America gets the squeams

Now that FLESH HOUSE has finally hit the shelves in American bookstores, I've started to get emails about what a horrible book it is. America has turned squeamish all of a sudden. Which is ironic, given the actual content of the book. America is the world's largest consumer of meat*. Burgers, ribs, steaks, chickens, pork chops... Meat, meat, meat, meat meat. In Iowa, a veggie burger is a regular meat burger with vegetables on top, not a burger made of vegetables. A burger, made of vegetables? NO! Dang it, that's just wrong!

But then the emails started:

"I was so looking forward to reading the next one that I actually bought the hardback version. However, I feel utterly disappointed - all the bloodshed, detailed descriptions of cutting humans apart and eating them. I was looking for a good whodunnit and not a horror story."

Or this one:

"... this book is grotesque. to read about a killer who skins and fillets people is one thing - that is what made hannibal lecter such a great read. but to actually READ it happening ia another. i just do not find it necessary. i swear to you stuart, i am not a prude. i can make it through deaver's the bone collector fine with no problems. this just churned my stomach and i could not finish it."

Believe it or not, the on-screen nature of what happens in FLESH HOUSE is completely intentional. I did it on purpose. In all the other books, the violence is kept off screen, but with this one I wanted it to take centre stage. Right there, where you can see it.

Much though I hate 'themes', there's one that runs all the way through the book about people no longer really taking responsibility for the meat that they eat. It all comes pre-packaged from the supermarket, no one knows where it's originated from**.

And if you eat meat at all: beef, pork, or lamb, what the Flesher does to his victims is EXACTLY what happens to it. So in a way it becomes a moral question - why is it OK for someone else to do it to a cow on your behalf so you can eat it, but not OK to read about it happening to a fictional person? That just doesn't make any sense to me. The fictional people in the books are fictional. They feel no pain. They were never alive in the first place***.

Oh, and I should point out that I'm not a vegetarian - I eat a lot of meat, I just like to know where it comes from. I support my local butchers, I've been to an abattoir and seen cows go from "MOO", to "Mmm, that looks tasty..." I am at peace with my omnivorous nature - if cows, sheep, and pigs didn't want to be eaten, they shouldn't have evolved so tasty. Common sense, isn't it? What could be better than a juicy steak, caramelised on the outside and purple in the middle; a chicken thigh, roasted in the oven till the skin's all golden and crackly; a rack of ribs, the meat just falling off the bones; or a rack of lamb, all pink and gorgeous; a shoulder of mutton, slow roasted and meltingly tender...

PETA doesn't agree. According to a recent poster campaign, "Feeding kids meat is child abuse." Which has to be one of the most stupid, half-arsed things I've heard in a long time. Because you know what? Child abuse is a lot more serious than giving your kid a chicken fucking drumstick.

Anyway, yes... Emails. I finally got tired of typing the same reply, over and over again, about why the book is the way it is, and thought I'd just point people back here to this post instead.

Because deep down, I'm not just a meat eater, I'm lazy too.

* And no, that's not an euphemism.
** I'm pretty sure I read a report not that long ago that said something like 40% of ten-year-olds couldn't tell you what animal chicken drumsticks came from. Hello? Clue's in the name!
*** Which for me is quite an important difference. I don't like reading true crime stories, because I know the people involved are real, they suffered and left behind families that grieve for them. I don't find that entertaining.

Nephew

This is Ash, Grendel's new cousin. We've not been in to see him yet as he's been ensconced in the neo-natal ward with a bit of a temperature, but they'll be letting him go home soon enough, to do battle with Shouty McShout-Shout and Thuggy McBastard.

I've no idea what his big sister Rowan will make of it all, though. I have a friend who was given into trouble by his mum for trying to colour in his brand-new baby brother's eyes with a magic marker. Not out of spite or anything, he just thought that blue would be a better colour for them.

She Who Must Be Consulted About Such Things and I are still in two minds about doing something similar. Not colouring someone's eyes in with a magic marker, getting a little addition to our household. The pitter patter of tiny feet. A baby sister for Grendel... only that's the problem. Little Miss has been the centre of the universe for four whole years now, and the thought of putting her nose out of joint gives us paws for thought*. I mean, what if they don't get on? What if they fight? What if Grendel breaks out the magic markers? It's not easy to do colouring in when you haven't got any thumbs. I suppose she could hook up some form of rudimentary sling using Velcro and duct tape, but it's still going to be difficult for her to hold onto the pen. And I don't like the thought of letting Grendel loose with a big roll of Velcro, who knows what kind of sticky-mouse-related madness we'd come home to?

Is it wrong that our lives are ruled by our cat?


* Aha, did you see what I did there? ... Yeah, well, I've still got completeandutterbastardingknackered syndrome, what do you expect?

In Which Our Bearded Protagonist Reveals That His Cat Has Got A New Cousin

You may have missed the news yesterday, buried as it was at the end of the posty thing on Moments in Crime, but Googling Brother and Sister-In-Law Kim produced yet another relative we're going to have to buy Christmas presents for. At 11:00 Ash 'HugeBunchOfMiddleNamesTBD' MacBride was dragged out into the world, weighing a quarter ounce off of eight pounds. Which is nearly four bags of sugar. Hopefully that means more to you than it does to me -- I'm always a bit bemused when people tell me the weight of their newborn infants. I'd be more interested in knowing what kind of foul language their other halves used whilst giving birth, and if the gentleman in question is ever going to be allowed back in the marital bed again.

But apparently Mother and Baby are doing well. Which is nice.

And so far I'm five for five on the posting front - one more day to go, then I can take my completeandutterbastardingknackered syndrome and sleep for a week. But if my editor asks, I'm working hard, OK?

My God, it's full of meat...

Yes, the Moments in Crime blogathon creaks on, like an arthritic knee, or a gate that needs oiled, or a small child in a microwave*. Today we're examining a deeply controversial, though vitally important, topic: meat!

And not just any meat, scary meat. Scary pink meat.

I can say no more about it!

* Just before it goes... BANG!

Tuesday's post is full of secrets

Well, after yesterday's thought-provoking*post on Moments in Crime, today's is all about secret stuff what is being a secret. That makes two posts in two days! Oh yeah, who's your daddy?

* Which is obviously very different from 'comment provoking'.

As of the Monday

As you might, or might not know, FLESH HOUSE has just come out in the US of A, and to commemorate the occasion I've been roped into blogging on the St. Martin's Press Moments In Crime site from Monday. Well, not so much 'roped in' as 'threatened with severe physical thumpings if I don't'. The worst bit is that I've been committed* to doing a post a day, so I can't just slack off like I usually do here.

And that means I've got to come up with things to ramble inanely about every single sodding day for almost a whole week. A WHOLE WEEK! Which is going to be a real broken-glass suppository. But needs must when someone's threatening to slam your sinful-man-parts in a desk drawer.

Groan...

But you can catch the first fun and frolics filled instalment here.

* Some people think I should have been committed years ago, but they're just jealous because the voices won't talk to them. Because they smell. Of poo. You hear that, jealous people? You smell all of poo, and you're made of poo, and when you talk, poo comes out! Oh hell yeah, I can do smack talk.

Important Bouchercon Update

Been in Baltimore since Wednesday evening and you know what? I miss my cat.

...

Oh, yeah, and my wife. I miss her too... But mostly I miss my cat.

I haz a breakthrough, let me show you it

I have a sad confession to make: I've never been 'papped' before. Now, just in case you're sitting there thinking that I've just said something very rude involving boobies, don't, OK? Honestly, you're just filth, filth, filth, aren't you? No, I mean I've never been caught by the paps* going into, out of, or even on top of anything. Up until Friday evening I had been a paparazzi-free zone.

And to be honest, it's a sodding freaky experience. Standing there like a lemon while a barrage of camera flash-guns go off in your face. FLASHFLASHFLASHFLASHFLASH... One bloke shouted, "Come on mate, give us a smile. Smile costs nuffink, you know?" Little did he know that I had purchased my smile from a very expensive boutique and I didn't want to wear the batteries out.

When I smile, I do it without teeth. I'm just not a toothy smiler. Some people can get away with flashing everything back to their molars, but I look like a serial killing squirrel whenever I try it. Probably not the best of images.

Anyway, thence to the star-studded bash.

Now the invite said gents were to turn up in 'suit or black tie'. Now the only 'black tie' think I have is my kilt. And while it's a mighty fine kilt, the damn thing weighs a ton and a half, and being made of three miles of tightly-woven wool, it's like wearing a microwave oven: everything between the hip and knee gets thoroughly cooked. That's why Scotsmen stand with legs-akimbo when they're in the full get up, it lets a little air circulate. You still end up with steamed vegetables though. So, not wanting cooked underparts, I was in my one and only black suit (no tie). Agent Phil had gone to the other extreme, and turned up in a bespoke tux made of bin-liners and electrical tape. Very fetching he looked too.

There then followed loads of mingling and catching up with people not seen since Harrogate and meeting some new ones too, like Michael Robotham who was also up for the Breakthrough. A very nice bloke, who spilled the beans about the book after the book about to come out. He didn't tell me the plot, just the location and even that sounds very, very cool. But that's the beauty of writing standalones: you can up sticks and set the next book anywhere you fancy.

So, after the schmoozing and a little boozing: the award ceremony. I've never been to one of these things before. I've seen them on the telly from time to time, but never really thought too much about it. Plus, as it was blatantly obvious that there was no way in Satan's frozen armpit I was going to have to do anything, I hadn't really given the whole thing too much thought. Oh idiot, thy name is Stuart.

First off, when they made the announcement I stood. Dithered. Not really sure if I should be going up onto the stage or not (ah ... the joys of being the first award** and not having anyone to copy). Then I had to wing a speech (didn't think I'd win, remember?), and in doing so forgot to thank Agent Phil. AGAIN! I screwed up in exactly the same way last years at the Daggers. And then I tried to leave the stage the wrong way, and had to be guided back the way we'd come like some sort of idiot.

Mind you, they edited that bit out when it went on the telly Monday, so I actually look as if I know what I'm doing. Ha! Oh, the television, it LIES to us!

Thank God.

* Steady, Tiger, what did we just finish talking about?
** Not counting Film Of The Year, which ended up as a skit involving two stuntmen fighting in hoodies, then bolting from the stage having nicked the award.

Rat

In which our Bearded Protagonist reveals he's not ready for his close-up.

People have been complaining that there just haven't been enough photos of dead things on this blog recently. Apparently I've been slacking off on the mouse-related-torture-porn front, and that will not do. So, in the interests of remaining 'hardcore' and 'noir' here's Grendel T Kittenfish's most recent entry into Rodent Valhalla. A dirty big rat. Big. HUGE. It's difficult to get a real feeling of the scale from the photo, but let me tell you: this sodding rat is the size of a small Labrador.

It can't have been very tasty either, because she didn't eat it. Not so much as a nibble on it's scaly rope-like tail. I'd like to think that's because she wanted us to be impressed by the sheer scale of it's King-Kong-like proportions, but I'm betting it's more down to the taste. That or some inbuilt cat gastronomic radar that says, "If you eat this, you're going to end up barfing all over the rug. And not the fun kind of barfing either, not the hairball-squishy barfing that gets between people's toes, but full-on serious vomming. And possibly squirty poos as well. Which are never a good idea when you have to clean yourself with your own tongue."

Damn thing weighted a ton too.

In other news, I have to go get my photo taken again on Friday when I'm in London. It's not really something I'm looking forward to, but needs must. Well, HarperCollins tell me that musts are needy, and who am I to argue? Apparently the photo we're using on the books at the moment isn't scary enough - some people are barely traumatised at all!

So, inspired by The Nameless Horror, I went off and had a bash at taking my own photo:

Is it just me, or does it look as if I'm about to launch into a camper-than-biscuits rendition of Go West? Which is probably why HarperCollins want a professional to take the pic instead.

Now apart from the whole freakiness of having a complete stranger telling me, "That's it! Sexy! Give me more sexy! Make love to the camera*!" there's also the problem that I look pretty much like a sack of festering jobbies at the moment. It doesn't help that I've been sleeping pretty badly for about the last ... oh ... twelve years or so, but recently worrying about Book Number The Fifth has taken the whole unsleepifying thing to new levels of eye-bagging delight. Not to mention increased levels of grump and a strange craving for red meat. I mean, I wouldn't go so far as to try Kentucky-Frying Grendel's Rat... Well, maybe. You know, with a good dollop of Frank's Hot Sauce?

But then Grendel would look at me funny.

And why am I in London for this photographic thingie? It's because I'm going to be on the telly. Well, I say, "on the telly", what I really mean is that I'll be at something that's going to be televised. Which isn't quite the same thing. The only way I'll actually be seen in living rooms the length and longth of Britain is if they do a panning shot of the crowd. Or worse, one of those horrible shots where they show all the shortlisted people in close-up, as they find out that they've not won. Cue fixed rictus-grin** and "It's an honour just being nominated." type phrases.

Ah yes, for on Friday it's the ITV3 Crime Thriller Awards and I'm up for "Breakthrough Author of the Year". Mind you, according to teh interweb, the smart money's on Michael Robotham for SHATTER, which won the Ned Kelley Award for best Australian crime novel. Which is why I've been practising my death's head grimace. Again. Ah, poor old Stuart, always the bitter bridesmaid, never the knocked-up bride.

ITV3 say the breakthrough award "...celebrates a newer author whose work most deserves a wider audience."

Now, given that the book of mine up for this is BROKEN SKIN, with scenes of full-frontal nudity, masturbation, bondage, severe rectal trauma***, and John Rickards****, I get the feeling the judges will think that far from deserving a wider audience, my books probably need burned and the ashes piddled on. By angry donkeys. But it's an opportunity to grab conveyor-belt sushi with Agent Phil, then totter off to the awards full of Japanese beer and saki, for lots of wine and nibbles, safe in the knowledge that I won't have to make a speech.

Which sounds like a pretty good day to me.

They're also going to have a writers award for classic TV drama - AKA: people who have had their books turned into television series. If you want to get in on the act, you can stuff the ballot box to your hearts delight by clicking here*****. You can even vote up to 5 times! Bwahahahaha! The POWER!

* Which is a very silly instruction. And even if it were physically possible, I don't think the photographer would really want it back afterwards.
** You know the kind - where it looks as if you've just accidentally sat on a cactus, but don't want anyone to find out?
*** Actually, it does sound quite depraved when you put it like that, doesn't it?
**** Scenes featuring John Rickards, not scenes featuring John Rickards being rectally traumatised. That would be the stuff of nightmares and I've already done enough damage to his reputation as it is.
***** And yes, I am being partisan with my linkage. So?