But not forgotten...

Yup, that's book number the third wafting its meaty way through the ether via the electronic equivalent of fat-arsed carrier pigeons. For though the book she is finished, the broadband, she is still screwed. I was supposed to get a visitation from the BT this morning, but the bloke phone up instead to say there wasn't any point as no one had done anything about the lines since he complained last time. Hurrah. I get the feeling that this is all going to end in tears. Mine of frustration and theirs of pain, as I repeatedly slam their dangly parts in a chest of drawers. Which may, or may not contain wasps.

Anyway, in the interim, I said I'd dig out and display for you lucky, lucky, oh so lucky people. Ahem. Well, any of you who can be bothered entering the competition to end all competitions! No seriously -- I get no interest on this thing and I'm not doing another one. That'll teach you...

And all you have to do to win some lovely goodies is to email COMPETITION(and then some cunning slight of hand to foil them spam-bot bastards)@(and here comes the science bit)halfhead.com with what you think the final wordcount of the second draft is, as delivered, and / or how many of those words are 'ARSE'. Prizes will be divved up as I see fit as and when the mood takes me, but no later than Monday morning when I'll probably forget what I was doing in the first place. Plus there may be some sort of Sherbet Fountainy goodness involved, depends where you live.

Yes, so, the prizes, drawn at random from the bookshelves of DOOM:

Val McDermid's THE GRAVE TATTOO ("No one compares to the McDermid when it comes to the deviant side of human nature"* -- Guardian)
Alex Barclay's, DARKHOUSE ("A terrific debut by an exciting new writer" -- Independent on Sunday)
Alex Kava, A NECESSARY EVIL ("Kava's writing is reminiscent of Patricia Cornwell in her prime" -- Mystery Ink)
Stephen Booth, ONE LAST BREATH ("One Last Breath underlines Booth's status as one of our best story-tellers" -- Sunday Telegraph)
James Twining, THE DOUBLE EAGLE ("This would make the perfect Tom Cruise movie" -- Independent on Sunday)

I love the quotes you get on the back of these things -- I tried to get HarperCollins to put that one from the Sunday Herald on mine: "Sickeningly, cynically offensive!", but they weren't having any of it. Spoilsports. Tiden in Norway were a bit more inclined that way, the paperback of Cold Granite comes with the following (translated) rapturous exaltation: "This is a terrible book, with characters so depraved/demoralized that they should belong to a hospital, confined to barracks." Seriously, it's on the front cover. Those whacky Norwegians with their fiords, expensive booze and pickled fish...

Then there's the review of the audio version of DYING LIGHT in the Sunday Times. Once more it's audio book of the week (which is nice) but it does say the following:
"MacBride writes about truly vile crimes (who knew Aberdeen had such a dark side?) with biting humour, endowing his characters with his own eye-wateringly pungent way with words."
Hmm, I've never been described as 'Eye-wateringly pungent' before. Well, maybe once, but those nuns were asking for it.

And now, a gratuitously fuzzy picture of Grendel:

* And yet she's on record saying that I turn her stomach. And she's from FIFE! Aaaaaargh!

Moo Cow Bastards

Our sheep neighbours have got some new roomies -- cattle. Or, as I like to refer to them, a load of old bullocks. Which isn't 100% accurate, but what do you expect when I've barely had a wink of sleep. This is due to the aforementioned cattle shouting to each other all bloody night.

Cow 1: (Bellowing at top of voice) "Hello?"
Cow 2: (Also bellowing) "Hello?"
Cow 1: "Are you awake?"
Cow 2: "Yes. Are you?"
Cow 1: "Yes, I'm awake, is anybody else up?"
Me: "Fuck off! It's three in the morning!"
Cow 1: "How rude. Anyway, where were we? Oh yeah, ANYONE ELSE STILL AWAKE? WE CAN'T SLEEP!"
Cow 3: "Yup, me too. Let's shout at each other, randomly for a while. All night. So anyone trying to get to sleep is totally screwed."
Cows 1 & 2: "COOL!"

And on, and on, and on... Fucking cows. I can see why they eat the bastards' testicles in Iowa, it might teach them to shut their bloody grassholes. They kept it up all sodding night as well, right up till half seven, when they suddenly wandered off to the far end of the field and had a bit of a nap. BASTARDS!

You know why you see cows lying down in a field during the day? It's got bugger all to do with impending rain, it's just because they're knackered from bellowing at each other like drunken teenagers all bastarding night!

Of course She Who Must Sleep Like A Log didn't notice a bloody thing, it was just me doing the half-shut knife trick all day today. Misery is supposed to love company, and where the hell was mine? Snoring it up! Arrrrrgh!

Even the cat slept through it. So it was just me, leaning out the bedroom window bellowing bovine-directed obscenities into the darkened night.

But today I did manage to write three small, but perfectly formed chapters, leaving nothing left but the bittersweet epilogue. Or it might just be bitter. I'll decide tomorrow. Though I think I have Police Constable Rickards' fate well in hand. No pun intended. Bwahahahaha!

Before the storm

Well, I have now officially tidied away all the little loose ends within the book that people will soon know as BROKEN SKIN, except in Her Majesty’s former colonies of those United States, where they don’t like it and want something less ‘graphic’*. Now all I have to do is rewrite the last three chapters and I’ll be laughing. Haha… no, hold on, I need more of a manic edge… Mehehahahahshhahashahahaaaaa! *ahem* Oh dear God…

Anyway, I’ve done some extensive tweaking to make a certain bit more whoompy, and added in extra bits and cut out heaps of other bits, and now I’m ready to leave behind the base camps of certainty and make the perilous final ascent to the big pointy bit at the top of this analogy, with Sherpas peching and heeching all the way.

Over all I’m pretty happy with the shape of things, even though I know those lovely ladies at HarperCollins are going to scream, “Where the hell are all the bits we liked, YOU BEARDED ARSE?” They need to drink less coffee.

And I’ve got the whole last rush planned out in my loveable head too. I did it yesterday, sprawled out in a sunbeam with Grendel T Kitten, slotting all the various bits into place like raw slices of bread into a toaster. Only without the burning smell. The only thing that now troubles me is the fate of PC John Rickards. In the first draft he snuffs it. In the second… I can’t decide. Should I kill him, or shouldn’t I? Well, anyone who’s met the real one will be rooting for the former, and yet… I can’t decide.

I did ask She Who Must Be Consulted When I Don’t Want To Make A Decision if I should put a poll on the blog, but she wasn’t keen. It would give the game away if everyone knew whether or not PC Rickards lived or not. And she’s right… I have to say that or I’ll become one of those battered husband statistics.

Mind you, I could do it as a secret ballot, where the only person in the know is me! Bwahahahahaha: the POWER! Only I already have the power of life and death over Stinky Rickards, so it’s not exactly time for an ego-trip. And if it’s anonymous and hidden I can do whatever the hell I want anyway, so there’s no UN oversight on the ballot-stuffing front. I am a rotten burgh.

Anyway, the end is nigh, as the proctologist said to the snooker player, so I suppose I should announce my intention to hold an competition! Ah yes, beard fans, nothing says “I’ve finished my ****ing book, you ****ing ****s!” like giving away other peoples. So if you wanna be in for a chance with prizes and stuff and things I’m going to need you to email me with what you think the final word count for the delivered draft is going to be. Or the number of times the word ‘ARSE!’ is mentioned. Nearest the thingie gets the most whatnots. A full list of prizes will be posted later. When I can decide what they are.

In the meantime the contracted size of Logan Book 3 is 150,000 words. Draft number the first was 153,728 and contained 82 separate incidences of the word ‘ARSE’. Mr Stephen King (Will Do Harrowing Halloween-Murder-And-Horror-Themed Balloon Animals For Food) recommends that the second draft should be like unto the first, only with 10% less shite. But I’m a bastard when it comes to editing my own work, and he’s like, a totally girly Girl Guide, or something involving minty cookies. And he’s not on record (as far as I know) on his beliefs apropos the word ‘ARSE’.

So, them what can be bothered winning unspecified stuff – but including books – can email their predictions to COMPETITION(and this is the bit where we try to screw-over spam emailers by hiding the at sign)@(and here comes the domain)halfhead.com And if you can’t be arsed… don’t. That’ll teach you.

And now, a word from our sponsors ;}#

* Yes, I know, but everyone's different. Given the content I've suggested 'BUTT PLUG', and so far that's the front runner. I'd love to go on a tour with 'BUTT PLUG' T-shirts, and special, limited-edition, vibrating books...

The need to up one's game...

Nearly every bookshop I went into in the States told me exactly the same thing: how much they all loved John Connolly. "Oh we had John here and he was marvellous!" "Oh, have you met John? He's so clever and funny!" "Oh John, we all loved him. He fixed our boiler with a paperclip and roll of Sellotape." "John auctioned off one of his own kidneys so we could go on a second honeymoon cruise to the Bahamas..." Which is kind of a hard act to follow. I'm saving up my kidneys in case I need to use them for something.

But it just goes to show that a good impression goes a long way in this business. I know a lot of people lament the fact that when you become a writer these days you've suddenly got to become a performing monkey at events and panels. Look at the writey people dance! I'm sure it's possible to get on in the world as a writer being a reclusive recluse, after all some big names do just that, but if you're not already internationally renowned how happy are your publishers going to be with you chucking on a headscarf, a pair of dark glasses and announcing "I want to be alone."

So a performing we will go... I really feel for people who hate doing panels and events -- not the ones who can't be arsed, but the ones who have a genuine terror of speaking in public -- because I actually enjoy it. I like getting up and making an idiot of myself (let's face it, there's no way in hell I'm going to come across as cool and sophisticated, so there's no point trying), especially if there's someone else sitting up there with me that I can bounce off.

I don't know about you, but if I'm sitting in the audience for one of these things I want to see a bunch of authors who look like they're enjoying themselves and having a laugh. I want to be entertained, not educated. Worthy, serious panels bore the arse off me. Which is a shame, because the people being worthy and serious might have written damn fine books, but it's unlikely I'll ever try them. And I know that makes me shallow, but tough: it's my time and my money, I'm only going to spend them if I think it's going to be worthwhile.

So, back to Mr Connolly -- according to everyone he's a very, very funny guy when he does his shtick. His books aren't (I know this because I have most of them: they tend towards the dark), but he is and the booksellers love him for it. And I'm willing to bet you a shiny new penny that new readers do to.

But we can't all be John Connolly: it wouldn't be hygienic, so the question is how to make the most of what we already have. To these ends She Who Must Be Entertained On A Daily Basis and I went to see a couple of stand-up comics when we were in Edinburgh for the book festival last week. One was a bloke we'd never heard of performing to thirty people in a small back room off a pub on the Grassmarket, the other a big-name American with about a thousand punters filling the Assembly Hall on George Street. Very different experiences.

Now I'm not saying we should all become stand-up comedians, any more than we should all stand in a wee hole and put on an Irish accent. But... actually, I haven't got a clue what it is I'm saying. This is more of a ramble than a thesis. I do know that I'd like to be a bit better at the panel and event malarkey, because I want to give the people who attend value for money.

Even if the freeloading buggers haven't paid anything.

An Friday Rant

Well, I'm back from the Edinburgh Book Festival and it was good: met up with some nice people, did the event, traumatised a teenager, was late for dinner, stole someone's chocolate cake, ate a truly dreadful haddock supper and went out late night drinking on blagged passes. All in all a nice evening.

It wasn't until we got back to Aberdeen from Edinburgh that we hit rant territory...

Supermarkets act as a kind of magnet for arsewits. And not just any old arsewits, rude arsewits. Now I consider myself a pretty normal person: I'm polite wherever possible, I'll hold the door open for people, help little old ladies get things off high shelves, if we're in a trolley jam I'll pull over to the hard shoulder (or more often than not up against the hard cheeses) and let someone out. And when someone does the same for me, I say, "Thank you." because they've just done something nice. No, they haven't brokered peace in the Middle East, or found a cure for white socks with black shoes, but they've been polite. Ps & Qs -- going together like politicians and sleaze.

But what roasts my toasties, what climbs up my nose, gets on my neck and pees in my porridge are those bastards you do something nice for, who refuse to even acknowledge you exist. You know the kind -- they drop their wallet / milk / small child, you pick it up, hand it back, offer them a smile... and nothing. Not even eye contact. Those are the bastards I'm talking about. You get out of their way, offer them a smile, and they breeze past as if you weren't even there.

I've gotten into the bad habit of not letting this pass uncommented on. If I'm nice to you and you can't be arsed, I'll make a point of saying, "You're welcome!" or "Don't Mention it!" or in the case of this afternoon, "What a lovely lady." And yes, I know it's stupid and petty and I shouldn't, but I've never claimed to be the sharpest tool in the box, have I? Two rudes don't make a polite.

This time it was a woman who shared the side-to-side-left-and-right dance with me in Tesco. Back and forth, her on foot, me with a trolley, trying to get out of her way. And not once did she raise her eyes from the floor, keeping her face set in a thin, grey line. So once past, I pass the usual aside to She Who Must Put Up With Me In Supermarkets If She Wants To Eat, "What a lovely lady." and this bloke stops, glowers at me and says, "That's my wife!" Now at this point I could ask what the hell is wrong with the pair of them, but I decide that no: it's me that's at fault for having unrealistic expectations of social interaction and apologise.

After all, the poor sod's got to put up with her the whole time. And not only that, he's probably going to be grumping in justified indignation all the way round the drink and crisp aisles. In fact, he may well still be furious by the time he gets home, has his tea, and heads off to the pub.

"You'll never bloody guess," says he to his mates, "some rude, bearded bastard was horrible to my Agnes in the supermarket!"

"Aye?" says friend number one, pulling on a sympathetic face, "What did he say?"

Duncan -- I don't know if he's called Duncan any more than I know his wife's called Agnes, but for the sake of the argument, let's pretend that those are their names, otherwise we'll be here all bloody night -- scowls deep into his pint. "He said she was a 'lovely lady'!"

"Bastard!" says friend number two, taking a good look at Duncan's wife, "Clearly he's talking the piss..."

Anyway, the upshot of all this is that I should try and keep the asides to myself when faced with the Supermarket Wandering Rude, rather than goading them and their spouses into freezer section fury. In order to make up for the karmic dog-doo on my soul I want to beg a favour of you silent, lurking hordes (all three of you) out there in Blogland: next time you're in the supermarket, perform a random act of politeness, and if the ungrateful sod on the other end can't be arsed acknowledging you as a fellow human being, don't sweat it. Remember they're just arsewits and too thick to know any better. You just smile, shrug and feel the warm glow of a good deed ignored, safe in the knowledge that when you get up to heaven some bastard's probably going to expect you to hold the gates open for them there too.

And they won't say 'thank you' either.

Longest day of the year

Half six on Sunday morning hurts, but I can't get back to sleep again, so I'm stuck with it. Once more I'm forgoing breakfast having stuffed myself silly with Cuban food and apple pie the night before. I'm knackered and full and feeing in need of my own bed. Last night Jon was telling me of other, more manly/daft writers who do book tours of anywhere between five and nine weeks. And they don't just do the shops on their publicist's lists either, they hire cars and sign stock at every bloody shop they can find. I've only done three cities beginning with 'M' and I'm already longing for home. OK, so I did a ten day research trip in Iowa first, but even so...

Last night Jon wouldn't hear of me taking a taxi to the train station, so at ten he's already waiting outside the hotel. This time he lets me heft my own suitcase -- having tried it the day before and found it to weigh a sodding ton -- before taking me the four blocks to where an Amtrak train is going to whisk me from here to Chicago. At least I hope there's going to be whisking. Most of the station looks shut, but the laconic man behind the desk thing assures me I'll know when the train's about to leave, because people will star queuing up. And queue they do, starting at a randomly selected time and snaking all the way out the station doors, with me somewhere near the back, wondering if I'm actually going to get a seat, while someone's shaven monkey in a backpack peers at my beard and drools.

Amtrak trains are nothing like UK ones. You can check in your baggage for a start, which seems like a wonderful idea, until the laconic man's bucolic friend tells me I can just cart my heavy suitcase of doom onto the train myself and save a half hour wait here checking the thing in, and another half hour getting it again at the other end. What a great idea! So instead I drag my leather-clad lump of heaviness onboard and heave it up onto the rack above my head, praying it doesn't shear off the metal supports and come crashing down on my head halfway there. 'Bearded Idiot Killed By Falling Junk Food!'

The carriage is huge, full of big seats, and all of them are facing the wrong way. I like to see where I'm going, not where I've been. I know where I've been: I was there, remember? But it's too late to go hunting about for something the right way round, the train's about to depart, and besides, I've got a power socket for the laptop. I CAN DO SOME WRITING! Ha! So I do, pausing every now and then to gaze out of the window at the industrial wasteland to the south of Milwaukee.

According to Jen yesterday, before she made good her escape, the local government came up with a great wheeze: tax businesses on their inventory. So anything you have in stock can be taxed up to four times a year, whether you've sold it or not. Not surprisingly, this has caused a number of companies to bugger off somewhere more sensible.

The industrial no-man's-land gives way to patchy trees and then real ones, interspersed with little homes and the occasional scrap yard beneath the Midwestern American sun, as I write about a cold, rainy February in Aberdeen.

Chicago doesn't look like much from the train as we rumble in through the suburbs, and then we turn a corner and it's like something out of a movie: tall glass buildings, sparkle green and blue, sandstone and red steel bridges, a river with a bright white tour boat, red pennant fluttering in the breeze... The bloody view vanishes before I can dig the video camera out of my bag and switch the thing on. After that the view's poop again. And then we're there, everyone disembarking and sparking up cigarettes in defiance of the big 'NO SMOKING!' signs.

The taxi ride out to the Borders Books and Music in Oak Brook is... interesting. Mostly because my driver hasn't got a clue where we're going. He drives like a little old lady who's got a dodgy colostomy bag and a weak bladder. Even I did a better job than this on the freeway! When we finally get there the fare is more than I've got, so there's some protracted wrangling that eventually goes via an ATM and we wave a cheerful goodbye to each other with a limited number of fingers.

Borders is HUGE. I mean really big, like standing up close to an elephant that's just eaten a whole shed-load of books. And there, right at the front of the store is a big display plastered with DYING LIGHTs and a photo of my ugly mug. Poor book buyers. The lovely ladies in charge buy me a BBQ chicken sandwich and a bottle of water and offer to take my suitcase for me. Not wanting to be sued for herniating them, I accept the former and decline the latter, munching away in a little office out the back, signing stock and thinking about nicking a couple of their nice black Sharpie pens.

Two pm: There's a huge PA system set up facing an array of chairs with seven people in them. Hurrah! A tour record! By the time I'm fifteen minutes into 'Stuart's Rambling Nonsense' we're down to six as someone suddenly decides he's got something more fun to do, like empty his cat's litter tray, or staple his testicles to a photo of Michael Jackson. Which means he misses a world first as I become a performance poet! Hard to believe, I know, but I do a rendition of Skeleton Bob Goes To School, dragging a complete stranger -- Valerie -- up from the audience to interpret the words through the medium of interpretive dance*. That'll teach her not to do a runner earlier.

Afterwards there's nothing left to do, but sign the last of the stock, meet Michael Dymmoch, chat to Annie and David from Crimespree (there because Jon, Gawd bless 'im, has twisted their arms). Apparently they would have been at the Milwaukee reading that never was, but their son was getting married Saturday. A poor excuse, but I let them get away with is as they've offered to give me a lift to the airport.

Checking in is less of a disaster than before, but still disaster-ish. Eventually I get to the front of the queue to be told I'm being moved to an earlier flight, the one I'm meant to be taking is already running late (even though it's not meant to be here for another three hours) and if I take the one that leaves in forty minutes I won't have to worry about my connection back to Aberdeen. Hurrah! I had planned to do some writing before boarding, but an earlier flight is good, isn't it? Unfortunately my eyelash fluttering and winsomeness isn't up to the task of a free upgrade, but at least I can say I tried.

The flight is virtually empty and I get a whole row of three to myself: window, middle and aisle, mine all mine! No having to sit in someone else's armpit for the next seven hours! Hurrah once more! Think of all the writing I can get done... Only I'm too tired to work and too awake to sleep. I try the gin, wine, wine, brandy rout to slumber halfway across the Atlantic, but all I get is a headache watching The Wild and Dodgeball. There's three hours of my life I'll never get back, damn it.

By the time we land it's seven am and I'm feeling more than a little ropey. No sleep. No sleep at all... Urgh... And to make matters worse, in my addled state I've bought duty free on the plane: two litres of Smirnoff Blue for £18.00, not realising until I get to the an internal checkpoint that it's going to be classed as carry on luggage, even though I bought it on a BA flight. And you can't have liquid in carry on luggage. BASTARD. The nice man on the check-in desk advises me to heft my laptop out of the bag, stuff the bottles in their place and check it in. Otherwise there's bugger all chance the bottles are going to survive the 20 foot drop on the other end of the conveyor.

So clutching my laptop to my chest, camera hanging round my neck, sunglasses in my trouser pocket making it look like I'm VERY pleased to meet you, I slouch through security, again. The bags under my eyes are so big I'm surprised they don't make me check them in too, but the man on the metal detector doesn't even want to cop a feel, so I lurch off and settle in at gate 5 for my five hour wait.

I can tell I'm back in Britain again when my $43.00 turns into £18 and shrapnel, then someone charges me £7.50 for a sandwich with no filling and a pint of beer. Trust me on this: the Americans have a MUCH, MUCH better service industry than we do, and they're a damn sight nicer about it too.

By the time my flight finally gets called (delayed due to a technical fault at Birmingham -- isn't that just what you want to hear before you get on a plane? Yes, the flying machine you're about to clamber aboard had something wrong with it, but we've patched her up with Duck Tape and bogies! Long as nobody sneezes when we're airborne, we should all get back alive...) I'm drifting in and out like a light bulb in a horror movie. And still I can't sleep.

She Who Must Jump Up And Down And Squeal Excitedly is waiting for me at Aberdeen airport, ready for a huge hug and smooching. Christ it's good to be home. It's slightly less good when I learn that the boiler's still buggered, the phone isn't working, the clocks are all screwed and the lights in the lounge and kitchen have fused. You see, that's what happens when you leave someone from Fife in charge for nearly three weeks! So I wander about like a half-shut knife, fixing what I can and arranging for other people to fix what I can't.

I'm still awake when She Who Must Be Made Mince For Tea comes back from work, and we drink fizzy wine and chat as I cook, then we eat, and by the time midnight comes round it's half past forty two o'clock for my addled brain and knackered body. I fall into bed with the kitten at my feet and sleep like a large, bearded, overweight baby.

And to think, I get to be home for an entire day and a half before I have to head off to Edinburgh for the book festival! Ah it's all go...

* If you set the frame interval to one second it’s almost like being there! (with thanks to the lovely Annie Chernow for the photos)

Driving to distraction

Saturday morning starts without breakfast, because God help me, I'm starting to get tired of food. I've eaten so much in the last fortnight that I could probably go on hunger strike for a month and still not begin to feel it. You could stick a wick in my bellybutton and light it with all the subcutaneous blubber I've accumulated. Stuart: the almost-human tallow lamp!

There's a brief panic when I can't find the keys to my lumpy, hired Hyundai, meaning that it's nearly half past eight before I hit the road with fresh directions from the lady at reception in my hand.

It's only an hour and a half's drive, I can do this... Eeek!

Driving on the wrong side of the road isn't much of an issue in Madison as most of the streets seem to be one way, and after that it's duel carriageway out to the highway. So the chances of my driving headfirst into an oncoming car are remote. At least until I get as far as Milwaukee. Then all bets are off.

I have no real idea what the speed limit is, so I drift along about five miles an hour slower than the rest of the highway traffic, figuring that they're all probably speeding. And it's a good job, because by the time I actually see a speed sign, I'm doing bang on 65MPH. Hurrah -- no getting arrested and thrown in a cell with someone called Bubba (who probably wears velour underwear and likes to lick strangers) for me! A country / western music station warbles out of the car stereo, so I change the channel. Another country station. I try again: more county. And again: more bloody country! And again... after about a dozen goes I just give in and listen to bizarre tales of divorce and drinking and dead dogs. If nothing else it breaks the monotony.

The only thing worrying me is the length of time it's taking to get anywhere near Milwaukee. Leaving at half eight I should have a whole two and a half hours to cover an hour and a half's drive, so it comes as a pretty unpleasant surprise to find myself still on the bloody highway at quarter past ten. And then the swearing starts.

They're digging up the sodding road. There are diversions. Thousands of neon-orange signs with diversions and warnings on them. And the carefully downloaded and printed off directions I've got sitting next to me are suddenly completely worthless. My exit is diverted and I end up in the middle of a run-down industrial estate, turning the air blue with a long line of very loud expletives. Very rude expletives. 'Take the 7TH STREET exit -- EXIT 1H -- towards CIVIC CENTRE' says the directions. "How?" says I. "How am I supposed to take it? Where the FUCK is it? AAAAAAAAAAAArgh! Roadwork digging BASTARDS! Exit 1H my hairy arse! FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK!" Passing traffic probably thinks I'm having a fit.

In the end I chase a taxi till it stops, then bribe the driver to let me follow him to the Hertz drop-off point, before he runs me to Mystery One. It's a nice wee bookshop that favours hanging out, rather than formal events, which is good as it means I can let my parboiling blood pressure drop to a mere simmer as I sign some stock and chat with the shop's owners and the clan Jordan. Once more I'm not exactly a huge draw, but we manage to sell about four copies before the drift of customers stops. Then it's time for a spirited debate on American politics and 'the state of the world today', with Richard and Jon doing most of the spiriting.

Afterwards Jon, the Caffeinated Ferret From The Future, and I go off to a place called Buffalo Wild Wings where my faith in American cuisine is restored by a portion of said wings, popcorn shrimp and ribs. Mmm, chewy-barbecuey. By the time the waitress is clearing away the debris, Jon and I are heading into food coma territory, but Jen is still as perky as a perky fish can be. Oh the folly of youth... lucky sod.

I have every intention of going back to my hotel room and working for the rest of the afternoon, but having eaten my own bodyweight in barbecued meat, the bed looks far too inviting to pass up. Zzzzzzzzzzzzz.

There's just time to write a couple of pages before I'm off to dinner with Jon and Ruth (Jennifer calling off with severe computer-withdrawal symptoms), and I can't for the life of me decide whether or not to kill of PC Rickards in the second draft. Kill him, or let him live? The power of life over death. Bwahahahaha! Or it would be if I could make my sodding mind up. I'm guessing there's another two, maybe three chapters at the most to go before the book's done and I can start worrying obsessively about something else instead.

The restaurant is Cuban and so are the cocktails: Papa Hemmingways, which are like Mojitos, only not so sweet and with pink grapefruit juice. Just the sort of drink I could get very rowdy on. The evening ends back at Jon and Ruth's very cool house / apartment. The whole place is lined with what has to be thousands of books. It's brilliant, like living in a library where you know all the books are good, because you chose them. By the time I leave I've had a nice slug of 12-year-old single malt, eaten some of Ruth's justifiably famous apple pie, and had my damp underwear fondled by two thirds of the Jordan family.

Lucky swines that they are ;}#

Caffeinated Ferret From The Future!

Friday morning starts with more room service -- two poached eggs, hash brows and thick salty lumps of Canadian bacon (I don't know what I've done to Canada, but it must have been bad to result in this). I'm off to Madison today and a little, teeny, tiny bit worried about the whole thing. For today means DRIVING!!! Room service breakfasting means I'm up and out extra bright and early, clutching a suitcase that gets heavier every time those security sods search it. This is what I get for buying all those twinkies and hot sauces in Iowa. I swear they're slowly tuning into lead -- my right arm's going to be three inches longer than the left by the time I drag the bloody case through my front door sometime Monday.

Checking in at Minnesota airport is a bit of a disaster, but a couple of hours later I'm dozing in my seat for the short flight to Madison. Making strange 'grrrrmph'ing noises and drooling. I'm absolutely knackered, so driving on the wrong side of the road in a hire car in a strange country with no idea where I'm going is going to be an absolute blast.

The lady at the Hertz rental place (Hi, my name's Irene and I'll be your car-hire-ist for today) gives me a handful of maps and a lumpy Hyundai thing which she assures me is aqua, but looks more like a petroly blue. And appears to have been driven by slobs the rental before me. The carpets and seats are covered with nasty brown stains, and there's a cigarette burn in the driver's seat, right where your arse goes when you're driving. I'm guessing it got there via: "Gee, will you'se look at dat?" Gestures emphatically out of the window with one finger, cigarette bobbing about between his lips. "Learn to drive asshole! Yeah, that's right, a'm talkin' to you, asshole! I'm talkin' to..." The cigarette tumbles, spinning end over end until it bounces off the beer-gut and wedges between the fat thigh and the seat. "AAAAAARGH SHIT! AAAAAAARGH! My ass! I'm burning my ass! My beautiful ass!" Or something.

The really good bit, the bit that fills me with confidence for today is the fact that the maps Irene gave me bear no resemblance to the ones downloaded and printed out from the airport. THIS DOES NOT BODE WELL. It starts off worrying as I pull away from the airport, settles down into a vague nagging feeling of doom as I follow the traffic into town, then ramps up into a full-blown BASTARD! as the difference between maps makes its presence felt ad I drive straight past the road I was meant to turn into. More swearing, then some cunning sliding across three lanes and horn honking brings me sweaty and shivering outside the Doubletree hotel. I'M ALIVE!!! Bwahahahaha! Take that American road system!

The hotel is OK as these things go -- my room has a lovely view of a car park opposite, and features The Badgerland Bar and Grill! Ha! Badgerland -- like a land for Badgers! Where Badgers rule the roost and humans are forced to slave in the inhuman mines of their badgery overlords! Or something.

In order to solidify my claim to the Rock-N-Roll throne I must do the ultimate Author Tour thing and wash out my underwear in my hotel bathroom sink. Ah yes, it's all glitz and glamour, I think as I rub milled French soap into my cheap-ass Walmart socks. The washing's OK, but the wringing out leaves me with sock blisters. Seriously, I kid you not. Christ knows what Wallmart makes their socks out of, but I'm guessing sandpaper.

From thence to '9XM –WHA, the oldest station in the nation' for a twenty minute interview on Tartan Noir and the roll of sock-washing in modern unpopular fiction. The producer's name is Doug and he's sporting an Aberdeen Football Club polo shirt with matching red shorts and plimsolls in my honour. But then he's Canadian -- maybe he's trying to make up for the bacon?

After that I go back to the hotel, fiddle with my damp underwear for a bit and try to get it to dry. I can't switch on the heating, because every time I do the fire alarm goes off. And it'd be embarrassing to have to explain to the Fire Marshal that he's had to scramble three trucks and a rescue helicopter because my pants are moist.

Mystery One is packed. Wall to wall fans and well-wishers, all eager to hear my tales of writerliness and touch the hem of my flowing beard. They hang on my every word, salivating with anticipation of the next sparkling anecdote... *ahem* OK, to tell the truth it's just Terri who owns the store, the clan Jordan (all three of them: Jennifer, Jon and Ruth) and someone called Bill, who only finished the book on Wednesday and is all keen and pleased to see me. So instead of the usual reading, then rambling Q&A thing that I usually do, the evening degenerates into hanging out and chattin' about stuff and things. Which is... odd.

Dinner comes in the form of a wee place that sells meat (a prerequisite of any dinner with Jon) and Spotted Cow Beer. The Jordans are a strange mix of nice and normal: Ruth, nice and strange: Jon, and Oh Holy Jesus What Have We Here Weird: Jennifer. She's funny, bizarre, clever, strange, pretty and talks at about three million miles an hour. Over dinner a nice man from Bleak House Publishing (who doesn't own a bicycle, no matter how hard you want it to be true) and I determine the reason for Jennifer. She either fell in a cauldron of Coke as a kid in Obelix fashion, or she is in fact a Caffeinated Ferret From The Future. Which explains a lot: the reason she talks so fast is that time passes differently for her and one of our minute in our world is probably about an hour for her.

For someone who eats like a bear, Jon's not anywhere as big as I would have expected. Not by a long shot. This is a man who orders the Big Boy Burger, then, just in case, asks for a big bowl of chilli as well. And wolfs both. Schloooooooooooooop! And then a couple of Red Bulls and a coffee as well. The Caffeinated Ferret From The Future looks on with envious eyes...

When dinner, beer, chatting and things are done we head outside to linger on a street corner. Waiting for Jon to go buy yet more Red Bull and cigarettes. The hanging about only lasts till some bloke in shorts wanders up and announces to the world that he's going to exercise his first amendment rights, which apparently are to announce to the world that he's a freak.

The Clan Jordan escort me back to my hotel, so I force them to accompany me into the Badgerland Bar And Grill. Well, you have to, don't you? It's Badgerland -- who wouldn't want to visit Badgerland? Anyone who's been there, that's who. The place is freezing cold, the air-conditioning turned down so low there are icicles forming on my beard. And the place smells kina funky as well. It's a scent Ruth identifies as 'oldness' and seems to be coming from the gaggle of septuagenarians at the bar, in their golf pants and polo shirts. Even Jen breaking wind can't put a dent in their smell of mouldiness. Nor can Jon's shotgun burps.

When the mouldy oldies start gettin' all rowdy, we decide to call it a night. I've a big drive ahead of me tomorrow. Well, not so much big as daunting. The bit in the middle will be fine, cruisin' down the highway with some tunes on. It's the bits at either end that worry the hell out of me.

To bed!

Like Keith Richards, only younger and prettier and with a beard*

For I am ROCK AND ROLL! Well, I ordered room service, which is as close to rock and roll as I get. I've never ordered room service before -- that's what naughty people. It's the eating equivalent of raiding the minibar, but I did it anyway. Twice: Bwahahaha!

I managed to talk myself into this dreadful breach of bearded etiquette by the following clear and manly logic:

1. I've got three hours in the hotel before I go off for my event.
2. I have not eaten since the Pirate's Booty in New York last night.
3. I might faint away during my event at Once Upon A Crime, and nobody wants to see a swooning, bearded crime write-ist.**
4. I can go down to the restaurant and order food, an sit and wait to be served, for my order to be cooked, for the dancing girls to be washed, etc. or I can order from room service and sit on my bum in my room writing till it gets here.
5. St. Martin's would probably quite like me to finish this book before we're all drawing our old-age pensions.

So when you look at it logically, there really was no choice. *ahem*

They had 'Fire Wings' on the menus and not wanting to buck a wining streak I ordered them. And something on the side (they were out of Dancing Girls, so I had to settle for soup). Half an hour later I was faced with the toughest, nastiest wings I'd eaten since Chicago O'Hare airport. But the soup was bloody lovely! If I'd know how good it was I would have just ordered two bowls of that. Hell, I'd've got them to fill the bathtub -- fresh corn and crayfish bisque. Mmmm...

After that it was a slightly rushed taxi ride to the wasp-infested Uncle Edgars, where the people are really nice and had already killed about two million of the little stinging bastards by the time I got there. Everyone who works in the shop has been stung at least twice. They're going to have one last try with the Patented Dangerous Agent Orange Anti-Wasp Spray and then get the exterminators in.

From there it was a last-minute dash across town to Once Upon A Crime, because my Taxi driver -- the one I'd asked to wait outside Unky Edgars with the engine running in case I had to do a runner from the killer wasps -- swore blind it was going to take us 15 / 20 minutes to get there. It took 5.

If you've never been to Once Upon A Crime, it's a wonderful bookshop and Pat and Gary are really nice people. Generous to a fault. The fault in question this time being me. The crowd was select and enthusiastic and all listened politely to the bearded half-wit ramblings up the front of the room. And nobody threw anything, so I count that as a result. And one lady looked like she was about to pee herself with the old laughing. Thought whether it was 'with' or 'at' is debatable. Ah yes, Stuart MacBride: not a dry seat in the house.

And then Pat and Gary gave me a slug of John Connelly's whisky***, got me to sign some stock and took me out to a wee place for a lovely dinner and chat.

Next up Madison and the terrifying spectre of me behind the wheel of an American car, on the wrong side of the road, in a city I've never seen before, with no bloody clue where I'm going! How much fun does that sound?

* Plus he's much, much richer than I am, so not much like Keith Richards after all...
** OK, so the chances of me fainting away from hunger are a damn sight slimmer than I am after 10 days in Iowa. I've got enough excess fat on me to last the winter. In fact, at the rate I'm going, I could hibernate till 2009.
*** A bottle of 12 year old Macalan: yes, he may be Irish, but his whisky is Scottish.

Tour minus one

I've never had a stereotypical New York cab driver before, but the bloke who drove Rachel from the SMP publicity department and me to the Black Orchid party last night was perfect. He didn't really know where he was going, was on the phone part of the time, and drove like a man possessed. And not possessed bby t he ghost of someone who could actually drive either. Some sort of suicidal ferret would be my best guess. He even expected Rachel to pick the route -- "You wanna go up First or Frankin? Up ta you, Lady." "Whatever's quickest." She replies. "Yeah, but does you want I should go up First or Franklin?" There's a small pause as she thinks of how else to say it. "It's up to you! Whatever's quickest." Another pause as this doesn't sink in. "Yeah, but does you want I should take First or Franklin?"

We nearly crashed about a dozen times on the way up there. Very entertaining in an 'Oh shit, we're going to die!' kind of way.

The party was cool -- or what little I saw of it anyway. Being an idiot I opted to doodle in all the hardcovers Bonnie and Joe had, because it was such a cool shop and they were so bloody nice. But it did mean I spent most of the time at the signing table. Mind you, some people even came over and bought copies as I was signing them, which is always cool. I also ended up scribbling my filthy moniker in about two dozen copies of Damn Near Dead anthology, along with Jason Star and Sarah Weinman, and today I was sent a link to a review which bigs up Naughty Old Mr Dave (Tighty) White.

He was there last night too, though we only just met and no more, due to the aforementioned doodle and signathon. But he seemed nice and didn't try to cop a feel or anything. Plus I was gifted a copy of Carol O'Connell's JUDAS CHILD, signed for me by the lovely author herself. Mmm, books. I'm kinda stuck this trip for books as I've already packed my suitcase to overflowing with junk food from Iowa. Seriously, I can barely carry the damn thing it's so full of hot sauce, Twinkies and all manner of other unhealthy, chemically-flavoured rubbish. Lovely. Otherwise I'd be on a buying spree!

So -- I got to hang out with a bunch of cool crime writers, crime readers and lovely bookshopists. All in all, a damned fine night. Even if I did get back to the hotel and inadvertently drink a tiny bottle of water that turned out to cost $5.00 to go along with my supper of 'Pirate's Booty!' There was a bag of that in the minibar too, but I was damned if I was going to have St Martin's pay another $5.00 for a bag of popcorny-ish stuff*. I got a bag round the corner in a late night deli for about a buck fifty. And it tasted like cavity wall insulation. And not the nice kind either.

And tonight I start the tour proper with like, you know, talking and stuff. God help us all!

* They've been very, very silly and given me minibar privileges! Bwahahahahaaaa. ahem. I've never raided a minibar in my LIFE! Honest.

Old New Amsterdam

Ah yes, the big apple, the large cheese, the windy city... Well, maybe not officially, but there was one dirty sod in Greenwich Village last night doing his level worst to earn the city the title. I went out to a little bar -- OK, let's be honest and call it a skanky wee dive -- in the Village with Sarah W last night for beer and hotwings. And then a wander through the surrounding streets looking for somewhere else to have a quiet drink and a chat. Rather than a noisy drink and a shout.

I always used to think it was a daft trick played by empty bars -- crank up the volume to pretend there are more people there, even though everyone can see the place is empty. What are we supposed to do, wander in, look about, hear the pounding music and think, 'Well, I can't see anyone, but they must be here, 'coz the music's really loud. They must all be invisible. Let's stay for a couple of pints and yell at each other till our ears bleed.' ? Silly sods. And the aforementioned skanky wee dive was packed, so they didn't even have that excuse.

But loud though it was, the deafening music couldn't overpower the smell left behind by the bloke who had the table before we got to it. By the festering diapers of the little baby Jesus, it was honking. God knows what he'd been eating, but I didn't see 'Mouldy Badger Casserole' on the menu. My last night in Iowa, someone had been out frightening skunks. That whiffed big-style -- think burning rubber and rotten eggs -- but it still wasn't a patch on Captain Farty, chief farty person of the Farty People. We should have called Homeland Security: that guy's arse was a weapon of mass destruction.

Where was I? Ah, right, so Sarah and I are wandering round Greenwich Village, looking for somewhere quieter and less stinky, passing all these porn and 'kinky fun' shops*. You know, the kind of place where they have mannequins dressed in revealing leather and PVC nurse's outfits. Some even had their nip-nops hanging out.

I wonder if there's a market for anatomically correct mannequins for sex shops? You could have them with detachable naughty bits for ease of cleaning. Design them right and you could pop them in the dishwasher. That'd scare the hell out of the Mother-In-Law. Well, would you want your cutlery and crockery washed along side a bunch of dirty plastic willies and boobs?**

Yes, anyway, we ended up at this little place holding an open mike night for whiny women on the piano. You know, the kind of thing where they're either sharp, flat or all over the bloody shop. The urge to stand on a table and shout, "LEARN THE BLOODY TUNE!" was almost unbearable. Especially when one particularly angsty woman -- whose upper register was like having a dentist's drill applied to your scrotum*** -- launched into some sort of torch song about how her boyfriend was a bastard and her mother didn't understand her, and wasn't it a shame you just couldn't find nice sling-back heels when your feet were the size of a Buick?

Much though I feel her pain, or at least the pain she inflicted upon my poor ears, Iowa was a much more normal place.

* Just in case my wife's reading this, I should point out that the locale was Sarah's decision, not mine. To paraphrase Eliza Doolittle, "Oi'm a good boy Oi am! Washed me hands and face before Oi come, Oi did!"
** Tee-hee, he said 'Boobs'!
*** Those of you without scrotums can get a hands-on empathic demonstration of this by grabbing those of the nearest man and twisting. You may want to buy them dinner first though.

Keeping up with the Joneses

Iowa should come with a health warning: 'This state can seriously damage your waistline.' I've been here a week and I've put on about a stone. Barbecue, hot wings, burgers, steaks, pancakes... Mmm... Iowa. I love it, but I could never live here: I'd eat myself to death in about a month.

All the weight I lost due to my scrodged up sinus operation has come back with a vengeance. And who do I blame? Tamara Siler Jones, that's who! She, hubband Bill, the Kid, all the cats and Daisy the stinky Dawg, have made it their personal mission to ensure that I experience the best that Iowa has to offer. It's been an absolute blast.

I've been out shooting replica double-action six shooters, colt .45 semiautomatics, and an Uzi. I've been all over Des Moines. I've spoken to a Lieutenant in the county sheriff's office. I've eaten catfish, ribs, pancakes, and more red meat than any sensible person ever would. And I've loved every minute of it. OK, so I'm going to have to go on a Prune and Fig diet when I get home, but it's worth it ;}#

And now I'm off to New York.

But I'm going to miss Iowa and the Joneses. They're very, very cool people. Even if there is a preponderance of leg-hickies.

Series Pitfall Time

When I wrote COLD GRANITE I wanted it to read like it wasn't the first book in a series. I alluded to a whole heap of stuff, but never explained any of it. These were events that occurred in previous 'unwritten books'. Things like the Mastrick Monster, or Why Logan and Isobel fell out, previous murders, cases, arrests, relationships. All that kind of malarkey you'd expect to accumulate behind a series character by the time they hit their third or fourth book. This was on purpose.

Then I went and did the same with DYING LIGHT: events from CG were hinted at, or used as throwaway one-liners. The characters all know what happened, so they're not likely to stand about and discuss historic events, just so new readers can catch up, are they? Whenever I get together with my homies -- well, Grendel T Kittenfish as I'm a pretty much homie-free zone, living as I do just left of the arse-end of nowhere -- I don't launch into convoluted monologues about things that happened ages ago, so why should my characters?

Apart from anything else, it's going to get old pretty soon if I've got to explain things from every preceding book. "Well," said Logan, making himself comfortable, "you'd better sit down, I've got a lot of expositioning to get through. When I was six..." Yawn. Creak. And maybe fart.

Anyway, so I've took the same approach in DL as I had in CG: never explain, never apologise. If people want to know what all those few little glancing references mean they can go read the first book. But they shouldn't have to in order to enjoy DL on its own.

And yet... I've stumbled upon* comments and reviews saying that DYING LIGHT is definitely part of a series and you have to read COLD GRANITE first. This worries me, because isn't what I'm aiming for at all. Each book should stand on its own cloven hooves. Yes, you should be able to see a progression in the characters across the books, and some things will follow on from other things, but you shouldn't have to start at the beginning and work your way forward. Because I hate having to do that when I read a series. I very rarely get introduced to a series at book one, and that book has to stand on it's own, or I'm not touching the rest with a stick. Not even a pointy one with poop on the end. But once I decide I like a series, I'll go back to the first novel and read my way forward through the whole lot.

So, either I've screwed up mightily** with DL and the arch references, or this is just one of those, 'everyone's different' moments. Something for me to ponder on the plane tomorrow as I head to New York for my tour, thanking the Hairy Gods of Sloping Undercarriages that I wasn't flying last week.

* Lies: I've searched through the inerweb, looking to fuel my enormous, bearded ego!
** I know you're shocked, but it has been known to happen.

ROAD TRIP!

Given the current state of sodding about vis-à-vis air travel, St. Martin's have agreed that spending five hours getting to the airport, queuing for security, going through security, hanging about, being searched again, sitting on a plane for half an hour then getting off at the other end, probably isn't a good idea. So instead I'm gettin' me a hire car!

I've asked for something red and convertible-flavoured, so I'll probably end up with some sort of foosty old jalopy that sounds like a hairdryer on steroids. But if not, I'm livin' me the Thelma and Louise dream! Only without that driving off a cliff bit as I've got an event to do at eleven am and being trapped in a burning wreck at the bottom of a dirty big drop will probably put a downer on the whole thing.

So Stuart is to be trusted with half a ton of metal, stuffed with explosives! Well, petrol / gas -- depending on whether or not I've had the breakfast burrito -- but its all inflammatory. I'm going to have to scribble, 'RIGHT! THEY DRIVE ON THE RIGHT OVER HERE!!!'* on a Post-it note and stick it to the windscreen, just in case. And if that doesn't work, I'm already practicing my winsome eyelash fluttering. "What's that Officer? Doing a hundred and twenty going the wrong way on the interstate? Little old me? Surely there must be sommmmmmething you can do..." cue winsome fluttering.

What lonely highway patrolwoman/man/dog/gerbil could resist? Ah yes, I'm such a tease.

On the writing front things are... well, imagine you've just spent the last four weeks eating nothing but red meat and fried eggs. That's how it's going. I need the literary equivalent of syrup of figs. And it's not like I'm going to be able to work on the plane now, what with BA confiscating everything other than your passport and transparent plastic bag. It's going to be odd sitting on a plane with three to six hundred other people, in the nip because Security have confiscated everything else, all clutching our wee see-through baggies. *shudder*

Mind you, the safety briefing would be entertaining. "Exits are located here, here and here, and in case of emergency, socks and pants will fall from the compartment overhead. Please see to your own underwear before assisting others." Knowing my luck I'll get sat next to some big sweaty businessman called Brian who needs help with his leopard-skin thong. And once more: *shudder*

It also bodes less than well for my master plan to smuggle three tons of Frank's Hot Sauce in my hand luggage. Bloody al Qaeda, liquidizing bastards. I could keister a supply I suppose, but the risk of it bursting... it makes my eyes water, just thinking about it. Never mind a vindaloo the night before, that's going to BURN on the way out! I'd be scooting up and down the plane's aisle like a dog with worms, making strangled gargling noises, leaving a trail of flaming carpet behind. And somehow I don't think that's going to be good for my image.

Can you say, 'Deportation'?

* Freaks.

I was Adam West's love child

I was going to have an elongated whinge about not getting on with the end of the book, because I've been up to my ears for the last couple of weeks. You know the kind of thing: blaming sunspots and the proliferation of pasty people in colourful shorts. Soon as the sun comes out they're everywhere -- hairy milk bottle legs reflecting back the rays like they've been wrapped in tinfoil, dazzling passers by. And they're not even bright enough to plaster on suntan lotion, so two days later they look like bacon. Me? I'm wearing factor fifty, which is the lotion equivalent of staying indoors. Only stickier. And everyone loves sticky crime write-ists.

Anyway, like I said, I'm not going to do any of that, I'm going to bugger off and, you know, ACTUALLY WRITE SOMETHING INSTEAD. Shudder. Well, it has to be done I suppose, there are aardvarks at the door, and those little sods don't come cheap. Hairy chocolate-filled bastards…

So I leave you with a link filched from the lovely TSJ -- TheSneeze.com presents things Steve shouldn't eat... but does. Funny as a monkey in a bucket of fish.

And now -- to the Beard Cave!

I am not a pervert: Official

Yes, all the rest of you out there are questionable, but I have written proof from Grampian Police that I'm not a freak, weirdo, criminal, deviant, or a danger to small furry mammals. So in your face RRFFF!

It's all down to this workshop I've agreed to do in Fyvie Castle -- as there will be school childers present the Council sent me a 'Disclosure Scotland' form where they ask for every place you lived since the dawn of time, inside leg measurement and how much they'd have to pay you to sleep with Gloria Hunniford. Apparently that last bit is sponsored by Mz Hunniford herself: well, it's always nice to be proactive.

It's weird to have the police go digging through your past -- what if they find out about that incident back in Primary Two? The one involving marigold rubber gloves and a raffia donkey? You know: the one we promised never to talk about again?

But it's nice to know I'm safe to leave your valuables, children, wives and girlfriends with. Especially your girlfriends. As long as they do heavy lifting and the odd spot of gardening.

Anyone for drinkies?

Well, the tour to end all tours (unless I behave myself and don't do my party piece with a pickled onion and a small jar of mayonnaise) is nearly upon us. This time next week I'll be up to my armpits in hot wings in the city that never sleeps, but does take the occasional nap, otherwise it gets all cranky. I'm going to be flying in on the 15th -- all wide-eyed and bushy-tailed, gawking at all them there tall buildings -- and as far as I can tell St. Martin's Press have no plans for me that night. Or if they have, they haven't told me about them. So I have a night set loose in the big apple, with nothing but a map, a compass, two bars of chocolate and a life-sized photocopy of Queen Victoria's buttocks. I'm sure I'll do just fine.

Anyone got any suggestions for good places to eat / drink?

Health and Safety and the skirl of the pipes

If you've ever heard a set of bagpipes in full skirl, you'll know they're pretty loud, yes? A pipe played on the old tartan octopus will travel for miles and miles. And what happens when you expose human ears to that kind of acoustic barrage? They sue. So, just to make sure nobody gets litigious, the Health and Safety bods at the Ministry of Defence have decided to limit the length of time pipes can be played by military personnel: 24 minutes outside, or 15 minutes inside, per day. Any more than that and he's not allowed to blow into his instrument*, because he risks damaging his hearing and suing the army.

Now there was a time -- back before 2000 AD -- that the military were exempt from Health and Safety regulation. But not any more. Yes, we're training them to kill other people, charge machinegun nests, bayonet the enemy, and drink NAFFI tea, all very, very dangerous activities, but we can't let them practice on the pipes for more than 24 minutes a day.

Of course, the logical conclusion of this will be that all activities likely to damage hearing will be regulated to minimise the risk of law suits. Like battle. After all, guns and bombs and mortars and napalm strikes are noisy, noisy things. A bagpipe produces 116 decibels if played in a small toilet that smells of Harpic, your average handgun creates 166. So it stands to reason that people's hearing is going to be at risk WAY before 24 (outdoor) minutes are up. So someone should be standing up after fifteen minutes and shouting: "Sorry chaps, we have to all stop fighting now -- Health and Safety!"**

Then everyone slopes off the battlefield and comes back tomorrow.

It's a thought, isn't it?

* And you can stop that right now! Childish titterers.
** Yeah -- I know, the military get a health and safety waiver for active combat, but it's more entertaining this way.

Sometimes it doesn't pay to get out of bed.

Mind you, I've never actually been paid to get into bed in the first place, so I suppose it all evens out in the end. There's a name for that kind of thing you know. But currently it's sleepless nights for our bearded protagonist as he decides to completely scrap the last three chapters of the book and try again. It's not that they're poop, or... well, no, come on, let's not lie to each other here: I think they're poop. If I thought they were the best thing since God created pickled onions, I wouldn't be rewriting them, would I?

Now I could tweak and tease them: sneak up, pinch their backsides, make saucy suggestions and then run away giggling, but I think a clean break will be better for both of us. Emotionally. Oh sure, there will be recriminations, and guilt and maybe the odd drunken phone call in the wee small hours, wondering where it all went wrong, but other than that... We'll always have Paris... sniff.

I've also got another resolution to slip between the sheets, where it will break wind and titter. 'Parrrrrrrrrrrrrrrp!' Tee, hee! And that concludes our book. Please make sure to rewind your DVDs and post them through the slot marked 'Trouser Press'.

After that I'm straight into the plan for Book Number The Four. Going back to work now looms on the horizon like a vast looming thing. LOOOOOOOM! But I'm really looking forward to it. Can't decide yet if I'm going to turn Kernick, Billingham and Barclay into senior police officers (sounds odd, but I need about half a dozen rozzers from all round the country to descend on Aberdeen and Give DI Insch a hard time). It passes the time I suppose.

Right -- to the monkey with you all!

(and in case you're wondering, l'Internet est très mort, but I know someone who can get me some stuff, wink, wink, if I don't tell the peelers where I got it -- so I'm hoping there should be something more like activity round here for a bit)

Dear God – an update!

Yes, it's been from here to there since last we spoke, but that's what happens when you anger the gods of communication technology... bloody technology gods.

When I got home the other day, the nice man (and I use that phrase with a complete grasp of the ironic) who's been dealing with our internetless world had popped a postcard through the door with a promise that someone, at some point would replace some bit of cable and that might, possibly, if, like you know, and stuff, make some sort of difference. Which means 'No Broadband For Mr. Stuart.' Darn it! So I'm reduced to mooching internetitude from friends, acquaintances and strangers in the street.

In the meantime, how's the edit going I hear you cry (especially if you're my editors). Well, it's got to a critical juncture where I'm thinking about that rewriting the last three or four chapters from scratch might be easier than sodding about with what's already there. But then again, you never know.

I've been doing a lot of toning down as I've gone through, so it's going to be interesting to see if HC come back with the plaintive cry: "WHAT HAPPENED TO ALL THE BLOODY GOOD BITS?" And I'll be all like, "Dude, chillllllll." And they'll be, like, "Don't you bloody tell us to chill, you bearded freak!" And I'll be, "That's way uncool." And they're all, "I'll show you uncool when I staple your bloody testicles to your forehead!" and I'll be out of there faster than a lopsided ninja who's just had a wassabi enema.

Where was I? Ah, yes, things…

Anyway, with the internet being something on a par with space travel and sightings of the Loch Ness monster round these here backwaters*, it may be some time before anything remotely approaching an update appears here. In the meantime, try reading the back of cornflake packets and shouting, "Bollocks!" at random intervals. It's not quite the same thing, but it's close.

* So sorry if you've left a message, or a comment and I've not got back to you -- it's not because you smell or look like some sort of shaven monkey, honest...