Snow Day

Ah yes, it’s snowing fit to burst. White-out blizzard time. And She Who Must is being sent home early – it took her over two hours to get into work this morning. But me? Well, my commute isn’t exactly onerous any more is it? I wander into the study, have a bit of a scratch, and I’m at work. No snow day for poor Stuart.

And no snow day for telemarketing bastards either! Little buggers have been phoning me up all morning asking to speak to ‘the person responsible for the BT land line’ and ‘the householder’ and every other combination of stuff that lets you know the person on the other end has no idea who you are. The last one even had the cheek to say it wasn’t a marketing call! But would we be interested in…

And we’re ex-directory too, so all this telemarketing is the fault of the screw-obsessed halfwit who lived here before us. Damn his testicles.

I try to be polite, but firm: “No thank you, we’re not interested. Please take us off what ever scrofulous marketing list you’ve got us on, you parasitic arse-biscuit…” but I’m starting to get that little twitch under my left eye that precedes a good long rant involving the terms, ‘rectal’, ‘fist’, and ‘chewing gum’.

If you’ve ever been involved in telemarketing, ever done a job where you get people out of the bath, or interrupt them mid-murder, you’re going to Hell. No passing go or collecting two hundred dollars. Straight to the fiery pits with you, where you’ll spend all eternity snorkelling in a lake of burning jobbies.

Can’t you do something more socially constructive instead? Like vandalising bus stops, or mugging vicars, or weeing on little old ladies?

Birthday boy

Yes, today marks one whole calendar year since I came out of the dark and secret cupboard as a write-ist. I’m here, I write about nasty criminal stuff, get used to it.

I was going to do one of them ‘what I have learned in my year’ posts, but it’s my birthday and I really can’t be arsed ;}# Plus I‘ve got a chunk of catching up to do: this weekend was spent in the depths of Darkest Fife, visiting She Who Must Stop Driving Up And Down The Country The Whole Time, Or She’s Going To End Up In A Ditch’s dad in Dunfermline Hospital. Yes, it’s ‘Dundee no mo-arrrrr’* for Father In Law Gordon, and instead of being stuck with the smell of disinfectant and old people wee for another ten weeks, he’s probably going to be out in two. Hurrah. Looking a lot more like his old self he is. Eating many kettle chips and making jokes about the size of the nurses.

All this travel, and sleeping on a sofa bed designed by the Marquis de Sade, has put a dent in my wordcount that’s going to take some hefty walloping with a hammer to smooth out.

And that’s what I’m off to do now. Thumpity, thump, thump, thump.


* Don’t worry, it’s a Proclaimers reference. She Who Must went to school with them – it’s my only claim to fame... other than the fact I’ve met Jimmy Shand’s Daughter In Law (though Fiona's sung with the great man himself, so once again I'm beaten by her damn Fifeishness!).

No party -- you've been naughty

I have to admit that yesterday was a good writing day. HUGE shock. Nearly up to the kind of daily wordcount I enjoyed while writing the first two books. Not quite, but nearly...

I'm not sure what it is, if it's being a full time write-ist, or if it's that the way I work's changing. Now days I seem to only have a half day's work in me. Four hours. After that, no matter how long I sit in front of the computer, trying to make blood come out of my ears with the sheer will of forcing words onto the screen, it doesn't really help. I can spend another four hours, struggling, and get about an hours worth of work done.

Book 3 (I still don't have a new name for the thing) feels a lot different to write to me. I get the feeling I'm thinking more with this one. Being more careful with the individual words and sentences. Hopefully this means the edit's going to be a lot less painful than it was for DYING LIGHT where I went a bit mad with the old red pen, even though everyone else -- including my publishers -- seemed to love the thing as it was.

A less 'intense' personal edit would be nice. In addition to driving me less mad, it'll also give me time to do other stuff. Don't tell INoGITCH, but I'm beginning to think about asking for a six month extension to my leave of absence. Believe it or not, I'm actually quite looking forward to going back to work. It's all the post launch stuff that makes me wonder if it wouldn't be an utter pain in the arse to keep asking for odd days off the whole time, then disappear off in the middle of a project to America, for my triumphant coast-to-coast tour. Well, when I have the fantasy it's coast-to-coast and I get to stop off in the Midwest for a couple of weeks to do some research for that book I've been doodling here off and on. Oh, and as it's a fantasy, there are dancing girls. Naked dancing girls... no... wait... dancing girls in their bras and pants, brushing crisp crumbs from my beard and feeding me buffalo wings. Mmm, fantasy...

Right, I now have no idea what I was talking about, so I'm going to go make blood come out of my ears. This weekend's going to be an utter bastard to get anything done*, so the more words I get tonight the merrier.

Oh yes -- and the title: it's my birthday on Monday, but She Who Must Be The Nastiest Wife In The World says I'm not getting a party this time. Not after last year. We're still finding bits of tangerine jelly in the conservatory.

Don't look under the bed.

* Which means Mr Internet's going to be switched off till Monday. No blogging or any of that other distracty email stuff.

Gotta love a woman in uniform

Had a brush with the law yesterday. I was in town visiting Googling Brother, as one does -- hiding individual anchovies in the bottom of his filing cabinet and taping them to the underside of his desk drawers when he's not in the room* -- and afterwards he and I went to see an Alex of our acquaintance. Shooting the breeze and coming up with plots for a chap Alex knows who makes 'crazy-ass martial arts' films set in Aberdeen. I'd just finished describing my 'Torry Samuri' idea, complete with ninja-style fight in a fish house, when we heard a creak from the direction of Alex's front door. We all go quiet. Nothing. Then it's back to figuring out how to make a filleted fish work like nunchucks.

'Clunk' ... 'clunk'...

Alex gets out of his seat to see if it's someone coming in. He has a kind of open door policy, where people generally wander into his house and shout hello. It'd drive me mad -- I believe in ringing the doorbell -- but hey, different strokes and all that. Alex opens the lounge door, there's a heartbeat's silence, then, "COME BACK HERE!" and the sound of thundering feet.

GB and I leap from our seats, rushing from the lounge and inadvertently doing that laurel and hardy -- shoulders getting jammed in the door thing. Alex is hammering, hell for leather up the road, after someone.

GB shouts, "I'll get the car!" and that leaves me, standing on the top step, unable to leave the house, as there's no keys anywhere in sight to lock the bloody door. So I can't go chasing after the bad guy. GB jumps into his car, there's a squeal of tires and he roars off in hot pursuit. But I'm left looking after the house. Just in case whoever Alex is thundering after wasn't working alone. It's weird searching someone else's house, looking to see if anyone's snuck in.

Now I should probably point out that Alex isn't the smallest of puppies. He's about six foot three, four foot wide, and about eighteen and a bit stone. Big guy. And he can move when he needs to. Not the sort of person you want chasing you. It takes him a little bit to get up speed, but when he does it’s like that big stone ball at the start of Raiders Of The Lost Ark. But eventually he puffed and panted his way back to the house, looking like a beetroot in a yellow shirt. Mr Burglar has escaped.

GB arrives back five minutes later, also empty handed. And so Alex goes through the place, looking to see if anything's been taken... And that's when we realise that Mr Burglar probably isn't the smartest cookie in the jar. He's missed a laptop, two digital cameras a mobile phone, a wallet -- all lying about in the hallway. In fact, there's no sign of him actually getting away with anything at all. Stupid bugger.

So we call it in and Grampian Police send round a patrol car, complete with flashing blue lights. Two unformed WPCs appear, one to take a statement from Alex in the lounge, as he's the only person who saw Mr Stupid the Burglar (even if it was only from the back, as the little sod legged it), and the other one to take GB and my details dons la kitchen.

It's a sad admission to make, but I've never been that close to a Woman Police Officer in my life. So she asks my name: and I tell her. Asks my occupation: I say 'crime writer'. Asks for my phone number: I'm obviously in there. And then she goes through to the lounge to speak to her partner.

Five minutes later she pops back into the kitchen to say, sorry, she's only just realised who I was. How bloody weird. She's read the book and liked it: in fact she's been sharing a copy with five of her colleagues and they all liked it. I bask in my moment of fame! Then start asking if she'll show me her truncheon. Well, a boy's got to try, hasn't he?

And she showed me too.

I'm so dirty :}#


* You see: I've been trying to get myself a hobby.

When there stops being so much ‘Scottish’ on the telly.

Katie Henshall left me a message today:

"Hi there, I am sure this questions has been asked a million times but here it is again:- I picked up your book Cold Granite this weekend and as of now have only stopped reading to work, sleep and eat. Obviously when most people read a book you try to imagine the characters. If you had to choose who would you pick to play Logan in a TV drama?"

Which is great, because it means I don't have to think up something to post about today. Hurrah!

To be honest, I haven't got a bloody clue who I'd get to play Logie. Seriously, not a bloody clue. She Who Must Watch More Telly Than I Do*, suggested that bloke off the Crow Road, Joseph McFadden, but I'm not convinced.

The only person I know I'd really want in the thing is a local actor, Alistair Harvey, who's the spitting image of Desperate Doug MacDuff. Well, except for the tattoos and the milky eye. And he's got the perfect hacking cough to go with it too. I did panto with him for a couple of years (back when one was in one's professional ACTOR phase, Darling) and he'd be great in it.

Other than that... I suppose DI Insch is sort of Robbie Coltrane with a shaven head-ish. DI Steel...? No idea. I'd quite fancy the part of Rennie for myself -- even if I would have to lose the beard -- but then I'm an egotistical little monster. In all likeliness I'd end up being 'Policeman Number Six' with one line: "I don't know, sir." Complete with hammy hand-gestures and gurning at the camera.

How come I'm so crap at this? Probably doesn't help that my memory for names is about as good as your average albatross's grasp of particle physics. So even if I could think of a face off the telly, I'd be stuck here going: "You know, him, the bloke... he was in that thing with Whatsherface... with the teeth and the funny bum?" Drives Fiona MAD when I do that**.

And anyway, it's a moot point until there stops being so much 'Scottish' on the telly. According to one production company Agent Phil spoke to: as long as there's Taggart AND Rebus on the box, the great British public can't cope with anything else set north of the border. Which means any Cold Granite series is a long, long way away.

Shame, I could do with the money ;}#

* That's a lie -- she usually sleeps through most of it.
** Mind you, it's a short trip for her.

Immortality Up For Auction

Well, I say ‘immortality’, but we both know that’s not 100% accurate: you’re still going to die*. However, you can console your loved ones by leaving behind a mark upon this world, or more accurately Book 3 – AKA: NDC. Yes, I’m teaming up with the good people at the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation to raise money** by auctioning off a character in NDC.

Amaze your friends, stun your enemies, terrify the people you once had sexual relationships with: appear in a book by Stuart MacBride, alongside Logan McRae and all his jolly chums!

At the JDRF Scotland Ball – which takes place Friday 24th March 2006 at the Beach Ballroom, Aberdeen – you can fork over your hard earned to get something money just can’t buy*** and help put a good cause into the bargain. And not only do you get to be in the book in English, you get to impress your friends all round the world in lots of different languages.

Of course there is a downside: my books ain’t exactly full of happy smiley people. And NDC features bondage, rape, and bestiality. So it’ll be a fun time had by all.

It’s quite weird writing a book knowing I’ll be making one of the characters a real person. But not knowing which. The auction’s in March, but the book’s not due to be finished till the first of May (ahem, probably...), so there’s lots of scope for writing the person into the end, I suppose.

Actually it’s quite cool to be able to do this kind of thing. God, I’m just so altruistic... or I would be if I could spell it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to restore my karmic balance by robbing an orphanage and peeing through people’s letterboxes.

* That’s a statement of fact, not a threat.
** For them, not for me – before you say anything.
*** And I’m not talking about the love of a good woman – that you can always rent.

Stuff involving me

I know I’m probably going to regret it, but I’m giving a talk at Elgin High School next month as part of World Book Day. Yes, on March the 2nd I’ll be addressing two Assemblies: at 11:00 I’ll be traumatising 13-year-olds, and at 12:00 it’ll be the fourteen-year-olds’ turn to traumatise me.

Both ‘talks’ will be about twenty minutes long, a mixture of reading, rambling and a bit of Q&A to finish up with. I’m quoting direct from the organisers here: “I think they'll really like Stuart* and I'm sure he'll be able to find a not too grisly reading!”

I can understand why someone would say that -- COLD GRANITE was hardly... it... OK, it’s got some pretty nasty bits in it and the whole ‘child-murder’ thing doesn’t help either, but I remember when I was eleven, going on a school trip to Chester, reading James Herbert’s THE RATS on the train. Enjoying all those people getting torn to pieces and eaten from the inside out.

And what were the teachers doing while I was brutalising my delicate sensibilities? I can only bring one to mind, and he was reading RAZZLE -- a magazine dedicated to the celebration of the female form** -- I think he died not long after... I’m not making any correlation between reading dirty magazines and death, I’m just letting you know what happened, OK?

But as I recall, teenagers are a bloodthirsty lot. At least if I was anything to go by. And I consider myself to be pretty normal, so I’d say it’s a good possibility.

Anyway, after my non-gruesome assemblies I’ll be interviewed by some of their older students for ‘Cover Stories’ which goes out on BBC Radio Scotland. They’re going to be armed with copies of DYING LIGHT in advance... EEK! This means the first time I’ll have talked to anyone about the story (outside Mr James, Agent Phil and my harem of loveliness at HarperCollins) will be recorded for all posteriority***.

This’ll be the second time I’ve done Cover Stories -- the first time was last year, not long after COLD GRANITE came out. They were extremely nice, especially the producer, Pennie. So I really couldn’t say no when she asked me.

I’m not sure why the thought of speaking at a school assembly makes me itchy, but it does... Maybe it’s a throwback to my days in not-so-long trousers?**** “MACBRIDE! SEE ME AFTER CLASS!!!”

And I still haven’t got a bloody clue what I’m going to read.

* Unlikely, but very sweet of her to say so. Lulling me into a false sense of security you see... Only I’m not fooled. I’ve done panto you know! I’ll be wearing the old bullet-proof vest and carrying a riot shield.
** PORN! Soft-core, but still porn.
*** Not a typo, I’m anticipating making an arse of myself. Going to happen anyway, might as well try and accept it.
**** It’s not that we had to wear shorts in school, it’s just that my legs weren’t as long back then.

Irony is a cruel mistress

Just when I was getting back into the swing of things -- looking forward to the writing again, all fired up and ready to go -- everything goes infection-tastic. So instead of forging ahead, I’m struggling behind* with a swimmy head, churning stomach and all the mucus you can shake a snotty hanky at. It’s been doing the rounds, and now it’s my turn.

Damn you, naughty immune system, I have tales of murder and mayhem to write! Well, Bondage, Rape and Bestiality, but you know what I mean.

* In more ways than one.

"Where do your ideas come from?"

We all get asked that, right? Well now I can show you – inside my head, that's where. Ever seen inside a crime write-ist's head before? Nah, didn't think so. Oh yea, people like Rankin and Billingham and McDermid might win awards, get masses of critical acclaim and have HUGE sales, but none of them show you the inside of their skulls, do they? No.

Well, not that I know of anyway.

But this is me. Apparently the dark-black stuff: that's air, and the grey stuff is soft tissue. So I now have DOCUMENTARY EVIDENCE that I actually have a brain! It's been the topic of discussion for a while now, but there you go, I do have one. Pretty isn't it? I've always wanted a picture of the inside of my head. Dunno why.

This image comes to you courtesy of my visit last night to the hospital, where Mr Hussain -- Otolaryngologist to the stars – took great delight in telling me everything that was wrong with my nose and sinuses. And how much of it he wants to hack out with his pointy knife. At least nothing got lubricated and inserted this time. I asked if I could have a photocopy of the scans and he just handed them over. "Here," he says, "just make sure you bring them back when it's time to operate."

Bloody right I will. I'm not keen on someone hacking about inside my head without some sort of roadmap.

The bad news is that I can't have the surgery till the end of March. It could be sooner, but then I'd be in no fit state for Left Coast Crime.

But what do you think? Shall I make it my new author pic?

Blurble, blurble...

As a write-ist one is expected to give, and request blurbs. I can now say that I’m equally uncomfortable doing both. In giving a blurb there’s the whole competitive thing: only the best blurbs will make it onto the book jacket. And then there’s the whole reputation thing: recommend a crap book, and people are going to start looking at your own work in the same light. “If he thinks this piece of garbage is ‘gripping and trilling’ then he must write utter bollocks!”

So far I’ve only given one blurb – for Mr James T Winter’s SECOND HAND GOODS. My words are on his website for all to see:

"Double-crossing dames, Russian gangsters, corrupt cops and a hard-drinking PI with a thing for the ladies - Jim Winter drags the classic PI novel screaming up to date." - Stuart MacBride, author of Cold Granite

I gave Jim a couple of options, including my favourite: “Violent, slick and classy – Jim Winter’s not as daft as he looks.” But he didn’t like that one for some reason.

That’s giving blurbs, on the other side of the coin is asking for the damn things. I know Jim didn’t have any difficulty doing that – hell, cheeky bugger didn’t even read COLD GRANITE before asking me to provide pimpage for his book. Which means he might be in for a nasty shock if he ever does get round to it and finds out what he’s just associated himself with. Bwahahahahahaha!

But I’m not Jim. I’ve recently had to ask for my first ever blurb and I was so bloody embarrassed to be putting someone in that position. Seriously squirming. In asking I must have left them about a dozen ‘get out of blurbing free’ cards. You know, like some spotty teenager asking a girl out for the first time. “...If you’re not doing anything Saturday... you probably are... yea... no, it wasn’t important... forget I said anything...”

I won’t say who it was, in case they decide not to touch it with a shitty stick. They’d be all embarrassed that people knew. And the hate mail... you guys would send them hate mail, right? For me? ;}#

Third Book Syndrome

There seems to be something about writing that third book for publication that grabs you by the back of the underpants and yanks violently upwards. Or at least that’s the way it feels.

BOOK ONE was fun – no expectations, writing because I enjoyed it, trying something new. And lo and behold it sold. Hurrah!

BOOK TWO – not so much fun. Now there are expectations. BOOK ONE’s not out for another year yet, but everyone in-house at HarperCollins loves it, so BOOK TWO has to be at least as good. No, it has to be better! But what if I’m a complete and utter fraud and BOOK ONE was a fluke? AAAAAAAAArgh! Trying to do something different so it doesn’t get labelled a carbon copy of the first book, which is a challenge with series books: describing the same places and people without it looking like a cut and past exercise from BOOK ONE. Suddenly I’m not just writing for fun any more, I’m writing for my Agent, Editor, Publisher(s), Marketing and Publicity people... worrying that they’ll take one look at BOOK TWO, pronounce it an ugly baby and demand their money back.

BOOK THREE – NIGHTMARE. No one knows if people are going to like BOOK TWO yet as it’s not going to be published for another year. BOOK ONE is just out, so all the reviews are scoured for constructive criticism (rather than just bitter toss pots having a bit of a general moan) – what mistakes did I make, how can I avoid making them again. More expectations to meet, and this time it goes beyond the cosy world of the publishing house, this time there are real people who’ve read and, more frighteningly, liked BOOK ONE. And you know I don’t want to disappoint them. So BOOK THREE has to be the best book yet! WORK MONKEY BOY!!!

And I don’t seem to be alone in this mindset either. I know the lovely Tambo had a horrible time with her third Dubric book* – even though everyone who’s read it thinks it’s brilliant – and I started reading the not so lovely John Theodore Rickards’s blog because Sarah Weinman posted about what a shitty time he was having on the third book. Then I went and asked Mr Billingham if he’d had the same experience, and yup – according to him it gets harder with every book you write. And not in a smutty, ‘Oo-er, Missus!’ kind of way either. So BOOK FOUR will be even worse... groan...


It seems to be something to do with publication. COLD GRANITE wasn’t the first book I’d written, it was the fifth. So I should have crossed that third book Rubicon already. But it all got re-baselined as soon as HarperCollins picked up CG. (and yes, lucky to just get published, blah, blah, blah... Look, I feel like a whinge today, OK?) Writing wasn't like this before I got published.

Lots of people, when they hear I’m a full-time write-ist at the moment, tell me how lucky I am and how great is must be. You know what: yes, it is great, and yes I am lucky. But this is the hardest job I’ve ever had. And I’ve had some real stinkers. Like cleaning up offshore after some bastard got himself fired and decided to shit in the shower and wipe his arse on the towels in revenge. That's some job satisfaction right there.

So, on this day of love, flowers, chocolate, and champagne, would anyone else like a whinge about their writing? I’ve had my go: the floor is open...

* Can't give you a direct link yet as bloody IBLOG hasn't archived the post yet.

A pint with Mr Orwell*

By God – the TV is working this morning, so for the first time in ages I got to see the BBC Breakfast News. I’ve tried other alternatives while our SKY Box has been playing up, but they’ve all been... well, let’s just say that I’ve tried them, OK? No point in hurting people’s feelings for the sake of it.

There was a story today about how five pubs and clubs in Yeovil, Summerset are installing fingerprint scanners. You turn up for a pint, you get your fingerprint scanned, you get your photo taken, then some personal details, and in you go. Unless you’re on the club’s ‘naughty people’ list. Then you get a swift kicking round the back of the bins**.

This will make drinking a safer thing, says the spokesperson on the news this morning. Well, maybe... OK I can see that it’s a good thing to exclude known troublemakers from pubs and clubs – leaving aside the whole they’ll just go to an off-licence and get bladdered on cheap, extra strong lager then go make trouble in the streets debate – but is Yeovil such a bustling metropolis that it’s got too many drunken arseholes for the bouncers to recognise by sight? And do we really need to go for a pint with Big Brother in tow the whole time?

Yes, I’ll admit it – I’m a privacy nut.

What’s next – supermarket fingerprinting? Biometric scans every time you go to the toilet?

Mind you, this could all become a moot point soon. Today the government tries to push through the whole ID card thing. Which I’m not looking forward to either. When I did the Edinburgh International Book Festival last year someone in the audience stood up and asked, “Would having ID cards have made it easier for the police to catch the killer in your book?” He was a bit tweedy-looking, but he bought a copy afterwards, so he must have been all right. My response: “Only if he’d dropped it at the scene.” I can’t really buy into the whole ‘it’ll prevent terrorism’ argument either. What, you’re going to issue someone with a ‘dodgy terrorist bastard’ card? If they’re that dodgy, arrest the fucker. Do something about it. Don’t sod about.

And I have to laugh when the Home Secretary, Charles Clarke stands up and with a straight face tells us that the computer system and these cards are going to be 100% secure... Ahem... Now I might be generalising a bit here, but in my humble recollection every computer system developed by this and every other UK government*** has been a complete and utter disaster. How long do we really think it’s going to take for someone to hack their way round this 100% security? Couple of weeks, a month?

Mind you, maybe it’s just me. Perhaps this marks the dawning of a new utopia. But somehow I bloody doubt it.

* In which your humble bearded narrator gets all political on your ass...
** Which is a very sore place to get kicked.
*** Yup, I’m not partisan for any party; I think they’re all a bunch of self-serving, amoral, sleazy bastards.

Colour me ging-er

Yes, I wasn’t kidding – I did indeed bleach me head in an attempt to get out of my Book 3 funk. A long, long time ago, when dinosaurs ruled the earth, before even steam-powered computers were available, I used to be blond. No, it’s true: I was a blondy-boy as a child, puberty came with spots, a deeper voice, and brown hair both on top of the old noggin and in specific personal areas. But on Saturday I decided to give being blond another shot.

So off we went to Turrif, bought a pack of Garnier Nutrisse Golden Barley, came back and did the deed. Stinky, stinky, stinky! It’s like having your head dipped in a bucket of old wee. Fiona tells me the Romans used to bleach their hair in Matured Asses Urine, but I’m not old enough to remember that, so I’ll have to take her word for it. But it was suitably honking.

And guess what I ended up with: ging-er. Not ‘ginger’ as that looks sort of natural, while this looks like a badly done special effect. She Who Must insists it’s ‘russet’ or ‘strawberry blond’, but really it’s ging-er. Ging-ging-ging-er. Like a radioactive can of Irn-Bru. My head is aflame with ging-erness.

But I have to admit that I feel a lot happier today than I did all last week. My change has been as good as a rest. Especially as I also had a rest. Tomorrow we’re going to try leaving the ginger-ness behind and go the whole blond hog.

I’m looking forward to my first official ‘blonde moment’. At last – an excuse!

The cu*t of celebrity*

Agent Phil has been sending me links and photocopies of late, showing COLD GRANITE’s place on the various best seller lists. Highest new entry in the Nielsen ‘Top 20 Heatseekers’ last week; number 44 in the Bookseller charts; number 12 in Asda; 1, 13, or 22 depending on which WHS Smiths you go into...

But the Bookseller’s chart gave me pause for thought. Yup, I’m hella grateful to be on there at all, but I look at the number one slot and wonder if that’s something attainable to we mere write-ists of crime fiction. It seems the way to guarantee yourself that coveted number one position is to bleach your hair blonde and get yourself a pair of enormous artificial breasts. That’s right: Jordan’s biography is top of the hit parade.

I can’t think of any other industry where anyone can wander in and instantly spring to the top of the heap, just by being famous. (OK, Jordan's is a biography, rather than one of those 'Autobiography's they sometimes like to pretend a celeb has written, but I'm plowing on regardless.) Many have tried the same trick with the music industry and been laughed from the charts. Others have tried the same thing with films and TV and been booed from the theatres. Many end up in panto, and get on OK. But with books, you’re pretty much guaranteed a massive advance and a boatload of sales.

It sort of puts one’s career as a writer into perspective when you know that even if you have spent years honing your craft -- gaining the respect of your peers, establishing a core of people who actually want to read your books -- that any halfwit can roar up to the top of the charts by eating bugs in a jungle somewhere. Or slobbing about in a house for six weeks. Or warbling away for Simon Callow. Just as long as they’re on TV.

And it’s wrong to grudge them their bestseller status too: they wouldn’t be on top of the lists if people weren’t buying their books. If people didn’t want this kind of thing it wouldn’t sell. But it does, so they must. Like everything else, publishing is a business of supply and demand. Whinging isn’t going to change that.

So where does that leave us? In the end most of us are never going to achieve that ‘International Number One Bestseller!!!’ status. Some will, and kudos to them, but as soon as the next ‘celebrity’ biography comes out you know what people will be opening their wallets for.

In the end we have to remember that even if we don’t make it all the way to the top of the charts, we’ve achieved a hell of a lot in just being published in the first place. We’ve got what millions of people want – our book in the shops. People reading them. Some nice reviews (and some complete fucking stinkers too). And if we’re not prepared to bleach our heads and have that boob job, maybe we shouldn’t complain**.

* Cult. C-U-L-T honestly, you people! Stop it with the rudeness already!
** Right, as of today that’s me 50% of the way there...

So far ahead of the curve it's scary

Yup, just got confirmation late last night that I’ll be doing a panel at Left Coast Crime. Not two panels like Little Rickards -- as I think quality’s more important than quantity* -- so there’s a lot less chance of baboon semen being sprayed across the crowd.

Thursday, 16 March - Merchant 2
5.00 - 6.00
COPS & ROBBERS

• Maureen Carter
• Cynthia Harrod-Eagles
• Russell James
• Stuart MacBride - (that's me)
  

Moderator: Michael Z Lewin

So, you know, stuff.

* and I got plenty of quantity, Baby. Hoo-yea, and other such posturing.

All quiet on the North Eastern Front

Another day. No more words written. And I can’t even blame SKY TV – our run of audiovisual disasters continues unabated: the box is buggered. Or a while now we’ve only been able to get about half the channels we used to. I spoke to the Sky Guy and he says it’s probably because half the channels are transmitted horizontally and the other half vertically. So BANG – if something goes wrong with one of the directions you lose half your programmes.

I’ve tried turning the TV on its side, but that doesn’t seem to help. Nor does running round the house, whistling the theme tune to the Flintstones. With alternative rude lyrics.

Maybe I’m just going to have to bite the bullet and get back to actually writing something? ... Nah, that’s just crazy talk.

Day off

If anyone from HarperCollins is reading this, then I’ve had a hugely productive day and Book 3 is coming on great.

But if they’re not, then I’ve done bugger all. Wrote nothing on Monday, a teeny-tiny amount on Tuesday, and by this morning I’d had enough. No more writing. Day off. Watching DVDs on the computer because the playing in the lounge is knackered. Muttering and swearing under my breath.

But when I think about it, this is my first day off this year. So sod it. Deadlines be damned.

And now: mince and tatties!

Themed like a good idea at the time

Guess what: book three has a theme. How artistically wank is that? Mind you, I didn’t put one in there on purpose. Didn’t sit down at the old computer and say, “Hey, you know what: I’m gonna write me a book with a theme!” Nope, this is one of those accidental theme things. A drive-by themeing if you like. One minute we’re themeless and the next: BINGO, we’re in Themesville, Baby, population you!

That’s what happened with books one and two too. COLD GRANITE turned out to be about ‘redemption’. DYING LIGHT is about ‘revenge’. NDC is about something else. I’d tell you what, but it’d spoil the surprise. And you’d be all like, “Dude, you said this would be a bout Penguins! WTF are the penguins?” And I’ll be all, “Hey, they’re metaphorical penguins.” And you’ll be like, “No way!” and I’ll be like, “Way!” and then it’ll turn out that I’ve been lying the whole time and any penguinyness there was has all been edited out. Leaving the whole book an aquatic sea bird free zone. But still with that faint smell of fish...

And now, because I got bugger all written yesterday (not so much as single word), would anyone like to share the theme of their work in progress, or latest book?

Nine wells, three days, two nights and a sofa bed.

Fiona’s dad looks pretty terrible when they finally wheel him back from surgery. He was rushed into hospital last Monday for an unspecified ailment and in a lot of pain. Turns out he’s got a prolapsed disk between two vertebrae. But that’s not the worst bit: he’s also got some sort of infection in his joints. By the time Friday came around his elbow looked like he was trying to shoplift a basketball under the skin. Not surprisingly both Peggy – AKA The MOTHER IN LAW – and She Who Must are very worried.

It’s taken the surgeons at Ninewells Hospital, Dundee, an hour longer than they said it would, though no one seems prepared to say why. And it looks like they've stolen Gordon’s teeth as well. But that doesn’t stop him giving us a big, gummy grin at five past nine at night, before he slips off into painkiller-induced slumber.

The next morning, he’s a bit more animated, but not much. The physiotherapists are all off underarm wrestling or something, because it’s the weekend. And so are the path lab, which means no one really has any idea what’s actually gone wrong with She Who Must’s dad. But they’ve got him on a vast array of antibiotics, some of which are so damn big he has to eat them with a knife and fork. And making him eat stewed rhubarb. I’m not sure if the rhubarb’s part of the cure, or just because the NHS cooks are sadists. But either the antibiotics or the rhubarb are beginning to make a real difference. He can almost lift a half-full glass of lemonade now. Which is more than he could on Wednesday.

Gordon – as he likes to be called (because it’s his name) – has always been very, very active. It’s weird seeing him this weak. This is the man who helped me rip out my kitchen, till there was nothing left – not even a ceiling, then put it all back together again so it didn’t look like shit. He was a joiner with Fife Council for God knows how many years. And he’s got to get better soon, or I’m never going to get the bathroom done.

By the time Sunday comes round they’ve got him sitting up in a chair. All day. From about ten in the morning till eight at night. Which is a hell of a long time when you can barely move your arms, let alone your whole body. When visiting hours start at three he’s still in the same position the nurses put him in five hours earlier. But there’s not a word of complaint from Gordon. I whinge and moan when I have a particularly loud sneeze, never mind a prolapsed disk and mystery joint infection. But then he did National Service. Went out to Cyprus with a full head of hair and all his own teeth. Came back bald as a coot with a set of military assault dentures. Ah yes, the army makes a man of you.

He’s feeling a lot more spry, even if he can’t move more than a couple of centimetres on his own. I think Scotland beating the French rugby team that afternoon probably has something to do with it. As did a screw-up with the meals last night: he was supposed to get salad and ended up with steak. So it’s a good job they’ve found his teeth again.

With any luck we’ll get a phone call late tonight when Peggy gets back from the hospital letting us know how the Ninewells Physiotherapy Armpit Wrestling Eleven got on.

The only downside is that while we were off spending the weekend sleeping on a carnivorous sofa bed, visiting Gordon and making sure Peggy was fed, watered and let out to go to the toilet, Googling Brother and SIL Kim were popping up to Casa MacBride to do the same for Grendel, and for some idiotic reason we’ve offered to baby sit wee Rowan as a thank you. I’ve never had to change a nappy in my life, and I was kinda hoping I could keep it that way.

PORN

Nope, not downloading it, writing it. Way back when I was doing my three sentence pitch to HarperCollins (blessed be their name) I said this book was going to be about pornography, torture and football violence. Which meant that sooner or later I was going to write about Porn. Not sex – Porn.

Now I know that there’s a stigma attached to writing scenes where Tab A is inserted into Slot B or even C, or D. Val McDermid – during the Sex And Violence panel at Harrogate last year – said that as soon as you wrote any sort of sex into your books people started looking at you funny. Peering at you. Saying things like, “I didn’t know they were into that!”

And I have to say, that the nature of the sex in this book is a bit… well, let’s just say it leans towards rubber romper suits and spanking, and leave it at that. Which has involved some of the weirdest research I’ve ever done for a book. And the people I spoke to really, seriously, thoroughly do NOT want to be thanked in the acknowledgements. So they’re not keen to be identified with it, and they’re into it.

But people are still going to look at me, because I’ve written about it, and go, “I didn’t know he was into that!” Or more likely, “See, told you so…” With a knowing wink.

Still, there are worse thing to be associated with I suppose. Like Morris Dancing. Or Jim Carey*.

But having porn as a plot thread poses rather unique challenges. It’s virtually impossible to make stuff up, that hasn’t been done before. I’ve been making up Porn Film Titles for one of the parts and no matter how obscure, or silly they are, a quick Google turns up a gazillion hits with the same thing in them. It seems like every time Hollywood cranks out a film, the porn studios immediately flood the market with ‘alternative versions’, like ‘Shaving Ryan’s Privates’ and ‘Forrest Hump’, or my personal favourite: ’Titty Slickers 2 – The Quest For Gold Curlies’…

I was quite pleased with my ‘James Bondage’ themed films, until I Googled ‘Dildos Are For Ever’. Everything’s been done before… This stuff is seriously hard!**

Anyone got any suggestions? Porn film titles that haven’t been actually filmed already?

WARNING – comments on this one might not be work safe! So pretend you’re doing something else if anyone asks, OK?

* Seriously, I don’t want to be seen to be advocating hate crimes, but will someone PLEASE give that man a swift kick in the goolies?
** No pun intended.

I... I feel so violated

What the hell are so many people doing leaving work early? Slack bastards, it’s not even twenty past four and Dyce looks like a bloody car park. Which isn’t good enough -- I want to be in the centre of town before five, so I can buy some fish and get a nice relaxing pint in before my appointment with the Otolaryngologist.

But no: all these lazy, lazy bastards have clocked off early, so they can beat the traffic. Thus making more, pre-rush hour traffic, when people are in a hurry to see their nose doctor. Which means that it’s well after five when I pull into the car park where Googling Brother works. Well, he doesn’t actually work in the car par, but he works in the big building it sits behind, so that’s near enough for the purpose of this narrative.

Stuart parks and walks round the block to the front door: locked.

Stuart looks for the doorbell. Someone seems to have stolen it. There's not even a hole with a couple of wires sticking out of it. It’s like the doorbell never even existed. So Stuart tries the knocker* BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! Then stands about like a twit in the freezing cold. And eventually tries again: BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! And waits, and waits, and waits... Then gives up and marches all the way round to the rear of the building. And goes through the whole BOOMing thing again, with the back door.

Of course, eventually I give up and start shouting -- obscenities mostly -- and at last Googling Brother appears. I subjected him to a grumpy tirade on the need for doorbells in civilised society and shooting everyone who leaves work early to avoid the traffic. Bastards.

A small period of calming down occurs in the Howff -- a basement establishment where they serve beer and frown on full-frontal nudity**. Talk turns to health insurance and GB’s hunt for a nursery. And then I trundle off to Albyn Hospital where an overly cheerful woman offers me a seat and a form to fill in. I think she’s been at the medicine cabinet – no real person smiles that much and does the happy blinky thing at people she’s never met before. Unless of course she’s recognised the name: Stuart MacBride! Global celebrity and all round bearded raconteur.

It’s that or she thinks I’m a bit ‘touched’ and need humouring. Everyone else in here looks like they've got some sort of ‘executive illness’. They’re wearing suits and ties. I’m wearing a saggy pair of £4.00 jeans from Tesco, a sweatshirt with finch feathers and cat fur on it, and have been guddling about under the truck all morning. So everything is ingrained with a mixture of dirt, oil and rust. I am Beardy Scruff Monkey Boy.

I sit in the corner, so no one else catches it.

Eventually I’m shown into the offices of Mr Hussain***, who has slicked-back hair and a ready smile, and ushers me straight through to the examination room, where it’s all ‘hop up onto the table, Mr MacBride’ and ‘this won’t take a minute...’ I would feel a lot happier if he weren’t lubeing up an endoscope while he's telling me this.

Any medical examination that involves lubricant isn’t going to be fun. That's a universal truth, and no amount of easy smiling and slicked-back hair is going to change it.

This is when the attending nurse leans in and says, “Don’t worry, some people don’t mind it at all.” And then Mr Hussain sticks a lubricated drain-rod up my nose and I’m left wondering: WHO? Who the hell doesn’t mind someone ramming a wiggly metal snake up their hooter?**** A wiggly metal snake with a light on the end.

If you’ve ever been really, really sick and a bit of carrot’s come out of your nose, this is the same thing, only going the other way. And there’s someone peering up your sinuses at the same time. So if anything it’s slightly less pleasant.

“Hmm,” says Mr Hussain, and “Oh,” and “Yes... yes... yes...”***** And then he pulls the wiggly snake out****** and gives me the verdict, which I can’t hear as I’m too busy sneezing my head off. So he repeats himself – I have a deviated septum. And as an added bonus, he’s going to throw in something wrong with my sinuses and a couple of other things he’s going to want to hack out of my nose with a big pointy knife. Doesn't that sound like FUN?

Knowing my luck I’m going to turn up for Left Coast Crime looking like I’m in the process of inhaling a watermelon.

* If in doubt, always try the knockers – it’s my life philosophy and I’m sticking to it.
** Well, one or two Babychams and we all loose our inhibitions, don’t we?
*** No relation. Not that I know of anyway.
**** Hooter – nose. So don’t go making up your own smut.
***** Worrying enough in a nasal examination, but more so during a prostate one.
****** Of my nose, it's not a euphemism, you dirty, dirty-minded people!

We’re off to see the Otolaryngologist, the wonderful Otolaryngologist of Oz...

Hmm, maybe that doesn’t have quite the same ring to it. But today a strange man is going to stare up my nose for a bit. I’ve never met him before, so it’s further than I’d normally go on a first date, but I want to be like all the cool kids... Hope he’ll be gentle with me*.

And I say ‘strange man’, because you’d have to be really, wouldn’t you?

“What do you want to be when you grow up, Timmy?”

Timmy claps his hands, eyes beaming with delight. “Daddy,” he says, breathless with excitement, “I want to be a Bogie Doctor!”

Not exactly normal, is it?

But it’s one step closer to being able to breathe again, and I get to use my much flaunted Company Health Insurance** for once.

Now, the only thing left to decide is: do I dress prim and proper, or slutty, so he knows I’m up for it?

*Or he’ll be needing an Otolaryngologist of his own to remove my fist from his left nostril.
** With capitals, because that’s how it was pronounced when they were asking me to join INoGITCH.