mystifying. Surely it should have some message, some suggestion, for what people can do to help the cause of Make Poverty History (millions of people all over the world are dying because of poverty, and Western leaders have the power to help, by cancelling 3rd world debt and generally not being money-grubbing bastards)? And yet in the film, the demonstrators outside the G8 are barely mentioned, and instead it appears that everything rests in the hands of this one sweet woman who has found herself, by accident, in the presence of international politicians. Hardly a followable strategy for the rest of us.

So. Politically it was a bit pants to this old cynic, but dramatically... well, viewed purely as a work of art or a piece of entertainment, I loved it and it made me cry.

So there you go. I definitely recommend it. If you want to join in and review the film yourself, just go here.


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A Quick P.S. for the scousers

Liverpool is a beautiful city, especially on a day like today with blue shy and fluffy clouds and good music in your ears.

Sorry Manchester, but I never go Wow or look up as often in Manchester City Centre as I do in Liverpool.


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More "Culture" Stuff

There's more! The posts on this page aren't the only "Culture" posts.

For all posts labelled "Culture" and posted before September 2007, please go here.


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