Power of the Ad?

My first ever use of Facebook ads finished a short time ago. I can’t be sure exactly when, because they time them in some American West Coast Time and I couldn’t really work out when the ad would appear in any given zone. I went to grammar school, see = I can’t do sums, only French.

Anyway, I hope lots of people saw it, and lots of people downloaded the freebie of The Blood Hound. If you missed it it’ll cost you a gigantic 99p (or cents) and I really think it’s worth it. Some people love it, and some find it too bleak and horrible for words.

Be interested to read your review on Amazon…

But only sleepeth

It took the Covid lockdown to wake me up, it seems. I realised I hadn’t written on this page for so long I’d forgotten I had it. Written plenty of other things in the meantime – novels, novellas, scripts, even the odd letter – but my old mother always used to say I was a lazy sod. She was a woman though, and they have a different attitude to work. They do it, we think about it…

She’d probably be quite pleased that I was moved to do this because I had something to give away, however. Generous was Dot. And she was not cynical enough to realise the freebie was just a way of getting people to remember my existence. (Oh yes she was!)

It’s a novella called The Blood Hound, and it’s free on Amazon for a couple more days. Not much of a gift, you might think, because it’s only 99p for the rest of the time. I priced it so low because a few of my normal prepub readers think it’s too unpleasant to inflict on Joe Public. It recounts, in fictional form, the true story of a barber in Blackburn, Lancs, who raped and murdered a seven-year-old neighbour called Emily Holland, whose grave and memorial still exist in the local cemetery. It is a gruesome tale, and a weirdly troubling one. The governor of the jail where William Fish was hanged described him as the gentlest prisoner he had ever known.

I, obviously, think the unpleasantness is a vital part of the book. I’ve always found it worrying how black and white murders come out in the wash of fiction, and I wanted to contrast the genuine vileness of Fish’s act with the fact that he was a loved and loving father and husband. He said himself he did no know why he had done it – he had ‘not intended to’ – and his wife said she had forgiven him, whatever that might mean.

But the fact remains it is unpleasant. And maybe the people who hate it are right. It has many vociferous supporters, however, and maybe they are right as well. What? Is this possible? Who knows.

Anyway it’s up on Kindle, it’s free if you get your finger out, and it’s also available in paperback from the same Amazon site. The Scottish writer Brendan Gisby described it as ‘the finest piece of reportage since Capote’s In Cold Blood.’ I hope he’s right.


Swine Before Pearls

Odd where you get your fun from, innit? As an ex Brookside writer, I agreed to do a brains trust type gig at a literary beanfeast in Malpas, in the depths of Cheshire, with three of the other stalwarts – Jimmy McGovern, Andrew Lynch, and John Oakden, one of the festival organisers, who lives in the area.
None of us knew what to expect, but anything’s better than boredom, and we were promised a good lunch at a local pub. Then we faced about fifty people who did not look, to be frank, like what you’d imagine Brookie fans to be.
Respectable, well-heeled, polite. Unlikely to bury a redundant loved-one under the patio in Brookside Close. (Although you never know, do you?)
John decided the best way forward was to just sit on the platform (without even a glass of gin to hand) and talk about the show and how we’d got on to it, and how it had fitted in with our life as writers. Then we’d offer ourselves up to be questioned, or even filleted.
I was a bit dubious to start with, especially about my role in it. I came to the series later than the others – who were, in fact, all ‘founder members’ – and I was a Southerner who still can’t even do an approximation of a Scouse accent. I didn’t think I’d get scragged in respectable Cheshire/ Shropshire, but the possibility was there…
And anyway, talking about a show that ended several years ago…well, would anybody still be interested?
They were, and so were we. John gave a general introduction, then the anecdotes began to flow. I admitted my outsider status – when I joined I was basically a novelist – and how it felt to be enveloped in the warmth and generosity of that weird and wonderful entity that is ‘The Pool.’
I also remembered a great number of things about the set-up, and the personalities of some of the writers, actors, and directors. And how bizarre it felt on the Friday after
the monthly script meeting to sit in my local and wait for the phone call that would tell me if I’d got an episode or not.
There were twelve of us writers, and eight episodes per month. Even as a grammar school boy I could do that bit of maths. Plus, each time I got an episode I had to buy all my mates a round!
We spoke for about an hour, much to our amazement, and the audience would have stayed for more, I guess. They certainly had not run out of questions when a halt was called. But the festival must go on, as they say. And the boozer was calling.
There was a woman there, whose name, shamefully I did not catch, who sketched us as we talked, then showed us the results. I was easily the most handsome, but then I used to be a journalist as well and therefore should never be believed.
Naturally enough, in this era of instant communication, somebody else knew her name, and sent it to me, with one of the sketches. This happened, madly, because I have a Facebook friend called (this is TRUE) Jan Needle, who buzzed it on to me. Jan Needle is a woman, without a beard, and we have never met. I thank her for her generosity!
So I can now reveal the artist is called Julia Midgley, and if I can I’ll sent on the message and the pic. I’m a scribbler though, not a techie wizard, so gawd knows what’ll happen. If owt.
But after the festivities it was back to Liverpool for Jimmy, and St Helens for me and Andy (who had a bed for me), and down the road to his own lovely house for John. Andy and I ended up outside a night-club in St Helens (yes, you heard me right!) where we were to meet Johnny Vegas and his wonderful PA Bev Dixon for a special do.
Sadly, Lynch had got the date wrong by a month (I won’t say typical but he is St Helens born and bred) so we hung around in the cold until we did the sensible thing.

A good night’s sleep and then back home in time for Gentleman Jack with the amazing Suranne Jones. As the French might say, quell weekend!

Well I tried me best, but failed. Clcik on this link and you might see the pic though. Fingers crossed.

PS Apologies to people who’ve left comments and feel I’m ignoring them. I’m only feeling my way…  Hopefully, I’ll get there later….

The Hunchback Rides Again

There are all sorts of aspects of the Notre Dame fire which are fascinating. As well as being a tragedy, it shows how some tragedies are worse than others, for instance. No one died, and within days money was pouring in from all over the world to rebuild it. Monsieur Macron, facing a difficult election soon must have thanked his lucky stars.
    Conspiracy theorists please form an orderly queue.
    And what, you may ask, of other governments’ responses to such horrors? What about that fire in London last year? People died, you may remember. A hideous number of them. Large sums of money were also contributed to a fund for the bereaved and the homeless. Many of them are still homeless. Many of them still hover on the shores of destitution.
     Victor Hugo wrote an amazing novel about the cathedral, which like many of his works was so enormous that many of us found it hard to finish. (As did he, in fact. His publishers had to grovel on their metaphorical knees to get him to finally deliver the late, late manuscript.) His original title made no reference to the poor destitute creature Quasi Modo, found abandoned outside the cathedral and whose life became intertwined with it, but it was due to him that the book finally became a world property – on the back of Hollywood, natch.
    And now, Hugo’s great classic is selling like hot cakes again in France. Nowt like publicity, is there? In which spirit I might refer you to my own ‘version’ and translation, which i did for Walker Books, and which was illustrated by David Hughes. His pictures were so amazing, and uncompromising, that many people seemed to think they should not have appeared in what was seen (by the English) as a children’s/young adults’ book.
It’s still available, and I still think it’s one of my better works (not least for the illustrations!). You can always Google it…

Off to Sea Once More….

The Sea Officer Bentley Thrillers: A naval fiction box set

In the words of the fine old song, ‘We’re Off to Sea Once More.’

Or to put it another way, my four 18th century sea books about the troubled young officer William Bentley have just been brought out as a box set by Endeavour Press. Which means that for a ridiculously low price (eight quid I think, without being arsed to actually check) you can follow his adventures from a greenhorn to a captain, from a virgin to a haunted sexual being, from a believer in the nobility of his calling and the British Navy to a man of complex crises.

Like many young men – children? – of his era he was lucky enough to be turfed out of house and home to live with several hundred men in a floating murder-machine, trained and moulded by older officers who ranged from geniuses to psychopaths, turned into heroes or corpses for the greater good and glory of the noblest and most self-satisfied country the world had probably ever known.

It was indeed a signal privilege to fight and die for England. To forge the greatest and bloodiest empire of modern times. To set the guidelines for the way Pax Britannica came to be seen by the world today.

William Bentley, a Hampshire boy, was lucky enough to have an uncle, Daniel Swift, who would take him on his frigate Welfare as a midshipman. Swift was a natural teacher, with a view of the men and officers under his command that everyone admired. Until they tasted, and endured, it.

Men like Jesse Broad, a seaman and a smuggler, ripe to be pressed, and destined to be hated by his savage captain. His natural nobility was a magnet to the young midshipman – and a red rag to the bull that was Daniel Swift. The ending of the first book – A Fine Boy for Killing – is agreed by many critics to be truly horrific.

It also sets the scene for the long rise to maturity of Sea Officer Bentley, and his fight for some sort of honourable survival. The survival and honour, also, of the woman he is born to love. Deborah – Deb – the Portsmouth slavey, the seagoing whore, the Spithead Nymph.

The books are too bleak for some, but I can’t help that, can I? I started writing them as a alternative to the gung-ho delights of the great books of the tradition, and as my stories developed, my view grew bleaker. I do mean great, however. Hornblower was my first love, Aubrey when he came along.

They stirred my blood, I read them passionately. But I somehow felt I owed it the poor sods who actually did our bloody work for us that we should maybe taste the blood as well. Nelson came home pickled in brandy, and Emma Hamilton, who had to sell her body for the first time at fourteen or so, died a penniless alcoholic in France. Their daughter was acknowledged as Nelson’s only in her name, Horatia.

To us British, some forms of honour are more important than others, aren’t they?

Art and populism

Here’s a sign of the times, and a worry. What with Michael Jackson, that American film-maker (supply names ad lib) and all the other people who think little boys are there to be fucked and fondled (and girls as well), coupled with the rise of populism, people like The Donald, and the trend for dismissing anything you don’t like as Fake News, truth, art, et cetera, are on shaky grounds indeed. Today I read that Lolita is now in the firing line, which is horrifying.
If you haven’t read it, hard luck. I picked up on it when I was seventeen or so, and decided it was a howling masterpiece. I’ve never changed my mind. It tells the story of a paedophile called Humbert Humbert, who falls in love/lust with a girl of twelve. As you’d expect from Nabokov the prose is nothing short of wonderful, and his characterisation is complex and disturbing. For the ‘hero’, the story is a tragedy. For Lolita – well, it’s hard to say. Which I think is the point.
It’s a deeply serious novel, about a deeply serious subject. And titillating, I do assure you, it is not. Fast forward to today. Here’s a digest of today’s piece in the Bookseller.

‘Jonathan Cape’s Dan Franklin has said he wouldn’t be able to publish  Lolita – about a man’s obsession with a 12-year-old girl – were he to be offered it today, because of the #MeToo phenomenon and changing attitudes among a younger generation.
‘Quoted by Rachel Johnson in a Spectator article, Franklin told the publication: “You can organise outrage at the drop of a hat. If Lolita was offered to me today, I’d never be able to get it past the acquisition team — a committee of 30-year-olds, who’d say, ‘If you publish this book we will all resign.’
‘Johnson’s piece references trigger warnings in universities for material with sensitive content and the use of morality clauses in publishing contracts, describing publishing as having “a massive attack of wokeness”.
‘Also quoted is literary agent Natasha Fairweather of Rogers, Coleridge and White, who commented: “The real story is about what is happening in the world of young adult publishing, where the mood is becoming so militant that you are no longer allowed to write from the perspective of anyone other than yourself. Amelie Wen Zhao withdrew her book from publication with a Twitter post that read like a Stalin-era apology.”
‘Zhao asked her publisher, Random House’s Delacorte imprint in the US, to delay publication of her YA debut following criticism online of a slave auction scene.
Meanwhile Curtis Brown chair Jonathan Lloyd was quoted on the furore surrounding writer Dan Mallory, the author of thriller The Woman in the Window (HarperCollins), accused in a very lengthy New Yorker article of fabricating his past and lying about having cancer. Lloyd told the Spectator: “We all knew he had fantasies. Does the fact that he might be a bipolar fabulist detract from his abilities to write a novel? Not in the least.”‘

So that appears to be it. Never mind the quality, feel the width. How would Voltaire have got on, do you think? Or DH Lawrence? Or practically every serious writer there’s ever been? The business, surely, is to examine, to reveal, to investigate – to show human beings and their foibles – however vile. Upset the reader, if you must – because you MUST.

I’m using this last sentence as a joke, honestly: ‘It’s political correctness gone mad.’