Adrian Mole.

So I've not done much over the past four days, which is pretty much the central idea of (my) Christmas. I've left the house to go to the pub, go for a walk, and buy a camera. I can live with that, I've had man-flu!

It's after two and I'm still awake, thanks mainly to a combination of The Lives Of Others (ace film) and Adrian Mole & The Weapons Of Mass Destruction (ace book) which have consumed much of my evening. (Was meant to be at In The Trees tonight but I refer you to the above man-flu.)

Part of my evening has also been taken up by the BBC adaption of The 39-Steps, but I'd prefer not to dwell on that because it was A: pitiful, B: features Rupert Penry-Jones (who slid far too easily into the role of a right wing, militaristic toff/twat who is borderline Bond at the very best) and C: the admittedly good looking bastard kept his clothes on.

Frankly, the only decent Christmas TV has been Wallace & Gromit and Dr Who. The films have been sub-par selections, The Royle Family was disappointing, and most of the rest of it was forgetful. But at least I got to read The Tales of Beedle The Bard, which are a miniature joy.

Future Resolutions.

As it's the end of 2008 people are talking about New Year's resolutions. Not sure if I have any to make though. The whole get my life back on track / fresh determination thing happened last year and it's going swimmingly. I've paid off a load of my debts, written a book which I'm in the process of preparing to submit to agents, got started on some kind of career, and have started planning a move south.

On the other hand I've put on a bit of weight. Maybe Pilates is the answer? Because I'm sure as fuck not eating less food.



Hmmm, suddenly that looks like a lot of fun...

David Mitchell on Christmas

The man speaks a glorious truth, each and every word.

We of the Christmas-liking tribe will keep the Christmas-cynic tribe in perpetual subjugation - they will be made to join in whether they like it or not and particularly if not. They will never, if we can help it, be permitted to "get away somewhere hot" but, if they do, we can be confident that our allies overseas will besiege them with spray-on snow and piped-in Slade even as they sweat round the pool.

Gormenghast.

To north, south, east or west, turning at will, it was not long before his landmarks fled him. Gone was the outline of his mountainous home. Gone that torn world of towers. Gone the grey lichen; gone the black ivy. Gone was the labyrinth that fed his dreams. Gone ritual, his marrow and his bane. Gone boyhood. Gone.

There’s something startlingly unique about the language used by Mervyn Peake. He writes in ways I just can’t comprehend doing myself, and could only ever offer a hollow imitation of if I tried, but when I read his letters they just seem perfect. His sentences are slow, lengthy and weighted with adjectives, but they read so well. His descriptions are unlikely and shouldn’t work but they do. A favourite of mine in the first of his Gormenghast books, the knuckles of rock and blasphemous towers paint images so clear I actually found myself wondering just how the BBC adaptation ended up looking like it did.

Then again, though I quite liked the BBC version, it pales to the books because the books are so magnificently unfilmable. The vast and magnificent Countess Gertrude, the stick insect of Flay, the ungainly and sinister charm of Steerpike, even the wrinkled midgetness of Mrs Slagg; none of these things could ever be portrayed right, because Peake’s language conjours visions that could only ever work in the mind. Celia Imrie is an amazing actress, but (even fat suited as she was) Peake’s image of the slow dignity of the Countess as she escapes the library can never be matched on-screen to on page.

The final chapter of the first book (without a doubt the greatest ending I’ve ever read) when the city of Gormenghast is deserted, and Gertrude’s cats swarm in frantic horror among deserted halls looking for her... well, it’s impossible for me to replicate, impossible for anyone really. I’m thinking about this because I just picked up the third book and idly started reading, had to force myself to stop because it was sucking me in and I have other books to finish first. But soon (“my sweet” as the mountainous cook Swelter would doubtlessly add). Soon.

Silly dear.

According to BBC News an Austrian actor has slashed his own throat on stage after being given a real knife by mistake instead of a collapsable one.

The audience apparantly thought the special effects were brilliant

Stirling work from BBC 4.

I have had to literally tear myself away from BBC4 just now, because otherwise I simply won't sleep. But I've just had a very informative couple of hours courtesy of it, and I was so tempted to watch (for a second time) the latest Andrew Graham Dixon program on Giogio Vasari. But had I done that I would have been dead to the world tomorrow.

Screenwipe was first up, and I very much enjoyed this week's episode. Charlie Brooker has assembled a line-up of some of the best screenwriters working in British television right now, and I'm just thrilled to find I share things in common with Russel T Davies. It was interesting to see people talk about the process of writing, and to be assured that everybody has the same problems, and the same doubts, and the variety of ways you can work.

What probably made me happiest was realising I was in the luckier class of writers, the ones that don't have to plan ahead, but can just sit down and start to write and go from there. It's a process that's written me (so far just the first drafty of) a book I'm very proud of, and as I found this afternoon I actually found fun to read when browsing through in preparation for a second draft. So I must be doing something right.

Mind, the program didn't answer the question I most want answered, which is whether these second drafts / rewrites is just editing what's there already, or actually starting afresh. And how you know when it's ready, for that matter.

Following that was Mark Lawson's interview with John le Carre, an absolutely fascinating program which I think has actually told me a lot. Actually no, that's a lie, it's told me a lot about him and his books, what it's done for me is help confirm things in my head and give me a boost of self-confidence. Both programs did that actually. In particular his attitude towards the genre-fiction / literary-fiction divide was extraordinarily nice to hear, and in the same way as Neil Gaiman and Susannah Clarke (among others) he's almost become a standard bearer (to me) of just how brilliant genre fiction can be.

Also le Carre's talk of his earliest books (the two early Smiley books, the second of which I have recently finished) and his attitude to them is helpful (very similar to Philip Pullman's attitude to his earliest books to my eyes). They're learning exercises in a way (the phrase he used was something like finger-tapping) it's alright to make mistakes, and it's alright to be overly imitative of your influences (something I'm quite acutely aware of when I look at my own writings).

It all leads me to confirm to myself what I've long known, Smiley absolutely pisses on Bond.

The pleasure of short stories.

I know all about not judging a book by it's cover, and it's a sentiment I thoroughly agree with (I have an unfinished short story lurking in the innards of my iBook somewhere which is essentially a rant on this topic, thinly disguised as fiction). But allowing the eye to be caught by a pretty edition (this one, to be precise) can sometimes be a very good thing.

I was vaguely aware of Angela Carter but had very little knowledge of her work, but this book is magnificent, a beautiful collection fairy stories from all corners of the world. I'm becoming more and more attached to short stories, both in writing and reading them, I'm also (finally) stopping reading collections of them as though they were a novel, and ploughing through a full book. While this is sometimes fun (I recently read Neil Gaiman's Fragile Things as if it were a novel, and very satisfying it was too) it can deprive of another pleasure. Which is just flicking to a random tale, slap bang in the middle of a book, and enjoying it as it's own work, even if it's only a page or two long. Carter's book (actually two works, combined into one after her death) is something to be enjoyed in that manner, and look how pretty it is!



Short stories online are also catching my eye at the moment, I stumbled across a site I had forgotten about recently called Edit Red which I uploaded a number of short stories to a year or so ago. I quickly deleted most of what was there (because they made me wince) and uploaded Firebird this afternoon; and I already have a nice comment! Having a brief browse through Edit Red and it's promising, obviously quality is variable, but there's plenty of gems in the shit.

In a similar vein, the website East of the Web is also great for perusing random short stories. Like Edit Red its content is from user submission, but they have a fair bit of quality control and so generally the quality is better. I may be sending them some things shortly.

The very definition of self conscious.

This picture rocks my world. You can see the painful realisation on every face.



Tonight, old episodes of Frasier on Youtube are also rocking my world. I miss Ros and Niles especially.

I also took the opportunity to watch the overbearingly titled 24: Redemption (sigh, too much TV in a night, I was meant to be at a gig and everything!) in which the Africans were next in line to torture Jack Baur (or is it Bower?). I think I managed to make it half way through series 1 before I gave up, and to be honest this tv movie didn't exactly change my mind. Especially since Robert Carlyle got killed.

Simple fact is I can handle a cold, calculating bastard of an anti-hero, which is what people say Jack Bower is but actually isn't. Instead what we have is a sentimental tit who sneers at the UN (bit rich from a yank), shoots people (good in entertainment) and goes all gooey over a bunch of kids (bad in entertainment). James Bond would have left the bastards to die, and that is why I prefer James Bond.

Final thing, since posting the clip of Pair Bambi I've come across the MP3 of the full version of the song, which is ace because they only used two thirds of it in the film and I'd never heard the full thing.

For your listening pleasure.

Gosh, I am posting a lot today (though some of it is classed as tomorrow technically).

Speaking of the Alec Guinness effect I saw A Handful of Dust recently, a film I found very different to my expectations and which I ended up liking a lot more than the early scenes led me to hope.

It's a very stark movie under the sumptuous period drama styling, and it makes the world seem incredibly morally barren. The ending (the best part of which doesn't seem to be online, something I'll remedy if I get the chance) beats even The Wicker Man in its ability to disturb. I don't know if this is because of the lack of theatricality which Edward Woodward's screaming climax brought to Robin Hardy's horror, or just because Alec Guinness played so creepily against his type (or what is his type to me, at any rate).




On a slightly lighter note check out this little gem of a song from Ebirah: Horror of the Deep (Japanese title Gojira, Ebirâ, Mosura: Nankai No Daiketto), which still ranks as the best Godzilla flick hands down. A new (in the seventies at least) version of Mothra's song performed by Pair Bambi appearing as Mothra's twin priestesses.

This film was one of the lights of my childhood and it irritates me when people who've never seen a proper monster movie in their lives wax on about the original Godzilla, while sneeringly condemning the many ace films that followed it (until the horrendous early nineties revival which saw a tedious stab at darkness and realism not shaken off until the fabulously campy Final Wars). This is the kind of thinking that leads to Cloverfield people.

A Murder of Quality.

So I finished another John le Carré book, and in doing so I've noticed something a little peculiar about everything of his I've read, which is that I pay attention to chapters, and that's not normally something I do. In fact I usually tend to ignore the bloody things and put down a book at any random (often utterly inappropriate) point, but with le Carré it's finish a chapter and take a break, even if it's only for ten minutes before picking it up again. I find that if I don't I have to stop and go back to the start of that particular chapter.

But that's the first two Smiley books out of the way anyway, and I'm very tempted to just skip ahead to Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy (or even The Tailor of Panama, the film adaption of which I adored) but I think I'd rather read them in order of writing.

But that's the future, right now I have some Sherlock Holmes and Elizabeth Kostova to get on with (not to mention some uni work at some unspecified point of the future, if I'm ever going to free myself of the shackles of my own insipid attempts at academia). But George Smiley, you are truly something, and I don't think it's (just) the Alec Guinness effect.

The Butterfly Tattoo.

Speaking of Philip Pullman it seems he has a new film coming out, and while not exactly making up for the possible cancellation of The Subtle Knife (which admittedly could still happen) it does look rather interesting.

I like Pullman's expressed intentions for the book (well, one of them, I doubt it was the only one) to show an Oxford rather closer to its present day reality than an Oxbridge fantasy fueled by one too many wine fueled viewings/readings of Brideshead Revisited (the period drama of choice for those whom Pride & Prejudice just doesn't provide quite enough repressed homosexuality).

I'll be rather looking forward to this I think.

Philip Pullman on narrators.

Nice little snippet which makes a lot of sense, it's had me pondering about my own narrators (again) who seem to keep drifting from something quite neutral to a person in his/her (their?) own right.

I don't think the narrator is male or female anyway. They're both, and young and old, and wise and silly, and sceptical and credulous, and innocent and experienced, all at once. Narrators are not even human - they're sprites. So there are no limits, no areas, or characters, or sexes, or times, where these sprites can't go. And they fix on what interests them. I wouldn't dream of deliberately choosing this or that sort of person, for political or social or commercial reasons, to write a book about. If the narrator isn't interested, the book won't come alive.

Have a look here.

The vocal prowess of Christopher Lee,

I need to see this film.

Mince Pies.

As I'm off work today and have the house to myself I've decided to have a gay baking day. Just made the pastry for my mince pies.

To be honest this is probably going to be the highlight of my weekend.

The divine Septimus Hodge is still absent from our screens.

Considering some works which do manage to get the big screen treatment, when the hell is Arcadia going to get something?

Or The Pillow Man for that matter?

Come on, even a BBC drama would do.

Went to see my dentist on Monday.

That man is far too handy with his drilly thing, a little mercy for my tortured gums please.

I've spent the past four and a half day with an agonising pain in my mouth that is quite clearly my teeth being attacked by dark forces (possibly a Sith). All I can say is thank the Dark Lord for Solpadine, when it comes to the end of each four hours all I can think of is my next hit.

Picked up the penicillin today, start it tomorrow, I'd better be still able to drink.

Northern Lights from space (and a scary Clinton / Palin alliance).

I like this, a lot.




This also rocks my world.

I'm in that position.

The position where I don't know if the exciting new idea I've had is going to be A: something that actually works out as a tangible story or B: another aborted piece of shit written overly influenced by something I've just read / watched / heard / seen (in this case the BBC adaption of Smiley's People).

I like the start though.

Interview.

Writing that little pageant to The Winter King reminded me of this, an article I wrote back in 2005 for The (pathetic excuse for a student newspaper) Northumbria Student. I blagged an interview with Cornwell (on top of a lot of other things) when I went to the Hay festival that year and to be blunt I was cacking myself. I've still got the interview somewhere, which will be dug out another day.

==========

Waiting to interview one of your favourite authors is unnerving, I am possibly about to make a fool of myself, worse he could turn out not to be very likable. Hardly the best of thoughts as I’m waiting to meet Bernard Cornwell, scarily successful author of the Sharpe books (among others). I should have been less worried of course, I was delighted to find Cornwell was easy going, self depreciating, humorous, talented and with a clear love of what he does. All I had to do was not make a tit of myself.

Although Cornwell isn’t specifically promoting The Last Kingdom, the first work in a series set during the Danish invasions of our own Northumbria, it is fair to say it was the prominent point of the interview. I had just finished reading the work, enthralled at a tale set in places I’ve grown up around, particularly the beautiful Bamburgh Castle. Told from the perspective of the Northumbrian Uhtred, based roughly on Cornwell’s ancestor, embroiled not only in a family struggle for rulership, but also in the war between the Danes and King Alfred.

“I knew sod all about the Vikings,” says Cornwell, talking of the inspiration for the work, “the cause that started me off on it was meeting for the first time my real father three years ago. And discovering that the family had come from Northumberland and in fact they had once called themselves the Kings.”

He goes on to tell how he became fascinated with the history of his family, stressing this account is purely fictional, with so little known of the Dark Ages historical accuracy is impossible.

"That’s wonderful for novelists,” he adds with a smile, “if they don’t know, then I can make it up.”

The work is a tale of a roguish man who is our eyes to the famous figures and events of the day, from Uhtred’s perspective we see Alfred the Great, envisaged controversially as a devious and clever politician.

“I think that before he was a warrior he was a thinker, a scholar and a churchman.” says Cornwell, who has extensively researched Alfred, of his unsympathetic portrayal. “It doesn’t add up to the picture of a great warlord, it adds up to the picture of a very clever man.”

Similarly Cornwell’s dislike of religious puritanism, something he links to his religious stepparents, shines clear. It is fair to say the spreading Christianity comes across as downright inferior to the Pagan cultures of the Danes and Northumbria.

“It’s a more attractive culture isn’t it? That’s partly because I’m obviously attracted to the roguish nature of the Danes and I’m not particularly attracted to the piety of Alfred’s Wessex.” He isn’t kidding, in lifestyle, thoughts and actions Wessex and other devout Christians seem positively pathetic compared to the fiery, passionate Danes.

“Denmark now has to be one of the dullest countries on God’s earth. Yet back then they were tearing a swathe through Anglo-Saxon England, tearing up all the regulations and that makes them fascinating and abhorrent and interesting and awful.”

Cornwell refers to the French poet André de Chénier, who accused Robespierre of wishing to issue a certificate for correct thinking. “Puritans are those who make the rules and try and force the rest of us to obey. And it’s not just rules like we should all drive on the left of the road, which is quite sensible, but it’s rules about how you think.”

Similarly, some may find the portrayal of the ideals of the time controversial. Uhtred and his fellow characters act as Dark Age Northumbrian’s would, and events of a sometimes horrific natures are presented as a normal part of life. Not only war and violent slaughter, but such spectacles as human sacrifice, for which Cornwell is unapologetic.

“Simply put you can’t be Sharpe, or Uhtred, or Derfel... and be squeamish, I’m squeamish but they’re not.”



Copyright John Conway - 2005 - john.charles.conway@googlemail.com

Holy Island.

A trip to Lindisfarne is in order soon I think, for research if nothing else. You introduce a murder of crows and a mid ninteenth century psychopath notorious for his metal fingers and flying-squirrel like jumping ability and you wind up in all sorts of places.

Going to have to get someone to come with me though, seems such a wasted trip otherwise. I wonder if everybody else feels so weird travelling alone?

The Winter King.

Oof, looking down recent entries there's far too many Youtube clips. I’m (trying to be) a writer God-dammit, so lets talk about books. Or rather, a book.

I'm nearly finished ploughing through The Winter King, first book of Bernard Cornwell's stab at the King Arthur folklore. A book I only picked up because the BBC's current Merlin series is so hit and miss that it's left me longing. The hole has been filled, this book has me avidly reading at half six in the morning on my way to work, and at that time the best I can usually manage is to listen to fabulous eighties music.

Cornwell's writes historical fiction, and this - despite the limited knowledge retained of the dark ages - is a historical book. The fantasy element is gone, mostly, and what magic there is more resembles tricks as seen by a sceptical narrator. An Arthur that bares any resemblance to this, or any other, of the famous portrayals (no matter how old) of course could never have existed. The brilliance of this book (and hopefully the successors, which I have yet to read) is it makes you believe it could have.

Arthurian Britain, in all of it's savage, dangerous, beguiling nature is opened up for us behind the plot and mythical names. We see a country desperately trying to recover from the Roman withdrawal and the subsequent vacuum; old and new religions and powers are vying for dominance in a place with no firm boundaries of country or nationality. I once saw Bernard Cornwell in conversation with the late George MacDonald Fraser (a public one, I'm not a stalker yet) and Fraser was spot on when he said you want to know about a period, then read Cornwell's book of it. (It's been three years, paraphrasing is a necessity, but he did say it.) He's right too, very right. Sharpe can make you an expert on the Peninsula wars, Uhtred on the Danish invasions, and Derfel on the post Roman turmoil and Saxon wars.

As ever in Cornwell's books we see great and famous events / people from the point of view of an everyman. The Saxon immigrant Derfel has that same feel of Richard Sharpe (a good if coarse man whose position is raised by a gumbo of skill, intelligence and sheer luck) and others. The famous figures are held back, allowing the myriad of others (not to mention the narrator) to establish themselves before being overwhelmed by Arthur, Guinevere, Lancelot, Galahad and of course Merlin. Only the lesser known such as Nimue and Uther Pendragon loiter in the early chapters (and they themselves rear mightily from the page).

I’ve loved Cornwell’s books, ever since a youthful crush on Sean Bean drew me away from the fantasy books in Heddon library and towards the stories of Richard Sharpe (with Bean smouldering on the green covers). Because they’re exciting, because they feel as close to how it was as you can feasibly get with written fiction, because morality is as blurred as life and because they satisfy a very boyish desire for action, romance and adventure.

I can’t believe I didn’t read it sooner to be honest.

Short Story (card) - Lady Death.

This didn't win (mind, having seen some of the winners, I'm not overly sure I'm that bothered) and was a touch rushed, but here's my entry into that Waterstone's story card competition some time back.





Copyright John Conway - 2008 - john.charles.conway@googlemail.com

The Law of Diminishing Returns.

Twenty years since Watermark, well, I suppose you can't reinvent the wheel twice. On the other hand Enya lives in a castle and I don't, so she wins.

Actually, if I'm honest, I rather liked the single.

A Study in Emerald ebook.

HarperCollins are hosting a free download of the ebook of Neil Gaiman's very ace Sherlock Holmes vs. H.P. Lovecraft short story, here

The text can also be found here.

The Three Minute Wicker Man.

Perfection perfected.

I'm shocked.

George Smiley just went into a sex club, pure filth.

For other filth I went to see Russell Howard last night, he was of course ace (and a little bit sexy), and I have been been thoroughly entertained (over and over) by this...

A new favourite place to die.

Though not, I have no hesitation in adding, for me.

Yes.

I was a Ghostbuster.

The Alpha/Beta Key to Unlocking Success in Gay Relationships

If ever there was a reason to make gay men shudder at changes in the world, then this book is it.

The Greenest Republican.

My favourite line in the papers today, courtesy of The Guardian.

The speculation resurfaced this week in the Wall Street Journal in a piece by Keith Johnson, lead writer for the paper's environment blog, who cited the California governor's impressive record on green policy, from support for renewable energy to running one of his Hummers on biofuel.

Beautiful People Is Over. Dammit.

I'm sad this show's finished (lets hear it for series 2), I'm even sadder it didn't go out on a stronger episode. Olivia Coleman is of course brilliant, and Aidan McArdle is just gorgeous.

Edit - I've just been informed (by the internet, since nobody I know will see sense and watch this brilliant show) that the actress who played Tameka (also called Tameka in real life, which make me happy) is the same actress who was easily the best thing in the (admittedly overrated) A Beautiful Thing, the Mama Cass obsessed Leah.

Sadly Youtube has failed me, and the hundreds of Leah clips I expected turned out to be the (only) one below.

They're Made Out Of Meat.

I like this, I like this a lot.

Obama Wins.

Brilliantly.

But...

It's really starting to get on my tits that (what feels like) most of the people I know have gone from (repeatedly) stating that a black man could never become US president to (repeatedly) stating with the same certainty that he'll be shot. Well go you experts, if only we all got our knowledge of America from repeats of Louis Theroux and Top Gear.

Halloween weekend.

A rather quiet patch recently has been happily broken by Halloween weekend in London. A very busy one, but all the more fun for it. It started with the new Bond on Friday morning (it's only real flaw if I'm honest - on one viewing - is the rather gaping hole where the plot should be), followed by a train to London infested by middle class bratlings, and then straight to the London School of Economics (of all places) to see Neil Gaiman do a reading and a signing.

It was an interesting event, made more interesting by the fact he seemed to be in a bit of a bad mood. He did a reading from The Graveyard Book - the complete chapter 5 happily which was where I had reached on the train - then answered some questions. The girl I sat next too was a little irritating mind, making sure she laughed extra hard at the joke or two aimed at readers of his blog. We all get it love, move on.

It was pleasant to see Gaiman himself, he's better looking than I expected (God, how fickle am I?), and had a delightful reading voice. Attributes immaterial to his actual profession of course, in particular when he writes so beautifully, but handy for promotional work. I finished The Graveyard Book on the train home last night and it's astonishing. I think I fell a little bit in love with Silas, and I’d imagine I’m not the only one. Afterwards I queued for the signing, and given the numbers present I should have expected a long wait. And it was a long wait, made more frustrating knowing a party was waiting for me. But I stayed, and by the time I finally reached him I was quite zoned out, I didn't really say anything (though I suppose by that point Gaiman must have preferred it that way, and I can't say I blame him) and the woman who offered to take our picture together on my camera couldn't use it. Still, I now have a version of Good Omens signed by both authors, and I immensely enjoyed the night.

It being Halloween I spent much of the rest of the weekend with friends, dressed as a Ghostbuster. Two parties happened, plenty of friends. There were some drunken disgraces, thankfully not me, none moreso than the weird Irish guy from next door who tried to pretend somebody had died in order the speak to one of the girls he liked.

Am back home now, and tonight’s planned early bedtime has been totally ruined by the return of a certain Richard Sharpe last night - which was startlingly good (I had been anticipating a mediocre show at best, given the general output of much of ITV’s current output). Sean Bean smouldered, ooh, it’s made me go all tingly.

SFX poll.

Haven't read this magazine in years, but was sent a link to a poll to vote for
the greatest SF or fantasy authors of all time through their website.

I decided to make my list before I read through other peoples, glad I did, though when I read through after many names cropped up I would have liked to say too. Five is too small a number of course. I liked the logic of some of the choices, especially the person who voted for Oscar Wilde on the basis that The Picture of Dorian Gray is a fantasy book (which of course it very much is).

Anyway, my choices...

1. Neil Gaiman - first came across him thanks to Pratchett (Good Omens, incredible book) but it was Sandman and Anansi Boys really got me hooked.

2. Ursula le Guin - A Wizard of Earthsea is one of the most beautiful books I've ever come across. Despite the succinct nature of it and its language every sentence every sentence carries so much meaning, this book is poetry as fiction.

3. Terry Pratchett - everything about this man is brilliant, it was his Witches books I came to first, I loved the way he made Fantasy stare face to face with feminism. And Death, you just want to give him a hug.

4. JRR Tolkien - I know I'm going for all the obvious here, but The Lord of the Rings changed my life, I still have dreams where Gandalf is my Grandad.

5. Jenny Nimmo - I nearly put Mervyn Peake or Susannah Clarke here, but when I think back I can't forget the Snow Spider. Until Tolkien came into my world it was my favourite book ever, when I read it now I still get a tingle down my neck whenever Arianwen appears. When I was a boy I very much wanted to be a wizard, and I very definitely wanted my own snow spider.

So many others I would liked to have included - J K Rowling, Susanna Clarke, Mervyn Peake, Douglas Adams, Frank Herbert, Orson Scott Card (if you haven't read Capitol you really need to) and of course Philip Pullman & Alan Moore.

One person I expected to see mentioned more was CS Lewis, I'm not that bothered as I do think he's overrated, but the backlash against him is getting a bit extreme. At the very least The Magician's Nephew and Prince Caspian are ace.


EDIT: Cannot believe I forgot to mention John Wyndham. The Chrsalids is possibly my favourite book ever!

Been away.

Thailand, Cambodia and Malaysia, what a trip! But now I'm tired, and busy, and jet-lagged, and depressed. Rubbish to be back, rubbish!

First of all you can see my snaps, they're dead sexy and that.

Thailand & Malaysia.

Cambodia 1.

Cambodia 2.

Cambodia 3.

Cambodia 4.

I'm finding more and more

That I'm beginning to narrate my life in my head in the style (and a little bit disturbingly the voice) of David Mitchell. This is a bit odd.

Meetings.

You know what the best feeling in the world is? When you’ve set yourself up with a potentially hot date. You know, the Gaydar route, your profile ever so witty, your pictures showing you at your best.

You know what’s even better than that? Meeting them several hours early, by complete accident, in the checkout que at the Supermarket, straight from work. Not exactly looking your best, and having a basket containing a loaf of Co-op own brand bread and a reduced to clear Microwaveable Christmas Puddings with a large, bright 'Only 99p!' sticker attached. That's what.

So I found out what my daemon is.

Philip Pullman style, Potter fans can of course substitute a patronus.

It's a tiger.

I did the quiz, so I guess I can't complain at the results, especially as Tiger's are (y'know) rock. Things is, I've always been sure my daemon would be a bird...