I am not an alien...

Well, the event at Newtonhill last night seemed to go OK. The place was packed, everyone got tanked up on Library wine* and stappit-foo with canapés, and I got asked one of the weirdest questions I've ever had at any event.

Because this was the inaugural event of the first ever Portlethen Literary Arts Festival, someone thought it would be a good idea to have a photocall with some of the local school kids, followed by a quick Q&A, before crisps and juice, then a bit of buggering off before the main event started. Being as it would contain one or two naughty words.

Actually, the kid's questions were surprisingly good, including one I can't repeat here, because the person asking it was too shy to do so out loud and had to hand it to me on a slip of paper. I'd tell you what it said, but that would mean betraying writer/small-questioner confidentiality and I'd be defrocked if I did that**. But the best question of the night -- the very best question ever -- was from a little girl called Nicola and it wasn't even directed at me, it was directed at her mum, Susan. She looked at her mum, with big, serious eyes and said, "How do you know he's not an alien?"

And the best bit? Her mum didn't seem even remotely phased by this. Clearly Alien abduction is a frequent topic of conversation in their household. I suppose it would be a different way to deal with the death of a childhood pet, wouldn't it?

"Mummy? Mummy, I woke up this morning and Mr Hoppity isn't in his cage any more. Where is he?"
Mummy washes the shallow-grave dirt from her hands, thinks about it for a moment, then says, "Mr Hoppity was abducted by aliens, darling."
"Oh..." says the small child, bottom lip trembling for a moment, "Are they the same aliens that abducted Mr Fishy, Tiddles the cat, and Grandad?"
"Yes, darling. They collect them for experiments."
The small child gives a solemn nod. "Mr Hoppity isn't going to like all the anal probes, is he mummy?"
"Not as much as Grandad, no..."

But I digress. I've started doing something new in the events, since Birmingham, to go along with the usual rambling anecdotes and odd bit of reading (complete with silly voices, which I know some people think frightfully unprofessional, but I enjoy it, so what the hell), I now read out crappy reviews from Amazon. Which is actually a lot more fun than it sounds.

When I was down staying with the Guthries last weekend, Allan and I spent a happy Saturday morning drinking tea, reading out our worst Amazon one-star reviews, and laughing our arses off. Much to the bemusement of She Who Must Put Up With This Kind Of Thing From Time To Time, Donna, and Ed The Dog Of Nervousness.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go abduct someone's rabbit.

* Which is a lot more literary than normal wine.
** Assuming I was wearing a frock in the first place, which I haven't done for YEARS...

I am bin away, and stuff

What ho, me old Johnny muckers, and other assorted piratical folderal. Yes, I'm back from my travails in the hinterland of literature, also known as the 'one date tour'.

Birmingham was pretty cool. Nice place. Or at least the bits of it I saw were. Mr Billingham* took me on a small walking tour of the town centre, where we saw the alleyway he once had a good fumble up**, and the famous Birmingham Selfriges. Which looks a bit like a massive whale someone's pebble-dashed in four-foot chrome Smarties. It's as if the architects all got together one afternoon, smoked WAY too many naughty things, then decided to hold a contest: who can come up with a building the Planning Department's never going to pass, dude... It's freaky, but kinda cool at the same time.

We also hit a couple of bookshops to do some walk-by signing. Of course, this being his home town, there were display stands groaning under the weight of IN THE DARK, Mr B's latest. But much to my surprise there were some of mine too! At one bookshop -- after we'd watched two men beating the crap out of each other in a dispute over who's prose was more incisive: Jordan or Dan Brown*** -- he had a big table, piled hight with his latest. "Would he like to sign them?" asks the manager. Of course he would.

Me?

No table for me. But there might be some copies lurking in the back. And there were - it was a veritable treasure trove of beardy goodness, hidden away at the rear of the shop, where no sane person would ever venture. But not being one to complain, I started to sign the things in situ. Well, in red pen, but it's almost the same thing. And while Mr Billingham was being flirted with at the front of the shop ("Oh, Mark, I love your shirt. Blue's my favourite colour") what was I doing? I was getting accosted by a security guard for defacing the store's books!

"Excuse me, sir, do you work here?"
"Er... no. I'm just signing stuff."
"I can see that, sir. What I want to know is WHY are you signing them?"

Luckily I proved my identity by opening the book and pointing at the author photograph. Look, is me! See? I is not wearing my glasses, but is me!

Eventually he agreed that the sexy man in the front of the paperbacks was indeed me, and he didn't need to put me in an arm-lock, or bash my head repeatedly off a display stand of NUMBER ONE LADIES' DETECTIVE AGENCIES. Embarased, he hung about for five minutes, making awkward conversation. Secretly wishing I'd just been a shoplifter, as it would have made his life easier.

The event was good too - about a hundred and twenty people all waiting to see if I could get a bloody word in edgeways between M. Billingham and R.J. Elleroy****. And the bookshop even had copies of SAWBONES in! How cool is that?

We ended the evening with a traditional Birmingham curry, and thence to bed. Separate beds: I don't want you to think we were up to any naughty business. We're all married men, after all.

The next morning I was up at sparrow's fart to catch an obscenely early train to Edinburgh, where I was to liaise with She Who Must Be Treated To A Trip To The Festival Even If I Hadn't Been Invited This Year***** for a two day fest of takeaway, dining out, staying up till 4 in the morning talking toot, and going to see things with the Guthries. And very nice it was too.

Not to be outdone by Mr Billingham, Allan Guthrie ESQ. took me on a wee tour of his own on the Saturday night. We saw a drug deal, a man pulled over for drink driving, Edinburgh's 'cruising' central, a male prostitute failing to negotiate a sticky transaction, and the Post Office that features in TWO WAY SPLIT. How can you top that?

Of course, by the time we got home to Casa MacBride I looked like a sockpuppet that had been filled with custard, then beaten against the side of a building by a rabid nun, but that's less than unusual these days.

And to make matters even better, I'll be getting up at OH DEAR JESUS O'CLOCK tomorrow morning so I can pontificate****** over the morning papers on Original FM.

You'll forgive me if I accidentally swear like a trouper, won't you?

* He likes me to call him that, because he's threatened by my bearded sexy Scottishness.
** I'm sworn to secrecy.
*** The whole thing was carried out to the theme tune of 'Leave it, Daren, he's not worth it!'
**** The answer being: barely.
***** Not that I'm bitter. Oh no. Not bitter at all... Not in the LEAST bit bloody bitter!
****** Pronounced: RANT!!!

It am been a while

Yes, I know I've been very indolent of late, but I blame that on stuff. Stuff, and THINGS. Yes, STUFF and THINGS - not my fault at all, I mean, I'm not God, am I?*

But anyway, I was going to post about a number of topics close to my bile ducts, but instead I decided to try and get some work done on Book Number The Fifth - or BLIND EYE to give the thing its official title. Yup. So now we go: COLD GRANITE, DYING LIGHT, BROKEN SKIN, FLESH HOUSE, BLIND EYE. God knows what two-word title we'll end up with for Book Number The Sixth, but I know it's probably going to be a vast pain in my fuzzy backside to come up with.

And speaking of fuzzy things, I have to say the following to the manufacturers of that stuff you're supposed to pipette onto the back of your cat's head: "BOLLOCKS!" And then I'd like to throw in some fairly explicit hand gestures, involving two, or fewer fingers.

Yes, I'm sure that splodging foul-smelling goop onto the back of your pet's head is a great idea, but not when you have a Maincoon cat. No, you see a Maincoon cat has two layers of fur: an outer hairy fur, and an inner fluffy fur. So what happens is that instead of 'absorbing into the skin' the foul-smelling goop is sooked up by the hair and in about fifteen minutes your cat resembles a punk-rocker with laxative in his hair. Not the best of looks, I think you'll agree.

You know, there was a point to this post, but I can't remember what it was. Probably something about nipples... Anyway, I suppose I should also point your deviant things towards Thursday in Birmingham, where I'm going to be doing a thing with the ever lovely Mr M Billingham, and his fellow Brummue, Mr RJ Ellory (of Richard and Judy fame, nonetheless) on Thursday the 14th at 18:30.

I've been promised Dancing Girls, but I'm not sure if I'll share them or not. Mine, you hear? ALL MINE!!!

But in the meantime, here is a link to teh best wibsit on teh intraweb...

Although I do have a beard, and have been known to slack off on a Sunday (not often though)...