A lack of dedication

You remember a wee while ago I was in Dublin, visiting Brother Scott and his family, and She Who Must Be Invited To More Things and I were asked along to a party held by the American ambassador? Well, being the bearded twit that I am, I said I would send the ambassador a copy of my book as a thank you. Apparently he's been asking Brother Scott to do him a deal on a copy for ages -- probably just being polite, but you never know.

Now the dilemma is this: as a foreign diplomat he's entitled to be called Ambassador Kenny. It his title. But I'd feel weird scribbling on the title page, "To Ambassador Kenny and family, All The Best (illegible scribble and a picture of a teddy bear doing something unwholesome)" Seems a bit... impersonal, doesn't it? If I get a book signed by an author -- and I've only ever done this twice* -- I wouldn't want it written out to "Mr MacBride". What would be the point? Though I suppose I could pass it off as a birthday / Christmas present to my father when I'd finished reading it. Mind you, as he's called Stuart as well, I could probably just do that anyway...

So, do I go for, "To James, Margaret and family; thanks for inviting us to Courtney's birthday party, we had a great time! (illegible scribble and a picture of a small dog saying something inappropriate about underwear)" or something more formal?

Come on then, what would you do?**

* First time it was Terry Pratchett when he came to Aberdeen God knows how many years ago, and the second was the blessed St. Reginald Hill at last year's Harrogate crime festival. And I felt like such a geeky fanboy both times.
** He said, expecting the usual faint whistling sound as tumbleweed rolls by.

A whole day off!

In honour of the Great Tambolina's birthday on Sunday I decided to take the day off. No internet, no blogging, no writing. Computer switched off and off to paint a picture. Not even lawn mowing -- that's how indolent I was. And it were LOVELY. Well, the indolence was lovely, the painting was OK, but needs some remedial work in the same way a severed limb needs a sticking plaster. However, She Who Must likes it, so that's nice.

This week though I'm performing that most dreaded of tasks -- reading my own book. Now that all the edit notes are back on ... I can't say it -- yes you can -- BROKEN SKIN... argh: the aftertaste ... I've got to actually read the thing to see what everyone was talking about. When I was doing the acting malarkey I used to hate seeing myself on stage (through the technical wonders of video, rather than some sort of bizarre mirror / out of body experience thing), and I feel much the same way about my writing. When I read my own stuff, all I ever see are the flaws. Makes me cringe. But it has to be done.

Just to make it more painful I'm trying not to edit. Yes I have a red pen at my side as I go, but I'm fighting the urge to use it or I'll still be here in a month's time. Which would be unfortunate as I've got to discuss the thing with the lovely Sarah at HC on Friday. Probably in a post-Dagger hungover haze. Me, not Sarah -- she's far too well behaved.

Trouble is I already want to start cutting things out that I know they like. So it's going to be an interesting meeting. I shall have to stock up on Fizzy Good Make Feel Nice just in case it gets violent.

They're wily these publishing types.

And I promised myself I wasn't going to cry...

Yes, in all the excitement of having my nether-regions accused of destroying women's lib in its multifarious forms I've forgotten something. St. Martin's Press (blessed be thy name) have asked me to write an acceptance speech for the upcoming Thrillerfest event in Phoenix. No you and I both know that there's bugger all chance I'll actually win anything, but the consensus seems to be 'better safe than sorry', and SMP have got someone going along who's been nominated to read out mine speech, should the universe suddenly take a sharp left turn into Bizarroworld.

Now I checked and the bloke in question has to read out what ever I write word for word. Hmm... a slightly more filthy and degenerate mind might use this as an opportunity to embarrass the arse off of someone by making him come out with an unending stream of filth and confessions of sexual deviancy. Bwahahahahaha! No -- no, must behave, must pretend to be like a proper writer.

*ahem*

Whenever I hear one of these, 'I never expected to win' things read out at a ceremony, I always think, 'Bollocks -- if you didn't expect it, how come you wrote a bloody speech?', but now I understand that it's probably down to someone in the publishing house brandishing a pointy stick (with a naked photo of Anne Widdecombe on it) poking the writer in the deviant male parts, and shouting, "Write an acceptance speech! Write it NOW monkey boy!"

Personally I expect that my speech will only ever be read out in the bar afterwards in a 'post-ironic' taking the piss style. But you never know. So, before I get cracking, does anyone want thanked for anything? Best answer goes in the speech!

In which our bearded protagonist’s reproductive organs are the subject of some controversy

You may not know this, but I was born with a genetic condition that afflicts about 50% of the earth's population. I -- deep breath now, you can do it -- my name is Stuart and I have a willy; my chromosomes are XY; and I'm a member of the heterogametic sex. Oh, I feel so DIRTY! Now according to some top medical sources this predisposes me to growing a beard, scratching myself, putting up shelves and watching football. Well, three out of four anyway. According to others it means I can get nominated for awards too! How cool is that?

Of course, those same people are also saying that my man-winky is a bad thing -- which is a shame, as it's never done anything to them -- because it's stopping those without willies from getting nominated. And so I feel ashamed.

How can my gentleman's-relish ever show its face in public again? It will have to hide away in the shadows, never to be seen again. Much to the disappointment of the Oldmeldrum Women's Rural Institute.

A fellow sufferer D Terrenoire ESQ, in-between posts about pubic topiary, is schlepping his shameful trouserparts to the clinic next week to see if they can't do anything for him. I would go, but I can't afford the bus fare from the north east of Scotland, much though I'd love to. So I'll just have to wish David good luck instead.

But there is hope -- a specialist says that my genetalia are not the source of all evil after all. Which is nice. In fact she goes on to state that none of those on the shortlist are there because of their shameful men's bits. And that, you know, the judges just liked our books. Scary, but there it is.

So once more David, I, and all the other sufferers can stand erect and shout from the rooftops: be proud of your willies, they don't matter in the great scheme of things*!

* Wait a minute, that doesn't sound right, does it?

Summer Solstice my arse

Ever since She Who Must and I moved into Casa MacBride there's been a tradition of going for a walk round the field behind the house at midnight on the summer solstice. Well, I call it a tradition, really we only did it the first year and rain has stopped play ever since. But just because we've only done it once it doesn't mean it's not a tradition, damn it! So last night we stayed up and waited for a break in the monsoon conditions. Come midnight the rain hadn't let up and by then She Who Must Get Up For Work The Next Morning was sound asleep anyway. No summer solstice for me.

We nearly forgot all about it anyway; there seems to have been a dearth of media interest in our happy pagan rituals this year. Instead of the usual hear tearing and shirt rending about those dreadful hippies, ravers and druids marching about all over Stonehenge getting into trouble with the police that usually goes on for weeks before hand it's been pretty much ignored. I blame the World Cup. Damn over-paid footballists and their running around like twits.

Yes, so, we had no advance notice -- we knew the solstice was coming, but only had a vague idea when. And all our calendars are blank on the subject, even the one with cats on it in the kitchen that lists things like Waitangi Day (New Zealand holiday February the 6th). So no dancing half-naked round a stone circle at sunrise for us.

But all that will change when we buy what has become known as 'The Dream House'. This is the one we'll move to when we've saved up whatever ridiculous amount of money's needed to buy a chunk of land and convert or build something on it. And among the things I'll be building is my own stone circle. Yes, I could buy a place with one already installed, but I want to be buried in mine* along with an as yet unspecified number of vestal virgins, gewgaws, and whatever car I happen to be driving at the time. That'll confuse the hell out of archaeologists 3,000 years from now.

Oh, and I'll put a curse on my tomb too -- that'll teach the grave-robbing bastards to leave my mouldy old corpse alone!

* But not till I'm dead, thank you very much

Nostalgic between the ears

Let's be honest -- I was sick fed up of the music in my car. Six months of nothing but Green Day, Feeder, Paul Weller and the Commitments. And to be honest I only played the Commitments once, couldn't face any more than that. So today I decided to change the CDs in my car.

Now I know that sounds all posh -- I've never had a car with a CD Player in it -- but I drive a leprous old Daihatsu Fourtrak. Seriously, there's more rust than car. If you sneeze loudly something falls off of it. Which is kind of liberating. The first car I ever bought was brand new: yes I had to save like a bastard to get the deposit together, and indenture my soul to make the remaining payments, but that sucker was showroom shiny. My car. Then, when She Who Must Be Appeased started complaining that four years was really long enough to be sharing a car when we worked in completely different parts of town, I caved in and bought another new car. That too was MY CAR, and She Who Must got the first one (on reasonable repayment terms to the Bank Of Beard). And I doted on both those cars -- went out and washed them when they were dirty, gave them names (Piglet and Roo respectively*), mourned their first scratch and dent**– but with this car it's different.

The thing I drive now doesn't even have a name, it cost me £3,500 from someone She Who Must Ride Horses knows, who I think had used it to cultivate new and interesting strains of metal corrosion. You could pee on the thing every night and not make as much rust as these people managed. But it's a Fourtrak, so it'll keep on going till the seas go dry and people eventually realise white socks with black trousers make you look like a child molester.

Which is kind of liberating (the rust, not the white socks), this is the first car where I don't really care if some wee stone flies off the road and chips the paintwork, because it's ruined already. Last week I was guddling about underneath the thing with a friend of a friend, taking an angle grinder to it so we could weld bits back on. OK, so this was only because the friend who's friend the friend of a friend was, had jumped on a part of the car that promptly fell off, but it was still manly grinding and welding. Grrrrrr! Even if 'manly grinding' does sound a bit suspect. In the not too distant past I've fixed the rear lights using bits from the Kitchen From Hell we ripped out when we moved in. Tomorrow I'm going to take a drill to bits of it. Nothing like a bit of mechanical engineering to make the old testosterone thrum.

Anyway, back to the music. I found a copy of 'Our Town: the best of Deacon Blue' in the CD rack. I've not listened to it for years, but putting it back in the car, clicking it on... Boom -- I was twelve years ago. Or more. And though the singing along wasn't word perfect, it was near enough. Suddenly everything was peeled back to a more complicated time when life was a lot more... well complicated. But the music is still good. So I'll sing along for a couple of months, till I can't stand the sound of it any more and bury it back in the CD rack for another 12 years.

Ah yes: nostalgia's all well and good, but it isn't what it used to be.


* See: I can do literary
** Gifted by anonymous bastards that never left a note, may God rot their eyes in their sockets and replace them with burning onions!

Opera Noir*

I was going to go for another 'cult of celebrity' rant, but that's no way to start a Monday morning, is it? Blood pressure gettin' all rowdy.

We went to the opera on Saturday night -- Opera North were doing the Marriage of Figaro, and very good it was too. Lots of pretty music and running about. The whole thing is basically a bedroom farce with singing, but it got me thinking about my favourite opera of all time: Carmen. Where Figaro is happy and fluffy, Carmen is a perfect example of the Noir tale. A young guard is seduced away from his post and the army by a manipulative woman of questionable repute who turns him into a deserter and a smuggler before dumping him for a bull fighter. And in true Noir fashion he gets his revenge by stabbing her. Don José is doomed from the start -- as soon as Carmen gets her hooks into him there's nothing left but the downward spiral into self-destruction, jealousy and murder.

Now I'll be the first to admit that I don't really write noir books -- even though that's what they get called -- Logan's not a doomed man (not at the moment anyway), and yet a lot of the short stories I write... well, let's just say that those involved seldom come out of it well.

The McRae books are happy-go-lucky in comparison. Maybe a bit too happy? I wasn't happy with the original start of DYING LIGHT, but I couldn't figure out why until one day I woke up and realised I was writing a comedy crime book. Every page was littered with one-liners and jokey references. It was bloody horrible. So I went back and ripped most of them out. But I wonder if I left too many behind.

I know DYING LIGHT has been deemed to jokey for one market already, and then there's Paul Johnston's review in Shots Magazine. You know you're in for a mild doing over when someone starts by saying what a nice person you are ;}# And I can see where he's coming from: I am lovely (joking, joking -- I is still keepin' it real!)

I think Book 3 (go on, call it BROKEN SKIN, you know you'll have to get used to it some time) isn't too humorous, but I'll only be able to tell for sure when I read through it for the edit. I don't want it to be overly grim, but I really don't want to be writing "funny" crime stories either.

What to do... what to do...

* Not to be confused with Oprah Noir, where chatshow hosts run amuck with a handgun and knock over a drug dealer's crack house only to find it's being run by the cops...

All quiet on the writing front

I haven't written a word in weeks. Well, not proper words anyway, just these here rambling inanities thrown out into the silent void like so many mangy ducks. But as for books, editing and revisions: nada. Remember I said everyone had come back with their considered opinions on BROKEN SKIN (still not used to that title yet, but it's official now so I suppose I'd better make nice with it), well there was a late entrant to the third annual Beardy Book Read-through Sweepstakes, and they've not quite made it all the way round the track yet. I suspect they've been doped.

I'm loathed to start in on any revisions until I've got all the feedback in. Part of it's my innate laziness -- I can't face going through the thing and changing stuff only to find I've got to go back and tweak it yet again -- but mostly it's because I want to have a good clear view of the thing before I start. I've got five people giving me feedback on the book this time (which is two less than for DYING LIGHT), so they should represent a good spread of opinion. The things I'm going to be really looking for are bits where people haven't understood something.

I did a 'How To Deal With Difficult Bastards' training course through INoGITCH a couple of years ago -- OK, so I'm paraphrasing the title a bit -- and one of the things the instructor specialised in was 'Neuro Linguistics Programming' which is all about how communication is a subjective thing. Just because you tell someone 'X' it doesn't mean that they won't think you meant 'Y' instead. And not because they're thick, or obstinate, but because you've screwed up the message. The idea might be clear when it's inside your head, but by the time it's come out of your mouth, crossed the intervening space, squeezed through their lugs, been filtered by their personal experiences / preconceptions / assumptions / neuroses and stuffed into their brain, it could be muddy as a well-attended ladies wrestling night in Bradford. Worse yet -- it could be crystal-clear, but completely different.

So: the responsibility for making sure a message is understood lies with the person it comes from. The poor sod on the other end won't even know they've got it wrong, unless you check. And that's the way I look at stuff people don't 'get' in the books. If they don't understand something, it means I've been too subtle*, or too obtuse, or just plain crap at my job.

It's one of the good things about having a five person feedback group -- there are enough sets of lugholes-and-brains to pick up most of my communication screw-ups. Which I can then, hopefully, fix.

Plus they catch typos, which is good.

In the interim I'm still fiddling with the website and wishing I'd just gone for a complete rewrite instead. Sodding about with clumps of code I don't understand anymore is doing my head in! The logical stuff is OK, because I've commented it pretty well, but the SQL statements might as well be in ancient Sumerian for all the good they're doing me. I no longer understand the table structure, or how the various lumps of data interact.

Bloody website.

Still, it fills in the time I suppose ;}#

* This is the usual culprit. I don't like to spell things out. Most of the time I don't even like to hint.

Broken

No blog post yesterday due to being a walking disaster area. I woke up with some sort of invisible ninja dwarf jabbing hot knitting needles into my back and hip, hurpled about for a bit, then decided to take that there newfangled advice them doctors is givin' out these days and to keep mobile. So I went out and dug the garden. For about ten and a half hours. Without a break.

Now while it's nice to get a sense of achievement for a change, I've managed to break pretty much every part of me. Everything hurts. Even my eyelashes are sore. That bloody vertically-challenged invisible ninja has been joined by his two dozen friends, some of whom have lump hammers. Every time I move it sounds like I'm made of rusty door hinges. I crouch down (because bending over makes the room go AAAAAAAAAAAArgh!) and my knees make the same kind of noise you get by snapping sticks of celery. And every so often I groan -- not the good kind of groaning either.

But looking on the bright side, at least we now have stuff planted in the back garden. Yes I know it's too late for them to really come to much, but right now they're a sort of horticultural placebo. There's nothing quite so satisfying as eating something you've grown yourself -- culinarily speaking, I mean I can think of other things a lot more satisfying, but it's before the watershed so I can't mention them -- tatties, beans, courgettes, garlic, Jerusalem artichokes... Mmm, garden grown food.

That's two years in a row I've been crap with the vegetables. Long gone are the days referenced in my writers bio where 'Stuart... lives in the north east of Scotland with his wife and enough potatoes to feed an army' Last year I blamed the edits -- I was doing them, very slowly, while the weeds were getting out of control, and nothing got planted. This year I'm blaming starting Book 3 too late and having to write while rampant went the weeds. Next year I'm going to blame sunspots. Or Satanic activity in the nethers. Or I could just get my finger out and dig the garden before it resembles Borneo on a bad day.

You never know: first time for everything.

Differenting me

Yes, another self-indulgent rambling post. Well, it's sunny outside and I'm stuck indoors, so it's this or make a scale model of Ann Widdecombe out of carpet fluff and some strange sticky things I found under the fridge. I think they used to be cloves of garlic... And why am I stuck indoors on a blisteringly sunny day? Because my new antibiotics list amongst their many side effects: vampirism. Yup, I step out into the naked light of the sun and WHOOOOPH! I go up like a petrol-soaked teddy bear. All I need now are the big pointy teeth and a collection of nubile virgins and I'm hot to trot. But I digress.

After yesterday's post about the Subterranean magazine coming out, someone got in touch to say: "don't you think you might be lossing touch with your reality..." and "...The laste bloog has the making of a premadona pride befor a fall. I'm only writing bercause I thing your good and you may be loosing touch with your roots" Now I should point out that I don't think this is a malicious comment -- and believe me I'm getting enough really nasty ones to be able to tell the difference -- everyone's entitled to their opinion, so no flying off the handle in the comments on my behalf, OK?

Which got me thinking: have I changed? I'd thought yesterday's post had more than a touch of the tongue in its cheek, but I've been wrong before. Have I lost touch?

Well, in the interests of keepin' it real, today I'm wearing baggy-arsed jeans and a backwards baseball cap. Well, OK, so I am wearing a baseball cap, but it's on the right way round to keep the sun, streaming through the window out of my Christopher Lee eyes. Seriously people -- if you can't tell which side of your head the pointy bit of a baseball cap's supposed to go, get help! Front! IT FACES THE FRONT! Now, I'll give you some leeway -- you can wear it backwards if you're doing something where the sun's behind you and you need to keep your neck from spontaneously combusting, but wouldn't it be better to put the hat on the right way round and tuck a hanky under the rim at the back? This has the added bonus that you can pretend you're in the French Foreign Legion and can run around shouting things like 'Courage mon brave!' and 'Mon Dieu!' which is always fun. Otherwise you just look like you got dressed in the dark.

Where was I? Ah, right: have I changed? Looking back on it, I'm a lot happier now than I was when I started out a year ago. I'm a lot less shy; I'll talk to pretty much anyone now, whether they like it or not. I'm a lot easier to live with too -- according to She Who Must Put Up With The Bearded Twit -- easier than I was when I was doing proper work for a living, anyway. Yes, there are the occasional bouts of writerly euphoria, despondency and paranoia that would make a bipolar coke-monkey proud, but other than that I'm pretty good.

So yes, I've changed.

Next stop: snorting controlled substances off of naked groupies.

You lookin' for a good time, Sugar?

I was going to do one of them posts about writing you see on other, proper blogs, but in the end decided to go for some shameless self-pimpage instead. Yes, the new issue of Subterranean (Skiffy magazine to the stars) is hitting the presses as we speak -- well as I type and you read... OK, so technically we're not both doing those things at the same time, unless you're in the room looking over my shoulder (in which case I should probably put some clothes on), but you know what I mean -- and look what they've put on the cover:

Look -- there's my name! Me! Bwahahahaha! Oh the ego, the EGO! I'm really looking forward to seeing if there's an illustration to go with the story on the inside: A FINITE NUMBER OF TYPEWRITERS. Hope so, that'd be, like, you know, cool. Huh, huh.

Annnnnnnnnnd we're back. If you've not already rushed out and done so, you can order your very own copy of the above magazine of wonder right now! Be the kid on your block all the crack ho's and junkies look up to! Impress members of the opposite / same sex! And ducks*. Makes a perfect pretend telescope (some assembly required), a wasp swatter, or something to make paperweights feel useful. Order today and get a free envelope/plastic bag thingie to keep it in!

Looking back on it I've had a pretty good year for short stories. I gave a dozen away on the website at Christmas, had one published in the first Spinetingler Anthology, another's coming out soon from Busted Flush Press (so there will be more shameless self-pimpage on the way), and two have been bought by some lovely people in Holland: the first features a junkie trapped in a septic tank, and the second opens with the hero pissing on someone's grave. All very wholesome.

I went off shorties after my marathon binge of stupidity for Christmas -- I am never, ever going to write 12 short stories on the trot again -- but I'm beginning to see the appeal once more. Anyone looking for stuff? I'm not proud... ;}#

They get lonely too, you know.

Fish Fingers

Today we have the good news, and we have the bad news. On the good news front today marks yet another visit to the Sinus Surgeon O' Doom (yes, I know that doesn't sound like very good news, but were trying to keep a positive spin on things). On the bad news front I'm back on anti-bastarding-biotics for a month. A MONTH! (Seethe, wail, nash of teeth, and production of assorted nasty odours)

On the other good news front, all the nasty surgical goo that was rammed up my hooter has finally finished its glacier-like journey from just under my brain out into the big wide world. On the less than good news front, my sinuses have decided to celebrate this act by getting themselves a mastadonic infection, so even thought the bloody stuff's gone, it still feels just as bad.

On the otherer good news front, I spent Sunday in the garden with Simon Kernick and some very cold beer (not the same as a hot bath with Allan Guthrie, as there's less grabbing and 'oops where's the soap?', but still very enjoyable for that). And continuing with the happy news for monkeys theme I've got an infected thumb!

Yes, and I know that REALLY doesn't sound like good news, but it means I get twice the bang or my antibiotic bucks! How great is that? Not very, but come on, give me a break: the glass is half full, the glass is half full… And how did this infected digit come about? Remember that fish I bought off the woman with the skelpt-arse face? I was taking it out of the bag to give it a wash, prior to indulging in a little culinary piscine lurve, and got one of the nasty little bugger's barbed back fins stuck in the ball of my thumb. Cue bleeding and swearing. And today it's all purple and makes me look like Little Jack Bloody Horner, post pie poking*

Still, mustn't grumble…

* In a wholesome non-American Pie kind of way.

Fish-face

It's our wedding anniversary today -- eleven years I've been putting up with She Who Must Be Put Up With, I'm due for beatification any day now.

As a special treat we went to the Taste Of Grampian event to freeload on samples of beer, wine and tasty things. Mmm, tasty things... and ended up spending a fortune. But we've come home with lots of nice things. The only downside was the woman manning the fish stall, who had a face like a skelpt arse (as they say up here) and spent 50% of her time sending text messages on her mobile phone. I'm of the opinion that if you can't be bothered being nice to people then retail probably isn't the career for you. Go be a telemarketer instead, where your face isn't going to scare the fish. Plus you get to piss people off the whole day and burn in the firey pits of hell when you die. Like those bastards who keep calling to ask if I'm the person who pays the phone bill. BUGGER OFF! I don't call your house and ask if you're the one who buys bloody books, do I?

The fair was good, and only one place had the temerity to charge for wine tasting, so we went to the Cairn O' Mohr stand and tried all of theirs for free instead. Then bought most of them.

Anyway, it's time to get cracking on a romantic dinner and associated cheese. To the kitchen!

You want freaky? I got your freaky right here...

Yes, the wierdarama continues. I wasn't expecting anything in the post today, but a burly bloke in a delivery van turned up with a big package of Japanese Cold Granites. Well, I say 'Cold Granite', but I honestly haven't got a clue if that's what the thing's called over there. Could be pretty much anything, "Bearded Monkey-Man Writes Poop!" is a distinct possibility.

Until this afternoon I though this version wasn't going to be published for a year or so. And even then I didn't expect it to look so odd... OK, so I should have, not only is it a completely different language it's a phenomenally different character set. It doesn't bear any relationship to anything I can actually read. And that's cool, but a little scary at the same time. They've printed it on slightly yellow paper, so it's a bit like a tiny telephone directory, and for all I know that's what it is. I thought the Norwegian version was freaky, but at least I could recognise some words there. Here -- I've got no bloody chance.

The only thing I'm pretty much be certain of is that the black band at the bottom of the book says something about Ian Rankin. Just so we can infuriate his Japanese fans as well ;}#

So there you go -- my head has swollen to the size of a rampant cantaloupe and there's one less country safe from my beardy tentacles of DOOM!

Bwahahahahahahaaaa!

A Little Birthday Tail...

Master Hippity straightened his fluffy white tail and examined his long ears in the mirror.

"Honestly," said his mother as he combed his whiskers, "you're going to be late for school, you naughty rabbit!"

"Oh, Mummy," Hippity said, hopping across to the kitchen table for a slice of hot buttered toast with strawberry jam, "don't worry, I hop ever so fast! I'm the fasted bunny in the whole warren -- Mr Twitchy says so."

"Hmph," his mother snorted and turned back to the little white sink by the window, "Well, just be sure you get to school on time. And no lollygagging on the way home either: we're having carrot casserole tonight."

Hippity's face fell. "Oh, Mummy," he said with a pout, "I wanted broccoli for tea -- there's some at the big, white house and I--"

"NO!" There was a clattering and a crashing as a breakfast plate shattered on the kitchen floor. "You must never, ever go up to the big, white house!"

"But--"

"No! You mind me young Master Hippity, you're to steer well clear of that place! Your poor father, Frith rest his soul, never came back." Tears sparkling in her eyes, she bent and picked up the shards of crockery. "The monster got him..."

Hippity rolled his eyes, not even pretending to listen as she told the story for the millionth time.

The sun god blazed in a powder-blue sky making the morning dew sparkle like diamonds on the blades of grass and nettles as Hippity made his way down the long field, across the ditch and past the black strip, where the vroomers roared. The day was going to be a scorcher, far too hot to sit in a stuffy old school room. And he was still hungry, even after three slices of toast and a cup of bunny tea for breakfast.

Sitting up on his hind legs, he peered through the long grass to the north, where a pair of white chimneys poked the sky. The big, white house. Surely it wouldn't hurt to take a tiny morsel of broccoli? He was only a little rabbit: no one would miss it.

Hippity hopped through the long grass to the back fence, staring in through the wooden slats at the strange-looking garden. A square of shorn green, washing flapping on a line, funny coloured plants, a hedge that seemed to stretch all the way up to the heavens, and a vegetable patch that made his mouth water. Rows and rows of broccoli, their purple stems waving in the gentle breeze.

He rested his little paws on the gap beneath the fence. Mummy always told the tale of 'daddy and the monster' whenever anything bad happened. If Hippity was naughty, or got into trouble at school for not paying attention, Mummy told him the monster would come and gobble him all up.

"I'm faster than any monster," he told himself, squeezing through into the garden, "I'm the fastest bunny in school!"

The sour scent of decay came from the compost bin in the corner as he snuck along the side of the fence, keeping his long ears up and his little nose twitching, ready to sprint at the first sign of trouble. Not that there really was a monster -- that was just something the does told their kits to scare them into behaving -- but it never hurt to be safe. 'Better safe than dead', that was what Mr Grimple always said, and he was a very old rabbit indeed.

A small patch of weeds bordered the broccoli patch and Hippty crept through it, keeping very quiet... The tender green leaves and shoots and stems glittered in the sunshine, shiny slug trails weaving complicated patterns on the dry earth. He'd only take a little, just enough to make his tummy stop rumbling, and maybe a bit more so Mummy could have some for tea, instead of nasty old carrot casserole which always tasted of boiled socks.

It wasn't until his teeth nibbled down on the first leaf that he heard the voice.

"Well, well, well, what have we here? A lovely little kit in the broccoli patch."

Hippity turned to see a strange, fuzzy character hopping down from somewhere inside the big hedge, landing with a delicate thunk on the wooden path. "Hello?" he said, when he remembered his manners, letting go of the tasty leaf. "My name's Hippity. I'm the fastest rabbit in the whole school!"

"Are you indeed?" said the newcomer, walking like flowing water, barely making a noise with her paws. "I've never seen a rabbit that fast before. You must be very special."

Hippity's chest swelled with pride. "Would you like to see me run?"

The fuzzy one tilted her head to one side and said, "Yes. I'd like that very much."

"Whoosh!" Hippity leapt straight into a sprint, tearing round the square of mown grass like lightning, before screeching to a stop back at the broccoli patch again. "You..." he panted, "You see?"

The newcomer's long, furry tail snaked back and forth. "Very good! You are the fastest rabbit I've seen for a long time."

Hippity blushed, embarrassed and pleased at the same time. "Thanks!"

"Would you like to stay to tea, and play?"

"Please!" He bounced up and down on his hind legs, clapping his front paws together.

The screaming is the best bit. Batting the squirming kit back and forth with her paws, pouncing on his back hard enough to make ribs crack inside the soft furry body. Hooking a claw into his cheek and flipping him through the air to crash down on the porch floor. Fresh blood mingling with the dark stains of mice and shrews and birds. Holding a pawn down on his throat till his little black eyes bulge.

He twitches and mewls, a back leg trembling and broken as she lowers her muzzle to his tiny furry nose. And bites it off. Crunching her way slowly through his ears and face while the last spark of life leaves Hippity's body. She'll maybe leave a leg and a some of the squishier inside bits where the big, bearded pink thing can step in it later. But for now Grendel's happy to munch and crunch through the baby rabbits skull.

And the moral of the story is: Stay the hell away from Stuart's broccoli you freeloading rodent bastards!

Oh, and it's Grendel's birthday today, she's two! Many happy returns of the day to her and the baby rabbit she was eating at half ten this morning.

And the winner is...

Agent Phil (4 to 1), coming first in the third annual Beardy Book Read-through Sweepstakes, closely followed by Publisher Jane (12 to 1), and Editor Sarah (11 to 2). All beating the odds-on favourite, Mr James (2 to 1), who suffered a stumble at the last fence (at least he didn't have to be put down). He's won the race for the last two years in a row, so the bookies are delighted not to be shelling out on him this time.

We spoke to Agent Phil in the winner's enclosure after the BBRS (sponsored by Martell -- makers of brandy since sometime before last Tuesday -- and Captain Whiffy's Emproium of Fabulous Fish), where he told us that it had been a hard race, especially with the going being soft this time (he prefers firm to good), but that he'd been in training all season. Then, sweating profusely, he launched into a medley of Gracy Fields numbers, interspersed with the odd, "Hey-oop, chuck!"

Final results are as follows:

Phil:	06 June 2006 18:15:39
Jane:	06 June 2006 19:15:45
Sarah:	07 June 2006 09:33:34
James:	07 June 2006 12:08:07

What amazes me is that this was a 150,000 word book (actually slightly more than that) they had to wade through, but everyone has come back with their comments within 19 hours of each other.

Freaky.

Bromsgrove a-no-go

The hotel bar's open till late on a Tuesday, the jukebox oozing an old Beatles track out into the dim interior. It's not exactly crowded in here: just the fat girl yawning behind the bar and the two men.

"I don't get it," says the taller one, running his fingers thoughtfully through his greying goatee beard, "we did great yesterday..."

"Mmmph," the other one shrugs, a spotlight from the bar reflecting off his shaven head, making the strawberry birthmark glow. Then he orders another Grouse and Irn-Bru.

"I mean, we had what, seventy, eighty last night?"

"Can we no' get some chips?"

The girl looks up from some, glossy, sleazy, tabloid magazine and says, "Kitchen's shut. Crisps, nuts and pork scratchings."

The tall one sighs, and slumps against the bar. "Was it something we said, do you think?"

"Naw," says the bald one, accepting a packet of pickled onion Monster Munch and tearing it open, getting little crumbs of greasy maize all over the place, "fuck..." He sooks the end of his finger and starts dabbing them up. "It's that Aberdonian bearded bastard. When it's just youse and me, we're fine, soon as his name's on the bill nae bugger wants to turn up."

"Yeah... Yeah, I suppose you're right."

"Aye." He nods sagely. "'Nother drink?"

The tall one thinks about it. "Babycham and blackcurrant, please..."

And so pass the wee small hours.

Yes, the event to end all events, the three-way tag-team bonanza that was to be Billingham, Brookmyre and some Bearded Bloke at Ottakar's Bromsgrove tomorrow has gone the way of all flesh. Even though the Brothers Grim have been packing them in all over the shop, tickets for tomorrow's event haven't been going like hot cakes so much as 'cold sick'. We couldn't even field a football team. And I'm talking five-a-side here... So it's been cancelled in favour of test cricket and a repeat of 'When Nipples Attack!' on Channel 4.

Shame -- it would have been fun!

Freaks (part the second)

I can’t think of a single writer who doesn’t like to get email / notes from the people who read their books. I’ve been lucky enough to get some lovely messages from people who probably seem perfectly normal to their friends and relations. But I’ve also started to get bloody weird ones too. Like this one, for instance:

gay rape posted this on Friday 02-Jun-2006
We are wellocme to it's configuration. -- dril@FakeEmailAddress.com*

WTF? No, seriously: What The Fuck? Who goes to the trouble of tracking down an author’s website and leaves a message like that?

The only thing I can figure out is that said person is either unhinged, or off their tiny tits on mentholated spirits. Seriously, Dude or Dude-ette – we’re not misogynistic here – go back on the tablets, go see your doctor, therapist, or whoever it was that put you back on the streets and tell them it was too damn soon.

Freak.

* Naw, not really: I changed that bit, but the rest is the same.

Beetroot boy

When I mow the grass, or fight with the tattie patch I make sure to wear appropriate sun-proof attire. But yesterday when we were off up a dirty big hill in the blistering sunshine, what do I wear? A T-shirt. So today I have the classic redneck tan, with bright red limbs that start where the shirt ended. And a bright red neck as well. And a face like a skelpt arse. Mmm, classy.

This is especially good as we’re off to a party tonight, thrown by the American ambassador – nothing to do with being big and special: She Who Must and I are over visiting Scott, Catherine and Logan, and we’re riding on their coattails – and I’ll probably be the only one who looks they go, “Heyuck, heyuck…”

Ferrero Roche ahoy!

Like unto a ROCK STAR!

The initial dates for the Stuart And His Performing Beard Band world tour of America are in, and it's going to be a mid August romp of booze, buffalo wings, groupies and debauchery. Well, it's going to be about a week in the mid-west, but the principle holds true.

I was thinking of wheedling an extension onto the end of the trip, delay the return flight so I could disappear off into the hinterland of these US of A to do some research for a book, but the Edinburgh Book Festival is four days after I fly back, probably three after time dilation and gin-induced jetlag, so that's that gone for a Burton.

Still, I could see about getting the flight in shifted I suppose. But then SMP would have to trust that I could get myself back to New York for the 15th. Would you? No, neither would I. Mind you, it'd be a shame to waste the opportunity.

The thing is: I think I'd need to enlist a cohort / co-conspirator / someone sensible to avoid it turning into a complete and utter disaster. And who in their right mind is going to volunteer for that?