Land by Maggie O’Farrell

A review

You might have already read some less than flattering reviews of Maggie O’Farrell’s latest novel, Land. She’s hot stuff at the moment in the wake of the Oscar winning film adaptation of Hamnet, so there seems to be more attention focused on this novel, even though it’s not actually a follow up to Hamnet. That was The Marriage Portrait, a weighty novel based on Robert Browning’s narrative poem, My Last Duchess.

Given the brilliance of the original poem, and its familiarity to a generation of GCSE literature students, (one positive achievement of the appalling Mr Gove) and her track record with Hamnet, it was reasonable to expect another tour de force, but in truth it was something of a damp squib in the end. (you can read a fuller review of that novel via the link below)

A Review of “The Marriage Portrait” by Maggie O’Farrell

Land arrives almost as a second chance and is being treated as if it is the real follow up to her Oscar success. So, although I loved both book and film of Hamnet, it was with some trepidation that I started Land, particularly after reading the negative reviews. I needn’t have worried. This is an absolutely beautiful book. Great characters and relationships, great plot and meaty themes, all delivered through wonderful, shining prose. It got better and better as it went on drawing the reader in, principally via a complete engagement with the characters and their situation.

It’s set on the Atlantic coast of Ireland, starting in 1865. The opening scene portrays Tomas, a map maker employed by the occupying Brits, surveying the land in driving rain, in preparation for the production of the finished map. He is assisted by his son, Liam, who is longing to be back home out of the cold and rain. After a mystical encounter in a mysterious ancient copse, Tomas comes to the realisation, via a mental breakdown, that mapmaking, turning Gaelic names into English, is an act of collaboration with the oppressors, and he refuses to continue.

From that vivid scene, a whole series of intertwining threads emerge, at the centre of which is Tomas’ family: his wife Seraphina, and his children Liam, Edna, Rose and Eugene. It’s a generous, far reaching book that explores rich themes, and global settings: India, New York, Liverpool, all figure. It dabbles with magic realism, family multi generational saga, anti colonialism, Catholicism, but somehow manages to weld all of the separate elements into an immensely satisfying whole. In the end,O’Farrell manages to pull this off because of the skill with which she draws the relationships of the family members. We are pulled along because we care about what happens to them.

That makes it a book that is much more satisfying than anything that might tickle the fancy of the “look at me, aren’t I cleverer than you” critic of The Harvard Review, Kazuo Robinson. Robinson’s criticisms are not only mean spirited, they are largely inaccurate. He savages O’Farrell’s prose, quoting several examples to prove his “point” that the writing is twee, vague and lazy. So easy to do, with any novel, if you start reading with pen and paper to hand, principally to record any examples that you can use to the purpose. He is, of course, quite wrong. The writing is beautiful: by turns luminous, lyrical, powerful, precise. He lambasts her for a cliched shamrock green portrayal of the working class characters, for being too “Oirish”, for being too didactic, without once considering whether it’s the writer’s responsibility to portray the whole country and all its people, through her own chosen subjects – setting, plot, characters, themes. Of course, it is not. Her responsibility is to tell an engaging, authentic story – nothing more – and she does that brilliantly.

What a strange approach to a novel of immense and subtle pleasures, to blind yourself to them and to choose instead sneering and nitpicking from your lonely academic ivory tower. Of course, there is no objective truth when it comes to measuring Art, and it’s perfectly acceptable not to like a novel, this one or any other, regardless of reputation, but this feels more like a manufactured pose rather than an honestly held opinion. If you have the misfortune to come across Robinson’s review when scouring the internet, either before or after you read Land, ignore it. Choose life, as Irvine Welsh once said. Choose life and read a lovely book for pleasure.

Travesty!

Tommy Tuchel’s Terrible Tactical Tinkerings.

So the 2026 World Cup, bloated and corrupt, draws to a close having defied the odds and produced a tournament that exceeded all (very low admittedly) expectations. The final was entirely in line with this analysis, a truly dreadful game finally delivering the right result.Spain, by far the best team in the competition, staggered over the line, bruised and bleeding, to give the Argentinian anti-football the kicking it deserved.

Argentina really were disgraceful, even before their childish, violent tantrums in reaction to losing. Dodgy refereeing decisions, the full panoply of foul play ( shirt pulling, diving, harassing the referee, exquisitely timed nudges, trips, punches and body checks out of the referee’s line of vision, through to more blatant kicks, scythes, and general gbh.)

What of England? (This Royal throne of Kings, this sceptered isle, this earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, this other Eden, demi-paradise, this fortress built by Nature for herself against infection and the hand of war, this happy breed of men, this little world, this precious stone set in the silver sea, etc etc. Shakespeare eh? Great writer, but not so hot when it came to churning out catchy chants for the fans on the terraces) On paper, finishing third represents a performance that only the most blinkered fan could have predicted. The 6-4 win over the sublime French team was an extraordinary watch, but the overwhelming impression it left was not of joy or pride, but of regret for what might have been. And it’s all down to Thomas Tuchel, I’m afraid.

I was excited about his appointment. His tenure as manager of Chelsea had provided exhibit A for the case that managers and coaches really do make a difference. A good manager can weld a group of previous under performers into genuine contenders. They forge a team unity, particularly important in these days when the squad wins trophies, not the first eleven. They select the right eleven for each game, set appropriate tactics, and, most significantly, make tactical and personnel changes in mid game, on the back of what they have seen on the field. Generally speaking, that’s the crucial skill that separates the second division manager from the truly elite. Tuchel did all of that at Chelsea (and several other of Europe’s elite club sides) and there seemed no obstacle to him repeating it as manager of England. How wrong I was.

Doubts first began to trouble me with the announcement of the squad. There were some frankly inexplicable decisions. Djed Spence rather than Trent Alexander Arnold (yes, yes, yes, I know, but bear with me). Jordan Henderson, only a year or two away from the ceremonial award of his bus pass. Ivan Toney, an even less effective bollard after a couple of years of taking the Saudi Shilling. No Adam Wharton, the most effortlessly incisive passer of the ball in the Premier League. Dan Burn ahead of Harry Macguire. Noni Madueke. No natural left back included in reserve. (Yes, yes, Djed Spence, I know) I know many people were exercised about the lack of Cole Palmer, Jarrod Bowen, Phil Foden, Morgan Gibbs White etc, but I could understand those decisions.

Spot the difference…

As the tournament progressed, England seemed less cohesive than under Southgate, the vastly under-appreciated previous manager. One half of slick passing does not a World Cup winner make. Up until the Mexico game, it all seemed very familiar. Highly talented players in the England squad arrive at the tournament physically and mentally exhausted after a gruelling, ultra competitive Premier League campaign. Many of them will have played sixty plus games, so playing for England with unfamiliar tactics against the world’s best is usually just a bridge too far. The turning point was the game against Mexico. A combination of slick, incisive attacking play, and heroic backs- to -the -wall defending with ten men into extra time produced an extraordinary game. Tuchel was hailed for his subs, and the way he got his men over the line. It was to prove a pyrrhic victory and in hindsight, seemed to give Tuchel entirely the wrong message, a message that put paid to England’s dreams of making the final.

Having gone 1-0 up early in the second half, the semifinal was entirely and completely winnable. But then, almost immediately, Argentina were roused from their shithousery, just as they were when two goals down to Egypt. They started to play. First relentlessly pressing England out of all possession, and then, via Messi, working pockets of space, overloads and crossing opportunities. The situation was crying out for Tuchel to work his A- lister magic, to make those three or four subs that would wrest control back with the possibility of exploiting Argentina’s camping in our half , and hitting them on the break.

What he actually did was unfathomable, a schoolboy tactical error that someone on Hackney marshes would have been embarrassed by. A sacking offence, actually, because it lost us the game in an entirely predictable way. That Argentina would react in the way they did to going a goal down was equally predictable. It’s what they do. When they have to score, suddenly they find another gear and commit men forward. They win the ball high, stay high and work space. Why didn’t Tuchel anticipate this and make some subs? If you’re being overwhelmed, you don’t take off attackers for defenders, you strengthen the midfield, particularly when one of your key players is absolutely exhausted.You don’t try and win the headers in the box, you try to stop the crosses coming in. You don’t leave Harry Kane on, barely able to shuffle around the midfield, never mind break forward, particularly when at that point his only threat was going to be from set pieces, but we were nowhere near winning another corner.

There has been a tidal wave of criticism of this online of course, but so much of that has missed the mark entitrely (of course). Let’s be clear: there is absolutely nothing wrong with parking the bus to protect a lead. The greatest sides in history have been willing and capable of doing that. But you have to do it properly. Tuchel’s version of parking the bus was utterly inept. In fact, it wasn’t so much parking the bus, as parking the bus and leaving the key on the dashboard and the door open.

The most infuriating aspect of this is Tuchel’s comments after the match about keeping possession not being “part of England’s DNA”. What?! That was clearly true twenty years ago, but since the blessed Pep, possession is everything. Even teams in Division 2 try to play out from the back. It’s not our DNA you muppet, it’s the players you selected and those you refused to bring on. Kobi Mainoo, for a start. Bring on Mainoo to add legs and numbers to midfield and pass the ball to each other. Bring on Eze to hold the ball. Bring on Saka for forward threat and defensive awareness. Bring on Watkins to replace Kane. Bring on Rashford, for pace and running in behind. It’s unfathomable that Tuchel could not see this.

The players could see it. Wayne Rooney, surprisingly the best world cup pundit by a mile called it right. The minute Konsa came on for Gordon the game was lost and the message to the England players was clear: you’re not good enough against Argentina. That will fester in their minds for ever and a day and they will inevitably have lost some faith, some confidence in their manager. Of course, everyone makes mistakes. But there are mistakes and then there are avoidable catastrophes. This was an example of the latter. There’s only one appropriate response.

Tuchel has to go. Time for Neil Warnock…… (not really)

A final thought about Djed Spence. As a Boro supporter, I’m very familiar with his strengths and weaknesses. Even with us, even after being told by Neil Warnock he was a non-league player, he was still incredibly dangerous going forward, and carried the ball beautifully at pace, but positionally, as a defender, he was hopeless. The positional weakness only becomes an issue when England dominate possession. In a backs-to-the-wall performance, Spence’s speed and tackling make him very hard to beat. He turned into an English equivalent, in terms of tenacious tackling and blocking, of Wan Bissaka. Well done Djed, son. And Boro might pick up a tasty sell-on bonus when Spurs sell him double quick. Not all gloom and doom then!

World Cup Memories

The Trump/ Infantino axis of evil has made it difficult to summon up any enthusiasm for the 2026 World Cup. Add in £1,000 tickets, nonsensical “hydration breaks”, the random banning of foreign nationals (press, players, officials and trainers) and the outrageously bloated size of the tournament and “difficult “ becomes “impossible”.

And yet, a couple of weeks into the tournament, the actual football has slowly begun to work its magic, as it always does. There’s always something inspiring about the way certain teams, outside of the elite tier, emerge to become fan favourites. So far it’s been the thrilling performances of Morocco and Japan, and the never say die spirit of minnows like Cape Verde and Iran that have captured the imagination. Throw into the mix the breathtaking attacking play of Spain and France, and the usual roller coaster of following England and you have a competition that has got off to a great start.

This is the sixteenth World Cup I have watched, starting back in 1966 when I was nine years old. I didn’t know it at the time, but England’s only triumph in that year created deep scars, as it left me with the misapprehension that England were always the best team in world football and would always be contenders. It didn’t take long to disabuse myself of that notion, but it was a painful awakening. Perversely, looking back, there were some unlooked for benefits arising from England’s many failures to qualify back in the Seventies and Nineties. The first of those was being able to focus on the tournament as a whole instead of being obsessed with England’s games. It has been a real pleasure over the years getting to know other teams over the course of 4 weeks or so, watching them grow and develop. Back in the day it was a treat just to see world class players and teams. These days football fans take that for granted, with live games from the best leagues and cup competitions from around the world televised every day of the week. There are rarely any surprises when it comes to players or teams these days because we’ve all already seen them before. There have been some memorable moments in the last sixty years – here are my own personal highlights.

1 Mexico 1970

Still thinking that England were contenders, this was a fabulous tournament to watch. Exciting, glamorous, sun soaked, exotic – the television footage revealed fabulous stadia, loud, crazy fans that seemed a world away from the bovril drinking, pipe smoking old cynics who always seemed to surround thirteen year old me on the terraces of a permanently windswept Ayresome Park. As did the football – outrageous skills displayed to a samba beat, exemplified by the peerless Pele. Funnily enough, it was two slightly more prosaic incidents that live in my memory. The first was Bobby Moore’s tackle on Pele – a masterclass of concentration, calmness and timing.

The second, of course, was Gordon Banks’ astounding save from Pele’s thunderous downward header, involving him scrambling from the near post when the cross came in, to the far post just in time to scoop the ball up from ankle height and over the bar, seemingly in defiance of the laws of physics. We were so close to beating West Germany as well, but for dirty tricks involving Gordon Banks and “food poisoning”.

We were all so impressed by the romance of the Brazilians – Jairzinho, Rivelino et al – so much so that at the beginning of the next season there was a fashion amongst the Boro faithful for renaming our own heroes in the vain hope that some of the exotic magic of Mexico would rub off on them. Transforming Big John Hickton into Hicktino didn’t really do it though. The influence of the Azteca stadium had cast a longer shadow though. When we played kick about football three years later at Newham Grange Park in the Sixth Form, the pitch, in the slightest of depressions in the field, revelled in the name The Azteca.

2. West Germany 1974

My all time favourite World Cup, mainly because I was 17 at the time and everything that happens to you at seventeen, when you’re on the cusp of being an adult, is forever after bathed in a golden light. This was despite the fact that, for the first time in my lifetime, England did not qualify. Incontrovertible proof that we were being left behind in terms of tactics, players and approach. It was also the Johan Cruyff World Cup, (Or Joe Hann Kruff as Jack Charlton called him) the glorious Dutch team and their intoxicating brand of “Total Football”. I vividly remember lying at home on the sofa watching Holland versus Sweden with my Dad, famously a professional cynic and all round curmudgeon when it came to football and anything foreign. When Cruyff executed his now famous turn, I literally fell off the sofa. It’s commonplace now, but back then no-one had ever seen anything remotely like that manouevre. My dad looked up idly from the racing pages of the paper to watch the replay. His verdict? “Clever Clogs. Didn’t bloody score though.”

Other highlights were the wonderful Polish team with flying wingers (Lato in particular) and thrilling overlapping full backs and an extraordinary range of goals scored outside of the box from virtually every team. Tikka takka and endlessly recycling the ball were mercifully absent from this brand of football.

3. Argentina 1978

Another non-qualification, building the legend of “thirty years of hurt.” The Holland team was even better at this tournament and were robbed of the trophy by Argentina, who were characterised by a streak of cynicism to accompany the brilliance of Ardiles and Mario Kempes, possibly the coolest player on the planet then and now. I saw him play regularly in the 1981/82 season. Flowing dark hair, impeccable kit with shirt out of his shorts and a tan that would require many hours on the sunbed now, he strutted around the middle of the pitch, all flicks and feints.

I never saw him tackle, or chase back. He would have choked on his Malbec if someone had explained the concept of pressing to him. But every time he got the ball in the box, he scored. He was absolutely lethal. The overwhelming impression left of this tournament was the ticker tape celebrations seen through grainy and flickering television pictures – the World Cup as an event that was impossibly foreign, far away and exotic.

4. Espana 1982

At last – qualification again! A great world Cup because of a) Bryan Robson and b) I was there! I saw England play Spain and get knocked out after a goalless draw, despite finishing unbeaten. Brooking and Keegan managed not to score a sitter between them. The highlight was going to the Bernabeu to see the final, purchasing tickets at El Corte Ingles a couple of days before the game for pennies (or pesetas). Can’t remember a thing about the game, apart from the Paolo Rossi hattrick and Tardelli’s famous second goal celebration. On the same trip I went to see The Rolling Stones at Atletico Madrid’s stadium, and I can’t remember a thing about that either. Maybe it’s a Madrid thing.

Mexico 1986

This was notable for the emergence of the great Gary Lineker as a world class forward, the first time we had had one of those for years. His hat trick against Poland made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Also notable for the arrival of Maradona on the world stage, a truly great player carrying on the line from Pele and Cruyff. The Hand Of God goal that cheated England out of the tournament hinted at dark undercurrents beneath the surface of genius. His second goal in this game remains one of the greatest goals of all time – outrageous skill, balance and drive.

Italy 1990

My third favourite World Cup after 1974. England had a great team- Lineker, Waddle, Barnes, Walker, Shilton and the young Paul Gascoigne were all world class players – but it appeared to emerge more by luck than judgement after a disappointing start and a bit of player power with the manager Bobby Robson. The semifinal against Germany was a classic world cup game and we were extremely unlucky to go out. Classic BBC coverage cemented this tournament’s place in history, with Nessun Dorma, Des Lynham (“Shouldn’t you be at work?”) and Gazza’s tears. It came at a perfect time when English football was reviving after decades of hooliganism and violence. The seeds were being sown for the gentrification of the sport, and football became a fashionable interest to claim – you can always tell when politicians begin to brag about their love of the game. (remember when the odious David Cameron revealed his essentially phoney persona by confusing Aston Villa and West Ham?)

South Korea and Japan 2002

A personal dimension to this one. I happened to come down with pneumonia right at the beginning of the tournament. It was the perfect illness – I felt absolutely fine as long as I was lying down in bed, but the minute I tried to walk, I felt completely exhausted and ill. Consequently, much to the suspicion of my teaching colleagues at the time, I watched every ball of this world cup – three games a day – and loved all of it. It was a time also notable for the fact that when I wasn’t watching football in bed, I was reading. I read the complete His Dark Materials trilogy by Philip Pullman – the greatest love story in literature. Or maybe that was the pneumonia talking.

So what of this year’s tournament? It’s hard to look beyond France or Spain as winners, but there may well be some shocks ahead. You can’t quite rule out Morocco and if England get past the altitude of Mexico city and the Azteca they could make it to the semi-finals. I fear though that some of Tuchel’s selections will come back to bite him on the bum. Djed Spence instead of Trent? No Harry Macguire or an alternative left back? Jordan Henderson instead of Adam Wharton? If they do get to the final, Declan Rice should retire and donate his body to medical science, if he is still alive by then. They shoot horses don’t they?

Only Breath and Shadow by Andrew Tweeddale – a Review

Only Breath and Shadow is the third book in the Castle Drogo series by Andrew Tweeddale, but it also functions as a standalone novel in its own right. I read it knowing nothing about the first two novels in the sequence, but this did not impair the reading experience. The story is set in Vienna between 1934 and 1939 and charts the rise of the Nazis and the impact of that phenomenon on the whole of Europe in general and the Jewish population in particular. It focuses on the protagonist, Christian Drewe, an upper-class English veteran from World War1 who has been left blind and emotionally and psychologically traumatised by his experiences as an officer. Tweeddale uses his blindness as a metaphor for his emotional detachment from society and his difficulties in allowing himself to open up to anyone else. This sabotages the potentially life changing relationship with Claire Astor, an American actress, dancer and singer, that presents itself as the novel unfolds. His inability to express his emotions and to declare his love for her derails their relationship several times, leading to periods of estrangement.

Running alongside the potential romance between Christian and Claire is the narrative thread concerned with the fate of the Jewish characters we encounter, including the children of some of Christian’s friends, Otto and Anna Friedman. This becomes the main narrative driver of the story in the second half of the book. Having slowly established the main characters and their relationships in the first half, Tweeddale accelerates the pace of the story, turning it into a page -turner that gallops towards the end, with the reader breathlessly clinging on. He uses the well- established facts of the period to add jeopardy to the narrative. As each chapter runs through the months and years, getting ever closer to May 1939, the tension is ratcheted up, notch by notch. It’s given an additional dimension by the sections Tweeddale employs from the point of view of Ernst Schmidt, a major in the Gestapo. These are very effective in giving the reader an insight into the psychology and motivations of the Nazis, and their implacable hatred of those they consider to be degenerate inferiors. By the end, most readers will be desperately hoping Schmidt gets the justice he deserves, but this is not a book for those who require simplistic happy endings.

In a sense, history has provided Tweeddale and many other writers with a gift that cannot fail to deliver. The story of the Second World War, and the rise and fall of the Nazis, has an unshakeable grip on our imagination. Its influence on the present is undeniable, and the battle between Fascism and Liberalism continues today. Indeed, it has never been more relevant than now, when it seems all of the old battles that we old liberals thought had been finally won are being refought all over again. With that in mind, Tweeddale’s command of the subject is impressive. Clearly, much research has gone into the preparation of the novel, but Tweeddale wears his scholarship lightly. The story always takes precedent over history. This is first and foremost a novel dealing with characters, relationships and issues. We read it, not because we want to learn something about the rise of the Nazis in Germany, but because we are invested in the characters and their relationships and we want to discover what happens to them. A deeper understanding of a dark period of twentieth century history is a welcome by-product, but the story is the thing.

It’s a story well worth reading. You can buy it here: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Only-Breath-Shadow-Gathering-Sacrifice-ebook/dp/B0GKQSPDLN?ref_=ast_author_dp&th=1&psc=1

A Short Road to Longbrook by Bethan Roberts

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.

They may not mean to but they do.

They fill you with the faults they had

And add some extra, just for you.

Philip Larkin

It’s the damage that we do and never know

It’s the words that we don’t say that scare me so

Accidents Will Happen – Elvis Costello

Somewhere between those two quotes lies the terrain that this novel, the latest by Bethan Roberts, inhabits. A Short Road to Longbrook, explores the long shadow cast by mistakes made in the past. It tells the story of Lillian Wells, flipping between 1965, when she was 16 years old, living with her single mother Winnie and 2005, when she is living with her only daughter, Rachel, who is on the verge of leaving home to go to university. As the novel unfolds, characters and relationships acquire added layers of depth and complexity. Mysteries about Lillian’s family history are simultaneously laid bare and made more obscure as questions are answered in a way that only leads to more questions.

Structurally, the novel is a triumph, with the time shifts subtly handled, so that the unfolding of events resembles an archaeological dig, uncovering layers to reveal secrets, surprises, explanations and, inevitably, more questions. The more Lillian discovers about her mother’s troubled history, the more she fears for herself and her own daughter, with the anxiety of repeating the mistakes of the past a constant, nagging worry. Everyday life in the mid-sixties is authentically evoked, with its meat paste sandwiches, its Babychams and editions of Titbits. There are times when it appears to be set in a place that still has one foot in the fifties, where ballroom dancing has more cultural heft in the popular imagination than The Beatles. It seems strange that a sixteen year old with a pixie hair cut in 1965 would not be more plugged in to the swinging sixties, but perhaps this reflects the reality that the lived experience of a particular time is a more mixed one than that which a simplistic social history would have us believe. It was fascinating to see how relationships, particularly between mothers and daughters, continued to be problematic, regardless of the era, even when, forty years later, it’s evident that most women had much more freedom, and many more opportunities than before.

The Longbrook of the title is the local psychiatric hospital, its name having been transformed into a local shorthand, to be spoken of in hushed, fearful tones. To be committed there carried a terrible stigma, and its presence looms large in the lives of the characters. When I was growing up in the North East at around about the same time, our equivalent was Sedgefield, a nearby town with a notorious psych hospital. “If you carry on like that, you’ll end up in Sedgefield” was the standard response to any behaviour that could be deemed eccentric. The fact that, some years later, it became the constituency of future Prime Minister Tony Blair, seems strangely fitting somehow.

Roberts has a real eye for detail and makes a series of acute observations about individual idiosyncrasies that communicate some sense of mental disturbance. Phobias, tics, repetitive behaviours are all described with sensitivity and understanding, as is the portrayal of the slow slide into anorexia and the vice-like grip it has on sufferers that is so hard for onlookers to understand and come to terms with.

There are no easy stereotypes here. Probably the greatest triumph is the portrayal of Jim, Lillian’s first love. Where one might expect a picture of an inadequate man struggling to deal with a spirited woman and falling back on anger and an instinct to save face and control his woman, Jim comes across as a thoughtful soul, who is bowled over by Lillian and tries to understand her and support her. He doesn’t always succeed and shows his anger, frustration and incomprehension on more than one occasion, but in the end, this does not define him. Instead, it positions him as a man who is doing his best to be a good person, no matter what the cost. Roberts portrays his interior response to the challenges presented by his relationship with Lillian with much subtlety and nuance. Here is a man who is caught between observing the social norms of the day and expressing his love in a way that communicates both passion and respect. He is also shown, in the relationship with his daughter, to be the figure that Lillian lacked as a child – a father who was present and communicative.

All in all, this is an engaging, thoughtful and subtle book with an impact that resonates long after you finish it. A Short Road to Longbrook is published by Chatto and Windus and you can buy it here: https://uk.bookshop.org/p/books/a-short-road-to-longbrook-bethan-roberts/7901374?ean=9781784746018&next=t

The Wrong Men – published on March 28th!

My twisty 1979 murder mystery, The Wrong Men, is published by The Book Guild on March 28th 2026 – link to buy here: https://shorturl.at/JoiAh. You can also buy it, and all of my other books, at my bookshop, here: https://www.rjbarron.co.uk/bookshop/

If you read the book and like it, I’d be very grateful if you could leave a review on Amazon and spread the word amongst all of your reader friends. Reviews and word of mouth make a big difference.While you’re waiting, have a look at this interview with me about the book by The Creative Writing Programme in Brighton. I am a graduate of their two year programme of study. You can read the transcript below or visit their website here: https://www.creativewritingprogramme.org.uk/inspiration

New Novel From Alumnus Rob Barron

17 Mar

Rob Barron took the Creative Writing Programme from 2022 to 2024. His novel The Wrong Men is published on 28th March 2026. Here he talks about his writing life.

Your novel The Wrong Men is out this month. It is about a hospital porter who discovers a murdered consultant in the mortuary. Could you tell us about the inspiration behind this story? It’s a story I’ve wanted to tell for over forty years, ever since I had a job as a porter in York District Hospital after leaving University. It was a fascinating experience – porters are the only staff members who go everywhere in the hospital and routinely interact with everyone, and hospitals are extraordinary places – this one in particular was full of larger than life characters. I also wanted to use my memory of living in York at the time when the Yorkshire Ripper was still at large, and the pervasive sense of unease this generated among many of the female students I knew at the time. It was an opportunity to write something in the guise of a murder mystery that is really about growing up as a man at a time of institutionalised misogyny.

It is a detective story, could you tell us about your planning process and how you keep track of all the seeds you have to sow along the way when writing crime fiction? I decided to scatter lots of seeds, knowing that in the editing process some would be pulled up and thrown away. It requires meticulous rewriting and tracking the separate threads. I’m guilty of using a colour coded spreadsheet to double check that there were no loose ends and that the whole thing was coherent. Crime fiction seemed to need a very different process than that used in other genres. The first draft was about revealing the story to myself and all the other drafts were trying to conceal the story from the reader.

You grew up in the north of England and both your YA novels and The Wrong Men are all set in Yorkshire, could you tell us about the importance of setting in your writing? The first novel I self-published. Zero Tolerance is a contemporary satire set in south London, so I’m not wedded to the north, but, generally, setting is a crucial aspect of my writing. I love to create an authentic sense of place and time. For me it underpins the notion that fiction is a way of transporting someone from their current reality to somewhere else. The somewhere else in this instance is York, a beautiful historic northern city and a busy hospital at night. The sense of the end of the Seventies is also important.

Did you start writing this novel while doing the Creative Writing Programme? Yes. I was just about to finish my YA novel but I was excited about the idea for The Wrong Men so I started that as well. For a while I was writing them in tandem.

How did you finish The Wrong Men and what was your journey to publication? The workshop part of the Creative Writing Programme was very helpful. It imposed a certain discipline because of the regular submissions and feedback. By the second year the book really had its teeth in me and I raced to the end. The feedback from tutors and fellow students was incredibly helpful and lots of changes were made to the original piece. Even after I had started to send it off to agents and publishers, I made significant changes based on reader feedback that eventually convinced me that I’d been wrong about certain choices I’d made in the earlier drafts. I sent if off to lots of different people and had the usual number of rejections, with about half a dozen people who requested the whole manuscript. In the end I had a couple of offers that were for partnership publishing, and I eventually accepted the one from The Book Guild. A couple of weeks after signing the contract I got an email out of the blue from a publisher who I’d sent the whole manuscript to a year before. They had “found” it again, loved it and offered me a three book deal on the strength of it. Sod’s Law! I felt I had to honour the contract I’d already signed. It was a good lesson though, not to give up. Somebody somewhere will understand what you were trying to do and will want to publish.

You have previously published two YA novels – The Watcher and the Friend and When The Cold Wind Blows, but this is your first adult novel – could you tell us whether your writing process differs when writing YA and adult fiction? In some ways I don’t think the idea of target audience is very helpful. The two YA novels are aimed as much at adults who like fantasy fiction as children. So, no, my writing process was exactly the same, apart from the specifics of editing to hide the story from the reader mentioned above.

What are you working on now? I’m writing sequels for both of them. The final part of the YA trilogy (working title When Stars Collide) and the follow up to The Wrong Men. Unfortunately, all of the work you have to do to promote and market a new book takes up a lot of time – it doesn’t leave much room for new writing. This is a good reminder to get on with it!

What are your top tips for someone starting out on their writing career?

Write a story you want to tell.
Ignore trends
Generate words
Put characters together and watch the magic happen
Edit ruthlessly. If you’re not sure, get rid of it
Listen to advice and then ignore it if doesn’t strike a chord with you

You can find out more about Rob on his website, BlueSky, Twitter and Instagram accounts. And if you want to write a novel, why not sign up for the Creative Writing Programme starting in September in bookish venues across the south-east of England and online. Our 10-week Introduction to Creative Writing course starts on 29 April if you want to dip your toe in the water.

Sounds of the Seventies

In December 1979, Johnny Jewell was 22 years old. He had three main passions in life: Football, Music and Reading. This is what he and his friends were listening to.

My new book, The Wrong Men, published by The Book Guild on March 28^th, is a murder mystery set over Christmas 1979, and features Johnny Jewell, a 22 year old English graduate who is working as a porter in York District Hospital. To give readers a flavour of that time, I’ve included a link to a Spotify Playlist of the key tracks that Johnny and his friends were all listening to then. It’s an eclectic mix: some of the songs are mentioned in the novel, some relate directly to the themes of the book, and some are there just to give texture and atmosphere. They are what he was listening to in that period of his life.

You can pre-order the book from Amazon here: https://shorturl.at/JoiAh

Scan the QR code for the Spotify Playlist

Some younger people might look at the list and jump to an obvious criticism, bolstered by some rudimentary research. “Big mistake – that song wasn’t released in 1979, it was from 1971. Shoddy work!” It’s true, there are many tracks from earlier times, but there are none from after January 1980. I was sorely tempted to include Happy House by Siouxie and The Banshees, notable for their live performance on Top of the Pops, (where Siouxie conclusively demonstrates the superiority of two pockets full of glitter over a panoply of computerised special effects). Eventually, integrity persuaded me to leave it out, comforted by the fact that it will appear in the sequel to the story.

So there is some rigour to the choices, and they reflect the reality for a young music aficionado with little disposable cash to hand. The truth is, back in those pre -internet, pre- Spotify, steam -powered days, finding out about new music and buying new music was a very different thing to its equivalent today. We listened to the radio (mainly John Peel after the pub, but also Alan Freeman on a Saturday afternoon) We read the music press. The Thursday purchase of The New Musical Express was a thrill that its hard to fully explain to today’s kids. It was The Bible for Leftie music fans– funny, authoritative, alternative, well-written and informative. Sounds and Melody Maker would be tolerated, but they were a pale, thin replacement for the real thing.

Once you had triangulated a list of potential new purchases from the radio and the NME and gossip, you could begin to edge towards doing the deed. But back then, an album cost about £4.99. Just to give you a marker, at the same time a pint of beer was about 40 pence – more than ten times the cost. Just do the basic maths, using the average price for a pint today, and you begin to get some idea of the scale of the investment.

This alone explains why the average student’s record collection would only contain a handful of new releases, and their listening experience would inevitably involve recycling their back catalogue. A stack of LPs would be regularly out of their sleeves for a play. The second factor to bear in mind was the iconoclastic effect of having experienced the punk revolution, which turned everything on its head. What were you supposed to do with your lovingly curated collection of Prog rock albums? Could you still retain any street cred and play Yes, for example? Many of us did that kind of listening in a solitary and secretive fashion, saving the latest music for communal experiences. Some old stuff, deemed “classic” managed to straddle the divide and in some ways were an even greater indicator of your superior music taste – hence the inclusion in the list of Van Morrison, John Martyn etc.

The tracks that made it on to Johnny Jewell’s playlist all have a back story. Here are just a few of them.

The List kicks off with “London Calling” by The Clash. It had only just been released when the book starts on December 21^st, 1979, but this is an example of another kind of purchase. The Clash were firm favourites for Johnny and his chums and no research was needed. London Calling was confidently bought on the first day of its release.

2. There’s a middle dance section in the playlist, to mirror the Party episode in the middle of the novel. Much time was spent by Johnny and his chums compiling mix tapes for parties. In such tapes, Funk was held in high esteem: James Brown, Funkadelic, Parliament and Stevie Wonder were key players, and The Jacksons, criminally underrated, never failed to make the cut.

3. Solid Air, Hard Nose the Highway and Take Me to The River are moody, late night, after the party listens. Chilling, chatting and winding down. Stuff happened between people when these were playing.

4. A word of clarification about the Dr Feelgood track, Because You’re Mine. The Feelgoods were a big thing in the mid – late Seventies, and acted as a bridge between Pub Rock and Punk. Live, they were thrilling, particularly the manic attack of Wilco Johnson’s extraordinary guitar sound and style. They crackled with tension, live and on record. Sonically , they were supreme. Lyrically, well, that’s a different story. They fully reflected the sexist world of the Seventies. Their gigs were a very male affair – it was rare to spot women there, and Because You’re Mine is a classic representation of the attitudes that prevailed at the time.

It’s included because of that – this was the world that Johnny inhabited and was trying to navigate. We thought for a long time that most of those battles had been fought and won, but nothing can be taken for granted in these dark days of populism, when Neanderthals like Andrew Tate, inexplicably hold sway with young men. The just released statistic that 33% of Gen Z men believe that wives should obey their husbands is a chilling reflection of this sliding back to the Dark Ages. Listen to the Feelgoods, read the book and fight back!

For the rest, many of them have lyrics or ideas that directly relate to the story of The Wrong Men. How many can you find? What would be on your own playlist from when you were twenty two years old?

A Grand Day Out

High noon for Starmer at PMQs showdown.

Palace of Westminster, Big Ben, and Westminster Bridge as seen from the south bank of the River Thames.

One of the many pleasures of being retired and living in London is the variety of free entertainments on offer. One such, not everyone’s cup of tea perhaps, is a seat in the public gallery for Prime Minister’s Question time at the House of Commons. Anyone can apply to their local MP for tickets, but I have had the misfortune of being resident in Beckenham, for years a rotten borough for the Conservative Party. It’s been said of the Labour Party that in the old days, in Red Wall seats, Labour could put up a donkey and it would still be returned with a landslide. The Tories in Beckenham seem to have tested this theory in real time, via their MP for fifteen years, Bob Stewart, an embodiment of the term “Gammon”. Not for him the common courtesy of replying to the emails of his constituents, particularly those with an affiliation to Labour. Of course not. Where would the votes be in that?Bob had resolutely ignored all my emails requesting tickets over the years, so my delight in Labour finally breaking up the one party state of Bromley, had personal significance. Our new MP, Liam Conlon replied immediately, and after a wait of about 8 months, I finally got the nod and was informed that tickets would be available to pick up from the Admissions Order Office in the central lobby on Wednesday February 4th. Little did I know then that this would prove to be one the more significant PMQs, when The Epstein/Mandelson shit finally hit the fan.

It was a fascinating day – I’d recommend it to anyone with any kind of commitment to democracy and any kind of empathy for the idiosyncrasies of the quaint historical British system. Walking up to the Parliament building is like a guided tour of the democratic right to protest. Encamped at the traffic light island at the end of Parliament street was a very familiar face conducting a permanent protest with a cacophonously loud sound system.

The game was partly given away by the banner festooned around the railings of the traffic island: “We’re still here because Brexit is still crap.” Hard to disagree really – Steve Bray, the patron saint of eccentric British protesters, is still the man.

There are other smaller protests dotted around: Gaza, Greenpeace, Global warming etc . Then on to the building itself. Once you’re through fairly strict airport style security with scanners and plastic trays, and you negotiate a winding walkway past the statue of Oliver Cromwell, you enter through the main doors of Westminster Hall, before getting to the central lobby, a place as familiar as a film set, so often does it appear on nightly news bulletins.

The building is magnificent and oozes history. I ended up walking around gawping at the medieval Hammer Beam roof and the statues and paintings and plaques reminding everyone of the famous folk who have trodden the flagstones there.

It’s a long wait to get access to the public gallery, which is at one end of the debating chamber behind a perspex screen. You get a very good view of the Speaker’s chair, and the main players on both sides . The sound is well miked up and the proceedings are broadcast on screens in the gallery itself. I was disappointed that this masks the ghastly Reform UK fascists from view, and I had to content myself with a tv version of Cruella Braverman making her first intervention as a Reformista, to a satisfying chorus of boos.

Speaking of which, it’s made very clear through a series of official notices that you pass on the way to the gallery, that no clapping, shouting, cheering or jeering will be tolerated and throughout the proceedings, several frock-coated officials, probably all with names like Ermine Wolf or Black Hammer, hovered threateningly, glaring at the suitably silent and cowed members of the public.

The fact that the officials all seemed to be Dickensian in age as well as dress, and couldn’t police a determined gang of toddlers, didn’t seem to matter to the crowd, who all behaved impeccably. Unlike the rare protesters pictured above. That was on another occasion sadly.

A few random takeaways from the experience:

1.It’s a very beautiful, interesting, historic building and worth a visit just for that

2. It felt very different from the event I later saw reported in the media. On line, on the TV news programmes and in the press, it was all presented as an occasion of high drama, but in reality, it wasn’t like that at all. It was all very quiet and polite, to the point of being rather tame.

Perhaps this was the distancing effect of being behind the screen. Or perhaps the strange, artificial, performative nature of the whole event. Badenoch, as leader of the opposition, gets to ask 6 questions, but it seems perfectly possible to field those questions in a bland way, and wait until you get one of the series of “dolly drop” questions from your own side. Those questions had the effect of draining away any drama or sense of jeopardy.You know the sort of thing: “Does my honourable friend the PM agree with me that the opening of a new sausage factory is a welcome sign of this Government’s commitment to sausages, meat products in general and to the residents of my constituency, (insert name of town the MP represents but has only lived in for the past 6 months)

3. Although it’s better than nothing, it’s not really a good way of ensuring accountability. The adversarial layout of the chamber doesn’t help and neither does the in-built imperative to produce snappy sound bites for later broadcast. The select committee system provides a much more focused cross examination where it’s harder to get away with not answering the question or not being prepared.

4. The most disturbing thing happened right at the end of the event when we were leaving via the central lobby. It was full of the great and the good, a very familiar scene from countless TV news interviews. We passed Farage and Braverman chatting to two other people. Their conversation finished just as we were passing them, and Farage strode past us on his own wearing a very expensive looking dapper blue suit.

Tanned and confident, he was every inch the wealthy member of the establishment, aware that all eyes turned towards him as he walked along. Westminster Hall was packed with visitors, including loads of Sixth Formers and school parties. Many of these young people, shouted out to Farage. “Nigel! Nigel! This way Nigel!” as if he were a Pop Star. I’ve thought for years now that political education in this country was utterly pathetic, and it’s left at least one generation completely vulnerable to charlatans who are good communicators. Into this vacuum step Andrew Tate, Nigel Farage, Tommy Robinson, Jordan Peterson, Charlie Kirk lying shamelessly, all in the name of “Free Speech”. The young always used to be my hope for the future, being naturally attracted to the idea of social justice. Now I’m not so sure. Social Media has a lot to answer for.

5. The entire population of UK political journalists are having a laugh when they say the Mandelson affair is a worse political scandal than Profumo. I have no time for Starmer, and he will eventually go (probably after the May council election debacle), but all that has happened here is that he’s made a mistake. He’s not in the Epstein files. There’s no suggestion of corruption. There’s plenty of other things to accuse him of. Appalling policy on Gaza. Appalling weaponising of antisemitism against the Corbyn Labour Party. Appalling lies during his own leadership campaign. But in the grand scale of things, it’s small beer really. Have people really forgotten the shameful performance of Boris Johnson? – utterly corrupt, utterly venal, utterly dishonest and utterly unexamined when it comes to leaking state secrets to Russia via secret Bunga Bunga party attendance in Italy.

Later the same day there was an Opposition Day Debate on the whole Mandelson fiasco. Guess who wasn’t there? That’s right, man of the people, Nigel Farage. I wonder why?

We live in dark times and a trip to the Mother of Parliaments has not reassured me that our democracy is safe. Perhaps my next grand day out in that there London should be Madam Tussauds.

Beckenham Man wins Booker Prize* shock!

* Not really…..

Ok, so it’s not the Booker Prize, and I’m not the only winner. But after thinking of myself at times as a Wooden Charlatan (Yes, Imposter Syndrome stalks the land of writers), it’s nice to be declared a Golden Wizard. Have a look at the review below, by the CEO of The Golden Wizard Book Prize, Louise Jane. By the way, Book 1 of the trilogy, The Watcher and The Friend, was also awarded the prize!

Review

After finishing ‘A Cold Wind Blows’ by R.J. Barron, I find it still echoing in my mind; it is such a
captivating and reflective read that stays with you.
Like the first installment in the series, this book presents an exceptional combination of young
adult fantasy and historical components, offering a distinctive and unparalleled reading journey
that you won’t encounter anywhere else. Consequently, the plot is ingenious; it is not only
fascinating but also rich in depth, brimming with thrill and drama that holds your attention from
beginning to end. It is a narrative superbly suited for the young minds of our time, who typically
thrive on continuous action and ongoing mental stimulation.
Barron’s talent as an author shines through in the detailed writing and magnificent use of
language throughout the novel. The vivid descriptions and intricate details lend a sense of
verisimilitude to the story, allowing readers to fully lose themselves in the atmospheric setting.
Similar to its predecessor, this installment captures the essence of its world, drawing readers
into a realm where every scene feels alive and palpable. The author’s ability to create such an
immersive environment enhances the overall reading experience, making it difficult to put the
book down.
I am cautious about sharing too much regarding the plot, since the story is brimming with
unforeseen twists and thrilling moments that maintain your intrigue, and I wouldn’t want to ruin
any surprises. Nonetheless, I can say that the narrative explores deep questions of loyalty and
trust, leaving you in suspense, eager to discover what unfolds next. This air of uncertainty
pushes the story onward, motivating you to keep turning the pages.
I finished the book feeling an insatiable desire for the next installment, and I highly recommend
it, especially to teens who may be reluctant readers. The excitement and tension woven
throughout the pages are sure to captivate even the most hesitant of audiences, making it a
must-read, and a series that is absolutely worth exploring!

Louise Jane, CEO Golden Wizard Book Prize

After such a glowing endorsement, it would be foolish of you to ignore it. The only reasonable response would be to buy as many copies of this book as you can, gift copies to your nearest and dearest, and use your mighty social media clout to spread the news far and wide. It would be sensible to be in on it from the beginning….

Bookshop

https://shorturl.at/HYY27

https://shorturl.at/4OAZK

My Books of the Year

It’s that time of year again. Journalists in every publication are boshing together a Christmas present guide for all of the literati out there. So here’s mine. Please note – these suggestions spring only from the books that I have read myself. This is not an attempt to cast a definitive verdict on the books published this year. I’m lucky to be able to read a huge number of books in my retirement, but I’m sure there are many contenders that I haven’t got round to yet. Some on the list, as the reviews make clear, are there because they are interesting in some way, rather than brilliant. With those caveats, here we go…

The Traitors’ Circle – Jonathan Freedland

My Book of The Year – and it’s not even a novel!

Freedland explores the lives of nine influential people in Nazi Germany who have severe misgivings about Hitler, the war and the whole Nazi project. They are loosely interconnected, their paths criss-crossing throughout the period, and all in some way, try to work against the regime. It’s clearly a dangerous path to choose, as anyone not fully signed up to Nazism is picked off in one way or another. Lack of preferment, prison, concentration camps, disappearances and murder in plain sight are all visited upon anyone who speaks out. It’s brilliantly constructed, with short chapters scrolling through the roster of characters Freedland establishes from the beginning, each one ending in a teaser or cliffhanger. The overall effect is one of a tightly plotted detective novel. An enthralling, thrilling read.

The Land in Winter – Andrew Miller

Listed for the Booker Prize, this is a glorious piece of historical fiction, set during the Big Freeze of 1962/63. Subtle and satisfying, this is an enormously enjoyable novel of relationships. A book for adults, as Woolf famously said of Middlemarch. If Flesh is better than this, It’ll be a great novel. But the Booker judges are nothing if not unreliable in their judgement

Long review here: https://growl.blog/2025/07/09/the-land-in-winter-by-andrew-miller/

Entitled – the rise and fall of the House of York – Andrew Lownie

This book would have been unthinkable even a few years ago, such is the iron grip the Royal family have on the British establishment. But now, open season has been declared on the ghastly Royals. They have presented a juicy target ever since the Queen died, and the tabloids have been plugging away at their pet targets: Harry and Meghan, Camilla, and Andrew and Fergie. The Mail and the Telegraph have been twisting in agonised indecision over this as performative hatred of paedophilia has vied with slavish arse licking of anything Royal. For normal people, it’s the whole corrupt lot of them. For previously arch royal sycophants, it’s worth sacrificing two embarrassing Minor Royals in the belief that the Body of Royalty as a whole might be saved by the judicious amputation of some corrupt and rotting limb.

The book is basically gossip, but it’s enjoyable reading about just how appalling these two were (and are). If it has a fault it’s that it’s just a little dull and not shocking enough. Some of the more shocking revelations Lownie treats us to are:

Andrew routinely leaving his semen stained tissue paper scattered on the floor for staff to collect and dispose of
Reports of forty prostitutes being shipped to his hotel room on some Trade Envoy Jolly over the course of a four day stay.
On being told by a young woman at his table for some dinner that she was a Secretary, Andrew, horrified, replying, “How uninteresting. Is that the best thing you could find to do?”

Nice Guy. Between their divorce and The Epstein scandal, the book is reduced to a litany of descriptions of their serial affairs, financial mismanagement, and corruption. It establishes behind any reasonable doubt that Andrew is dim, privileged, entitled, boorish and utterly boring, while Sarah is a sex machine spendaholic space cadet. Still, worthwhile to have one’s prejudices so well researched and confirmed.

Ripeness – Sarah Moss

What a lovely novel this is, from someone writing at the top of their game. Structurally and stylistically, it’s a treat, with alternating sections telling the stories of the same character, Edith, fifty years apart. The younger Edith tells her own story, in the first person, through the device of a lengthy letter to a child, to be read in the future, explaining the circumstances of the child’s birth and subsequent life. The sections dealing with the older Edith are set in rural Ireland and are told in the third person. Beautiful descriptions of both the countryside around Como and small town/village life in the Republic are subtly blended with Edith’s reflections on first growing up and then getting old. Honestly, this is a must read book. Beautiful and thought provoking. Longer Review here: https://growl.blog/2025/06/05/ripeness-by-sarah-moss/

The Artist – Lucy Steed

Reading this in the depths of winter, this historical novel set in the sundrenched summer of a village in Provence is a therapeutic treat, like a session in a natural light booth for SAD sufferers. A young journalist, Joseph, suffering from the traumas of the first world war, travels to the remote home of celebrated artist, Eduard Tartuffe, to undertake a profile of him for the art journal he works for. He finds the great man sour and difficult, and living alone except for his niece Ettie. As he wins Eduard’s trust and gets closer to Ettie, secrets are revealed. A lovely book.

Crooked Cross – Sally Carson

This year’s long forgotten rediscovery, Crooked Cross was written in 1933 by an English woman Sally Carson based on her experiences on holiday in Bavaria. It tells the story of the slow build up of nazism and the way it overwhelms everyone’s lives, even in the backwaters of a Bavarian village, explaining how, in an incremental way, ordinary tolerant people can be drawn into the most despicable acts.

A timely text in the light of the current wave of racist populism that is sweeping across Europe and America. Oh no, I forgot. We’re not allowed to make any Nazi/Fascist comparisons between today’s political titans and those of the 1930s. Actually, it’s impossible not to, if you have any regard to historical facts. It’s a worthy revival, if only to publicise the parallels between then and now and between them and us, but it shows its age. Despite the subject matter, it lacks real drama and/or tension and didnt quite live up to its reputation.

Our evenings- Alan Hollinghurst

I must confess, I’ve started several of Hollinghurst’s novels, and have never liked, much less finished, one of them. It’s just one of those things – he’s lionised by the literary establishment, but for some reason, he just doesn’t do it for me. This latest got rave reviews and it starts brilliantly. There was a moment when I thought this was going to be the Hollinghurst novel where I finally got it, but unfortunately, by the end I was a little underwhelmed. But reader, I finished it! And that’s a first.

It’s a whole life story novel that follows Dave Win’s progress as a gay, half English, half Burmese actor, navigating public school, the disapproval of his family and the casual racism and homophobia he encounters. The relationship with his mother is beautifully observed, but another relationship, with the bully at school who goes on to achieve high office in a Tory government, promises much, but ultimately fizzles out without delivering. If you don’t share my antipathy towards Hollinghurst, it’s definitely worth a punt

What We Can Know – Ian Mcewan

The latest from McEwan shows his powers are undiminished, after a career at the very top of English fiction. The book is framed as an academic literary investigation, in a Britain clinging on after a series of ecological disasters in 2125, into a celebrated poet and climate change denier from the Britain of 2020. It’s a strange mixture, at times compelling, often fascinating, and at other times annoying.

The good stuff is the unrolling of the climate disaster and the unforeseen impacts that has had (Nigeria is the preeminent power, and America has disintegrated into a ferret sack of competing warlords and clans.) The bad stuff is the suffocating superiority of the middle class literary types, with their casual snobbery, all, seemingly, having affairs with anyone and everyone. I’d like to think McEwan is trying to skewer them and their ghastly attitudes, but I fear that he may actually share many of them. That’s harsh – it’s beautifully written, as ever, and worth a read.

Isla – Jim Pollard.

One of the pleasures of exploring the work of independent writers is that you come across things that deserve much greater exposure. This one’s a gem. Pollard, an ex-teacher and journalist, has specialised in books about men’s health, accumulating an impressive back catalogue, irregularly punctuated by his novels. His latest, Isla, is inspired by the Madeleine McCann case, and explores the aftermath over a lifetime of such a traumatic event. It’s set in Paris and London, and beautifully evokes both cities. There are no easy answers to the questions the novel poses and no obvious ones either. This is a great read.

Longer Review here: https://growl.blog/2025/05/21/isla-by-jim-pollard-a-review/

And you can buy it here: notonlywords.co.uk/isla

Main review here:

Tony interruptor- Nicola Barker

Barker is consistently one of the most interesting of British novelists, who deserves a much higher profile. Her books are often odd, awkward little things, and this one is no exception. It would be a delightful stocking-filler.

Seascraper – Benjamin Wood

An excellent story of a young man who lives with his mother on the grim and exposed coastline of Morecambe Bay. He scrapes a living, continuing the work learned alongside his late father, pillaging the cockle beds in the shallows of the Irish Sea. It’s hard work, alone save for his horse in all weathers. He keeps his sanity by writing and playing songs on a second hand guitar, ( all concealed from his mother) working towards playing the folk night of a local pub. His world is suddenly turned upside down by the appearance of an American film man who descends on the community researching the beach as a location for his next film. It’s a small and perfectly formed gem.

Obviously, the real book of the year is my very own, A Cold Wind Blows. The book is part 2 of a fantasy trilogy, set in Yngerlande, a parallel world to England in 1795. Yngerlande is a place of absolute and perfect equality, but their tolerance and liberalism is put at risk by an attempted counter revolution from the surviving relatives of the Old Mad King from generations before. They want to overturn all of the social advances made and establish a patriarchal, white supremacist regime. Thomas Trelawney, a thirteen year old boy from modern day England, finds himself the possessor of previously unknown powers, when he is summoned to help protect the Realm from the forces of Darkness. Think of it as Harry Potter meets Lyra Silvertongue meets Outlander. “A slice of Fantasy brilliance” said one reviewer. And they were right! You can buy it here: https://shorturl.at/UcRWb

Those that didn’t quite make it…

This could be for a number of reasons: Only just come out, I’ve heard about and intend to read, waiting for it to arrive. That sort of thing. Here they are:

The Old Grey Owl