Corrupting the nation's children...

Well, it's official, I am now a force for evil in the world. Much like Marmite, tie-dye tank-tops, my next door neighbour, and Belgium. It started out innocently enough, teasing nuns, breaking wind in elevators and not owning up to it (ala Sam Neill), running with scissors... But then I couldn't stop. I needed bigger, and better, and more evil thrills! And so in the end, I settled on a plan to corrupt the youth of our once proud* nation.

Seems straightforward enough, doesn't it? I mean, it's not like the little sods aren't already naturally inclined towards evil. And so I set out to write a novella, a novella that parents would be conned into picking up by the cheery cover and wholesome-sounding blurb.

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

At least that's the story if you believe what the Sunday Times says:

Grisly reading for 8-year-olds
WATERSTONE’S, Britain’s biggest bookseller, has recommended a novel full of expletives, sex and violence for children as young as eight...

Expletives, sex, and violence - I'm so proud!

Now, as one would expect of a quality news organ, the Sunday Times isn't the kind of newspaper to make unsubstantiated claims. When it says that SAWBONES is 'full of expletives', it means it:

Over the next 113 pages [SAWBONES] uses the F-word and its variants 89 times. The plot includes three male castrations, references to oral sex, limbs being amputated and one attack on a girl by a vicious dog.

How cool is that? Some poor sod actually had to work their way through the book -- presumably with a cup of tea, a couple of chocolate biscuits, and a notepad -- counting up the number of times the characters use the word 'fuck'**. Can you imagine doing that as your job? What do you tell your mum when she phones up that night to ask if you've been eating regularly, did you have your scarf on because it was cold out today, and what did you get up to at work today?
"Oh, nothing much, Mum, I spent the day counting 'fuck's."
"That's nice, dear. Runs in the family. Your grandad worked for the Ministry of Defense during WWII counting 'Bumsen', 'Geschlecht', and 'Verkehr's in German High-Command communiques. He could spot a foreign 'fuck' faster than anyone in his whole department. Got a commendation from the Queen for it. Anyway, are you coming over on Sunday for your tea?"

Or something.

Sadly whoever the poor sod assigned the counting job succumbed to what I think we're going to have to call 'Fuck-blindness' as there's really only the one castration in the book. But what's a little castration or two between friends? I was more surprised that they didn't mention someone getting shot in the face. And I can't remember putting any oral sex in the thing, but then I can be a bit forgetful that way.

The worst bit of the whole article, is the bit where they neglect to say:

Though full of filth and violence, SAWBONES is a damn fine read and you should buy at least three copies or be made a pariah in your local community!

A dreadful oversight, I shall have to make a complaint to the PCC.

But as they say: no publicity is bad publicity - according to Agent Phil SAWBONES enjoyed a sudden spike on Amazon as people rushed out to get their hands on 89 fucks***, three castrations, a blow-job, dog bite, and a bit of gratuitous dismemberment. Or maybe they wanted to check how outraged they should be when talking about it later? Either way's cool with me to be honest.

The Sunday Times actually interviewed me for the piece, but they've not used any of it for the online version. I hear they used a wee bit in the print version, but not the bit that surprised the journalist I spoke to:

Journalist: 'Do you think your books are suitable for children?'
Peddler of Filth and Violence: 'I think that's really up to the parents, don't you?'
[stunned silence]

Honestly, if you buy a book for your eight-year-old kid with a bloody handprint on the cover, a blurb that talks about dismembered blondes, serial killers, and mob enforcers, you kinda deserve to be dragged out into the snow where angry weasels will be sewn into your trousers, before you're hit with poopy-sticks**** and called naughty names. Take some responsibility for what goes between your children's ears!

Other than that, I kinda like my new bad-boy / evil genius image. I may have to build an underground volcano lair thing. You can buy killer sharks on eBay, right?

* And now mostly embarrassed.
** Oh, I feel so naughty!
*** That's 65% of your recommended daily allowance.
**** Which you can make at home by taking a regular stick and sticking it in poo. Hence the name.

Raw nipple soup*

To be honest, I'd kinda forgotten what the outside world looked like. Having recently passed the Mother-In-Law of all deadlines, I was finally able to venture out of the house this week: hurrah! Or it would have been 'hurrah', if not for the bloody snow. I am fed up of snow and would now like it to bugger off wherever snow goes when it dies.

In previous years I would've taken some time to build a vaguely obscene snowman (or woman) in the back garden, but this year I've been confined to the house with the aforementioned deadlineitis - staring out through the window like a grubby, measlly child, only without all the unflattering spots. Which kinda takes the fun out of snow. If you can't make rude snowmen out of it, write your name in it, or throw it at people, what good is it?

But no longer - now I can go out and do other stuff. Stuff that doesn't involve making up lies about people who don't exist. Well, you know, other than research and planning Book Number The Seventh**. So I tried getting out of the house yesterday, and my nipples still hate me for it.

Bad nipples. Naughty.

It was probably my own fault for not taping over them*** when I was getting ready in the morning. For the sake of couple of Elastoplast I could have maintained nipple-integrity, instead of having what looks like a pair of chewed strawberry Jellytots glued to my manly chest.

Day didn't exactly get off to a roaring start either. She Who Must Give Her Husband A Lift, Because His Car Won't Go In The Snow And Has Spent The Last Month And A Bit Sulking In The Garage****, dropped me off at the train station in Dyce yesterday morning on her way to work. Normal rush hour in Aberdeen is a vast, burning pain in the behind, but ever since the snow came it's been made even worse by the huge collection of ninnies who have about as much business being behind the wheel of a motor vehicle as a perverted octopus has being in your underwear drawer. Gettin' yer pants all slimy and smellin' of fish...

Hmm, maybe not the best of analogies.

Anyway, we got stuck behind a lovely person in a silver Ford Fiesta thing, doing thirty miles an hour all the way into town. Seriously, Princess (and I'm not using 'Princess' here to imply that it was a woman driving, because it wasn't, it's just a general term of crappy-driving abuse) if you're that scared to be on the road ... DON'T BLOODY DRIVE!!! Park up somewhere nice and live off the hairy jelly babies that have accumulated in the passenger footwell of your car until the snow melts. Dear God, we live in the North East of Scotland and every time there's anything even vaguely approaching snow or rain, these people drive like they've got a boot full of nitroglycerine and excitable puppies! Dicks...

Anyway, digressing again.

So, the reason I was going into town yesterday was to meet up with a mate for a pint and a vaguely-nasty hamburger in the evening, and to get some publicity shots done for a wee tour I might be doing in Germany later in the year.

"Oh, hark at him," I hear you mumble, through a mouthful of biscuits, "Mr Glamorous international photography boy!"

Cynical, sarcastic bastards that you are.

I know it sounds all glam, and the guy taking the shots is one of the best in the business (John Borwski who's a bit of a legend in Aberdeen) and a genuinely nice guy to boot. But that doesn't change the fact that it was the two of us sodding about in the sleet, snow, and howling wind all afternoon. By the time we finished, he couldn't feel his fingers, and my nipples were glowing like twin Rudolphs. Dear Jesus and his My Little Pony hot-water-bottle, it was cold.

All very Aberdonian and atmospheric though, and perfectly appropriate for promoting Dark Blood, being set as it is on the January-February cusp. But it's Blind Eye that'll be coming out in Germany this year, which is set in the height of summer. Now, there are some years when the height of summer in Aberdeen is indistinguishable from the depths of winter everywhere else, but in the book I lied like a bastard and made it blisteringly hot. Hahahaha... oh, the irony.

Especially as my nipples now look like two burst blisters.

Try not to think about them too much, OK?

* This post doesn't really have anything to do with 'soup' - I just thought it sounded classier than 'raw nipple' on it's own.
** Not counting Halfhead.
*** Like an episode of the Simpsons.
**** The Car, Not She Who Must