Ooh! Ahh! ... And the art of buying socks

Determined not to be out done by Russell, this morning I was the one making the unwholesome aromas. Yes. mine weren’t in the same league as his, but I tried, and that’s what’s important. Personally I’m blaming the fish and chips we had last night. I have a love/hate relationship with fish and chips, where I love them and they do horrible things to my insides. But like a fool I always go back for more. And this morning, Russell was the one suffering the collateral-damage-related consequences.

Revenge is a dish best served smelly.

After we’d done the door-barricading and duct taping, Russell and I headed out to Queenstown airport for our 08:20 flight over the mountains to Milford Sound. Which was delayed till 11:00 instead. So bleary of eye we went for a wander to take some photographs. Not a difficult task in New Zealand, you can’t hurl a Pentax SLR without braining at least half a dozen photo opportunities.

-- Just a quick aside here, in the pause between paragraphs I thought I’d break out my iPod Nano and listen to something epic (you might think this a little rude when I’m travelling in company, but Russell’s in the shower right now making mammal soap), but it’s buggered. Broken. Pish all use. Bloody thing. It’s been a loyal and faithful companion to me for two and a bit years, and now it’s decided to curl up its metaphorical toes and join the ranks of the undead* --

Where was I? Yes, right, so eventually we get on board a tiny Cesna, six-seater, single engine plane – piloted by Dan from Essex – and into the wild blue yonder we doth climb.** And from the moment our wheels left the tarmac it was ‘Ooh!’ and ‘Ahh!’ all the way to Milford Sound.

Actually that makes it sound as if we were in a low-budget porn film. But trust me, if you ever get the chance to visit the Armpit of Queenstown, hop on a little plane to Milford Sound. Don't take the bus. Don't drive. Fly. It’s wonderful, stunning, and a whole bag of other superlatives. I had a big cheesy grin on for the whole flight.***

And then we came in to land. It was straight out of Jurassic Park: flying down the Sound, blue water sparkling in the sunlight below us, massive mountains to either side, rain forest, palm trees... Ooh, ahh...

Then we got on the boat for a two hour cruise out to the Tasmin Sea and back again. Tell you what, Russell may be capable of producing nature’s own mustard gas, but he’s one hell of a tour guide. Having a degree in geography probably helps. Yesterday he explained the whole glacial thing (yes, we did it in school, but there’s a big difference between reading about glaciers in a book, and hearing about it from a fantasy author in a comedy woolly hat**** while looking out at a vast valley and lake formed by one of them), and today he narrated most of Milford Sound. Very clever chap is our Mr Kirkpatrick, for someone of restricted height.*****

The Sound was every bit as groovy as I’d been told -- only more so -- and on the way back we flew over loads more mountains, hidden lakes, and valleys. My cheesy grin was still intact by the time we touched down back in Queenstown, which isn’t bad going for me. Normally I can be relied upon for a good grump at least twice a day.

Of course, when we got back to the walk-in fridge/motel my iPod was suffering from hypothermic death, but other than that it’s been one of the best days off I’ve ever had. And as if flying over one of the most beautiful parts of the world wasn’t enough, I had cold feet this morning, so splashed out on a pair of uber-expensive merino socks from an eager sales lady at the airport. I wouldn’t normally do something like that, but I had cold feet, she had lots of socks, one thing led to another...

Just don’t tell She Who Must, OK? She doesn’t like me accepting hosiery from strange women.

* Why the undead have curly toes, I have no idea. Actually, I have the nasty suspicion that the poor wee thing’s frozen. The motel apartment we’ve got in Arrowtown is colder than a witches knicker drawer, every time we come back from a day out it’s like walking into a very big fridge. Assuming that the fridge was being used to store furniture, rather than chunks of greening cheese and mouldering ready meals.
** That’s the trouble with travelling around with best-selling fantasy authors, you end up speaking in ‘thee’s and ‘thou’s.
*** It was under my seat along with the life jacket.
**** Russell thinks it makes him look sexy.
***** Don’t want him getting ideas above his station... Which is about 4’3”, though he claims it’s 5’6”. Never trust a man in a comedy woolly hat.

Biological Warfare meets Lord Of The Rings

Beer doesn’t agree with everyone. Some it makes merry. Some it makes horny. Some it makes sleepy. Some it makes miserable. Some it makes angry. And some end up producing the kind of smells that would make a tub of margarine run for the hills screaming for medical assistance while it’s eyeballs melted. Now, can you guess which kind of person Russell is?

Half past six this morning and he’d managed to produce an aroma that peeled off most of the wallpaper in the bathroom. We barricaded the door and sealed it off with duct tape, but still the foetid stench of rotting badgers oozed through to curl the carpet.

So we abandoned all hope, and the motel apartment, and sought refuge in the car instead. When the shrubs and trees surrounding said apartment started to go black and all shrivelly we high-tailed it out of there. For we are manly men! And manly men don’t hang about waiting to be suffocated.

Instead we set out on a jet-boat wilderness safari thing, figuring that the six hours trip would give Russell’s contribution to the world of biological warfare time to dissipate.

The trip started with a bus tour along Lake Wakatipu, pausing for a brief photo shoot as the rising sun painted the Humboldt Mountains with diluted Ribina. Huge grey and brown and white peaks, jagged like an Irish folk singer’s teeth, catching the first glints of the morning sun – absolutely beautiful. Unfortunately it was also cold enough to freeze the nipples off a walrus, but it’s a small price to pay to be out there in all that outdoorsy-wonder.

We tootled along for about an hour to the tiny town of Glenorchy, and then clambered off our bus and onto another one, for a diesel-grumbly judder into some of the most lovely mountains and valleys I’ve ever seen. Crisp white frost. More photo opportunities. More frozen nipples. All narrated by Ian our tour guide, who did almost as good a job of explaining stuff as Russell. Which is high praise indeed. He may be short, and he may produce the most unbelievably foul smells after a night on the beer, but he really knows his schist*.

And then it was time to disembark from the rumbly diesel bus and go on a brief nature hike. Dear Hairy Jesus and his Sainted Immersion Heater, it was cold! By the time we’d gone a hundred yards all the men were talking two octaves higher, because their testicles had retreated to somewhere around their armpits. It was like being kicked in the nadgers by Nature’s frozen flip-flop.

By the time none of us could feel our faces we were shepherd on board a wee jet-boat for a breakneck wheech down the Dart River back to Glenorchy. Turquoise water, gravel beds, shallow channels, all bordered by sodding huge jaggedy mountain ranges, dusted with snow and glowing against the clear blue sky. Not just stunning** but numinous. No wonder this bit of New Zealand gets used for every film going.

Then, following a brief but nasty lunch in a wee cafe, we got back on the bus for the trip back to Queenstown. It’s supposed to be the Geneva of the south, but it’s really more like Aviemore. An unbelievably ugly town surrounded by unbelievably beautiful scenery. The place is an armpit. And not the good kind of armpit either: it’s the kind of armpit that follows you down a darkened street, then mugs you and urinates in your hat.

By the time we got back to the motel the smell had moved on to decimate the wildlife elsewhere, so Russell and I celebrated with New-Zealand-style fish and chips.

I’m not buying him any more beer though...

* As the geologist said to the cartographer.
** OK, so I know I’m using that word a lot, but fucking hell this is seriously jaw-dropping stuff here.

Penguins, sex, and Pirates

I have important pearls of wisdom to impart to you. 1: Never get Tabasco sauce in your intimate masculine areas. 2: Never trust anyone who says ‘this won’t hurt a bit’*. And 3: Never, EVER eat at any restaurant with a crudely-drawn pirate on the sign.

Actually, I’m going to expand Pearl Of Wisdom Number The Third to include any form of nautical doodle, theme, motif, or smell. But mostly pirates. If you see a pirate on the sign, RUN FOR THE HILLS!!! There, all you have to do is run around the hill one way, then tun around and go in the opposite direction. The pirate chasing you will be unable to handle the sudden change of direction, owing to only having one leg – the other being wooden – and will promptly fall over. Then you can rip the aforementioned artificial limb from his lower appendage and hit him over the head with it till he passes out, or away. Depending on how energetic you feel.

But I digress.

After his game of golf – which he lost – Russell and I set off for Oamaru, about three hours of flat motorway southwest of Christchurch. And when I say flat, I mean flat. This stretch of New Zealand makes Holland look lumpy. We tootled into Oamaru just in time to see the tiny blue penguins come in from the sea. Which was pretty damn cool. OK, so when they clamber up the steep stone incline from the crashing waves to the relative safety of their little penguin condominiums they move a little bit like rats wearing tuxedos, but other than that they’re very sweet.

Well, I say sweet... There was a lot of high-pitched rattly snoring going on**, and at one point a pair of the randy little buggers put on a live penguin sex show. And I’m not just talking about a discreet cut away to waves breaking and choo-choo trains going into tunnels, this was a full-on Bom-Chicka-Wa-Wa ‘Give it to me you vast 30cm-high flightless waterfowl of love you!’ kind of thing. But other than that, they’re just what you expect little penguins to be like.

Then I made the terrible mistake of letting Russell pick where we were going to eat that evening. As the All Blacks were playing France that evening, Russell wanted to find somewhere near the motel we were staying at. There was a place right next-door. Why don’t we try that?

And this brings us back to Pearl Of Wisdom Number The Third. It was truly, truly, fucking awful. Now I want you to bear in mind that I’ve eaten barbecued pig testicles, OK? My bar for what’s a bloody horrible meal has been set pretty damn high. And this place came close to clearing it without so much as a running jump. It was a buffet***. A buffet of the kind only ever spoken of in terrified whispers wherever chefs gather to tell their tales of woe. A buffet of the damned.

Seriously, if they serve food in hell, the bloke who committed this buffet is in charge of the catering arrangements. Russell opted for roast beef – which looked as if someone had burnt a couch and then sliced it thinly – and I had the gammon. Now, the gammon itself didn’t look too bad, and when I was up being served, the chef**** dolloped a little ladle of plumb sauce on the side. OK, thinks I, plumb sauce and gammon: that could work.

Ha. Hahahahahahahahahahahahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa...

If you want to replicate the taste try this: take a handful of gritty mud, vigorously rub it into the arsehole of a scabby dog, then dissolve the resultant sludge in a small jar of mouldy jam. Even then, that would probably be less offensive on the palate than what I ended up with.

But even this weapon of mass revulsion paled into insignificance when faced with the criminal negligence of the dessert section. After disappearing for five minutes, Russell came scampering back to the table, all excited and revolted at the same time. ‘You’ve got to go see the custard!’ he says, eyes glittering like a mental patient. ‘Go! Go see the custard!’

And he was right. It was a sight to be seen. Lumpy, pustular, revolting. As if a very large spot had been squeezed into the bain marie, then mixed with half a packet of wallpaper paste. Badly. I have no idea how anyone could possibly do that to a poor innocent custard, but somehow the grinning fiend in the poufy hat managed it.

The next morning – which contrary to common sense didn’t see us waking up in hospital with death-defying doses of food poisoning – we headed off before the crack of dawn. Just in case someone came and offered us breakfast, we travelled under assumed names: me dressed as a pilgrim father, Russell dressed as Widow Twanky. No idea why, but for some reason he had the costume with him*****. We didn’t stop running until we got to the Moeraki boulders.

From there on it was a rainy, foggy, cold and windy poop-fest of crappy weather, all the way from Moeraki to Alexandra, and then the sky turned blue, the clouds turned wispy, and the rain buggered off. After that we were in ‘Dear Jesus, that’s pretty...’ territory again. Huge mountains, gorgeous light, frost, things, stuff, and woo-hoo.

Tomorrow we go see if we can drown ourselves at 60mph.

* See Pearl Of Wisdom Number The First.
** Apparently that’s how they tell each other that everything is fine and no one has to worry about being eaten by a visiting crocodile.
*** ‘Buffet’ a word I’ll be giving the same kind of welcome as I would ‘Rectal Polyps’ from now on.
**** I use the word ‘Chef’ but I really mean ‘Sadistic Culinary Fuck-Weasel’
***** Even though he doesn’t really have the legs to carry it off.

Just like Old Zealand, only newer...

I am now, officially, on the other side of the world. And you know what? It’s sodding pretty out here. Pretty and with more sushi bars than you can shake a fishy sick at. How much more could you want?

How about simulated suicide?

You see, I now know the answer to that age old question: if you jump off a building, are your eyes open or closed when you hit the ground? Now I have to confess that I’ve never jumped off a building before. The highest thing I’ve ever jumped off was the roof of our childhood home. And that was a bungalow, so it doesn’t really count. But yesterday, tired of all this international jet-setting I did leap from the Sky Tower in Auckland, on the North Island of New Zealand. 630 foot of vertical drop.

Normally I wouldn’t go near that kind of thing with a hairy monkey, but for some God-forsaken reason I kinda talked myself into it, and a testicle garotting safety harness. Of course, being Scottish I couldn’t do it on a nice sunny day, could I? No, I had to do it when the drizzle was at its drizzliest.

Well, when I say ‘drizzliest’ what I mean is that it was kinda overcast and drizzly right up to five minutes before I jumped, and it was overcast and drizzly again five minutes after I jumped, but when it came time for the actual jump, it was hammering down monsoon-stylie. Like taking a sodding bath in the sky.

They gave me a DVD of my jump and there’s so much water on screen I keep expecting Jack Cousteau to narrate the bloody thing. But I did it. And then I went for a beer. And then I squelched back to the hotel, with everyone in Auckland looking at me and wondering why I’d obviously gone swimming with all my clothes on.

But this airborne soggy lunacy is all in the past... Now I can be all sensible. Or as close to it as I actually get.

Soon as I was dried out from my Spiderman-esque adventure* I was whisked from the hotel to the airport by New Zealand’s very own Fantasy Novel Writing Powerhouse, Russell Kirkpatrick. You see, Mr Kirkpatrick** has kindly agreed to act as my guide for a wee tour around the south Island***. How cool is that? So this morning, after a cramped flight down to Christchurch, he commenced his guidely duties by sodding off for a game of golf with his brother, and lumbering his sister in-law Angela with entertaining the bearded Scottish bloke for the morning.

So the lovely Ange**** took me all around a mist-shrouded Christchurch, out to a mist-shrouded beach (with optional mist-shrouded pier), and then on to another beach that had forgotten to order it’s morning ration of mist., so was all sparkly and lovely. This is a stunningly beautiful part of the world. After just one morning I can really see why people emigrate. We had chips by the sea (lovely), lime milk shakes (lovely if you’re keen on washing up liquid as a flavour), and a stop over in Lyttleton, where I spent ages taking photographs of the amazing scenery and a couple of graveyards too*****.

This afternoon we’re off to see the penguins, the wonderful penguins of ... well, not OZ, obviously. But somewhere I can’t pronounce, let alone spell, where apparently I won’t be allowed to eat any of the penguins. *sigh*

Ah well, can’t have everything, I suppose...

* Is it just me, or is Spiderman a bit of Jessie? I mean all that, ‘Action is his reward’ bollocks. If I’m saving a bank from a semi-mechanical octopus man, I want my reward to be in the form of sodding huge piles of cash. And some scantly-clad dancing girls, thank you very much.
** He likes me to call him that, because I’m taller, younger, and considerably sexier than him.
*** Russell’s also a professional cartographer, so if we get lost on the trip, we’ve only got him to blame.
**** I should point out, that Ange has three kids, so was all skilled up to cope with being dumped with a random crime write-ist. Plus she’s a seriously nice lady with a slightly odd sense of humour. Which made the trip all the better.
*** They shot The Frightners in Lyttleton, one of my top 10 favourite films.

G'Day

As you can probably tell from the complete lack of postage in recent weeks, things have got a bit hectic at Casa MacBride of late. Partly this is due to getting everything finalised for Halfhead coming out in September, partly it's down to trying to catch up with Book Number The Sixth (still no word back on the latest possible title), and partly it's down to the fact I'm jetting off to the Antipodean winter wonderland next Monday, and a whole heap of stuff has to be finished before I clamber onboard the plane.

Wow, even typing that is enough to set my blood pressure rocketing. "Next Monday" Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh! I'm actually really looking forward to it. Have been for years, and years, and years... It's, like, a whole different continent, dude! Where the mice are all huge and have wee pooches for their baby mice things. And you can eat them too. How cool is that?

The only trouble is that I now have to trust the family homestead to the care of She Who Must Be Watched Like A Hawk In Case She Tries To Blow Up The House Again. I could leave Grendel in charge, I suppose. After all, she reached her majority last week - she turned 5. Ah, children, they grow up so fast. And still manage to leave random frothy puddles of squishy barf on the kitchen floor when you least expect it. And are walking about in your bare feet.

Actually, here's a question for you: what's worse, stepping in cat barf in your bare feet, or when you're wearing socks? After all, if it's on your bare feet you can just hop to the sink and wash it off. If you're wearing socks it soaks right in. Urgh...

But I digress.

Something else happened last week (well, technically lots of things happened, it was a whole week after all. For example more of our lovely MPs were exposed as a bunch of thieving cock-weasels, and people were stunned and outraged by this most un-politicianish behaviour*), She Who Must Be The Luckiest Woman In The World and I celebrated fourteen years of marriedness**. Yup, I've managed to put up with her for fourteen years.

Apparently my knighthood is in the post.

* I've been meaning to post about the whole MPs expenses thing for ages. What I loved most of all was when they hounded the Speaker into early retirement. Their outraged argument seemed to be: "How could you! You were supposed to be in charge! Why did you let us get away with being thieving cock-weasels all this time? It's all your fault!" Hmm... personally I kinda think it's the MPs faults for being thieving cock-weasels in the first bloody place, don't you?
But I love the fact that everyone's so shocked that our politicians turned out to be less than squeaky clean and morally upstanding. I mean, come on: they're fucking politicians. What did you expect? I've never met one I wouldn't want to truss up with cable-ties, fasten to a lawn chair, and douse with a liberal mixture of honey and killer bees.
And when the aforementioned thieving cock-weasels get caught with their hand in the public purse, the defence always seems to be, "Everything I've claimed for was allowable under the rules...." But then, they would be as the 'rules' seem to be, "Claim for whatever you think you can get away with."
** I gave her anchovies as an anniversary gift. Lots and lots of horrible anchovies. She loves them, but then she's a bit strange.

Always the blushing bridesmaid?

Yes, it's time for me to dust off the old purple crimpoline off-the-shoulder number with matching massive floral motif broach thing (that looks like a curtain manufacturer vomited all over it), while the stunning white layered number lays unloved and forlorn in the back of the wardrobe. Then I can spend the whole evening with mascara running down my cheeks, like a melting panda, while I stuff my face with stolen wedding cake.

Which is a kinda glass-is-half-empty way of saying that Broken Skin has been honoured with a shortlisting for the great Theakstons Crime Writers Novel of the Year 2009. Hurrah!

Previously I've been pipped at the post* by Allan Guthrie's TWO WAY SPLIT (2007), and Stef Penney's THE TENDERNESS OF WOLVES (2009). Damn their dark and evil hearts.

Of course this year I have a secret weapon - Broken Skin is chock-a-block full of filth, violence, and bondagy goodness. Mmm, who wouldn't want to vote for a book that features John Rickards' naked naughty parts?

...

OK, maybe I'm not helping my case here. Let me assure you, gentle reader, that John's genitalia only make a small appearance, and while it's unpleasant, it's over relatively quickly**. So it's nothing to give you nightmares. Even if you might never be able to look the man himself in the eye again.

*ahem*

Anyway, the lucky luminaries up for the TOPCNoTY this year are (in order alphabetical):

• Death Message - Mark Billingham
• The Accident Man - Tom Cain
• Bad Luck And Trouble - Lee Child
• Gone To Ground - John Harvey
• Ritual - Mo Hayder
• Garden Of Evil - David Hewson
• A Cure For All Diseases - Reginald Hill
• The Colour Of Blood - Declan Hughes
• Dead Man’s Footsteps - Peter James
• Broken Skin - Stuart MacBride
• Beneath The Bleeding - Val McDermid
• Exit Music - Ian Rankin
• Friend Of The Devil - Peter Robinson
• Savage Moon - Chris Simms

As usual, a very strong list, and there's some damn fine books on there. Though I am bitterly disappointed at the small number of bearded authors on the shortlist. Clearly this denotes prejudiced towards the clean-shaven! Boo! Hiss! And thrice more, hiss! When will the madness end?

Or something.

I think I'd find it pretty damn hard to predict a winner from the field of runners and riders, so it's going to be interesting to see the outcome.

If you're interested in exercising your democratic right to elect the best crime novel of the year, you can do it by romping over to the Festival website with your saucy computer mouse! Don't forget: every time you vote ... well, God's watching, OK?

And he has a beard.

* By which I mean 'got my arse kicked up and down the bookshelves'.
** As the government minister said to the greased-up septuagenarian prostitute.