Beer! Beer! BEER!!!

When I was wee, I made a list of things I'd like to achieve before I got old and stinky. Things like: go into space; make Doris Day my love slave*; kick the living shite out of Duncan McFee**; eat my own weight in pickled onions... You know: stuff grounded in realism. But one thing I thought beyond my destinitinous*** dreams was having my very own beer****.

Well dream no more, beardy boy, for fate has dug deep in it's lint-lined pocket and bought you a pint of the best!

Yup, as of Wednesday discerning connoisseurs of the brewers art may feast their jaded pallets on a super special, super limited edition ale, because those fine chaps (and chapesses) at Skye Brewery have produced a brew of artistic wonder to mark the publication of Book Number The Fourth.

Oh yes indeederoonie - from Wednesday you'll be able to walk into the very best pubs in Scotland and order a pint of FLESH HOUSE. 3.8% of blonde beer-type wonderment, guaranteed to make you completely irresistible to the opposite sex!*****

"But," I hear you yell, in an alcohol-soaked fervour, "where can we purchase this beer of exquisite loveliness, oh Bearded Sex God of mine?"
Well, you can get your hands on my foaming beery goodness at the following emporiums of the brewer's art (also known as pubs):

The Redgarth - Oldmeldrum
Castle Tavern - Inverness
Glenkindie Arms Hotel - Strathdon
Benleva Hotel - Drumnadrochit
Uig Hotel - Isle of Skye
Marine Hotel - Stonehaven
The Grill - Aberdeen

All of them excellent, independent pubs with a reputation of really knowing what they're doing when it comes to storing and serving really good beer******

And as an extra special treat, Archibald Simpson are going to be selling it too! And as that's where a lot of Aberdeen's police officers drink after a hard shift keeping the city safe, I'm pretty chuffed about it.

And all this was the dark and twisted idea of Stuart Singer of the Redgarth in Oldmeldrum (DI Insch's local and not only does it features in the FLESH HOUSE, Stuart gets a speaking part too!). Now I am officially rock and roll. Whoo, yeah, and other things.

* Well, I was only young and she was very, very pretty. I mean, you would, wouldn't you? Phoaaaaaaaar... (I mean that in an inclusive and empowering way)
** He lived up the road from me and was a rotten bullying bastard. But his eyes were too close together, so I can take solace in the fact that he's either never managed to get a woman to have sex with him, or he's had SERIOUSLY ugly babies.
*** It wasn't a word before, but it is now. Destinitinous: noun. items of an impending destiny-related nature. e.g. "Dropping the pregnancy down the toilet was destinitinous for Daphne, because nine months later her life followed it." See? Perfectly cromulent.
**** Partly because I was five and had no concept of naughty grown-up things like beer. (though Doris Day was obviously a destinitinous exception)
***** Or that's what you'll think after six or seven pints of the stuff, by which time you'll probably be making sweet, sweet love to the nearest fire extinguisher. You saucy minx you.
****** Is it just me, or do I sound like 'VOICEOVERMAN'?

Children are naughty

Grendel T Kittenfish MacBride is officially in the bad books today. I let her out at about half four this morning, seeing her on her way with the usual set of instructions: "Be good, stay away from the road and no fighting!" She went, "Prooop!" in reply and pattered off into the mist.

Stuart then grumbles about how it's too cold to be standing outside in the altogether at half four in the morning, before shuffling back to bed and a disturbing dream we won't go into here.*

06:40 and the alarm goes off. More grumbling, some ranting at the radio while the newspaper headlines are read out. And then our bearded protagonist groans his way out of bed to let the cat back in.

Nothing.

The door opens on a world of white, the sound of distant cockerels bellowing their wakeup call, muffled by a thick blanket of fog. The sound of randy pigeons going at it in the hedge. And a bearded crime write-ist shouting, "Kitten? Come on! Grennnnnnnnnnndel!" Very manly.

Still nothing.

Then the Bearded, naked one** looks down at what's lying on the porch floor. And swears.

We've had stoats living next to us ever since we moved out to the back end of nowhere. It was part of the appeal of the place, seeing these lovely little marmalade coloured ribbons of fur pop-hopping through the long grass, white tummies shining in the sunlight. Sometimes dragging a rabbit three times their size from point A (where they killed it) to point B (where they were going to gnaw their way into its skull and feast on the gooey goodness inside). I like stoats.

Remember a couple of weeks ago I posted about a milk-fed baby rabbit Grendel left half eaten in the porch, oozing yoghurty stuff all over the concrete? Well, we'd finally come to the conclusion that there was no way Little Miss would have gone down the burrow to get the thing, and what were the chances of her grabbing it on its very first day out of the warren? Slim, but not impossible. And then last week I watched one of the neighbourhood stoats hauling a huge rabbit across our front lawn. Dropping the thing every four pop-hops to take a breather. BIG rabbit.

So what were the chances of Grendel lying in wait for Mrs Stoat to come along so she could relieve it of its shopping? A damn sight higher than the previous two options.

Well it looks like this time Mrs Stoat decided she wasn't giving up the bunny quite so easily.

Now I don't mind Grendel murdering mice, battering bees, crunching centipedes, or slaughtering shrews, but stoats? Stoats are dangerous. Stoats have big pointy teeth that bite things. Stoats are carnivorous killers. You do not screw with stoats.***

Which is why Little Miss Violent Fish now has a pair of holes in her nose. Well, an extra pair if you're counting nostrils. And they're not holes in the 'go all the way through' sense, more sort of dents. With blood.

We don't have any TCP either. Not that she'd sit still for long enough for us to rub it in - it was difficult enough just getting her to pose for the picture. She's so chuffed with herself it's unreal. "Look at me! I killed a stoat! A STOAT! Not some sort of cheesy little mouse, or a wriggly little piss-ant shrew, S-T-O-A-T! Oh yeah, who's your kitty? Eh? WHO'S YOUR KITTY?"

This is not the kind of behaviour I like to encourage.

How's she going to hold on to her crown as the world's prettiest cat if she keeps collecting scars all over her nose? And what's next: badgers? Alsatians? Jehovah's Witnesses? Am I going to wake up one morning and find a full-grown grizzly bear lying face down, dead on my porch? And don't look at me like that - it is too possible. The bear might be in the North East of Scotland on holiday... visiting with relatives... or backpacking its way around the world, working in bars and things to pay its way. You know. There it is, out snaffling picnic baskets, or looking for a shady wooded spot to do its business, and the next thing it knows there's this furry ball of teeth and claws ripping its throat out, screeching, "WHO'S YOUR KITTY?"

It's not too difficult to give Mrs Stoat a decent Christian burial courtesy of the council's fortnightly collection, but can you imagine trying to cram a dead bear into a wheely bin?

* But it did involve marmalade.
** Stop picturing me naked! It's very naughty. What would your significant other say?
*** Unless you are seriously perverted and don't mind lacerated genitalia.

Panic Stations!

Yup, it's all aboard the panic train, leaving Aberdeen at 19:00 Wednesday the 30th of April. Please make sure you have all your personal possessions with you before boarding, and that you have clean underwear on.

"Achhhh," I hear you say, in that slightly off-kilter Groundskeeper Willie accent you've been practising for the last three months (and to be honest, it still needs work), "but what have yeh tae worry aboot, yeh beard-wearing, shower-taking, soap-using, Jessie?"

Well, I'll tell you: that's when copies of the book formerly known as BOOK NUMBER THE FOURTH will be available in at least one lexiconographical emporium of booky goodness. AKA the Aberdeen Union Bridge branch of Waterstones. Now officially the publication date is the 6th of May, but the launch party thing is happening on the 30th, and it seems kinda daft not to have any copies of, you know, the actual book there.

And anyway, it's not like anyone pays the slightest bit of attention to publication dates, is it? Take DYING LIGHT, I received an email from a nice police officer* pointing out something I'd got wrong four days before the damn thing was published - he'd picked it up in Costco and read it over the weekend.

But that's not why the Brown Trouser Express is pulling into the station. The reason the train conductor of doom is calling "Mind the gap!" has more to do with the fact that people will finally be able to read the thing.

You see, a book is a bit like the cat in that sadistic bastard Schrödinger's experiment - until it's actually out in public the thing can exist simultaneously in two states: good, or crap. It's status is determined by the act of observation, only you don't get the RSPCA breaking down your door and beating the crap out of you for poisoning cats.

So far I've only seen one review online for FLESH HOUSE (it contains spoilerettes, so I'm not going to link to it), even though advance reading copies have been doing the rounds for a couple of months now. Mind you, the lady in question does say, 'FLESH HOUSE managed to sink its claws deep into my subconscious...' but whether that's a good or bad thing is a matter of interpretation. It did the same to one of my test readers and gave her nightmares to the point where she couldn't finish it.

Worry, worry, worry...

Mind you, I'm pretty sure most writers are the same. Now is the time to open the box and find out if the cat's still alive.

* We're not supposed to call them Policemen and Policewomen any more, because it makes them feel all dirty and sexual.

Something for the weekend

I went to the barbers last week... well, let's be honest here: it's not a barbers, it's a hairdressers. With all that it entails. Used to be a time when a bloke with a beard scalped my barnet*, in a shop that smelt of Ralgex and aftershave. The place I go to these days has mirrors-a-go-go and couches shaped like a big pair of lips.

Now I don't know about you, but I'm not used to furniture kissing my arse. How can that possibly be wholesome? I barely know this couch, and yet I'm supposed to park my pert and fuzzy parts on it's lips. Mary Whitehouse must be spinning in her grave.

"So," I hear you cry, with bored and distracted abandon while you drink your coffee and contemplate stealing another thousand Post-it notes from the stationary cupboard, "why do you go to this non-testosterone-fuelled emporium of barbery**?" Well, I go because it's local, and when I started using the place it didn't have arse-kissing sofas. It had a sort of benchy thing and old copies of National Geographic, with the pages depicting naked tribeswomen stuck together with glue to stop the impressionable getting all onanistic whilst awaiting their short back and sides.

At least, I hope it was glue...

But the fact is that I like the bloke who cuts my hair and he does a good job of it. I have to look pretty for my public, you know.

Anyway, I was in getting prettified for an event for Aberdeen's society of Advocates (I know, I know: why do you need a society for a Christmas-type eggy drink favoured by aged aunts?) and when we got to the end, and I went up to the wee desk to pay my bill, I was handed a questionnaire.

Not a, 'How do you like your haircut?' questionnaire, or a 'Do you like sitting on a couch that looks like Mick Jagger's face?***' thing, but personal details.

Some of the questions were fair enough:

• Name - well, they know that already because I have to phone up and book an appointment.
• Sex - again a pretty easy one. The beard's a bit of a give-away too. I am a manly man who exudes manly manliness in the same way that politicians exude slime and skunks exude stink.

So far so good.

Then we get on to things like:

• Age - er... why? Is grey hair more difficult to cut than my usual rich, chocolaty brown?**** And if I'm old enough to be bald, I won't be needing a hairdresser any more, will I? I'll wear a squashed-hamster toupee like any other self-respecting literary superstar.
• Telephone Number - OK, you could check my number when I phone up for an appointment, but I'm not scribbling it down on any damn form. Next thing I know it'll be wall-to-wall phonecalls about bloody double glazing and 'Can I speak to the home owner?'*****
• Address - get stuffed.
• Email Address - Nope.
• Work Address - Now you're taking the piss.
• Work Telephone - I'm thinking your couch isn't the only thing that can kiss my backside.

And it went on, and on, and on... Now I know I've been a tad grumpy of late, but I don't think it's unreasonable to say that I'm wanting a haircut, I'm not applying for a sodding mortgage. How much information do you really need to cut my hair?

1. Do I have a head?
2. Is there hair on it?

END OF STORY. My inside leg measurement is not relevant to the cutting of my hair... well, unless I'm wanting an intimate bikini wax, and believe me, I'm not.

Is it just me, or is the whole Britain-as-a-surveillance-nation thing getting a bit out of hand?


* And for all you dirty-minded Americans out there, that's not an euphemism.
** As opposed to an emporium of Barbary, where people all dress up like pirates and stroke each other's parrots. Perverts.
*** Only, you know, less leathery.
**** I have seriously chocolaty hair, women try to eat it all the time (and stoned people), but it doesn't melt in the sun and leave poo-coloured smears all down my head. Thankfully.
***** Small clue: if you have to ask, no you bloody can't.

In which our bearded protagonist reveals that he is in a foul bloody mood.

That's right, I'm in a foul mood. And by that I don't mean "I'm a little grumpy" I mean I'm having fantasies about bashing someone over the head with a claw-hammer and dismembering their bodies. Don't even care who, at the moment. But a representative of the Royal Bank of Scotland would be sweet. I'd go into details, but what's the point? Let's just say that at the moment they're right down there with BT in my estimations.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAArgh!

Grendel hasn't been helping either. She got a fright this morning while we were still abed, leapt forward and sank a panicked claw into my face. Lovely. That's just the sort of start you want to a day. With the screaming and the bleeding. She tried to make it up to me later by bringing a dead baby rabbit into the house (sans feet), but by then it was too late. The Grump had well and truly landed.

Hasn't helped that every twenty minutes the sodding phone goes with some recorded tit saying, 'This is a free national announcement. If you can't afford--' Which then requires me to scream obscenities down the phone prior to hanging up. And I know it's a recording and there's no point shouting at it, but it's tradition, OK? I don't make up the rules, I just live by them. When it suits me.

The only thing I haven't had today is one of those international cock-weasels calling up, asking to speak to the houseowner. Which is just as well, as I'm likely to be a little short with them. Like two foot three. And I think you'll agree that's pretty short.

And while I'm ranting, in an attempt to cheer things up yesterday, I bought a £12.00 bottle of d’Arenberg The Custodian Grenache. Push the boat out a little on a nice bottle of wine to cheer things up. Only it wasn't. Instead of being a wonderfully rich and fruity wine (as promised on the bit of paper stuck to the shelf in Oddbins) it was a thin, slightly bitter, and cheap-tasting bottle of plonk. The sort of plonk the masochistic can usually pick up for £3.00 in any supermarket. And not 'half price special promotion' £3.00 plonk either. This is plonk that's only ever going to be worth £3.00. The sort of stuff that tastes as if it's been made by marinating Magic Tree car air-fresheners in Ribena for a month. The sort of wine you take to a party when you don't like the host, or any of the guests, and you're only going because it seemed like a good idea when you were in the pub, but really you despise them all, because they're a bunch of bastards.

That kind of wine.

Oh, and a couple of days ago I got my author copies of a new anthology I'm in. And the only place they managed to spell my name right was on the back page. All 12 other times it's 'McBride'.

And no, you may not ask how the writing is going.