The Monday Review :: Unsound Bites

Haters, haters, look away, for this is self-fellaters day...

First up, I just did a phone interview with Christian radio station, TWR. I spoke to a chap called James, who was very pleasant, had actually read the book and even claimed to have enjoyed it. He said he didn’t expect to enjoy it. I said I didn’t expect him to enjoy it either, mostly because it’s not awfully complimentary about his god. Also, because it’s a bit fruity, and Christians generally don’t like fruit. It’s forbidden. So he asked me a bunch of questions and I gave him a bunch of answers. At one point I rambled for a bit, then asked him to remind me what the question was. He said it was fine, I’d answered it. ‘That was the sound bite we wanted,’ he said, and I swear, something inside of me died. Sadly, James didn’t suggest that I might not exist, which is a shame as I had a Jesus-themed response ready for that. Despite the sound bite thing though, it was fine. He said he’d let me know when it’s going to be broadcast.

In other news, I may be going to London later this week to appear on Canadian television. Canada AM to be precise. With a bag on my head. Or something.

Um…

Oh, and a couple more reviews on Amazon, one from literary spy who says:

‘This is a gem. One of those books that you want everyone you know to read - because it's so good. It's funny; it's challenging - it made me cringe and laugh and the twist at the end made me almost cry. The writing style is excellent. Stan has a unique voice and is really gutsy. You must read this book; it stays with you and you'll want to recommend it to your friends, too.’

To which I say, almost? Almost? Oh, Literary Spy. Have you no heart? And less of the gutsy if you don’t mind. Cycling is shrinking me daily.

And one from J Dutton, who writes, amongst other things:

‘I have just completed it after a few nights (and lunch breaks) of non-stop reading and have not laughed so much in a while… I would normally give my books away once finished...but nobody is getting this one! I intend to read it over and over, you'll just all have to buy your own!’

So that’s nice.

In other book news, I finished reading The Road last night. Crikey. I don’t think I’ve ever been so profoundly upset by a book. I think the most upsetting scene of all is when the cart is stolen from the beach and then the thief is discovered trundling down the road. I was with the boy on this. I thought the man let everybody down. I shall say no more – except! In the film, the thief is played by Michael K Williams, aka… Omar!



Awwww.

Radio Ulster :: Listen Again

So, I was sitting in a bar in Newcastle on Friday, eating a not very appetising ‘sandwich’ and reading a book. The book was flat on the table in front of me and I was holding it in place with my non-eating hand. The left.

Two tables away, also to my left, men in their twenties and thirties, four of them, drank and chatted, pleasant and placid. It was a nice bar. Expensive. I eavesdropped for a while, but when they started talking about football I dismissed them as lesser mortals and returned to my book. I even flared a nostril to the accompaniment of a deliciously supercilious eyebrow. I may even have given a tiny shake of the head. But subtle.

Then, a page or two later and the words ‘the most depressing book ever written’ filtered back through from their world to mine. Automatically I lifted my head and I lifted my book and I said, ‘You’re not by any chance talking about this, are you?’

And they were! That very book. Unseen! On their lips! Isn’t that incredible? I don’t know. It struck me as a wonderful thing. For a humble book to have its own personality so profoundly engraved upon the ego-psyche of the zeitgeist that all known culture becomes perversely unbound within it.

It took me a long time to come up with that sentence. I’m very proud of it. It’s wholly meaningless. And yet it seems to crave meaning, like a blind man fondling his own face.

Do you know, I don’t mind telling you: I’m a little bit intoxicated. I’ve had a couple of cheeky cheroots and half a bottle of wine. This probably accounts for the fact that I’m suffering an overwhelming temptation to use the term ‘market penetration’.

So this book, yes. The stuff of delightful barroom coincidence and powerful synonymy with harrowing, near brain-melting sadness.

I said ‘synonymy’! For real. Did I use it right? Don't care. Tomorrow, I may say ‘synergy’.

That’s a book though. That's what I'm talking about. That right there. Imagine that.

Oh, I haven’t even said what it was yet. It was My Booky Wook by Russell Brand.

Of course, of course, of course, I jest. I’m sorry. I feel full of vim tonight. I don't know what it is. I think it might be the spirit of Egg Wallace in me after having watched the first quarter-final of Celebrity Masterchef earlier.



Alma had recorded it for me with her futuristic telly. She doesn’t find it as funny as I do – partially because she’s not always stoned – but she recorded it anyway. And watched it with me, slightly alarmed by my cackling. Isn't that nice? Yes, it is.

So anyway, the book in question was - obviously - The Road. I’m only about halfway through but already I’m shaken half to death by it. Every time I pick it up, I’m filled with a terrifying dread. I keep talking to strangers about it. Oh, I even mentioned it on the radio today to the absolutely charming Marie-Louise Muir on Radio Ulster.



But it was cut. Probably just as well. Marie-Louise said she hadn’t been able to get past the first chapter, because of the sadness. The great wuss.

But she was delightful to chat to. I was sat in a little booth with beautifully snug headphones, and she was hundreds of miles away in another country, but so warm and friendly that it almost felt like she was sitting in my lap.

Last night, by the way, I was trying to think of things to say in this interview – special little things that would amuse me and maybe a couple of other rather frivolous people. In the end I decided it would be hilarious if I could slip in some of the slang from The Wire, so I wrote on my hand: ‘mos def’, ‘no doubt’, ‘true dat’ and ‘feel me?’ Unfortunately I failed. It’s really hard, once you’re involved in a conversation. I did however manage to sneak something in. It ain’t no thing. In fact, it's rather half-arsed, and it lacks the killer 'feel me?' at the end... but still, I listened to it for the first time just now and I glowed with childish pride.

Tiny things.

If you’d like to listen the wholly adorable Marie-Louise Muir put it to me that I may in fact be ‘the Brad Pitt of bloke-lit’ - I so wanted to offer ‘the Brad Pitt of dick-lit’ as an alternative, but I wasn’t sure it was the right thing to do - then you have seven days to listen here. It’s the first item.

It's still rather painful to listen to for me, but despite the many things I hate about my voice, I do like the way that I keep sniggering. I sound like such a happy little person.

Maybe I am!



Oh, and of the four guys in the bar, the ones I dismissed as footiefied cretins, two of them had read The Road. One of them kindly said he'd say no more about it as he didn't want to spoil it for me. The other one had no such qualms. He told me outright: 'The butler did it.'

That'll teach me.

Feedback Friday :: Hecticity

bulk :: I reckon I've put on a stone since I arrived in Italy
cigarettes :: some, and I'm really pissed off about it - it really stinks up the breath
postcards bought :: 10
postcards sent :: 0
Italian women I have fallen in love with :: all of them

So I had planned to spend the 12 hours or so it was going to take to get to Palermo on the train writing up all that has happened in Rome, but because I left everything till the last minute, I have only just discovered that the train to Palermo is, for various reasons, no good. So I just booked a flight, leaving at noon tomorrow, which will mean leaving here around 8 to be absolutely sure of getting to the airport on time. It's all very hectic.

I'm going to a wedding by the way. An old friend is marrying a Sicilian lady. I haven't seen him for years and was very surprised to get an invite. Probably not as surprised as he was that I accepted. The invite came about a week before Morag moved out, so I thought, fuck it. Let's go somewhere I've never been.

There's an awful lot that can go wrong tomorrow though, and I'm slightly nervous. Especially as I've been told that no one in Sicily speaks English. In fact, I've been told that they barely speak Italian.

Rome is spectacular though, and I will get round to writing about it soon. I hope. But the next few days are going to be incredibly hectic.

In the meantime, here are some more pictures from Publication Day. I am very silly.















That last one's my favourite. They barely understood a word of what I was saying but they entered into the task with alacrity and aplomb. Bless them.

Now I should sleep, as at best I'll have six hours, but you know what I'm going to do instead? I'm going to watch the last episode of season four of The Wire. Get myself in a gangster frame of mind in preparation for Sicily.

My Third Is In Promise...

As I write this, at 1.30, without internet access, I'm sitting on a train which is about to take me from one city to another city. This second city is a very famous city which has been in films and everything. And I love trains. It's all very exciting.

Something else which is very exciting is the effect the news of the imminent release of a book has on people. I say people. I mean women. I say women. I mean woman. One woman.

So I mentioned yesterday that my friend was trying to set me up with a lady. With this in mind, he arranged a gathering last night - a bunch of his friends, all of whom were extraordinarily friendly and foreign and consequently rather difficult to understand. A few of them spoke English though, with varying degrees of success, so we managed to muddle through somehow.

Now, the lady in question is way out of my league. Obviously. Plus, a fact my friend forgot to mention until the last minute, she is engaged to be married. However, my friend doesn't have a great deal of faith in the union. For one thing, the lady - oh, alright, let's give her a name, let's give her a good nation-neutral name, let's call her Pea. For one thing, Pea is planning to move to London for a year in September, and is planning to do so without her betrothed. Which doesn't sound enormously promising for him, I must agree.

So. Pea. The exciting news is, we clicked. Pea works in PR for a company which provides sports equipment to the richest people in the world. But, thankfully, she also writes, and reads, and understands acutely that the essential thrill of human existence resides in getting to know oneself through the experience of getting to know other people. And she has dark brown eyes, which are my favourite kind of eyes. And she was very excited that I have a book coming out tomorrow. And she didn't mention her fiancé once. And - and this is the real zinger - I'm going to see her again next week when I return to her city before coming back to England.

I'm trying not to get too excited though, because that's what I tend to do, and it's terribly counter-productive. Plus, there's every chance that she's reading this. So maybe I shouldn't have written all of the above.

Oh, well. It's too late now.

Now, I have two and a half hours of this train journey left. I think it's time to see how Omar's getting on.

Until soon!

Scanmongering Monday :: Titter Ye Not

I thought it might be difficult to keep this Bookscan thing going, what with selling all my books and everything, but then, teased and titillated by the fickle fingers of fate, I found myself in another place with another (albeit much smaller) selection of odd tomes. So fear not, scanfans… the fun continues.

Last week’s Bookscan was, as I suspected it might be, the first to be successfully identified. The winner, Litha, has elected to share her controversial prize of an old lady’s porcelain dog with Dermot, who recognised the book but was too lazy to ascertain the correct title. The dog therefore will be smashed, and the pieces mailed just as soon as the winners send me their addresses.

And so, without further ado, to this week’s Bookscan. Put a title to the book from which the following illustrations are taken and win this week's prize: a dead man’s wheelchair. (Or maybe something else.)

I say.

Ooh, how annoying. I got all excited a moment ago when I received this month’s Book Slam mailout and saw that David Simon will be appearing. My mind was already reaching for my credit card to book myself a ticket, before I realised that I don’t live in London anymore.

Oh, well. I’m sure he’ll come to Grimstone one day.

Omar

In the early hours of yesterday morning I watched the last couple of episodes of the third season of The Wire. The climax, thoroughly splendid though it was, felt oddly anti-climactic, but in a clever way, reflecting the ceaseless frustration at the heart of the day-to-day life of a Baltimore Poe-lease. Ending aside, the season as a whole was one of the most excitingly subversive things I’ve ever seen. If you haven’t seen it, you must, for it depicts what might happen in a drug-fucked inner-city ghetto if drugs were effectively legalised. It’s very powerful and in my most ‘orribly ‘umble, very important telly. And you know, it goes all the way to the President. He loves The Wire.

So anyway, the other day I found out something which surprised the bejeesus out of me. It concerns Michael K Williams, the actor who plays everybody’s favourite character, gay gangster Omar Little with such ferocious charisma that Barack Obama, officially the world’s most charismatic man, was like, totally blown away. He’s also soon to be seen in an adaptation of Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, which I really must read, apparently. And this is the thing: midway through filming The Wire, Williams took time out to dress up as a cop and mouth the words of one of history’s most misunderestimated artists, Our Kelly.

Unfortunately, it’s unembeddable, but please, particularly if you’ve never seen it, do enjoy the scarred master in this, my favourite chapter from Our Kelly’s masterwork, Trapped in the Closet. I insist.

And when you’ve watched that – and only then - you must watch or rewatch this. Then you must sit back smugly, full of good humour and fine wine and you must marvel at the beautiful brilliance of the modern world. And then you must mutter the word ‘intertextuality’, softly, under your breath, and then laugh it off, embarrassed, slightly theatrical. Then you must storm out of the room pretending to have left a pan of shrimps boiling.

This is the last of the grass I smuggled North from Londonshire. By this I mean this, this fingerbread guffstuff. Then I’m clean, man. And that peeves me, because a joint in the evening is good for me. It’s great brain-oil. And it peeves me because drugs will never go away. Whether we’re talking about my harmless drugs or other people’s nasty drugs, they’re all here to stay. We really should start working with them. And my hope is that if President Obama can unflinchingly appreciate the emotional intelligence and brutal morality of Omar Little, then maybe he’s the man to move the west a little closer to a properly regulated approximation of Hamsterdam. That, for me, would be an evolutionary coup. Not Needle Park madness, but something that actually addresses the problem. I like for example the sound of the heroin maintenance programme described in this eminently readable article right here, and I propose that we do something similar in this country, specifically tailored to my desire for the ‘erb. Until then, there’s a place up the coast from here called Blyth that I every much like the sounds of. It sounds blithe. I might go there this weekend.

Now, seconds out. Season Four. Actually, fuck it - let the seconds stay. We're all family here.