November 1953

Billy Beckforth was his new best friend.

Billy was clever too and sat just in front of him in class. Billy had straight black hair combed forward into his eyes. He had freckles and buck teeth which meant he had to wear a brace. He had a posh voice too because he was adopted.

One afternoon after school he went round to Billy’s house to play. They played soldiers in the war. Billy was the Germans and Chris was the British paratroopers with their own armoured personnel carrier which they could parachute into enemy territory. All the paratroopers had machine guns. He took his own soldiers with him because they were his favourites and they played up in Billy’s bedroom. Nobody really won, they just made up the rules as they went along. In the proper world the English won the war. After they finished their game Mrs Beckforth gave them lemon curd sandwiches and Ribena to drink. Then it was time to go home. He said goodbye politely and thanked Mrs Beckforth for giving him a nice tea. Mrs Beckforth was really nice and sometimes he wished she was his mum instead. Then he thought his own mum was all right really. She just suffered from nerves, that was all. She worried too much, that was the problem. She couldn’t help it. Most of the time she was all right, especially when she laughed. It was great when she laughed.

When he went outside it was much darker than usual. Normally it was only five minutes walk to his house. When he ran home it only took about two minutes. Tonight he couldn’t run because it was so foggy. As soon as he moved away from the street lamp in front of Billy’s house it became pitch black. He held his hand out in front of his face but he couldn’t see it. He looked down at his feet but he couldn’t see them either. There was a funny taste in the air and it hurt to breathe. He started coughing. He tried to turn back but Billy Beckford’s house had disappeared in the fog. He felt a bit dizzy. He started walking in what he thought was the direction of his own house.

After a bit he realised he was lost. It was the fog. It was so thick you couldn’t see nothing. He walked into a chain link fence and scratched his face and then he grazed his right knee when he bumped into a wall. He started crying. He wanted to go back to Billy Bickford’s but he didn’t know which way it was any more. He started to scream but no-one came. The fog muffled his screams.

Then he tried to find the edge of the pavement but it wasn’t there. After a bit he stood on a cat’s eye and realised he was walking in the middle of the road. Very slowly he edged back across the road until he came to the pavement. He sat down on the edge with his feet in the gutter and started screaming again.

“Mummeeee! Mummeeeee!” But no-one could hear him and no-one came.

He didn’t have a coat and he was getting very cold. His jumper was damp. His teeth started chattering. Suddenly a car went past very slowly, its headlights blazing dimly like lights in the sky. The car was about a foot away from him but he could hardly see it. He yelled out but the driver didn’t hear him.

He got up and started walking along with one foot on the pavement and one in the road. When he came to a drain cover he fell over and grazed his other knee really sore. He picked himself up and kept going, limping along. There was nothing else he could do.

Eventually he came to another street lamp. He couldn’t see the top of the lamp, it was just a dull yellow haze like the moon when it went behind a cloud. He clung onto the street lamp and started crying again. He had wet himself because he was so scared and his trousers and pants were cold and wet. He started praying in case he was going to die. “Our Father who art in Heaven…”

He had no idea where he was. He started to think about what might happen to him. A gang might come along and do him over. He might get abducted. He tried not to think about it. Instead he repeated the prayer over and over again. “Our Father who art in Heaven…”

Then he heard a man’s voice. “Blimey, it’s a kid.”

A man and a woman appeared out of the fog. “What’s the matter, son, are you all right?”

“I can’t see where I’m going. I want to go home.”

“It’s a real pea souper, all right,” said the woman, “It’s that London smog come down the river.”

The man asked him where he lived. He told him his address. The woman said, “That’s just round the corner. Here, hold my hand and we’ll take you.”

Her hand was warm and soft. She put her arm round him. He clung to her waist.

When he got home his mother said, “Where have you been all this time? I’ve been worried sick about you.”

He had his tea and went early to bed. He hung his underpants and trousers on a chair so that they’d be dry in the morning. He was exhausted and had a headache. In the middle of the night he had a nightmare about being buried alive in a coffin and scratching at the lid and almost suffocating. After the nightmare woke him up he had to get up and be sick.

Before he climbed back into bed he knelt down and thanked God for saving his life. He also promised God that he wouldn’t ever stay out late again and that next time he went to mass he would light a candle to God as a token of his gratitude for saving his life.

Forever young

For some reason I found myself checking out Friends Reunited the other day. I guess I was hoping to find more of my old friends who had recently enrolled. I didn't have anybody specific in mind, it was more a question of feeling a little nostalgic, a little bit sad at the passing of the years.

In the event no-one new had joined since my last visit a couple of months back. Out of curiosity I started reading through one of the message boards. A rather unusual surname caught my eye. It turned out to be that of a young man whose mother had been a near contemporary of mine at school. I remembered her well.

She was a year older than me, extremely pretty and I had once gone out on a date with her. She had contacted me through her younger brother who was in the same year as me. To say I was flattered by her interest was an understatement. Young ladies at that time didn't go out with younger men.

We went to the cinema together. In the bleak little town where I lived there was no-where else to go. I don't remember what we saw or much about what happened afterwards. I do remember standing under a street lamp outside her home and bending towards her to kiss her goodnight. As I stared into her eyes a terrible thing happened. I saw her brother's face. It turned out they had exactly the same eyes. I hesitated, and then did the decent thing and carried on and kissed her, as briefly as I decently could. It was the first - and last - time I've ever kissed a man. I remember the look of disappointment, hurt even, on her face as I said goodbye without arranging another date. Actually, I was almost as upset as she was - she really was a sweet and beautiful woman. I felt as if I'd been cheated. If only she hadn't reminded me of her brother, how different things might have been.

Very, very different in fact. Reading her son's post on the message board I discovered that a few month's after our abortive date she had gone out with one of her classmates, fallen in love, and got married a couple of years later. She had two sons and apparently the marriage was idyllic. She was also a wonderful mother. When she died the church overflowed with mourners at her funeral. She seems to have been universally loved by everyone who knew her.

Her death was painful but quick. Lat summer she had complained of aching bones and was diagnosed with bone cancer. Within three months she was dead.

Naturally I was shocked and upset when I read the story. To me, in my memory, she will stay forever young, standing beneath that street lamp, looking up at me, smiling, unaware of the ludicrous thoughts that were going through my mind.

In hindsight I'm so glad she reminded me of her brother. Thankfully, our paths crossed only briefly, and she went on to find, and create, so much happiness in her tragically short life.

Squatters

Gee. There's been a party here all right. All those Comments. All these empty bottles too. Nuts. Crisps. Party poppers. Someone's swept up though, and nothing seems to be broken. It could have been worse I guess. At least there wasn't any fighting.

Right. Lower myself gently into my chair in front of the computer. Flex the fingers. Been a while. What will I write about? So much happening in the world. Got to get the brain into gear again. Start posting. See if there's anyone out there.

Right now I'm a little lost. Lacking confidence. So much to say but everyone's shouting these days. I doubt if anyone will hear me. Somehow in my absence the world seems to have become a less friendly place.

I've had a quick look round the other blogs. Skint's stopped. Sand Storm too. I find that sad somehow. Maybe blogging isn't important after all. Maybe the party's moved on.

I'll just go and have a look and see if there's any whisky left. Time for a bit of quiet reflection. Through the bottom of a glass. Darkly.

Signing off

First off can I thank everybody who entered into the spirit of things and made The Blog of the Year Awards such fun. Your witty Comments meant that the blog has ended the year on a high note. Indeed, over the course of the past year you've all given me a lot of pleasure and made the effort well worthwhile.

From Monday I'm going to be travelling pretty solidly on a mixture of business and pleasure. I'll be spending Christmas and New Year in New Zealand with my eldest son and his wife and then doing some more travelling. I know from experience that I can only blog when I get into a rhythm and not when I'm hanging around airports and the like, so I'm not even going to try. I'll be back in the UK in mid-January and will start blogging again as soon as I get back.

I'm going to miss you all - every single one of you. I'll still be visiting blogs and - when I get the chance - leaving the odd Comment or two.

So, for the time being, I'd just like to wish you all a Merry Christmas and a very Happy New Year.

The Three Bloggeteers

GOOD LUCK TONIGHT!

MINX!

SKINT!

DEBI!

BLOGGETEERS EXTRAORDINARY!

Literary Blog of the Year Awards Ceremony

[It's that time of the year again. I've tidied up the Pundy House, set out the seats, swept the basement where the Comments hang out (where did all these tissues come from?) and now I'm standing here at the podium in front of an expectant and excited invited audience waiting for the ceremony to begin. Out of the corner of my eye I can see the director of the BBC camera crew counting down the seconds before the I launch into my speech. ]

I am nervous, standing here surveying the various tables of blogging glitterati, no question about it. My mouth is dry. All those bloody camera phones flashing in my eyes. The deafening clink of champagne glasses. The rustle of prepared speeches being nervously fondled. Need a drink of water. Think back to last night. They took it well about the absence of prizes. Well, some of them did. I didn't realise they were such a competitive bunch. Hope they don't turn ugly when the awards are announced. Well, some of them are ugly already...Oh, oh, here we go...

Director: Ready everybody. Action!!! Roll!!!

Pundy: Ladies and gentlemen, and daddy, it gives me great pleaure to welcome you to the Pundy House Literary Blog of the Year Awards.

Minx (loudly): Yippeee!!!!

Pundy: I've always been intrigued by the power of ideas. Great ideas grow and take on a life of their own. Ideas grow into ideals which in turn grow into idealisms. Marxism, Thatcherism, Christianity, Nazism, and now, Pundyism. They all started as simple ideas. Wars have been fought over ideas, countless millions persecuted and killed as a result. Let's hope my idea for a blog award doesn't have the same consequences Ha. Ha..

(The now-silent crowd look puzzled).

Skint: (throwing a bread roll): Get on with it! Who won, you wordy Scottish git?

Pundy: Er, who won? Good question. Well, in a sense you all did. I mean, you know it was just a joke, don't you? Just a bit of fun?

Debi (between gritted teeth): Better not have been. I spent a fortune on this dress. As anyone can see.

Pundy: What I mean is, the awards idea was really just my way of saying thank you for all the pleasure, and indeed enlightenment, I have experienced from visiting my fellow bloggers on a daily basis over the past year. Watching this community of like-minded writers grow together, so selfless and kind-hearted..oh...

(There is a small commotion as Daddy slumps forward in his seat, his face ending up in his lobster bisque, an empty bottle of Bollinger clasped in his right fist).

Pundy: ...a place where virtue truly is its own reward...

JTA (loud whisper): What the fuck is he on about now?

Pundy: My fervent hope that the Awards will promote harmony and understanding amongst my fellow bloggers...

Maxine: Good God! I do believe the fellow's a hippy.

Pundy (struggling to make himself heard against the rising rumble of discontent): Okay, okay, without more ado, here they are. First off, Commenters of the Year.

JTA (standing and surveying the room with his clenched fist held aloft in triumph): That's me! That's me, plebs!

Pundy: Er, not quite, JTA. This year there's three of you. I decided I couldn't separate you. So the Commenters of the Year are, firstly, Daddy.

(Daddy is snoring loudly into his soup, bubbles of lobster bisque foaming round the end of his nose),

Pundy: And JTA

(Polite but muted applause)

Pundy: And finally the indefatigable Minx, without whom I would have given up long ago...

Sand Storm: I wish you bloody had. This is interminable. When do they serve the main course?

(The Minx leaps to her feet and runs around the room hooting and hollering like a mad thing accompanied by thunderous applause).

Pundy (when the tumult finally dies down several minutes later): As I said earlier, everyone is a winner, so if you've been nominated that's because I really do believe your blog is something special. However, in the end there can only be one OVERALL WINNER...

(A fight has broken out. The cameras pan round to capture the action. John Baker and the Publishing Contrarian are on their feet, their noses almost touching as they argue furiously over who has the keenest sense of humour. Maxine yawns. This sort of behaviour really is beyond the pale).

Debra (standing up): Where's the bloody lavatory in this place? I need to see the lavatory!

(Another commotion as Shameless faints from lack of oxygen, having had his nose stuck down Amy's cleavage for the last twenty minutes. Carla grabs a waiter by the testicles and demands another glass of champagne. Madame Arcati sits in a corner scribbling furiously into her notebook gathering material for tomorrow's blog. Susan sits alone at her table reading poetry and reflecting on the beauty of the evening.).

Pundy: And the Literary Blogger of the Year is...ouch!

(Pundy falls in a heap, rendered unconscious by a stale bread role thrown by Skint Writer.)

Beau Blue: I'm outa here, this place is a fucking nuthouse.

(A shower of bread rolls descends on the stage, pummelling Pundy's almost lifeless body. A siren is heard in the distance. The camera crew swivel round furiously in a vain attempt to film the Minx who is swinging from chandelier to chandelier as she continues to celebrate her earlier award.)

The lights dim as the ambulance crew charge into the banqueting hall, weaving expertly through the mass of brawling bloggers.

The Pundy House Literary Blog of the Year Awards are over for another year.

Glittering Prizes

Last night, while sipping on some 80 year old Bowmore whisky and puffing on a 100 dollar Cuban cigar, I found myself ruminating on the nature of prizes and competitions in general.

It seems to me that Competitions exist on a spectrum that ranges from the worthiest to the tawdry. From the Nobel Prize at the apex, which generally attempts to celebrate mankind's highest achievements, right down to newspaper competitions like Spot the Ball which reward nothing but the grubby desire for monetary gain without the application of any kind of skill or effort whatsoever.

Part of the problem I think is financial. There is no doubt in my mind that the introduction of money - or equivalents such as holidays, diamonds, trophies, vouchers, trinkets and bawbles - totally devalues the prestige and value of a competition that aspires to celebrate the highest achievements of Mankind.

Which brings me to the Pundy House Literary Blog of the Year Awards. Where do they sit on the spectrum? Let me say unequivocally that I see the Awards as nudging the Nobel Prize in terms of prestige and respectability. And so it was that last night, after a second whisky, I determined that at all costs I would not taint the ideals and purity of the Pundy House Literary Blog of the Year Awards with the introduction of generous monetary prizes as I had originally planned to do. I am sure you agree with me that this has to be the correct decision. We do not want our competition tainted by Mammon. We dare not run that risk - it wouldn't be fair on the winners.

Instead, the real rewards of the Competition will lie in the genuine pleasure and unstinting admiration that the winners will receive from their peers, those unfortunate and less talented losers who have not quite cut the mustard.

As Henry James once said, our maxim must be "Be generous, be delicate, and always pursue the prize".

Pass the whisky, someone.

Two Big Things

There are two big things happening in the literary world this week. By far the most important is the London launch of the novel Coven of One by Kate Bousfield. Kate, of course, is better known to readers of this blog as The Inner Minx. The event takes place at The Bookseller Crow on the Hill on December 9th at 6.30pm. More details on the Minx's blog.

The book launch will be followed by a Blogmeet attended by the creme de la creme of the literary blogging fraternity, including Skint Writer and Debi Alper. A number of other published writers will be in attendance. So it's a chance to meet your blogging idols in person. Be there or be square, as they used to say.

The other thing that's happening this week, on Friday in fact, is the announcement of the Pundy House Literary Blog of the Year Awards. Nominations are still open, so if you know of a blog you like which isn't listed below, feel free to nominate it.

The list, as you'll quickly discover, is completely idiosyncratic and based solely upon blogs that I actually read, and enjoy, regularly. If I'm missing out on some cracking literary blogs - as I surely am - let me know and I'll give them the once over before the nominations close.

Here are the nominations so far:

1. All-Round Literary Blogs:
a) A-listers: Grumpy Old Bookman, Paperback Writer, Bookninja, POD-dy Mouth.
b) Other great all-rounders: Sand Storm, Writing Passions, Carla Nayland, Deblog.

2. Best Writerly Literary Blog: John Baker.

3. Most Informative Literary Blog: Petrona, Books Inq.

4. Most Controversial Literary Blog: The Publishing Contrarian (no other nominations required in this category - you won't have a chance following Lynne's last two posts).

5. Most Original Literary Blog: An Innocent A-Blog

6. Best by a Published Writer: The Inner Minx, Skint Writer, So you want to be a writer.

7. Best by an (as yet) Unpublished Writer: Shameless Words

8. Best Newcomer: Buddhastic, Confuscious he say

9. Wittiest Literary Blog: Bookfraud, Madame Arcati, Julia Buckley

10 Best Campaigning Literary Blog: Debi Alper (Trafficking of human beings)

11 Best Literary Blog located in Aberdeenshire, Scotland: none reached required standard.

I'm not going to name the Commenter of the year at this stage. However, I do have someone in mind and it appears that his particular talent involves manipulating photographic images. Hm. My quandary revolves around whether or not bad behaviour should be rewarded. I'm still thinking about it and may yet change my mind.

The best way to contact me if you want to see the list revised is to drop me an e-mail. When I get time I'll add a few more names to the list, so if you don't see yourself on it yet - you're stuck on tenterhooks for a few more days.

Imposing democracy

In a perfect world the Pundy House would be a democracy but sadly in these troubled times it is necessary for the maintence of civilised society to rule my domain much more like the Vatican, with me as the supreme pontiff at the centre, infallible and directly in touch with a superior being (my wife), leading you (the sinners) ultimately to a form of salvation.

There are many good reasons for this form of governance.

Mainly, of course, because I KNOW BEST. You may argue that this is a dictatorship. You are wrong. And even if you are right, it is a benign one, and therefore nothing for you to worry about. There is, for example, virtually no censorship. As long as you mostly agree with me you are free to say whatever I wish. Comments are rarely moderated. In addition, women are accorded equal status here too, insofar as they are equal. Religion is tolerated. What more could anyone, other than a disaffected dissident, possibly want? Be content with your lot.

In order to maintain this happy state, therefore, any attempts by an outside agency to impose democracy on this blog will be strenuously resisted.

Following the announcement of the Blog of the Year Awards a number of my subjects have asked how they get to vote in the various categories. The answer is, you don't. You may, if you wish, nominate blogs which you believe are especially praiseworthy and I may subsequently check out these bogs. Or I may not.

You will understand that, in the interests of the efficient working of the nation state, it is sufficient that I alone select the winners in the various categories. Needless to say, there is no appeal from my decision.

As a sop to my loyal subjects, this year I intend to introduce an additional category:

Commenter of the Year

This award will be determined by the number, and tone, of the Comments each entrant has made on this blog in the past year. Negative Comments will necessarily lose points in the final assessment but this in no way affects your rights to freedom of speech. It is just something you should, if you have any sense, bear in mind.

On the vexed subject of the Dress Code for the Awards Ceremony I would simply make two points:

1 Have you actually got an invitation?
2 The Emperor has no clothes - why should you?

Crazy poetry guy

An occasional visitor to this blog, and commenter, is a guy called Beau Blue. Like a lot of people who come here when they have nothing better to do he's a little crazy so I didn't pay him too much attention other than hoping he wasn't going to come round and visit me some day soon.

And then I realised that Beau has a website. You can visit it here. And you should visit it too. It really is a most extraordinary site, devoted almost entirely to poetry. What is really unusual is that you don't just get to read the poems, you get to listen to them too.

Now, I still think Beau is crazy but he's crazy in that eccentric way that makes the world such an interesting place. So interesting that I think I'll hook up a link to him.

But Beau, if you are thinking of coming round, please don't. I've moved. Honest.

Pundy House Blog of the Year Awards

This year the annual Pundy House Literary Blog of the Year Awards will take place here on this blog on Friday 8th December 2006.

The categories are as follows:

1. All-Round Literary Blogs:

a) A-listers
b) B-listers
c) C-listers
d) D-listers

2. Best Writerly Literary Blog

3. Most Informative Literary Blog

4. Most Controversial Literary Blog

5. Most Original Literary Blog

6. Best by a Published Writer

7. Best by an Unpublished Writer

8. Best Newcomer

9. Wittiest Literary Blog

10 Best Campaigning Literary Blog

11 Best Literary Blog located in Aberdeenshire, Scotland

And, finally:

BLOG OF THE YEAR

Readers are welcome to submit nominations but should be aware that these will have no bearing on the final decision.

Ten good things

This isn't one of them meme-things or anything like that. It's more like a bit of fluff really. The thing is, I am, as you may have noticed, a gloomy old bastard. You probably think I sit here all day in the Pundy House muttering to myself about how awful life is. Well, I do actually.

But, notwithstanding my determination to look on the black side of things, life isn't uniformly bad. Most of it is pretty shitty of course but there are some rays of light. Whether or not there are TEN good things to celebrate about it is a challenge I have yet to resolve in the course of this Post. We'll see.

So, as an antidote to all the doom and gloom I've heaped on you in the past year here's Ten Good Things that have happened to me in the last twelve months:

1 I kept blogging for a whole year (seriously, if you knew me you would think this was incredible).

2 I met a lot of nice, intelligent people as a result and I got to insult them.

3 I captured my own strain of wild yeast and nurtured it and made some fantastic sourdough bread.

4 I grew a shedload of Jalapeno peppers in the polytunnel and made several gallons of chilli con carne that were the best I've ever tasted.

5 I was there when my wife learned she had been made a Professor.

6 My youngest son came back from Spain and got a proper job.

7 Several people read A Half Life of One and liked it.

8 Er...

Okay. Call it Seven Good Things then. Gee, I though there were more but I can't think of any. Still, better than nothing, I'm sure you'll agree.

Tomorrow, back on familiar territory with Fifty Bad Things.

Work in progress

Yesterday I said I'd tell you what's wrong with my work-in-progress novel, "Mummy's Boy".

Actually, there's nothing wrong with it - yet.

I had a wobble about it like all writers do, is all. Having thought more about it - and spent more time writing and re-reading what I've written - I think it's too early either way to come to any conclusions. I don't think it matters right now anyway. Really, what I need to do at this stage is plough on regardless and finish the damned thing. Then I can make a decision about whether it's a pile of junk or my latest masterpiece. And if it isn't very good I can then decide whether it's fixable or not. And if it isn't I can start the next one - an SF genre novel about a kid with an unhappy childhood on Mars who escapes to some distant planet populated by a race of beautiful and loving women or some such stuff.

What I am obliged to do at this stage, though, is guard against certain dangers that I see lurking around such as:

1 I don't want this to turn into some form of "misery memoir" like Angela's Ashes or something written by Dave Pelzer. I loathe these kind of "autobiographies".

2 I need to get the main character (based on me of course) to grow up more quickly. Everything is seen through the eyes of this main character and it's hard to show emotional depth and intellectual development through the eyes of someone so young (he's seven or so at the moment).

3 This isn't an autobiography so I need to invent more rather than simply relating half-remembered events from my childhood.

4 Got to get some laughs in there quickly.

5 Got to get some happiness in there too - if only to highlight the bad stuff. Contrasting colours. A roller coaster of emotions. Not all drab grey like my last book.

6 Got to develop the plot more - don't know how to do this yet. But I've got to find some way to hook the reader, fuck it, to grab the reader by the hair and drag him/her along. No more mister nice guy.

7 I know the theme of the book even if I can't express it yet. At its simplest it's all about the way your parents "fuck you up". You can do your damnedest but you can't escape their influence, even if they're dead. You may not even know they are the ones who've fucked you up. Even though you don't know it you're trapped, trussed up like a turkey by that invisible umbilical cord. You've been brainwashed and you'll be their clone even when you think you've struck out on your own in the opposite direction.

Oh, and I'll be arguing that all parents are bad for their children. And that parents are a heavy burden on their children, the monkeys on their backs. So it's a double whammy. Stuff like that.

The nuts and bolts of good writing can come with the re-writes. You know. Round out the characters. Sharpen up the dialogue. Insert some good description. Beef up the prose with some muscular verbs. Prune out the adverbs. Shorten. The. Sentences. Sprinkle on some magic poetic dust. Bake in the oven for six months and re-write. Send off to agent. Come to terms with the first rejection slip. Blog about it. Renounce all stupid literary aspirations. Train as a plumber. Find wealth and happiness. Fix leaky tap in bathroom.

Doesn't sound too bad, does it?

June 1953

(Here's another chapter from my work-in-progress novel. Tomorrow I'll tell you what I think is wrong with it and with the book in general).


They went up to Chadwell on the bus to watch the Coronation on the television. They went to the same house they had stayed in for a month when they’d been evacuated after the flood in January. It was all uphill after they got off the bus and his mum was soon out of breath. It was really hot and he was thirsty so they stopped at a shop and his dad bought him a frozen Jubbly. His Dad had his suit on and a white shirt with blood on the collar where he had cut himself shaving. He still had a bit of toilet paper sticking to his chin to stop the bleeding. His mum was wearing a hat and gloves like she did when she used to go to church. She was wearing lipstick too and it came off on the fag she was smoking.

Mr Vickers opened the door. He wore the same brown cardigan he had before when they stayed there. He led them into the sitting room and sat down in his favourite chair next to the fire. The house looked the same apart from the telly in the corner. Mr Vickers lit up a pipe while his wife made a pot of tea. He still had his slippers on even though it was the afternoon. He was very fat and his trousers were held up by green braces. The television was a new one they had bought specially. Mr Vickers said they were paying for it on the never-never. He said he had no trouble fixing up the HP because he had a steady job in the shoe factory. Renting a telly was a mug’s game, he said. He was the only person they knew who had a television. Mrs Vickers cleaned the screen with a damp cloth and moved some flowers out of the way so they could all see the screen.

“I wish we could afford a telly like that,” his mum said.

“We might,” said his dad, “If the pools come up.”

They all laughed, except Chris. He didn’t care if his dad couldn’t afford a telly. It wasn’t his dad’s fault that there hadn’t been much overtime recently. Anyway, he preferred his books out the library. They didn’t cost anything.

The house smelled funny like it did before. Other people’s houses always smelled funny. This one smelled of burnt bacon.

His mum hadn’t wanted to go because she was too tired but his dad said, “Come on, Anne, you’ll enjoy seeing the Queen being crowned.”

So in the end, after a lot of fussing about so that they nearly missed the bus, his mum came.
After the kettle had boiled they all had tea and some fruit cake which came from the Co-op. Chris didn’t like the taste of the fruit cake but he ate it to be polite. He didn’t want to show his mum up by behaving badly when they were in company.

“So how have you both been keeping since we last saw you?” said Mr Vickers, removing the pipe from his mouth.

“Mustn’t grumble,” his dad said.

“You have to make the best of it, don’t you,” said his mum.

“What about the young lad. Still growing I see.”

His mum laughed. “He’s eating us out of house and home. He’s going to be as tall as his grandfather if you ask me.”

“Oh?”

“His grandfather on my side was six feet five.”

“That is tall.”

They finished the rest of their tea in silence. Mr Vickers studied the Radio Times. “It starts at three,” he said eventually.

Nobody said anything. You could hear the clock ticking on the mantelpiece. Mrs Vickers got up and started to clear away the dishes. His mum used to say she was too house-proud by half.

“Switch it on on the way out, will you,” said Mr Vickers.

Mrs Vickers eyed the television nervously. They all watched her, wondering what would happen. Eventually she bent down and pushed a button under the screen. There was a loud pop and then a buzzing noise. They all watched nervously as the buzzing noise grew louder. Then the screen flickered like it was snowing.

“It takes a while to warm up,” said Mr Vickers, “What would you like to drink, Anne?” “Oh, I won’t bother. Drink doesn’t agree with me.”

“Go on, it’s a special occasion. It’s not every day the Queen gets crowned, is it. Have a glass of sherry.”

“Oh, all right. Just the one.”

“What about you, Henry?”

Chris didn’t know his dad’s name was Henry.

“Don’t mind if I do. I’ll have a stout, please, Charles.”

The Coronation went on all afternoon. Chris sat in a corner reading William The Outlaw while the grown-ups chatted and drank.

When he went to bed they were laughing and talking loudly all the time. He thought they might be drunk although he’d never seen anyone like that before. Later on he was woken up by the sound of shouting and screaming. It sounded like his mum. He thought about going downstairs and begging her to be quiet but he knew she wouldn’t listen. He should have got her to come up to bed when he went. Usually she fell asleep without much trouble. It was the best time of the day when she went to bed. He shoved his head under the pillow to drown out the noise. Somebody banged on the wall from the house next door.

In the morning the three of them got up early and went to catch the bus without having breakfast even though he was starving. They didn’t say goodbye. It felt like they were running away. Chris felt ashamed. Somehow he felt it was all his fault. He shouldn’t have bullied his mum into coming.

“You didn’t have to let them talk to me like that,” his mum said as they stood at the bus stop.

His dad made a face.

“You should’ve stuck up for me like a real man. I was black affronted.”

“They didn’t mean anything. You took it all wrong.”

“That’s right. Blame me for it all. As usual.”

“What did they say?” said Chris.

They waited for the bus in silence. His dad looked really miserable and he wanted to go and hold his hand but he knew his mum would be upset if he did. She got jealous really easily. He could just imagine how she must have behaved. She didn’t know when to shut up, that was the problem. It was the same at home. She never stopped.

It was the last time they ever went out to visit anyone.

You're killing me

Buried away in amongst the Comments of one of my recent posts a remark by Maxine has been nagging away at my brain ever since I read it.

In a previous post that I had written Maxine believes she has discerned some hidden meaning. As a result she asks: "Were you saying to us all 'I'm not really nice you know.'"

Was I saying I'm not really nice? Hm. A lot of people harbour a degree of self-loathing which is probably quite justified and I'm no different. The hero of my novel A Half Life of One is obviously based on me and it's also pretty obvious I hold him in considerable contempt. Indeed, I think it is one of the major weaknesses of the novel. I wondered recently if the same effect wasn't at work, to a lesser extent, in Derec Jones' excellent novel The Three Bears.

I've mentioned before the story of the girl I met as a student who told me, as I attempted to engage her in a relationship that was somewhat more amorous than the one she had in mind, "I think you're a nasty person trying to be nice." I've often wondered if she was right.

At the same time I'm reminded of Evelyn Waugh who was a very nasty person who wouldn't dream of pretending to be nice. And still he wrote exquisitely. In fact, I don't think you can tell what kind of person he was from his novels. But I bet if he was alive today and had a blog - admittedly unlikely since the thought of having any kind of contact with his readers was anathema to him - you would know within a matter of hours exactly what kind of a misogynistic, snobbish, racist and reactionary chap he actually was.

So am I not a very nice person?

I can be pretty nasty at times. I'm at my worst in certain social situations. Usually drink is involved. Everyone is having a good time. I find myself on a roll, witty as hell. People are laughing uproariously. I choose my victim, the weakest person in the room. I pierce her with darting wit, drawing blood. My timing is impeccable, it's like I have a rapier in my hand. My victim is clutching her sides, tears streaming down her face, gulping in air. She gasps, "Stop it, stop it, you're killing me."

And I don't stop.

Writer behaving badly

I have a suspicion that most blogging careers, like those in politics, end in failure. Especially confessional blogs such as this one, where with every succeeding post the shrouds are drawn further back to reveal the writer's feet of clay. Indeed, I have an uncomfortable feeling that this post in particular is going to hammer a few more nails into the coffin of my blogging ambitions.

Be that as it may, I need to tell you how the other day I found myself thinking about what was my real motivation for wanting to be a writer. What drove me to form that passionate need to communicate with my fellow human beings? Gradually I traced the development of my vocation back to my adolescent years, and that's when the trouble began.

When I was sixteen and first gripped by the burning desire to become a writer I read E. M. Foster's Howards End in which he propounded his famous dictum "only connect." Unfortunately, as far as my future readers were concerned I didn't only want to connect with them. I'm sorry to say I wanted to shag them too. Only the female ones, I hasten to add. Back then I wasn't anything like as radical or experimental a writer as I imagined myself to be.

At the time, of course, I was totally convinced of my own latent genius. Based on no evidence other than my totally unjustified self-belief I had convinced myself that I was potentially as great a writer as Tolstoy (who I had never read; still haven't in fact). I firmly believed it was my fate to be as universally revered as the great Russian writer while at the same time being as dissolute as Fitzgerald or Hemingway. And, naturally, I was well aware that if you're some kind of artistic genius then it is perfectly alright to behave badly, indeed it's virtually de rigeur. Once you reach those higher echelons of artistic endeavour whatever you do will be tolerated. If I had any doubts about becoming a writer, this knowledge spurred me on.

And so I imagined myself earning great fame and fortune from my writing. I determined I would spend the bulk of the money on the finest wines. The callowness of my ambition can be gauged from the fact that, in today's money, I reckoned I would have to spend between four and five pounds to get a decent bottle of wine, a small fortune but a necessary investment if I was ever going to become suitably dissolute.

Nor was there to be anything cheap about the literary groupies I fantasized I was going to attract once I reached the summit of the bestseller list. As well as being beautiful they would also have to be incredibly well read and have, at the very least, a first class degree from a good university. Almost my intellectual equal in fact. This would make for good conversation but even more importantly, because I abhorred the potential tawdriness of life, I reasoned that by conducting my affairs in an intellectually rarefied atmosphere I would insulate myself against any suggestion of the second rate. Just to make sure, I determined that these slim, blonde, long-haired admirers would come almost exclusively from the upper classes, although they wouldn't be horsey or agricultural, having spent most of their youth ensconced in the family library, buried deep within the bowels of the stately pile. So they would be pale too. Interestingly pale, with milky breasts just like the kind Lawrence wrote about.

Despite the fact that I lived on a council estate in deepest nowhere in the very back of beyond I figured that meeting these sexually supercharged fans once I became famous wouldn't be a problem. Apart from my weekly sojurns down to the London literary salons I felt sure that the regular and extensive Lecture Tours I would embark upon in America would provide rich hunting grounds for my predatory ambitions. Indeed, it occurred to me that exhaustion would likely be my biggest challenge. Oh, and sexual disease, about which I was only vaguely aware at the time. Uneasily I recalled that I had read somewhere that if I was going to be promiscuous I'd need to wear a condom. This was bad news. I abhorred condoms. Apart from anything else they were always too big. Not to mention the idea of going into the local chemist to buy a packet. In the end I decided that when women started throwing themselves at me I would risk my health for my Art. Besides, I could hardly deny my fans their fifteen minutes of satisfaction. I owed it to them - they had bought my books after all. Back then of course most of the STDs floating around were innocent, innocuous little germs such as non-specific eurythritis and gonhorrea, easily treated with penicillin. Syphilis was more problematic but I accepted that one couldn't create great Art without taking some risks.

As the years passed my lack of publishing success only consolidated my literary fantasy. I got married but reasoned that my wife would readily forgive my future transgressions when I hit the literary big time, accepting that my randy behaviour was necessary to sustain my artistic drive. After we had been married for several years we moved out into the country, removing me even further from the temptations, and rewards, of the literary scene. I remained undismayed. My fans would be a resouceful lot, driven by insatiable desire. I imagined them arriving at our cottage by bus.

As I matured my fantasy developed and took on a life of its own. For example, I regularly pictured myself at breakfast with my wife, at a time when several of my novels were dominating the best seller lists.

"This place is too small. We need somewhere to keep them, an extension," I can hear myself saying, as I peruse yet another bumper royalty cheque.
"How many are here at the moment?" my wife asks, a trifle anxiously.
"At least seven."
"Gracious. I hope I've got enough eggs. They're always ravenous in the morning."
"Let them sleep a bit longer. They're fu...shagged out, the poor dears."
"It's all right for them. They're only here for one night. It's you I worry about, darling. You're at it every night now you're famous. You're going to kill yourself at this rate."
I raise my eyes wearily and smile at her. Her concern for my welfare is indeed touching. But we both know we are making sacrifices for a higher deity, for my Art. Indeed, that's why she has given up her career as a scientist, in order that she can devote herself more fully to my needs and ensure the survival of my muse.

And then gradually, along with my libido, the dream fades, its diminution measured in rejection slips. My muse is still around but she remains a virgin. The only virgin in the village, in fact.

Which, now I come to think about it, is probably no bad thing.

The problem with blogging

One of the big problems with blogging is that most of your fellow bloggers are so nice. Don't deny it. You know who you are. Okay, there's a couple of you I'll exempt from that description, but you're the exception that proves the rule.

It's a problem because your collective niceness makes it hard to get critically objective feedback when you want it. After all, if you read this blog for a while you begin to believe that you know me, hell, some of you even think of me as a friend. Don't try and deny it - I've got e-mails to prove it. And no-one likes to hurt a friend, do they. Okay, JTA, apart from you. (It's a joke, JTA, don't get upset. See, you've got me doing it now. Niceness is catching. Dammit.)

It's worse than that though. Because of this virtual friendship, this sort of cosy little world of like-minded people that we've constructed, this extended family barricaded against the horrors of the nuclear age, it would be a crime almost akin to incest to turn on one of our own.

Okay, deny it, as I know you will. But at least ensure that your critical faculties haven't in any way been blunted before you accede to my request. If anything, go the other way. Just don't kill me with kindness.

Here's my problem. I'm at work on my next novel. I'm about a quarter of the way through and I'm at that point familiar to all writers where I'm wondering if the whole thing isn't a big mistake. I need you to tell me whether it is or not. I may not listen to you - I probably won't - but I would like to hear your thoughts, which may at least signpost me on my way.

The book is called Mummy's Boy and it's really about me and my mother and my attempts to get free of her malign influence as I grow up. So it's a sort of family saga. I haven't got anywhere near the end yet but already I know that it's not going to have a happy ending - you never get free of your parents' influence do you? They fuck you up...and all that. Besides, it wouldn't be me if it had a happy ending.

I've posted a few chapters already on the blog. The titles are mostly in the form of a month and a year. I'll post another chapter up tomorrow which I think illustrates rather well why I'm having second thoughts.

I really would appreciate your feedback before I waste any more of my time. Or yours, for that matter.

The business of writing

Funnily enough I don't think of writing as a business. Nor do I treat it as such.

I guess I've written five unpublished novels in total now (slightly shocks me that I can't remember exactly how many) and with none of them did I have a market in mind. The exact opposite in fact. I wrote them from the heart, and if you've looked into my heart you'll know that's a pretty grim and unprepossessing place to be. The last one in particular was almost wilfully uncommercial. The others just weren't very good.

And yet publishing IS a business. It needs to sell books - lots of them - to survive. Same goes for agenting. These guys live on commission, you can't blame them for looking for the next big thing.

Oh, I know all the counterarguments. Talent will out. They'll take a risk on a first novel because they can see the potential. And I'm sure they will. But the potential for what? The answer surely must be that one day you will make the big sales that will make the whole thing commercially viable.

So maybe if I ever want to get published by a traditional publisher - and that's looking increasingly unlikely unless I alter my ways - I need to be more commercial in my approach to writing.

Perhaps I need to write with a view to actually getting published. You know, find a genre that suits me, sit down and develop a killer plot, develop a sympathetic hero, leave everyone feeling good at the end.

I mean, it's not rocket science is it. Oh. I think I've covered that subject in the previous post.

Perhaps I'm talking out of my arse again, just like that soldier who fired the rocket from a similar location.

Hot potatoes and great blogging - Final Part

So, we've established that the core concept for success in business and, maybe, blogging is Differentiation. Not exactly rocket science is it? Then again, neither is rocket science. Light the blue touch paper and stand clear. What's difficult about that? Except, plenty of people still don't get it. Take a look here on Debra Hamel's blog to read about the soldier who thought it would be a good idea to launch a rocket from his arse.

So, let's assume before you launch (or indeed re-launch) your blog you decide that you must differentiate it in some way. How? If you pose the same question to a group of would-be entrepreneurs as I said before the first response is likely to be price. But blogs are free so that option isn't open to you. The next most popular response is usually "Quality". This is a difficult concept to define but in business terms it's practically useless. In business today quality is a given. If you're not offering a quality service or product you're not even at first base because everyone else is doing just that. Quality is not a differentiating factor any more. Which is a sobering thought in blogging terms. There are so many blogs out there, and so many of them are outstanding, that you are going to have to keep up a fearsome standard if you wish to build up and retain your readership.

Before I started my own blog I looked at the "competition" and tried to identify what qualities might be missing in the particular niche I wished to enter. Which happened to be books and writing because that's what really interests me. After a lot of thought, but with no particular end in mind other than the need to attract a few readers, I reckoned that humour and the personal angle seemed a little underprovided for in the rarefied atmosphere of the literary blogosphere. I decided to make those two attributes the defining features of my blog. I'll let you decide how successful or otherwise I've been in realising my aims.

Something else you might want to think about before you launch is sustainability. In business we're always talking about the struggle to sustain our competitive advantage. That's because, once you're up there the only way is down. I would put a slightly different interpretation on the concept in blogging terms, but there is obviously no point in majoring on something that runs out of steam after a few months just as you're getting established. Make sure, in other words, that you've got plenty to write about and a big enough market to sustain the interest you provoke.

Finally, how was it for me? Well, so far it's been a pretty rewarding experience. I've had a few wobbles of course, nearly went bust on a couple of occasions when I ran out of things to say and the world seemed to get on top of me. But the surprising thing is that by and large it's been a hugely enjoyable experience. I've also learned a lot about myself. In baring my soul to the world I've had to take a long hard look at myself to find out what was really lurking in those dark recesses. As a result I've seen things I didn't even know were there.

So have other people. A few posts back I wrote about the trauma of going to University while my mother was having yet another mental breakdown. I don't think I'd ever talked about this to another living soul before. Somebody called Chris left a Comment to say how fascinated he was by the story.

I don't know for certain but I'm pretty sure that the Chris in question is my youngest, grown-up son. If I'd only ever attracted one reader to this blog and it was him then it would all have been worth it.

Hot potatoes and great blogging - Part 2

With all the entrepreneurial frenzy we've stirred up surrounding the commercial possibilities of making big bucks out of potatoes it's easy to forget their excellent culinary properties. So let's pause for a moment and think about the last time you gorged yourself upon the humble tattie.

What kind of gastronomic experience was it for you? Did your taste buds tingle? Did you salivate with delight as you regarded the mountainous mashed confection in front of you? Or was the experience more akin to stuffing your mouth with cotton wool? If you bought your spuds from a supermarket I suspect the latter.

The trouble with most commercially grown potatoes is that in seeking high yields and uniformity of shape the taste of the tattie has been largely ignored. So much so that I rarely buy potatoes from a supermarket any more, preferring to grow my own. I like to seek out rare and unusual varieties where taste is paramount. Needless to say, the internet has revolutionised the way I buy my seed potatoes. Heirloom varietes that a few years ago were almost extinct are now available at the touch of a button. My favourite three varieties are currently Ratte (an old French salad variety), Edsell Blues (difficult to cook but superb flavour) and Pink Fir Apple (waxy, nutty and bursting with flavour). These potatoes beat supermarket varieties hands down.

So, here's the next lesson in launching your new business - make sure your core product or service is the best around, a world-beater in fact.

Which brings me finally to the core concept you need to grasp if you're ever going to be successful in business or blogging. In fact, this next concept is probably the most important thing I'll ever tell you in this blog, so PAY ATTENTION. The fundamental, paramount secret to starting a succesful business is a concept called DIFFERENTIATION. Let me say that again. DIFFERENTIATION.

If you can only remember this one concept out of all the things I've ever propounded on this blog then I promise you you'll never go hungry again. The philosophical underpinnings of this concept are actually quite complicated but, put simply, it means that your business - or your blog - needs to be DIFFERENT and BETTER if it's going to have any chance of establishing itself in the market place. Note the BETTER. That's a key attribute and the toughest one to achieve.

DIFFERENTIATION = DIFFERENT + BETTER

Got it? Good. Phew.

Okay. At this point let's return to that lecture I was giving in the previous post. Ranged in front of me are two hundred keen final year MBA students. I'm standing there holding out the plastic bag of potatoes in front of me. I'm about to pose a question to the assembled audience and at this moment it's the natural intelligence of the potato pitted against the collective wisdom of the crowd. Usually, it's a pretty finely balanced contest.

"Can anybody tell me," I intone hopefully, "Exactly how the producers of this bag of potatoes have attempted to differentiate their product?"

Well, you can't see that bag of potatoes but really the answer is obvious. Not so to the crowd. After a lot of kerfuffling the answer eventually emerges. The packagers of the potatoes have labelled their produce as a specific, named variety. In this case, Kerr's Pink. Previously the big potato producers hadn't bothered much with labelling and dismissively named their product White potatoes, or boiling potatoes, or baking potatoes etc. Commodity descriptions for a commodity product. At this point in gastronomic history potato lovers the world over were gnashing their teeth in despair.

And then suddenly the big potato producers woke up to the commercial possibilities of their product. No-one knows why. Maybe it was the threat posed by the growing popularity of pasta. perhaps rice was perceived as a threat, noodles probably less so. Whatever the reason the big wholesalers suddenly started differentiating their product by selling us named varieties and, naturally, charging premium prices.

But of course this attempt at differentiation is a completely spurious application of the concept, pretty close to "passing off" in fact. Because in this case the potato variety is the same commercial variety it has always been, there is no value added, and the ploy is purely a marketing gimmick. In short, the producers have traduced the integrity of the potato brand and ultimately undermined the true value of the noble species, Solanum Tuberosum.

Next thing you know they'll be selling us named varieties of carrots.

Tomorrow I'll bring the tale of the tuber to a triumphant conclusion.

Hot potatoes and great blogging - Part 1

I used to give regular talks on the secrets of starting up a profitable business. Some of the lessons I sought to convey back then can be applied equally fruitfully to blogging. Over the next few posts I'll have a look at some of the things you might want to consider before you launch a successful blog.

When I gave my talk I always entered the auditorium carrying a three pound bag of potatoes out in front of me. This novel sight immediately captured everybody's attention. Tittering invariably broke out.

"Hi, folks. You want to be rich and I'm here to show you how. It's easy. So easy in fact that everything you need to know about launching your successful business is contained within this bag of potatoes." My anouncement was usually greeted with looks of amusement, tinged with scepticism.

The first lesson, I informed the audience, is that before you launch a new business you need to learn to think like an entrepreneur. Take the potatoes. Suppose your business is going to be potato-oriented. The first question you need to ask is: where should I position myself on the economic food chain that surrounds this versatile tuber.

Ask yourself: Do I want to be the farmer who ties up vast amounts of capital, and is subject to the vagaries of weather and disease while operating in a commodity market over which I have no control whatsoever? Right at the very bottom of the food chain, in fact. The answer, in case you're wondering, is absolutely not.

Maybe you want to retail potatoes. A corner shop with low overheads and minimal marketing budgets? Not worth the hassle. Open a supermarket? You don't have the capital nor the buying power nor the marketing muscle.

Maybe you could sell your potatoes online. That's a possibility but then you're faced with the question: why would anyone buy from you rather than the supermarket? How are you going to compete? When this question is posed to a group of would-be entrepreneurs you can bet that nine times out of ten the answer is: we'll compete on price. Wrong. Small companies can't compete on price. To compete on price you need volume and that is expensive and difficult to achieve. Small companies that compete on price usually go bust.

If you're going to make money out of potatoes you need to find a way to add value to the basic commodity. How are you going to do that?

Invariably the answers to this conundrum follow a shallow curve up the value-added equation. Washing the potatoes is often the first proferred solution. Okay. But it doesn't really add much value and it costs quite a lot to do. You need to think bigger. Pained silence. How about you cook the potatoes, someone at the back usually pipes up eventually. Good. That's a start. Not a very profitable one but a start nonetheless. What would you do with the cooked potatoes? French Fries? Yeah, good. I know people who make money running a fish and chip shop. It's a cash business which is always good. But it's too limited. I want to make real money. Big bucks. Turn them into Shepherd's Pies, someone else shouts, to much hilarity. Good, better in fact, I enthuse, that would add more value and we could freeze the pies and sell them nationally but we're still not adding enough value. I want to turn these troublesome tubers into gold. Worth more than their weight in gold in fact. Think harder!

"How about potato sculptures?" someone shouts, a little guy with big glasses. I mark him down. That's one guy I won't be investing in.

In the end the group usually iterates its way painfully to the process that will best add enormous value to our humble potato. I'm sure you've worked it out already. Turn them into crisps, of course. Compare the price of a potato to the price of crisps, pound for pound. That's called adding value. Big time.

Except of course it's already been done. Pepsi Cola have cornered the market with lots of variants on the processed potato. There are some specialist producers (Kettle crisps in the UK for example) who hand produce into a niche market and so on. But already we're too late to enter even that market segment.

So, you need to have another look at your potatoes. Maybe you could grow - or better still buy in - rare varieties and sell them online. The kind you can't buy in supermarkets. That sounds like a possibility. More research needed. How about an online Potato Futures Market? A virtual potato exchange? Possible, possible. Do the research. Maybe someone's launched the idea already. And if they haven't there may be a good reason why not.

Maybe potatoes just aren't a good market to be in full stop. Yeah, maybe all our new-found enthusiasm for potatoes is misplaced. Okay. How about carrots instead? Or onions or....Stop! That's enough vegetables for one day.

The key point is, though, that if you're starting a business - or a blog for that matter - you should pause at the very beginning before you make your first big mistake. Take a look at the supply chain you're about to enter and make sure you select the easiest point of entry, the soft underbelly, that unique place where what you do or what you sell can really add value. Added value means big profits. And if you're not profitable you won't survive.

More about potatoes tomorrow.

Two bottles of wine or a good book

I recently spent £18 buying Margaret Atwood's The Blind Assassin and Derec Jones' The Three Bears. For that money I could have bought two pretty decent bottles of wine. After I finished the two books I found myself wondering which would have been the better investment.

I enjoyed The Blind Assassin immensely. It's basically a family saga with lots of dark secrets and unsettling undercurrents. The principal narrator is an elderly lady with a sharp brain and an even sharper tongue. Like Atwood, I suspect, she doesn't suffer fools gladly. There's a vein of mordant wit running through the book which makes it a pleasure to read. My only quibble, in fact, is that it's too long at 637 pages. I think Ms Atwood could have cut two hundred pages without losing anything. Still and all it's a good book, with a gripping story to tell written by someone at the height of her powers. I wish I could write half as well. Hell, make that a quarter.

At 221 pages The Three Bears is a lot shorter but it feels longer. The writing is equally accomplished, the tone is just right for the setting and there's a fine intelligence at work behind the scenes. But there is a problem with the book. It's very definitely not an easy read. And the reason for that is the main protagonist. He is not - very definitely not - a sympathetic character.
And since it's a stream of consciousness type of novel that can make for an uncomfortable read.

The unnamed narrator is well aware of his own fictional shortcomings. He doesn't like himself at all. Come to that he doesn't like most of his friends, he doesn't like the world he inhabits and he doesn't much care for you, the reader, either. It's a mark of how well the book is written that I continued to the end in the face of so much antagonistic bile. I guess I was gripped by a sort of morbid fascination. I wasn't disappointed either - there isn't a happy ending, indeed there may not even be an ending at all.

The book is challenging, no doubt about it. Lots of good books are, of course - maybe ALL good books. It's a close run thing but I'd say this one is worth the effort. In the end, my only real criticism is that the book is so relentlessly downbeat that a lot of the undoubted humour in the writing gets stifled, maybe even suffocated.

So, would I have been better off with two bottles of wine? No. If I had my time again I'd buy one bottle of wine and one book. Which one? Easy. An Australian Shiraz of course.

Space debris

Sometimes you read something so true and yet so strange that the hairs on the back of your neck rise up and the blood drains from your face.

I found myself in exactly this condition less than two hours ago when I read the Comment from Beau Blue in response to my previous post.

You remember my previous post? Due to the extraordinary distortion of the space-time continuum causated by Blogger my previous Post is actually the one after this. Which reversion, incidentally, might have had Einstein beating his head off his keyboard as his Theory of Relativity failed to cope with this extraordinary non-linear time reversal.

You will remember - or you will if you have read the previous post, that is to say the one after this one - that I displayed the two strange artefacts left over after I reassembled my malfunctioning dishwasher. A number of theories were subsequently advanced as to their origin, form and function. Reluctantly I dismissed them all, mostly as too far-fetched or just plain stupid. Until, that is, I came to Beau's post.

"Bits of a space ship" opined Beau. The words hit me like a large chunk of space debris hurtling down through my roof and landing forcefully on my head. How could I have been so stupid, so blind, so uncomprehending. And ultimately so grateful.

Beau, what can I say? Apart from thank you. I mean, obviously once you've had it explained to you it's....well, obvious. But doesn't this response exemplify the true beauty of the internet? Ask any question and the greatest minds in the world are at your disposal, eager and ready to search for a solution. An unprecedented army of truly great thinkers, all without exception experts in their fields. Never before in human history has so much sheer brainpower been available at the press of a button. What did I say the other day? No problems, only solutions. Thanks, Beau, for proving me right.

As a result of Beau's magnificent insight I can once again run the dishwasher without worrying that it might disintegrate, its structural integrity fatally compromised by some leftover mechanical gubbins.

So, we now know what the alien artefacts are. I guess only two questions remain: how did they come to end up inside my dishwasher, here in rural Aberdeenshire, in the middle of nowhere? And, more worryingly, why?

Any ideas, anybody? (not you, Beau).

The road to hell...

is paved with good intentions.

I sat down yesterday morning at the keyboard with the firm intention of writing a nice, upbeat post that would cheer everybody up. But somehow events conspired to thwart me. First off I made the mistake of having a quick look round the blogosphere to see what was happening. I went here to Matt's blog and what I read so shocked me that I was stunned into immobility. Matt writes in the most graphic way about a film I know I should see but I doubt if I could ever pluck up the courage to do so. Read his report and make up your own mind.

Later that morning I had to go into town to see my accountant. Two hours with him and the creative flame was completely extinguished. Creative accounting definitely isn't his thing.

No sooner did I arrive back home in the afternoon than I received a special delivery - the replacement Detergent Dispenser arrived. Now, normally I'm a Luddite when it comes to labour-saving devices like microwaves and stuff but I have to admit that the dishwasher has become an essential part of my life in the last ten years. So when ours went on the blink I determined to fix it.

I'm not exactly a whizz around the house but I set to work on the infernal machine right away. I stripped it down, removing various panels, disconnected the wiring, removed the faulty dispenser (with the help of a hammer), installed the new one, cleaned everything up, repaired the seal and put it all together again.

And then I found these two bits of plastic left over.




Now, I don't know what they are nor what they did. They sort of look important in a spectral, vaguely menacing way. Without them in place maybe the machine would flood the whole kitchen. Somewhat nervously I loaded up the dishwasher and flicked the switch. Fortunately it still works. Above all it doesn't leak. I'm hoping that these two components aren't essential to its future wellbeing. A bit like a human appendix.

If you know different - let me know. Preferably with an installation diagram that an idiot can follow.

Anyway, as I write this post I'm listening to the dishwasher humming away happily down in the kitchen. It really is a machine that loves its work. And that mechanical love is emanating throughout the whole house, spreading sweetness and light all around.

So, it took me a while to get there - but you got your happy Post in the end. I just hope you're suitably grateful.

What a wonderful world

I've been pretty depressed recently - I would say clinically depressed. For about the last week or so, somewhat longer than usual. I've written about this state before and described this as my "chemical" phase, as opposed to my usual low-level or moderate phases. The condition comes on suddenly for no reason and there's nothing really I can do to mitigate it. The good news is it goes as suddenly and mysteriously as it arrives. And today it's gone. Happily, I'm back to being my usual miserable old self.

Blogging isn't eay when you're in this condition. It's very difficult when you're severely depressed to be witty and amusing or to see the world for what it is - a place of contrasts, of good and bad people, of wonderful opportunities and dreadful events. There's no room for hope in my depressed, monochromatic world.

And that's wrong. Because there's always hope. And cause for hope too. To paraphrase John Lennon - there are lots of problems but lots of solutions too. It just takes a while to find them. The danger is that you stop looking.

When I'm in the condition I've been in recently I take comfort in a story I read many years ago. I found it in the unlikely setting of the autobiography of Phil Silvers, the man who played Sergeant Bilko. In middle-age he was struck down by severe and debilitating clinical depression. He tried everything to ameliorate his condition - drugs, therapy, clinical intervention etc - but nothing worked. Many days he couldn't get out of bed. His general health suffered terribly. He couldn't work. His world fell apart. This condition lasted for years. Suicide seemed to be the only way out.

And then one morning he woke up and he was better. Completely back to normal. It was a miracle, truly a miracle.

So when I'm suffering I think of Sergeant Bilko. And he gives me hope. And when I'm better again, he also makes me laugh. And I'm laughing right now just thinking about him and that dopey expression on his face.

And I'm looking forward to the challenge of writing a nice, upbeat, life-affirming blog post for a change.

Pundy's Christmas Message

Every year the Queen addresses the nation. That’s a lot of addresses for an old-age pensioner with a writer’s cramp so this year I thought I’d give her a break by jumping in first and doing it on her behalf.

The Christmas festivities start here in the UK just after the Autumn Sales (about the second week of October) and last until the January Sales. This Festive Calendar was set down in Ancient Times when Christmas was actually a Pagan festival. Since then it has been a Roman Festival, a Christian festival and is now a post-Christian out-of-town-shopping-centre Festival.

Our Queen speaks in a posh voice (not as posh as it was in the Fifties or Sixties. More Estuarial Posh now as the monarchy has successfully adapted to the television age) so this post should be read in a posh voice in your head.

“Dearly beloved,

Once again we come together as a nation to celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ, the son of God, in a prolonged shopping bonanza unmatched in human history.

As I look down on you from my throne it is with quiet, but justified, satisfaction that I am able to recount the many triumphs of my Government in the year that is drawing slowly – thanks in large part to Global Warming – to a close. Indeed, as I look out upon the grounds of Windsor Castle I am amazed to see that the roses are still in bloom and that the grass is still growing and in fact needs cutting, an oversight which I am sure will be attended to at the end of this broadcast.

This year my Government has played a major part in bringing peace, democracy and Christianity to many parts of the world that were hitherto pagan. Iraq in particular has benefited from the imposition of democracy and the removal of a cruel and vicious dictator. Of course, peace in that country has come at a regrettable cost in terms of the loss of human life but it is a price worth paying, especially by the Iraqi people themselves. Similarly, in Afghanistan your Majesty’s armed forces have played a vital role in restructuring that country and bringing stability and a hitherto undreamed of prosperity to its once-servile population. Our special relationship with our former colony America has greatly aided in the implementation of your government’s strategy in this regard.

On the wider international stage we are pleased to have participated in the opening up of the Nuclear Club. No longer the preserve of an exclusively white, Aryan minority we have welcomed new members in the shape of Israel, India, China and Pakistan. Such a broadening of interests can only add to the stability of the world. Shortly we expect to embrace North Korea, Iran and, one day perhaps, Al Quaeda, into the fold.

Closer to home we have all benefited from major improvements in the Educational System, the National Health Service and the Chelsea Flower Show. My Government is prepared to raise even more taxes – from which, you will be pleased to learn, I am largely exempt – by stealth or otherwise to ensure that these improvements continue. I am also delighted to report that for the vast majority of my subjects (especially those living in sparsely-populated rural areas), crime is down, and our streets are safer. Within this Sceptred Isle our beloved Chancellor has banished poverty to the pages of history. In addition, I am pleased to report that racism and sectarianism are all but eliminated in many parts of our United Kingdom. Needless to say, safeguarding our democratic way of life remains a major plank of my government’s policy and we are prepared to take any steps, however draconian they may seem at the time, to protect your rights as my subjects under this great and enduring monarchy.

As I look back on the fifty and more years I have ruled over you I feel sure that all of you feel as I do, namely that, in the words of the late Harold Macmillan (one of my favourite Prime Ministers who had such exquisite table manners and was so forgiving of his poor wife’s infidelities) “You have never had it so good.” Nor are, indeed, likely to again.

As head of the Church of England – the one true church – I have no hesitation in bestowing my blessing upon you all. As we pray together so shall we die together. God bless you all.”

(Off mike: Where’s that bloody gardener? That lawn’s a disgrace. One has never seen such long fucking blades….”)

Inside my head

I get dozens of ideas for new posts every day. If I really set my mind to it I reckon I could easily produce three or four good ones (my definition) for the next few years.

So why don't I? Usually I compose the posts in my head before I write anything down. Mostly in bed at night, although sometimes when I'm driving in the car. With really good posts - when I think I've come up with something original to say for example - I may not be able to get to sleep trying to get them right. If I think they're funny I'll often burst out laughing as I'm drifting off to sleep - which drives my wife nuts.

In the morning I'll try and remember what I "wrote" the night before while I'm brushing my teeth or - particularly good this one - while having a shower. At this stage I'll sometimes get so excited I barely have time to dry myself down.

Then I'll dash through to my study and switch on the computer. And while it's booting up that's when the trouble usually starts.

Doubt sets in.

Is it really that funny? Am I not just saying that for effect? Is that actually true? Am I telling them only what they want to hear? Isn't that me just showing off? They'll see what I'm up to with that one. What if they don't like it? I'm just trying to manipulate them again.

So before logging into my blog I'll have a look at what's in the news. And I'll read something like that horror story in the Congo. And suddenly I'll feel so small, and self-indulgent and egocentric and, above all, irrelevant.

And I won't post that day after all.

Rape as a weapon of mass destruction

There's an article in the Guardian about the use of rape as a political weapon in the Congo. Some of the stories are so horrific they are almost unreadable. Death, murder and mutilation are commonplace. This is truly a nightmare world. It's almost impossible to comprehend how human beings can behave this way.

Somebody tell me what we can do about this. Please.

Monday morning.

Cold. Clear blue sky. Sun shining. Renewal. Hope.

Life begins again.

Monday, Monday

Usually, what I do on a Monday morning is flit around those blogs I like to visit and see what "witty" Comments I've left the night before.

That's because normally on a Sunday night I have a lovely meal accompanied by lots of wine and then go upstairs and spend an hour or more surfing the blogosphere and dispensing my "wit" in the Comments section of a variety of lucky recipients. Next day I mostly can't remember where I've been or what I've said.

I won't have to bother tomorrow, though, because for some reason I'm so depressed tonight that I couldn't crack a joke to save my life. I know this isn't what you want to hear but you need to know that sometimes things get pretty bleak. And I've got it easy. For most people alive in the world today it's much, much tougher. Not exactly a bundle of laughs.

Sometimes, sitting here in the half darkness alone in my room is the saddest place in the whole world. I don't know if it's me, or the state of the world or the sheer utter bloody pointlessness of it all but...I dunno, sometimes the emptiness, the desolate state of my soul...is harrowing.

Please don't leave a Comment to this post. I don't want - or need - sympathy or understanding. I just want you to know that it isn't all a bundle of laughs.