Avast, me hearties

No, it's not September the 19th yet, but as the good folks at HarperCollins have just launched the good ship Dark Blood on an unsuspecting population, I fell a bit of 'Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr, Jim Lad, I can't takes me greyhound backs to Glasgow...'* was in order.

So far (fingers crossed) it seems to be going down OK. Which is nice. Mind you, I haven't checked that meeting place for the dispossessed and mentally squinky, Amazon, for hate reviews yet. So it's entirely possible that I'm missing out on some great vitriol. When Blind Eye came out I found the crappiest review I could of Flesh House, and read that out whenever I did an event. This time I've abandoned reading any sort of thing connected to the actual book, in favour of a wee short story instead. Gosh, doesn't that sound exciting?**

And, in the interests of stuff, things, and trying to ensure that there are actually some bums on the seats next week, may I direct your naughty eyes to the following paragraphs...

This Monday (17th) I'm going to be in Ullapool, doing another Murder, Mysteries, and Microscopes event with the Macaulay Institute. Well, three of them to be honest - two designed to traumatise the local school kids and one, in the evening, that'll be of a more grown up nature. If you want to come along, we're going to be in the MacPhail Centre at 18:30. Fun, frivolity, and forensics - what more could you ask for? Other than, maybe, crisps. There won't be any, but you can always ask.

Next up, I'm off down to Blayden Library for an intimate evening of knob gags and not exposing myself*** on the 18th at 19:30. Be warned though - there will be singing.

And speaking of singing, I'm nipping down the road to the Lit and Phil in Newcastle on the 19th for a lunchtime event with that besequined, Sondheim-singing thesp and crime writer: Martyn Waites. Kickoff is at 12:30, and I understand the event's being sponsored by a local brewery... So I'm hoping that means BEER! Or, slightly more dangerous, BEAR! But I'm hoping it's the former, no one wants to be chased down the streets of Newcastle by a large carnivorous mammal. Well, maybe perverts, but normal people will definitely prefer the beer. Though excessive consumption may well result in waking up next to one.

Then that very evening, to cement my status as an international globe-trotting beardy thing, I'll be at the Waterstone's Piccadilly branch in London at 18:30. Last year I was pretty much expecting to be performing to an empty room - those wily Londoners being allegedly immune to the lure of a mid-list Scottish write-ist with a hairy chin and winsome smile. Fuckers. But in the end we got a nice wee crowd**** and it was groovier than Ann Widdecombe in a bacon bikini*****. Saucy minx that she is. This year... Well, I wouldn't complain if you wanted to come along. And bring a friend. Or a cardboard cut out of the aforementioned Ms Widdecombe in her meaty bathing suit. Otherwise I fear it'll just be me in there. Assuming I get on the right train from Newcastle. Then I'll have to get Agent Phil to don a fake beard and do the gig in a faux-Scottish accent, with associated cries of 'Hoots, mon!'

And then, as a final hurrah to the wee tour, I'll be wheeching back up the country to Mussellburgh Library for an Ann-Widdecombe-free event****** involving singing, rude words, and the definition of the prison term 'Bomb Patrol'. 20th May at 19:30.

After that, it's just me and the cat, trying to get the new book written before the DEADLINE OF DOOM!!!

* Seriously, that's how people who adopt rescue greyhounds talk (at least, they around here). I think they give them special courses at the vet.
** Probably not, but it does give me the excuse to shout the word 'FUCK!' in a high-pitched lisp, and you don't get to do that very often.
*** Long story.
**** And one chap who we'll be polite and merely describe as 'A bit of a twat.'
***** Smoked back bacon, because streaky would just cross the line from 'kinky' into just plain perverse.
****** By which I mean that there won't be any Ann Widdecombes, not that I'm handing out free Ann Widdecombes, or that if she turns up in a bacon bikini that she's getting in for free. She'll have to pay her £4.00 like anyone else. Honestly, who does she think she is?

It's not just me, is it?

As a result of officially becoming an old fart last year - crossing the River Styx from the land of milk, honey, and boobies, into the cold wasteland of my forties* - we switched allegiance from Radio 2 to Radio 4. For years and years the alarm would go off at 06:45, just in time to hear Sarah Kennedy rambling her way, barely coherently, through the papers. And that was nice. We liked trying to figure out what the hell she was talking about, it leant a vague warm fuzziness to the start of the day.

Then Terry Wogan retired, and Radio 2 reorganised its schedule. Suddenly, instead of getting the paper-rambly-WTF every morning, it was *shudder* show tunes. We stuck it out for a week, then packed our bags, upped sticks and relocated to Radio 4. I was envisioning every day starting out with proper grown-up discussions on proper grown up topics, rather than listening to some mouth-breather murdering an obscure song from South Pacific. Oh, the naivety of ... well, not youth, obviously - I mean, that's why we got into this position in the first place.

And yes, there's proper grown-up stuff on Radio 4 in the mornings, but at the moment a huge chunk of it revolves around (cue dramatic music) THE COMING ELECTION!!!**

Now you can call me a sexy old beardy cynic if you like, but I'm really beginning to miss the day-starting rambling fuzziness. Because what we have now, every sodding morning, is me lying in bed ranting at whatever sleazy thieving scumbag politician they're interviewing / quoting / or talking about. And there's still five and a bit more weeks of this to go!

You know what? I can save us all a huge chunk of time by summing up every single political discussion we're going to be subjected to from our elected representatives in one easy chunk, then we can all head off and have a nice cup of tea and a lie down in a darkened room. Contemplating what all those spiders we allegedly swallow every year taste like***.

Ahem.

Thieving Bunch Of Self-Serving Dick-Weasels (TBoSSDW) A: "Blah, blah, blah."
TBoSSDW B: "That's just blatantly untrue! Our policy is the only one that will work."
TBoSSDW A: "No it won't. Ours is the only policy."
TBoSSDW B: "Isn't."
TBoSSDW A: "Is."
TBoSSDW B: "No it isn't."
TBoSSDW C: "Under the last Conservative / Labour / Liberal**** government... Blah, blah, blah."
TBoSSDW B: "That's preposterous! Our policy is the only one that will work."
TBoSSDW C: "No it won't. Ours is the only policy."
TBoSSDW B: "Isn't."
TBoSSDW C: "Is."
TBoSSDW A: "No it isn't."

Repeat until everyone grabs a burning pitchfork and marches on Westminster. Which is about as likely to happen as television executives waking up tomorrow morning and realising that reality TV is crap-flavoured crap with extra crap on the side, and that maybe they should try making some decent bloody programmes for a change. Back in 1976 the song might have been 'Anarchy in the UK*****' now it's 'Apathy in the UK' ... or it would be if we could be arsed to sing it. Which we can't.

And we've got five and a half weeks of this to go as the collective mass of TBoSSDW posture, pontificate, call each other liars, and make promises we all know they're never going to keep.

Oh the joy...

* Where there are also boobies, but they need a bit of a run up.
** With three exclamation marks, because that makes it sound more exciting, right?
*** I think they taste kinda dusty, but with a squishy centre, a bit like bluebottles, but less crunchy.
**** Though to be fair, that would be a bit of a stretch. After all, the Liberals haven't formed a government all on their own since 1915, so giving them a kicking for screwing up the country is a bit like kicking a three-legged puppy.
***** And for future reference, "I am an Antichrist" does not rhyme with "I am an anarchist" and pronouncing it "anar-kyste" does not make you sound big and clever, or 'subversive and dangerous'. It makes you sound like a dick.

Martin Scorsese, eat my shorts (socks, or pants)

"What's this?" I hear you ponder in the darkest recesses of your delicious brain*,

Well, obviously I wouldn't want him eating the underwear I'm wearing: that would just be a bit rude, wouldn't it? Bad enough someone coming to visit the house and helping themselves to the biscuits... But, yes, anyway, the reason I make faux-mockery noises in Mr Scorsese's direction is that I too am now an international film making guru man!

Oh yes, you might laugh now, but while you sit there with Buckfast dribbling out of your nose, I've made my YouTube directorial debut:




And I have to admit that I'm pretty damn chuffed with it. Amazing what you can do with a few mates, a wee story in the Evening Express, and a budget the size of a hamster's tadger. But there we have it - the official book trailer for DARK BLOOD.

A lot of people helped a hell of a lot -- he said, going into full on Oscars mode -- and I have to draw special attention to Alex (assistant director, cameraman, and half-naked dude), John (who let us film heaps of things in his house, and helped me build the caravan), Lorna (who gives the best blood spatters in the business), She Who Must Be Mentioned (who even made the sandwiches**), Xavier (Sledgehammers R' Us), Ubby and Dave (typecast as thugs), Danny (bitten on the arse by a bloody big dog, in the line of duty), Julie (gun-wielding maniac), Christopher (who got beaten up and helped with the music) and Everyone who came along on the Saturday to Victoria park to shout and wave placards. But most importantly to Lee, who played the part of Richard Knox - remember, he's not a pervert, he's a bookseller***.

Next we'll have to work on a 'making of', stuck together from all the out-takes and bits we couldn't get into the trailer. A director's commentary's going to be a bit hard to do though. At eighty seconds long, there'd be just enough time to go, "Hello, my name is ... and this is the special extras for ... Oh, it's finished."

And now, I suppose, I should get my finger out and some actual writing for a change.

Ho hum...

* Yes, it's time to get the Bacofoil out and patch that fetching hat of yours again, the thinks are leaking out. Incidentally, I use the word 'delicious' because for some reason I've become a bit obsessed with the term, 'Zombie Apocalypse' of late. The really weird thing is that I only watched Zombieland on Wednesday night and I've been using it to describe pretty much everything for weeks and weeks. She Who Must Sit In The Passenger Seat And Listen To Her Husband Ranting On And On About The Cognitive Abilities (And Questionable Sexual Relationships With Farmyard Animals) Of All The Other Motorists is becoming a bit fed up of me pointing to late night pedestrians and shouting, "Look, ZOMBIES!!!" All I can say is that everyone should have a hobby. Incidentally, I really enjoyed Zombieland - very funny and well put together, if partially spoiled by the Bill Murray bit, which was a bit too predictable and self-indulgent for my tastes... Anyway, what was I talking about?

** Well, I say 'made', but I mean 'went to Markies for', but she did it without complaint, and even bought everyone chocolate biscuits. What more could you ask for?

*** And I know in some cases the terms can be synonymous, but he's a nice guy in real life when he's not being screamed at by angry mobs. In fact, he's the assistant manager at Waterstone's Langstane branch in Aberdeen!

Knox, Knox, Knox, OUT! OUT! OUT!

OK, so I have a wee confession to make: I was kinda bricking it a bit on Saturday. Thinking there was no way I'd get more than about a dozen people to film the angry crowd scene (and let's face it, it's not that easy to make twelve people look like an angry mob. Though they'd be perfect for a disgruntled bus queue) I got in touch with a nice man I know at the Evening Express. "Can you mention it?" says I.
"Well ... the paper's pretty much designed for Friday, but I'll see what I can do." says he.

And that was that.

Then on the Friday I opened my copy of the EE to find Scott had written a half page piece, asking for protesters. EEK! Cue sudden image of three hundred people turning up and everything spiralling out of control.

PANIC!

Then the crash. Maybe no bugger will turn up at all? Maybe it'll be just me, Alex (assistant director and cameraman), She Who Must Be Cast As A TV Reporter, Lee (bravely playing the part of DARK BLOOD'S arch pervert, Richard Knox), Googling Brother (playing the part of 'Reporter in silly hat' and DSI Danby), and a couple of mates. Oh God, it'll all be a disaster...

Or maybe it'll be far too many people?

Not enough?

Too Many?

ARRRRRRRRRGH!

And I had no idea which it would be until we walked into Victoria Park. In the end we got seventy five of the best damn angry rioters I could have possibly hoped for. And really, really well behaved ones as well. When I shouted, "ACTION!" in my fake Steven Spielberg voice they went ape and shouted and screamed and waved their placards. And when I yelled "CUT!" they went all quiet and waited to be told, "ACTION!" again. Brilliant. I'd booked the park for two hours, figguring it'd take at least that to get anything done, and in the end we were done in thirty-five minutes.

How cool is that?

So I want to say a big thank you to everyone who turned up on Saturday - you couldn't have been more perfect if you tried.

Next up, editing!

Fancy trying something new?

All those life coaches with their plastic hair and plastic tans and plastic teeth are always telling us we need to try new things in this life to avoid becoming boring slabs of deep-fried potato*, slowly oozing into our collective couches. Well, if you fancy expanding your cultural horizons I have a proposition for you: come to Aberdeen.

Specifically, come to Aberdeen's Victoria Park this Saturday the 13th of March for 14:00. And wear a woolly hat.

Why?

Bleedin' 'eck, isn't it enough that I've asked you nicely?

Didn't think so.

This year, for the first time, those naughty monkeys at HarperCollins have agreed to let me film a wee trailer for the new book. Yes, DARK BLOOD is going to get the full Hollywood experience. Or as much of Hollywood as I and some friends can do with a stepladder and a roll of duct tape. So on Saturday between 14:00 and 16:00 we'll be filming an angry crowd. You know the sort of thing: shouting, waving their fists, holding placards, protesting their little booties off.

And if you want to come and be in the trailer, that would be very, very cool. It's going to be kinda difficult to film an angry crowd scene if only three people and a whippet turn up, so the more the merrier.

There's no cash involved (though I might get some crisps in), but how often in this life do you get the chance to protest and shout nasty things about someone who doesn't exist? And obviously we'll all be up for an Oscar next year. *ahem*

If you fancy it - we're in Victoria Park (just off Westburn Road), meeting at the fountain in the middle of it on Saturday, ready to start rocking and rolling at 14:00 and releasing our inner thespians! Darling! Luvie! Etc!

Dress as if it's the dead of winter: gloves, thick coats, hats, and scarves, and prepare to be made IMMORTAL!


* Not that I've got anything against deep-fried potato. Come on, chips? What could be better than chip? Except chips and fizzy wine. And dancing girls.

Competitionistical

I've been meaning to post about this for a while, and the new book is being a little sticky this morning, so now seems like as good a time as any. Well, maybe not as good a time as, say, sitting on the grass in the height of summer with a bottle of fizzy wine and a groaning picnic basket*, waited on hand and foot** by a bevy of dusky maidens - that would be a pretty damn good time.

Anyway, yeah, so: competitions.

First up comes courtesy of those lovely people at Alibi, in conjunction with other lovely people at HarperCollins, The TV Times, and the Theakstons Old Peculier Crime Writing Festival. As you probably know Alibi's the only channel completely dedicated to crime drama, which is kinda pretty cool in our household, and this year they're launching their inaugural 'search for a new crime writer'.

"Oh yeah?" I hear you mumble, through a mouthful of PotNoodle, "And what do we have to do to win this competition thing you're pimping, like a big hairy pimp?"
Easy, you cynical monkey, you're getting gravy all down your chin and it's not a good look. What you have to do is flex your creative writing muscles and come up with a short story (2,000 to 5,000 words) starting with the following sentence:

In my experience, those who beg for mercy seldom deserve it.

Piece of cake, right? Or a bag of crisps if you're not down with the whole cake thing.

The competition was rolled out on the 25th of Jan (yeah, I'm late getting around to telling you about it, but I've been deadline's bitch for months now) to an instant flurry of submissions. Some of which, I'm guessing, were lying about in people's top drawers, gathering dust, just waiting for an excuse to be foisted upon the world. And a couple of the entrants didn't even pause to read the submission guidelines and ... oh, I don't know ... take the basic sodding precaution of rewriting the first line to say, 'In my experience, those who beg for mercy seldom deserve it.'

Seriously, 10 out of 10 for enthusiasm, and 0 out of 10 for getting rejected straight away for NOT EVEN BOTHERING TO PRETEND YOU'D WRITTEN IT FOR THE COMPETITION!

Twits.

Anyway, you've got till the 16th of May to enter, and you probably want to know what kind of goodies you'll be walking off with, like the kids on Crackerjack (though without the obligatory pencil and cabbage) one lucky write-ist will be leaving with their arms weighed down with:

• A pair of tickets to the festival (22nd - 25th July and I'm chairing it so it's going to be pretty squinky this year), two nights' B&B, and your travel paid for***.
• One place at the Creative Thursday Workshop Master-Classes on the 22nd July.
• A Sony eReader
• Lunch with the head of Alibi, and a HarperCollins rep (I've not been invited, so I'm sulking)
• 100 crime books, including a complete, signed back catalogue of my stuff.
• And your story published online in an e-edition by HarperCollins.

Not too shabby, eh? And two runners up get:

• A pair of festival tickets each, and a slot at the Creative Thursday Workshops too.

All you have to do is write your short story and submit it at the Alibi website. Where they also have a video of me looking remarkably like a fat hairy potato.

More competition news tomorrow, and perhaps a photo of a dead mouse too!****

* Groaning as in 'full to bursting with nice things to eat' not groaning as in 'suffering from intestinal discomfort'. That wouldn't be such a good time.
** Why do people want their feet waited on? Are they pedophiles? Freaks.
*** Within reason, I assume. I mean, they're not going to fly you first class from New Zealand, are they? Be sensible.
**** I know you've been missing them.

Corrupting the nation's children...

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

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

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or something.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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