Wimp...

I did something bad this week, something very, very naughty. I had a day off. A whole day doing nothing at all, other than gathering cobwebs between my daintily-formed ears. Sleep late, get up and drink many cups of tea, make nice lunch of spare ribs and corn on the cob, eat aforementioned lunch, watch some TV, cat comes and sleeps on lap, can't get up as it will disturb cat, watch more TV with cat lap warmer, talk to cat, flick through channels, drink more tea, watch film, cat comes back for second time and falls asleep lying flat on her back with legs akimbo, watch cat dream about disembowelling small rodents, pop open bottle of wine and make tea.

All very nice, until about half-past nine when I found out that due to and unexpected mix-up, the article thing I thought I had till the middle of next week to do turned out to be needed by the next day instead. But other than that it was a no-holds barred relaxathon.

Now we all know that proper writers don't have days off. Weekends don't exist. Every day is a working day. Days off are for wimps! WIMPS!

Days off are Satan's woodland-themed stepping stones on the path to missed deadlines. You know, the really tacky ones made out of cast concrete that are supposed to look like slices of tree trunk only someone seems to have flattened a squirrel on them? Those ones. They're Satan's favourites. Along with Reality TV and white socks with black shoes, obviously. And caravans. And anyone who buys 'celebrity autobiographies'. And Ruby Wax. And ... let's just leave it there, shall we?

Still, at least my study's tidy again -- you can actually see the desk and the carpet for once, I was beginning to forget what they looked like under the welter of Post-it notes, bits of paper and assorted books. That's something, isn't it?

Deadline be damned. DAMNED I SAY!!!

Just don't tell HarperCollins I said that.

Value Judgement

Warning: this post may make some readers come over all 'thinky'.

She Who Must Be Consulted On Matters Of Importance and I were having an spirited debate recently. Not about the relative merits of onion in pasta sauce (for a change), but about the relative values if the various narrative forms.

Ooh, heavy.

I have to admit that this was my fault -- after a couple of speciality teas I get a bit giddy and move on to the great moral conundrums of our day. And sometimes a debate about whether or not, if you were shipwrecked in the South Indian Sea, you could make a raft out of Anne Widdecombe by hollowing out her innards and living off the proceeds while you float upon the briny blue. Sort of depends how the Sauvignon Blank takes us at the time*.

The moral conundrum in this particular case was 'what value crime fiction?'

This is what we call a 'Pernod' question, because we have to drink pretty much everything else in the house before we start asking it.

And the aniseed-flavoured question** has me thinking 'Not that much.'

Now I'm not saying that I don't rate crime fiction: I do. Given the option, it's the genre I'd read by choice. Most of the people I know, write it***. But let's face it, in the great pantheon of world-wide popular entertainment it's not exactly rocking the Casaba, is it?

When I said this to She Who Must Be Given A Wide Berth When There's Sharp Implements Involved, she said, "Rubbish."**** And so I challenged her: "How often," I asked, with rakish abandon and a sliver of dinner caught in my beard, "have you read THE LION THE WITCH AND THE WARDROBE -- your favouritist book in the world -- in your life?"
She thought about this and replied with pride, "At least a dozen times."
Which I think you'll agree is pretty good going for a book written about treacherous bedroom furniture published in 1950. Then I asked her, "How many times did you listen to Green Day's AMERICAN IDIOT last year?"
Answer: lots. Lots and lots and lots.

Most of us will read a book only once. Even a book we really like. Some books transcend that -- they speak to something deep inside us we don't fully understand, and we go back to them time and time again. But it pales into insignificance when compared to the number of times we'll listen to an album. Or watch a film. Or a TV series.

Which brings me to the question I did ask at the start of this rambling monologue: 'what value crime fiction?'

As far as I can see, on the scale of things it goes like this:

1. Music -- this stuff gets stuck in your iPod, or your car stereo and played and played and played until you want to dig the artist's eyes out with spoons and eat the salty goo. Then four weeks later, you're loading the same damn CDs back in your car.
   This is why Pop and Rock stars get to appear on Top Gear, driving a crappy car around a race circuit. When did you last see a writer on a popular programme being vaunted as a 'star'? That's because we're something unpleasantly sticky on the shoe of The Scale Of Thing What Matter. And that's not meant to sound bitter -- that's meant to be an honest value judgement based on what the real world is like. You stick David Bowie next to Patricia Cornwell and see who more people recognise.
   
2. TV Shows -- thanks to DVD these are more popular than ever. She Who Must Be Indulged, Even If It Goes Against The Laws Of God And Nature got the entire six seasons of Sex In The City for Christmas.... Oh dear Jesus HELP ME!!!*****
3. Films -- I would have put this at number 2 a couple of years ago, but let's be honest, people like their reruns of ER and 24 more than they like Casablanca. Still, things like Alien and Blade Runner and The Big Lebowski are going to be watched again, and again, and again, and again... until the microscopic grooves on your DVD wear out from all that jam you've been smearing on them (on the advice of Tomorrow's World, lying toss-pots that they were). At Casa MacBride we make a point of watching Groundhog Day about once a year, but never on February the 2nd, because I'm just not that organised.
4. Video Games -- A shorter shelf-life than books, but again, they get a lot more play at the time. Mind you, have you ever seen a shoot-em-up advertised as 'You'll laugh, you'll cry, Resident Evil 6 (Zombie Mutant Tea Party with the exploding fairy cake expansion pack) will change your life'?
   
5. Books. There you go, number five. Bottom of the list. Scraping the arse-end of the barrel.

I know that sounds cynical, but be honest, how often have you read your favourite book compared to how often you've watched reruns of your favourite TV show? Or listened to your favourite album?

This is why so few writers are zillionaires. And probably why all my groupies are over 50.

Anyone up for a spirited public debate?

* For those who're interested, my money's on yes. In fact I think it could sleep four and be a strong contender in the next Clipper Round The World Yacht Race. We could use her pants for a sail.
** Like the $64,000 question, only more tasty ... and let's face it: cheaper.
*** And yes, I know that's a seriously bloody sad admission.
**** Actually, what she said was a darn sight ruder than that, but this is a family blog and one never knows when cats or kittens may be reading it.
***** Though technically I bought it for her, so it's my own fault. And yet another reason you should petition the Pope to get me canonised while I'm still alive -- what the hell's the point in being a Saint if you're dead? How's that going to help you pick up women in bars?

Sod

I never reaised how much I depended on the interweb, until I couldn’t get access to it. Email (for poking fun at Agent Phil – a slightly worse-dressed version of Tattoo from Fantasy Island), Google (to find out what’s in pepper-spray, what Anne Widdicombe looks like naked, how many toes George Bush has, etc), Wikepedia (for whatever lies, unsubstantiated rumours, and occasional truths someone’s decided to tell about any given subject), and Google Earth (for when I can’t remember what a specific street in Aberdeen looks like and can’t be arsed driving into town to find out right now). All these things should be ignorable, shouldn’t they? Nothing there is a matter of life and death. Some people even squirrel themselves away at writers’ retreats, just to cut themselves off from the lure of this kind of stuff.

So why am I finding it so frustrating that I can’t get online?

Not to mention the hours I’ve wasted, fiddling with settings on my bastarding wireless router, trying to get the bloody thing to work again.

I know I can just go to the pub and piggyback on their wireless network, but a sixteen-mile round trip, just to check your email, is a bit excessive. Not to mention expensive in petrol. And you can’t even make the trip worthwhile by having a couple of pints. Not if you want to keep your driving licence.

This whole internet thing is such a pain in the arsehole.

It’s way harshing my mellow, dude.

BANG!

You may have noticed a slightly dusty air of neglect at Casa Del Halfhead of late. This is due to my wireless router -- my only connection with the outside, uncivilised world since Claudia Schiffer decided to ignore that restraining order -- exploding, leaving behind a crater the size of... well, a very small mouse.

As such, I have been forced to make camp in the corner of my local pub, where they have free wireless access! Hurrah! Obviously, as a good and sober boy, I wouldn't normally set foot in an establishment where they serve intoxicating liquor. But as this is for business purposes, I shall swallow my pride (and a large number of pints) in order to keep in touch with the interweb.

It's a hard life, but someone has to do it.

Rantathon -- (part 1)

It's debatable whether or not ranting is good for my blood pressure. On the one hand, it's a period of intense simmering, followed by a sudden explosion of boiling -- that's probably not a great thing. On the other hand, it's better than sitting and seething away with quiet resentment.

Mostly I like to rant in the car. It's not that I get behind the wheel and think, 'You know what? I really feel like a jolly good rant.', it's just that 95% of road users are bloody idiots. In the interest of public health, I think the DVLA should issue me with a gun and carte blanche to shoot any bastard who has no business being behind the wheel of a half-ton automobile. It could be on a sliding scale: cut me up in traffic and I blow off one of your kneecaps. Sail blithely across a roundabout without bothering to look -- that's going to get you a Mr Orange. Park in a disabled space and you're going home in a body-bag.

That sounds fair enough, doesn't it?

And it doesn't just have to be road-based, I'm a public-spirited individual: I'd be prepared to go that extra mile and extend my services to supermarkets and high street stores too. Don't say thank you, smile, or even acknowledge the existence of the person who's just held the door open for you? Severe kicking. I'd get old ladies to help, they can be vicious when roused.

Anyway, I digress. Right now there are two rants bubbling away in the darkness of my internal thingumies*. Number the first is due to a toss pot on Breakfast News yesterday. The topic was factory farmed chicken versus free range. Not in a fight or anything, it's illegal to pit poultry in a battle to the death in this country, but in a debate about what is and isn't acceptable to eat.

There's a bit of a push in the media at the moment, with Hugh Curly-Wurly-Fearnly-Whittingstall** and Jamie Wide-Boy Oliver telling anyone who'll listen that eating factory-reared chicken makes you a cock-weasel. A point of view I wholeheartedly agree with. She Who Must Not Be Left Unsupervised With Sharp Implements and I have been off the battery-farmed chickies for about a year now. And it hurts... it really does. I used to love KFC. Mmm, all that succulent dark meat in the spicy battery stuff... just the thought of it has me soaking in drool. But I can't eat it any more.

Of course that doesn't stop me groaning with desire every time a KFC advert comes on the telly, which sends She Who Must Grab The Moral High Ground Whenever Possible*** into fits of, "Oh for goodness sake, no one's making you give up chicken are they? You can eat it if you like..." Which as all married men know is code for, 'if you touch another KFC you'll burn in the fiery pits of hell for all eternity. Or at least that's what it'll feel like by the time I've finished with you...'

My argument is that it's not a sacrifice if it doesn't hurt. When people give up stuff for Lent, they have to give up something they really like, otherwise God is angry with them and smites them with his vengeful gonads. The very fact that I'm willing to give up my beloved deep-fried chicken makes me more righteous, not less. And that means I've clawed back the moral high ground! Hahahahah! Take that, Evil Creature Of Darkness****!

But back to the topic in hand. The aforementioned cock-weasel (on Breakfast News), was arguing that he resented being lectured on whether he should eat factory chicken or not by 'celebrity chefs'. People should make their own minds up. Which is all well and good, but let's face it: most people who buy bog-standard cheap chicken don't want to think about where it comes from. Because it's not a very comfortable thing to think about, is it? 'If I buy this cheap-assed chicken I'm contributing to some horrific cases of animal cruelty. But it's tasty animal cruelty... Tasty, cheap animal cruelty... Oh the moral dilemma!'

This, however, was not what got my internal fluids simmering, it was when the newsreaders asked the bloke, "So if you had the choice of a factory chicken or a free range chicken, and they both cost the same, which would you choose?" and he went off on this rambling discourse about value for money. So they asked him the same question again, and once more he produced the kind of weasely obfuscation any politician would be proud of. His basic argument seemed to be, "Fuck 'em: they're only chickens."

Which was nice.

Rant number the second pertains to something said on the radio this morning, where 'Jordan' was described as "former glamour model turned number one, bestselling novelist". I don't even know where to start with that one. What annoys me more, the fact that anyone genuinely believes she's written a book (never mind a series of them)? The fact that some poor ghost-writer is doing all the work while she waltzes off with a dirty big cheque just because her name's on the cover? Or the fact that people actually buy the damn things? "You know, I don't normally read books, but if someone famous for nothing more complicated than getting her surgically-swollen breasts out, plastering herself all over the cover of every gossip magazine in the land on a weekly basis, and going on cheap and nasty reality TV shows wrote it, it must be good!"

Of course, taking a 'glass-is-half-full' kind of look at it, perhaps these people will then develop a taste for reading and go on to buy real books, written by real people rather than celebrity-endorsed products churned out by publishers looking to part the gullible from their money.

On the other hand -- maybe I'm doing this so-called Jordan a disservice? Perhaps she's an excellent writer who paid her dues by getting her norks out, so that she could bring her work to as wide an audience as possible?***** Maybe she's not the shallow, fake-boobed, publicity-junkie she appears to be? Maybe these are actually really good books and should be judged on their own merits, rather than slated out of hand by someone who's never been arsed to read one of them******. And maybe it really doesn't matter in the great scheme of things? Maybe this is just the current fad, and sooner or later society will grow out of this non-entity-celebrity culture?

But most likely, I just like to have a rant every now and then.

* Actually there's three, if you count my 'Kate Moss is a skanky ho' rant that happens any time those bloody Rimmel ads come on the telly. Let's face it, 'Rimmel' doesn't sound like a brand of cosmetics, does it -- it sounds like a questionable sexual practice. Possibly involving Brussels sprouts. Angus Deyton gets caught doing drugs and he can't find TV work for years. Kate Moss gets caught and gets her own line of clothes at Top Shop. What the hell is wrong with the world?
** Incidentally, you can add your 'Hell no!' to the Chicken Liberation cause, by going here and signing the on-line petition thing.
*** She's from Fife after all, she doesn't get that many opportunities.
**** It's a pet name.
***** Er... no. Her novels are actually written by one Rebecca Farnworth, but what the hell.
****** And never bloody will either. I tried to read The Davinci Code once, so I could enter into the debate on an informed level. Couldn't get past chapter three or four.

Paperback Pimpage!

This week is a time of much joy for those of you with nothing better to do with your time than hang around bus stations, sniffing other people's seats. For now you can double your pleasure without putting your hands in your pockets. Well, depending on where you keep your money, of course. You might keep it in a threadbare sock, tied to your genitals, you might keep it in a small dog, how should I know? I'm not your keeper after all.

But wherever you keep your money, drag it out and skip ye henceforth to your nearest emporium of books and stuff where you can get a double dose of MacBridian goodness for your filthy cash*. Yes, not only is BROKEN SKIN now out in paperback (for you skinflints who didn't buy a hardbacked edition), but so is BURIAL GROUND by that diminutive pixie of naughtiness: John Rickards.




"But, Stuart," I hear you say, "how is this Rickards bloke (who I hear does unmentionable things with goldfish) going to supply me with MacBridian Goodness? I am confused and dazed... and I think my sock full of money is cutting off the circulation to my naughty parts."

Easy - as you know, I gave John 'Spanky' Rickards his moment in the spotlight when I wrote BROKEN SKIN. Expect partial nudity and adult themes galore - as we join PC Rickards in his quest for the perfect pink PVC catsuit with optional nipple-clamps. Well, in order to exact revenge he has placed me in his new one: BURIAL GROUND, where I lend a much needed air of gravitas and class to an otherwise tawdry and filth-ridden novel.

So you can read about him in my one, and me in his. How nepotistic is that?

And I can recommend BURIAL GROUND to you all, not just for my sterling acting in it, but because it's actually a really good book. John is one of those writers you really can say gets better with every outing. BG is a tightly woven survivalist horror, wrapped in the twisted setting of a one-horse town in the middle of nowheresville USA. Expect gore, blood, sex, violence, and much in the way of nasty weather.

And if you get the paperback of BROKEN SKIN, you'll find a wee sneaky preview of Book Number The Fourth at the back.

Don't say I'm never good to you.

* Let's face it, if you keep your money in a sock tied to your willy, it's not going to be clean cash, is it? Probably all sweaty and covered in little curly hairs. No wonder shop assistants look at you funny.