Bloody Women

I should point out that this isn't some sort of misogynistic rant, but the title of the panel I'm moderating at this year's Theakston Old Peculier Crime Writing Festival, or 'Harrogate' as it is more colloquially known. According to the programme it's about:

Saturday 19 July
3.30 - 4.30pm

Is it true that women writers can get away with writing more explicitly about violence, particularly of a sexual nature, than their male counterparts? If so, why is this? Simon Beckett and Mark Billingham argue the case against Val McDermid and Chelsea Cain, whilst one of the wittiest Aberdonians of them all, Stuart MacBride, keeps order.

Ah yes, a contentious can of worms that wriggle in a contentious manner of wriggliness. Of course as moderator I'm going to have to be gender-neutral -- not easy when you're as manly and virile as I obviously am, you know ... with the beard and everything -- and try to keep the fisticuffs to a bare minimum. Which is going to be interesting given that none of the participants are exactly shrinking violets. Well, I've never met Chelsea Cain, or Simon Beckett, but I'm assuming they'll give Val and Mark a run for their money in the boisterous department.

I should point out, by the way, that I'm not responsible for that 'while one of the wittiest Aberdonians of them all, keeps order' line in the blurb. I tried to get them to change it to something less cringeworthy, but they refused to follow my suggestion of 'while world-renowned, bearded SEX-GOD: Stuart MacBride (blessed be his saintly man bits), keeps order.' Some people, eh?

Anyway, as I am a conscientious moderator, and couldn't think of a reasonable excuse at short notice that would get me out of having to be the responsible adult for sixty minutes, I've asked Mark, Val, Simon, and Chelsea to tell me what's the most violent thing they've ever written and what's the most violent thing they've ever read.

For me, the most explicitly violent thing I've written has to be the 'tin bath' sequence in FLESH HOUSE, though a scene I did in an earlier, unpublished* book where someone is forced to eat a human eyeball comes pretty close. As to the most violent thing I've ever read... Hmm... I think you'd have to go a long way to beat Val's 'Judas Chair' scene from THE MERMAIDS SINGING, though Simon Kernick has made several valiant stabs at it. At least as far as crime fiction goes.

I can't decide if James Herbert's THE RATS counts or not, after all it's not people doing the extreme violence in this one, it's ... well, rats. Clue's in the title of the book. I remember reading THE RATS on a school trip to see Roman stuff in Chester**, I was about 11 at the time*** and loved that kind of stuff. Maybe that's why FLESH HOUSE ended up the way it did, a sort of homage to the James Herbert and Stephen King books I used to read as a wee lad?

Anyway, reminiscences aside, I'm interested to see what other people think -- anyone out there want to share their most violent booky moments?

* And pretty much unpublishable
** At least I think it was Chester, my memory is not the most shiny spoon in the cutlery drawer.
*** Actually that's just a random guess, due to the aforementioned crapulant nature of my memory.

Nipples

That ribald denizen of the audio-based blogosphere, Angie Johnson-Schmit has subjected me to her evil podcast of doom - In For Questioning. It sounds as if I'm in the middle of drowning in a bath full of custard, while having a rant about Rankin-based media cock-weaselry, and seeing how often I can say the word 'nipple!'

Not to mention insulting Allan Guthrie, reciting a wee verse from a potential new Skeleton Bob story (if I ever get around to finishing it) SKELETON BOB AND THE BIG YELLOW PLUKE!, and I also talk about naughty nakedness of the 'below the ankle' variety. Sinful.

One word of warning though: Angie promised me she wouldn't put any reggae on the soundtrack, but she lied. SHE LIED!!!

Double Happiness Wholesale Ltd.

To start with I was going to post a long an introspective ramble about tone and pace and the nature of the Logan McRae books, and then I thought, sod it: no one wants to read about that. And then I thought, bugger off, it's my blog, I'll post about what I bloody well like! What's the point in having a blog if you can't splurge on a self-indulgent introspective ramble from time to time? And then I wondered why I kept a blog at all. And then I remembered the whole point was so I could poke fun at John Rickards, and I hardly ever do that any more. Which is strange when you think about what an easy target he is, what with being short and smelling of whelks the whole time... Then I thought I'd berate you all for not wishing Grendel a happy birthday when she turned 4 on Sunday. And then I realised I'd kind of lost the whole chain of though and went for a cup of tea instead. And by the time I got back I'd forgotten what I was going to post about in the first place.

So then I thought I'd write an Ian-Rankin-themed rant. Not about Mr Rankin, or even at him, but about the media's habitual obsession with trying to find a replacement for the poor sod. But I couldn't be bothered as it was going to involve getting all riled up and indignant and calling people cock-weasels. Which probably wasn't going to be a good career move.

So then I thought I'd post a response to the only review to spot the fact that FLESH HOUSE owes a lot to the horror genre (possibly because I used to read a fair bit of it when I was little), but that just led back to the whole 'who cares what you think' feedback loop of shouting at the keyboard.

As a result of all this internal dialogue and internal struggle, I have decided instead to post about the Trendy Seaweed Rice Snack I bought for She Who Must Be Indulged On The Date Of Her Getting Hitched To Me Who Is A Bearded Sex God And Dead Good With Words And Stuff.

Yes, I pushed the boat out and bought her a bag of Trendy Seaweed Rice Snack (Teriyaki Seasoning Flavoured). According to the bag "You can enjoy not only the delight delicious flavour, but also the greatness of natural mineral benefits from the sea in every single bite." What more could you ask for? Seriously, when did you last eat something with a delight delicious flavour?

OK, so they look a little bit like deep-fried worms, but they're trendy - it says so on the label and I know that's got to be true, because they're 'manufactured and distributed by: Friendship Co. Ltd.' of Bangkok. The Friendship Co. Ltd. wouldn't lie to us, so it has to be true. Not only that, this bag of trendy delight deliciousness was imported by none other than 'Double Happiness Wholesale Ltd.'

How cool is that? Deep-fried-worm-looking rice snacks that are delight delicious, made by Friendship Co. Ltd. and imported by Double Happiness Wholesale Ltd. how could we possibly go wrong?

There's something deeply satisfying about a company that calls itself Double Happiness Wholesale Ltd. -- clearly they're head and shoulders above those bunch of shits at Single Happiness Wholesale Ltd. clue's in the name, isn't it? It's a shame that this isn't a trend we'll see catching on over here, naming companies in as chummy and cuddly a manner as possible. BP could change it's name to 'Big Fluffy Huggy Bunny Love Company Plc.' Who wouldn't want to buy petroleum-derivatives from them? If the Inland Revenue became 'Triple Cuddly Best Friends Inc.' we'd all be falling over ourselves to pay our taxes, and we'd be doing it with a smile of cuddly-best-friendliness on our faces. Hell yeah! Someone tell the Chancellor of the Exchequer that all his troubles are over (assuming he manages to do something about his eyebrows, possibly involving a Black And Decker hedge trimmer).

I wonder if this is an Eastern phenomenon -- calling your corporation nice things -- or is there a 'Complete And Utter Bastard Foods Corporation' just down the road from the Friendship Co. Ltd headquarters?

I know which one I'd rather work for.

Things ate my trousers

It's a day of double goodness today. Not chocolatey goodness, as that's not really all that good. And a bit sticky. And lets face it, when it gets hot, chocolatey goodness tends to melt and look as if someone's had a bottom-related accident. So let's call it 'pickled-oniony goodness' instead: they don't melt, they smell nice, and if you draw on a cornea and retina, you can make small children think they're eating eyeballs. Which is always fun. Well until their parents find out. Then it's all recriminations, shouting, and running away.

So, I hear you ask, what's the reason for this declaration of double pickled-oniony goodness?

Reason Number The First is that Mr James Tiberious Oswald has been shortlisted for the CWA's Debut Dagger for the second time in a row this year. Hurrah! Everyone at Casa MacBride has their fingers crossed for him. Except for Grendel, as this would interfere with her master plan for world domination. Which, at the moment, seems to involve pouncing on as many butterflies as possible. Plus she's a cat, and doesn't really grasp the concept of literary awards.

Reason Number The Second is that today marks the anniversary of when Mr Allan Guthrie's naked posterior first appeared from his mother's womb and was briskly spanked by a man in a smock. Which is an image all of us are going to treasure. Obviously I can't comment on any further incidences of smocked men spanking Allan's backside, it would be unethical of me. But we've all seen the pictures.

I suppose you could also lump into that a Reason Number The Third: Crime Scene Scotland, in the person of Russel 'Badger Bait' McLean, has been so kind as to cast his eye over both FLESH HOUSE and SAWBONES. Which is nice, because poor old FLESH HOUSE hasn't been getting much in the way of review attention. It sits on the shelves, lonely and forlorn, weeping into a snotty hanky and making the occasional farty noise. I think this now brings the number of official reviews for the thing up to a dizzying 2, including the one in the Guardian by the lovely Laura Wilson: "Anyone writing with the dual aim of fist-in-mouth shockery and humour needs to work bloody hard, and MacBride does, showing us just how much fun body parts can be."

Oh, and I also got an invite to a party today. Not sure if I'll go yet, but it's on a funky bit of fluorescent plastic. It's hard to say no to fluorescent plastic...

What Next?

I've been doing a lot of ranting lately. Angry, angry ranting that involves shouting at the television, or at the radio, or at all those slack-jawed halfwit gitbags who are somehow allowed in charge of automobiles, even though they clearly aren't qualified to pick their own noses without impaling their brains on a questing fingernail.

Seriously, if you're doing 30mph in a 60 zone, you should maybe rethink the whole driving-while-fast-asleep thing. And see those stick things on either side of your steering wheel? One of them makes a light on the outside of your car go all blinky, so people can tell where the hell you think you're going. What, did your driving licence come free with a packet of Cornflakes?

But I digress.

For some reason the quantity, quality, and all round bitterness of my rants has increased dramatically since I handed Book Number The Fifth over to my publisher. I blame post-book-delivery blues, and politicians. Slimy sods. Every time I see one on the telly it feels like taking a bath in a tub full of phlegm.

But I'm digressing again.

One of the things that's been weighing heavily on the old bearded noggin this past week is the question of what I'm going to do next. And not just in the short term - that's going to involve making a cup of tea - but in the longer term. My current contract with HarperCollins ends with Book Number The Sixth (a plot for which is already fermenting at the back of my head, like a dead sheep in a septic tank), and that's just one book away. Or it will be if I survive the second draft of Book Number The Fifth.

What to do after that?

I've been thinking about taking up plumbing. It pays pretty well and the hours aren't too bad. Yes, you occasionally end up knee-deep in jobbies, but at least it isn't normally your fault. And it's someone else's jobbies too... Hmm... does that make it better or worse? Neither would be pleasant, but at least you'd know where your own ones had been...

But I'm doing that digressing thing again.

If I do decide that there's a future in this writing thing, what will I write? More Logan books? I know that anyone who writes a crime novel set in Scotland is eventually going to be called 'the next Ian Rankin', but could I really spend 20 years writing about the same character? I think I'd probably go mad. Then I wouldn't just be ranting at politicians when they come on the telly, I'd be investing in a cricket bat studded with six-inch rusty nails and paying the bastards a visit. "Look what you've done to the National Health Service!" WHAP, WHAP, WHAP!
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"
"Stop claiming rent-boys as a business expense!" WHAP, WHAP, WHAP!
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA, Jesus, please stop hitting me with that!"
"Try giving a straight answer when you're asked a question on telly!" WHAP, WHAP, WHAP!

I'm kinda in that sort of mood.