Little Brown, 2001

This is one of the spoils of the library book sale I posted about a while back. I’d never read any Brookmyre and thought this might be as good an introduction as any.

The plot centres on acts of terrorism. In this it resembles Ken MacLeod’s The Execution Channel but Brookmyre’s slant is more comedic. For example one of his viewpoint characters goes on a wonderful rant about all things Aberdonian (which also harbours an incidental side-swipe at Dundee) and there is an English lesson on A Midsummer Night’s Dream which descends into farce. In these post September 11th, July 7th and June 30th times such interweaving of light and dark does not perhaps sit as well as when the book was published in 2001 and, in Britain at least (with the agreement in Northern Ireland,) terrorism seemed less threatening. A key encounter early in the book does in fact take place at Glasgow Airport, a setting which has more resonance now than then.

You may have gathered from the above the novel is yet another multi-stranded narrative. (Is there no escape?) We meet Angelique De Xavia, a black female Glasgow cop into languages and martial arts; Raymond Ash, a teacher new to the profession but with a previous background in computer games; Simon Darcourt, an old university acquaintance of his; Lexy and Wee Murph, two pupils from his school who manage accidentally to get caught up in things. Also in the mix are references to Lobey Dosser and Rank Bajin, creations of the Glasgow cartoonist Bud Neill.

However, structurally something was awry. There was a considerable amount of info dumping – perhaps inevitably given the scenario – but also too much intrusion of backstories which interrupted the flow of the plot. This last may have been to inject an extra dose of literariness into the endeavour but I found it irritating.

The book contains more than a few misspellings (or, if I’m more generous, typos.) I wouldn’t have commented on this but Brookmyre himself highlights some of his incidental characters’ inability to spell (on placards in a street protest) and thereby makes himself, and his publisher, fair game.

The climax, where the cop’s martial arts, and the teacher’s gaming, skills naturally come in handy, occurs in a setting which would work well cinematically. I wonder if Brookmyre had thoughts on film or TV rights when he conceived it.

In sum, despite some longueurs, Brookmyre can write. He spins out a good plot, his characterisation is effective and he knows how to tease the reader. I’ll look out for him at future book sales.

The Rock, 17/1/07

Beggars can’t be choosers. After our recent form I’ll take a scabby 1-0 win any day – and by all accounts it was pretty scrappy game.

Three points is three points, though, and against the team that was top for so long makes it even better. Improving on that was we also closed the gap slightly on Cowdenbeath.

And Chissie scored again. His goals to starts ratio is seriously impressive.

I see McAnespie didn’t get a game. Is Chappie regretting signing him already?

The win will be good for confidence. We’ve got to consolidate this, though, by going on a run. The next four games are all against teams below us. I wish I found that reassuring.

- the actor, has died. So it goes.

He was best known for “The Prisoner,” a deeply surreal TV series which McGoohan was instrumental in bringing about. I didn’t see the first showing in the 60s but caught up with it on a late-night repeat during my first year at University.

Portmeirion, Clough Williams-Elliss’s fantasy village, was a perfect setting for this tale of paranoia and imprisonment, harking back to Orwell’s 1984 and, in a way, forward to TV’s Big Brother today, cleverly adumbrating the suspicion of authority which is now widespread and the way in which (some of) the masses can be kept quiet by diversionary entertainment.

In the programmes McGoohan resigns his (secret service?) job but is drugged, kidnapped and wakes up in “The Village” as Number Six. All together now, “I am not a number. I am a free man.” In each of 16 episodes he tries to escape. He always fails – or is brought back.

While having the trappings of a thriller or spy type story there was more than a hint of Science Fiction in the treatment, not so much Portmeirion itself, though that is a surrealist’s dream, as the famous bouncing white balloon guards and the behind-the-scenes activities of Number Two and his minions. (What was that seesaw thingy with the cameras at either end all about? We already knew the village’s inhabitants were under surveillance.)

I did think the 17th, final, episode – which was apparently made up on the hoof – was a bit bonkers, though. “Them Bones” sung chorally as a background to a kind of trial of Number Two? Eh?

I saw an episode a few months ago and it was striking how 1960s it looked. But the premise behind it held up well.

The whole thing would never see the light of day now. Schedulers would run kicking and screaming at the thought.

I never really watched McGoohan’s earlier success, “Danger Man,” – but remember him playing the Earl of Moray, Lord James Stewart – Mary Queen of Scots’s illegitimate half brother – with a fine display of impatience towards his feckless sister. McGoohan also made a marvellous Edward Longshanks in Mel Gibson’s “Braveheart.”

Patrick McGoohan 1928-2009.

Be seeing you.

What cloth-eared, pea-brained, lazy thinking numpty ever came up with the monstrosities “should of, would of and could of?” I’ve even seen them on the printed page as if they are legitimate usages. (This was in books published in the US.)

Who on Earth can possibly think “of” is a legitimate auxiliary part of a verb?

Has anyone ever said something like, “I of started, so I’ll finish?”
I very much doubt it.

It only takes a moment’s thought to realise that the proper formulation of these three phrases is of course could have, would have, should have.

The fact that they can be contracted to could’ve, would’ve and should’ve doesn’t change their essential nature. And the pronunciation of the “ve” part ought to be more like “ff” than “of.”

So for those who do this I say, “Eff of; it’s ‘’ve.’”

The above is one of the enduring requirements of children’s fiction. It extends all the way from Enid Blyton’s Famous Five and Secret Seven to Harry Potter. It might almost be considered a necessary condition for the form. The absence of parents is the mechanism which allows the child in the story to have the adventure, whatever that adventure is.

With parents, a child is tethered, circumscribed; any wanderings are restricted. In fiction, the absence of parents is made safe; it is the character(s) whose parents are missing, allowing the reader the vicarious adventure, which they almost certainly cannot ever experience in real life.

Most modern parents would freak out if their child were to take part in the activities of the protagonists in children’s fiction – confronting criminals and so on. In this regard the freedom of children in older stories such as the Railway Children, the Famous Five and Just William is striking to modern eyes, in a world where parents are reluctant to let children out of their sight for fear of abduction and worse.

- Despite this fear, the yearly incidence of stranger abduction of children has remained static in Britain since the 1930s. It is in fact remarkably low. But high profile cases stoke the fear. (It may be they were less reported in the past to avoid just this fear effect.) Of course, the possibility of a playing child being killed by a car also looms larger these days. –

Spoiler warning for next sentence.

Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials perhaps takes the absence aspect to an extreme: one of Lyra’s parents is not only estranged, she is actually the enemy. That heightens the estrangement but also cleverly plays on a child’s resentment of restriction, the thought that parents actually are enemies in this regard.

My thanks go to the good lady for the idea this post expounds.

(Edited 15/1/09 to take account of comments.)

Gollancz, 2005

Alastair Reynolds came to prominence with a series of space opera novels exploiting that famed sense of wonder which Science Fiction fans are supposed to seek so much. Most of these are in a linked series set in an imagined future called Revelation Space but the one which stood out for me was the unrelated Century Rain where part of the action centred on a fake mid-20th century Paris which Reynolds realised with considerable success. The Gollancz paperbacks of these Reynolds books are of a strange size, the height of normal paperbacks but with a larger page width so that they sit proud of other books on a shelf. They also tend to be lengthy books. Charles Stross has recently posted on why SF novels became doorstops.

Pushing Ice is again unlinked to the Revelation Space series and begins as a Big Dumb Object (BDO) novel. The BDO in question is Janus, one of Saturn’s smaller moons, which has suddenly revealed itself to be an alien space ship and has zoomed off in the direction of the star Spica. The Ice Pushing (ie comet quarrying) ship Rockhopper is the only Earth vessel capable of intercepting Janus and is sent to find out as much as possible. A sequence of accidents and misjudgements means Rockhopper is doomed never to return to Earth and will accompany Janus on its thirteen year journey. A major plot point concerns a message sent back from Rockhopper to Earth and broadcast on CNN. I did wonder; will CNN still be around in 2057?

The book then becomes a BDO novel thrice over as Janus comes to rest in a strand of a huge toroidal construction (I thought Bird’s Nest Stadium when I read the description) having passed through a tubular structure at Spica en route. Rockhopper, now firmly attached to Janus – off which it leaches its energy needs – has effectively become a generation starship. We then get first, and second, contact thrown into the mix.

In all there are three sections, separated – one more so than the others – in subjective time (Janus achieves relativistic speeds) and also thematically, the third section in particular stands on its own, but in the end the book is a touch too long. This does, however, mean there is incident aplenty as the inhabitants of Rockhopper come to terms with their ever changing situation and it gives Reynolds the opportunity to inject all sorts of SF wizardry, though he doesn’t lose sight of characterisation, but it all verges on becoming one damn thing after another.

I suppose Reynolds (and Gollancz) didn’t want to publish this as two books. That would have raised the cost too, a consideration even in non credit-crunched 2005.

Despite its slight overlengthiness, I did enjoy the ride, though.

Unlike the two previous Kirkcaldy buildings I have featured this is an Art Deco structure built for commercial purposes. Because the company’s presence on High Streets arose mainly between the wars many Burton’s premises are Art Deco. They took advantage of the site here (on a corner in the High Street) to incorporate a sweeping curve.

It looks like the original windows to me. Pity about the street furniture (Belisha beacon, parking regulation notice and CCTV camera pole) spoiling the view of the frontage a bit.

The detailing between the upper and lower windows is very nice.

The tops of the pillars are more like Art Nouveau than Deco. What commercial property nowadays would bother with playful frills like these and the circles above? Modern shop buildings all tend to be functional and architecturally bland; cuboidal boxes. And they’re all on out of town Retail Parks.

The edging on the pediment is a lovely Art Deco embellishment. You really have to be looking at the building to notice this.

Central Park, 10/1/09

Well, that was depressing.
From being unbeaten away we suddenly can’t win, or even draw.
As someone near me at the end said, “They’re a bit less pish than us,” but I still thought they were a better Cowdenbeath side than the last time we played there, in the CIS last season. They were sharper on the ball, more composed.

I must be getting old; I sat in the stand because I didn’t want to endure the uncovered terracing in a downpour. But I still got wet because the roof doesn’t protect the first six rows. The conditions were atrocious; wind and rain, crappy pitch. When it’s like that there’s no sense trying to play football but we always do.

We had one attempt on goal all game. The chance fell to Mark Canning and he screwed it wide. Keegan ought to have bundled in an equaliser but tried to play it with his feet instead. He’s a hold-up striker who can’t hold the ball up and does not have a striker’s instincts.

Cowden had few chances as well. They created nothing inside the box. With the aid of a one-two their left back waltzed from his own half as if our midfield wasn’t there (which, to be fair, it wasn’t) to hit a long shot for the first goal. Mike Dunlop then committed a last man challenge and got sent off, putting the game beyond us. He’d already been booked so should have left the guy. As it was he got a straight red. Cowden didn’t have to push for a goal second half and we created nothing. After a mix-up in our defence their second was a long-range effort as well. Perhaps we should try that, especially with the wind behind us.

Kieran McAnespie, while solid enough, didn’t look like the answer to our midfield problems; the trialist left back didn’t have as good a debut as wee Craigie had in his first game (Ah, I remember it well) but didn’t do much wrong (and may even have a decent throw-in!) Ben Gordon did put a foot wrong but still looked class. Stevie Murray didn’t impact on the game at all. Derek Carcary when he came on rummled them up a bit with his pace but didn’t get enough service.

The ref had a good game up until the last five minutes when he became a homer. Not that it mattered, except for Mark Canning’s booking which wouldn’t have happened if we’d been given the foul we ought to have had a few seconds before.

At least we’re still in the top four.

– who was a member of the most distinctively named 60s pop band Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick and Tich has died.

The band’s name was supposed to be a conflation of their nicknames. Curiously my class at school had a Mick too and a set of other nicknames which were eerily similar. Nowadays we might have set up a tribute band (No. We wouldn’t. Really.) but we always joked we could call ourselves J D, Hodie, Dreek, Mick and Worm. The similarity broke down a bit at that last one, though.

The real band made it big with a series of tersely titled Ken Howard and Alan Blaikley songs, Hold Tight, Hideaway, Bend It, Okay, Zabadak among them, before morphing away from the teen market slightly with a series of wonderfully over the top tracks like Legend Of Xanadu, Last Night In Soho, Wreck Of The Antoinette and Don Juan. Because of the Top Of The Pops appearance with Legend Of Zanadu Dave always thought he’d be remembered as “that guy with the whip.”

When he left the band I had thought he had subsequently become a record producer but various sources including The Independent says he was actually head A&R man for WEA.

After Dave Dee left the rest carried on as DBM&T, changing their sound to try to achieve musical credibility, an endeavour within which the single Mr President wasn’t entirely a failure.

They apparently all got together again latterly to tour the nostalgia circuit.

Dave Dee, 1941-2009. So it goes.

Here’s Last Night In Soho in memoriam.

An incursion.
Doesn’t sound so terrible does it? It’s as if it describes something inadvertent. (Oops, I strayed over a border. I didn’t mean to do that!) It’s almost cuddly.
But my Chambers gives it only as:- a hostile inroad: the action of running in: a sudden attack, invasion.
Not so cuddly after all.
It is in fact an act of aggression.
So why is the news being so mealy-mouthed about this?
Why, even before it happened, was the Israel move into Gaza being called by this less emotive word?
To ask the question is to get the answer. It makes an act of war seem less than that. It defines that act as more acceptable. It attempts to legitimise the bloodshed.
My opinion is that bloodshed is never acceptable: no matter who sheds it. Bombs and tanks in Gaza, rockets on Ashkelon, air strikes on Baghdad; all are equally immoral.
Call a spade a spade.
It’s war. Nothing less. It doesn’t deserve to be sanitised.