Oh dear, what a disappointment this turned out to be. I hadn’t read Minette Walters for years, not since The Scold’s Bridle and Fox Evil. They were excellent: taught, tense thrillers/ whodunnits with real pace and verve.
After something of a hiatus, Walters, now 75, has turned her hand to historical thrillers. This latest one is set in the 1680s in the dying days of King James II’s reign, taking in the Monmouth rebellion, the Bloody assizes of Judge Jeffreys, and the peaceful transition to William and Mary. A fascinating, dramatic few years of British history that does not often feature in historical fiction. It should be a gift to a skilled and experienced novelist but Walters manages to turn this literary gold into something dull and dreary.
The main characters are excellent, (with some caveats): Lord Granville and his mother are scarcely believable as liberal aristos, whose driving concern is always for the little people, ensuring they get justice, no matter what the risk to them personally. It’s as ludicrous as the portrayal of above stairs folk in Downton Abbey who just love the plebs downstairs. It’s so well done however,and the two are such appealing characters, that disbelief is willingly suspended, and the reader finds themselves willing them on to succeed. The character of Lady Althea is also beautifully drawn as Walters explores 17th century attitudes to disability. The love interest is really well done, with Althea’s shyness and reluctance to believe in Granville gradually overcome. It’s a bit of a cop out however, as Walters shies away from any scenes where love is declared and we are left a little cheated as we are simply presented with the aftermath in the epilogue.
The main problem here is that Walters seems to be obsessed with her research into the period, hence the number of reviews that home in on that. “Immaculately researched” is always a bad sign in my opinion. It shows that research has become an end itself, rather than serving the story. There are interminable scenes where she goes through the mechanics of the legal system, transportation, local and regional, explaining in great detail how those people awaiting trial for sedition could be sprung from captivity. Perhaps Walters is too big a figure to be edited, but this is exhibit A for assertive intervention. Without it, we’re left with a novel that’s at least a hundred pages too long. Shame – the characters, plot and historical scenario promised much but deserved a lot more. Maybe next time.
Sally Rooney triumphs with the novel of the year, a welcome return to form after the disappointing Beautiful World, where are you? Stylistically and structurally interesting, this portrayal of two brothers, separated by age, temperament and position in society, groping their way to recovery after the death of their father, is subtle, sensitive and engaging. Rooney explores how lack of communication in relationships entrenches misunderstanding and generates misery, but with a glimmer of hope that rapprochement is possible.
Andrew O’Hagan’s weighty state of the nation novel is but a short head behind Rooney. Caledonian Road is a positively Dickensian romp through London society, skewering the establishment, the media, populism, the ghastly Tory party and their upstart illegitimate child, Reform UK, to name but a few. Clever and clear sighted, the novel rises above satire through its multi layered plot delivering thoughtful, engaging and moving relationships to add heart to its steely intellectual societal analysis. Can’t wait for the TV adaptation.
Jonathan Coe on top form with this clever dissection of the rise of far right think tanks in the US and here alongside the rise of the cosy crime genre. At times it’s hard to tell which he is more appalled by. It’s structurally clever, placing the murder of a journalist who has spent forty years since leaving Cambridge investigating the murky dealings of the poshos he endured as a provincial oik. He has paddled along a back water while they rub shoulders with the rich, the privileged and the powerful. Very funny, very sharp, pleasingly meta. Almost nudged O’Hagan out of second place. But not quite.
Elizabeth Strout does what she does best – an immaculately observed portrayal of small town life for a cast of older characters, focusing on Lucy Barton once again. The seemingly meandering tales they tell each other hide an interesting murder plot from years before, but that is almost a distraction from the forensic examination of love, friendship and relationships amongst people who are getting old and reflecting on the choices they have made in their lives.
Percival Everett made the Booker shortlist for this re-imagining of Huckleberry Finn from the point of view of James, the slave. It’s a lovely, skilful piece of work that has at its heart an ingenious conceit that twists our understanding of the slave master relationship. Although it’s clever, by the end I was beginning to grow tired of what is essentially a one trick pony. Still, worthy of your consideration for end of year reading, or gifting.
Nathan Hill’s breakthrough debut, The Nix, was one of the great American novels of the last few years, but that was back in 2016. It’s been a long wait, but trust me, this follow up is worth it. The opening section that sets up the central relationship is an absolute treat. It doesn’t quite maintain that ( it’s a big book) but it’s still a triumph. Beautiful prose, compelling relationships and characters, Hill makes Jonathan Frandsen look like an amateur.
Read this, read her previous novel, The Bass Rock, read anything of hers you can get your hands on and wait eagerly for what she does next. Quite simply, Evie Wyld is a wonderful writer. End of.
David Nichols is the master of romantic relationship novels. Funny, perceptive engaging, You are here is the latest, tracking the start of a romance between two characters, set up by one concerned friend, who are thrown together on the coast to coast walk, from St Bees in Cumbria to Robin Hoods Bay, on the North Yorkshire coast. This is a minor Nichols work, leaving the reader with a feeling of slightness, insubstantiality, but even so, much better than a lot of the talked about novels of the year. (See Christmas Turkeys, below). A parochial point, I know, but I was particularly thrilled by the references to Teesside and Middlesbrough FC, as the characters started the last leg of the walk. Can’t think of many other cultural works where this happens – Teesside must be the most invisible, most unheralded area of the UK.
Stop Press!
A late entry that I just had to include. I’m only half way through this book, but it’s too good to ignore. If you liked Clare Chambers’ Small Pleasures, you will love this. Suburban lives, small frustrations, unfulfilled relationships threaded through with a weird tale of a Boo Radley figure who comes to light in a near derelict house in Croydon. Sublime.
The Perfect Christmas Presents
Obviously, if you’re looking for gift ideas, I think you’ll find my own books will hit the spot. Zero Tolerance will give you a real insight into the scandal breaking about unethical behaviour in certain Academy Trusts. For the teacher in your life. You can buy the ebook or a paperback, and read the reviews by clicking the link below:
Fans of Fantasy, YA and children’s books need look no further than The Watcher and The Friend, from Burton Mayers Books. The sequel, A Cold Wind Blows, is scheduled to come out next year. For a flavour, check out the podcast audio book.
A little unfair this title. Some of these books were just a little disappointing, a little overhyped. Others were just plain dreadful.
Picture the scene: It’s Christmas morning and you’re a little heady from the breakfast prosecco. You rip open the first of a pile of presents, to find The Kellerby Code waiting for you. Your nearest and dearest tell you it’s the word of mouth hit of the year, so funny, like Saltburn and you can’t wait to get started. Let me save you some time here. Put the book down. Forget you ever received it. Wipe it from your memory. Because this is the clear winner of the Turkey of the year. I know this sounds mean, but my longer review will explain why.
What’s happened to the writer who produced The Essex Serpent? Sarah Perry’s atmospheric debut stands clearly as her high watermark, as her Christianity seems to have overwhelmed her concern for craft. Enlightenment is dull and clumsy, and, just like the equally disappointing Melmoth, the critics raved about it. Do any of them actually read the books they are sent? Apologies to Christians everywhere – Happy.. er … Christmas.
A new Jackson Brodie crime outing from The wonderful Kate Atkinson is usually a cause for unconfined celebration. It starts so well – a clever play on cosy crime (bit of a theme this year). Brodie is reunited with Reggie Chase, the feisty, clever orphan from When Will There Be Good News? Chase is now a rookie cop who unofficially teams up with Brodie to investigate a case with links to his latest job. It’s an improbable mash up involving all the classic elements of old school murder mystery: isolated country house, list of stereotypical Agatha Christie suspects, all snowed in together as the bodies mount up. Sounds great fun, and it is, until the twists of the ever more unbelievable plot become tiresome.
William Boyd is the grand old man of English letters, but his latest, a brazen attempt to begin a multi million selling spy series to rival Bond is limp, derivative and lazy. It’s sad to see it and say it but the prose is risible. Every scene begins with a description of the place and the main characters, down to the clothes they are wearing. If that’s not enough to slow the action down, Boyd can’t resist any opportunity to tell us what drinks the character has and then, what they have to eat. ( “ a cheese and onion sandwich and a Dubonnet”) There must be about thirty scenes where Gabriel meets someone in a pub, bar or restaurant. Phoned in, reversing the charges.
Han Kang’s novel won the 2024 Nobel prize for Literature. Seriously, I wouldn’t want to go for a drink with anyone who was on the panel. This was such a deadly dull, dreary trudge, that I gave up after fifty pages. Life’s too short.
Fans of historical crime fiction set in Georgian England will love this reissue from Georgina Clarke. Set in Soho in 1759, it has all the ingredients of a successful historical murder mystery in the vein of Leonora Nattrass: authentic setting, engaging heroine, page turning twisty plot, hints of future romance and the setting up of a series.
It’s a delight. The heroine, Lizzie Hawkins, lives and works as a member of a more genteel brothel, run under the benevolent (mainly) eye of the Madam, Ma Farley. Lizzie tells the tale with a subtle combination of intelligence, warmth and cynicism. From the beginning we can see she is not one of your run of the mill bawds, and as the story progresses, her own back story is gradually revealed. She is drawn into the investigations that take place when one of her clients is found dead in the yard behind a Soho pub. She works closely with Will Blackstone, one of the original Bow Street runners, under the leadership of John Fielding, the brother of the celebrated literary figure, Henry. From initial suspicion and mistrust, they grow to respect each other as Blackstone increasingly realises that Lizzie is someone of depth and integrity.
The plot is unfolded with skill and pace and the reader is carried by this forward propulsion as the mystery thickens and is then resolved after a climactic showdown between Lizzie and the villain.The resolution at the end is both satisfying and carries the promise of more to come in future books. Clarke has written a sequel and a third book is due later in 2025. I will definitely be reading both of them to see what develops between Lizzie and Will.
I had just a couple of doubts about the world Clarke creates. Although she shows the abject misery of the street prostitutes, addled with gin, sleeping rough, and willing to provide any service to pay for food and more gin, there is something strangely sanitised about Lizzie’s experiences as a higher class working girl, and the other members of Ma Farley’s establishment. Lizzie gives full vent to her feelings about her work: her exhaustion, her disgust, her contempt for her clients, but despite that, it seems a relatively safe and tranquil situation that Lizzie is too comfortable with. It’s clear that Clarke knows her stuff and has done a shedload of research about the period, but I felt that the reality would have been more perilous, even for the cosseted girls of Ma Farley’s. I also didn’t quite believe in the wonderful Lizzie, who was a little too untouched by her experiences. She’s a great character: appealing, beautiful, feisty, intelligent, but a little too kind, it seemed to me.
More positively, I thought Clarke was unflinching in her portrayal of the aristocracy and the gentry – callous, entitled predators, slicing through the seedy side of London, blissfully untroubled by the human wreckage left in their wake. Some things never change. Overall, a highly enjoyable recreation of 18th century London life and a compelling crime mystery to boot. My Thanks to Verve publishers and NetGalley for providing a free ARC copy for review.
Death and The Harlot will be published by Verve in 2025
It was a beautiful June day, mid-afternoon, and the sun was high in the sky. John’s garden was a picture. He had spent the morning edging the lawn and weeding. He made frequent pauses, when he scanned all four corners of the plot, making plans for future planting. He was sure that if he took down that old shed and extended the vegetable plot, he could put a greenhouse on the concrete base and really make something of the bit at the back. For the previous ten years, all of his good intentions had come to nothing as the demands of domestic administration and work had taken up all of his time and energy. He had struggled to mow the lawn regularly, if truth be told, and it had not been unusual to miss the seasonal window for planting wall flowers or spring bulbs, leaving the garden rather ragged and unkempt. No matter how busy he had been at work or with the children, however, he had always made a point of devoting time to the patio, so that every summer, the table and chairs were surrounded by fragrant pots and exuberant climbers.
Gardening, he had often told himself and anyone else who would listen, is essentially a venn diagram of Time, Money and Inclination. This pearl of wisdom was generally delivered as an excuse to any visitor who happened to find themselves sitting at the table, drinking tea and looking out onto the far reaches of the garden that, frankly, did not quite live up to the expectations created by the perfumed oasis that was the sitting area.
It was nearly wonderful at the bottom of the garden. But not quite. The previous owners had planted palm trees, and exotic foliage plants around a pond, and at this time of year it was green and lush and luxuriant in the full flush of an early English summer, before July and August had taken their dusty toll on the plants, and before the rampant annual weeds had had a chance to take off and choke the structural plants in a tangle of bindweed. The jungle effect was enhanced by the flocks of parakeets that periodically swooped across the palms, and more bizarrely, by the occasional howl and shriek from the peacocks and other exotic animals from the little zoo that was situated on the other side of the river at the bottom of the garden. The kids used to love going there when they were little, with its adventure playground and petting farm. They even had some proper animals, though they were hard to see as they skulked resentfully at the back of their bleak cages, sad and bored. They hadn’t been for years now, though. Not since the kids got mobile phones and they started to skulk resentfully in their rooms.
He shook himself free of the memory, the smile fading on his lips, and turned his attention back to the garden. This year it would be different. This year, he would systematically weed and dig and prune and nurture. Time, Money and Inclination. These days he had enough of all three ingredients, and he was really looking forward to exploiting that fact this summer. He smiled as he poured himself another cup of coffee. He did a lot of that these days. Smiling and drinking coffee, sitting in his sunny garden under a parasol with the heady scent of roses and honeysuckle and the ceaseless soundtrack of birdsong. Oh, and doing the crossword of course. He was getting quite good at it these days. Practice makes perfect and all of that. He reached out for the folded copy of The Guardian and his pen and tried again. It was Monday, generally one of the easier days, and John always looked forward to Monday knowing that he would have a sporting chance of completing it before Sylvia got back from work.
He had to be careful, of course, not be sitting out here with coffee and crossword on the go, when Sylvia did get back from work. That would be rubbing her nose in it. She was always rather irritated when she did discover him in flagrante delicto, so to speak, as if he had been idling his time away all day in the sunshine while Sylvia was still on the mortgage treadmill. Since his retirement he had almost completely taken over the running of the house in terms of cooking, shopping, cleaning and being in for deliveries and tradespeople and so on. It was amazing how much time it took up. He couldn’t imagine now how they had managed when they were both working full time, and he didn’t really think he got the credit he deserved from Sylvia. He was sure that there weren’t many men of his age performing the househusband role so efficiently, with such good grace and with so little thanks. Not that he’d ever say that, of course. That would cause far too much trouble for very little gain
She was younger than him and probably had another ten years to work before they had paid off their mortgage. She had always worked too hard. Bringing casework home, endless typing of letters and notes and records on her laptop in front of the telly. She often fell asleep in front of the TV these days, as early as nine o’clock, with the stupid cat, sprawled across her lap, purring like a rattling window. She loved that cat. Probably more than him, he thought. It was another point of conflict between them.
He didn’t actively hate Watson. He just wasn’t a cat person. So much money, time, energy and love lavished on the creature for so little in return. The cat was getting old now and John was convinced it was suffering from dementia of some kind. Watson appeared to have no idea where his food bowl was, despite the fact that it had been in the same place in the kitchen since they had moved in ten years earlier. Every day, Watson seemed surprised to be directed to the same spot whenever he started hassling them about food, meowing pitifully and banging his head against legs. He seemed to have no spatial awareness, nor any awareness of consequences and would regularly trip up him or Sylvia or anyone else who happened to be in the house, by weaving in between their legs. One day, John was convinced, this would happen on the way down the stairs and someone would be found in a crumpled heap at the bottom. Watson would also periodically go into some kind of manic fit that would involve him spontaneously breaking into sprinting around the house from room to room as if he were being pursued by some mystery predator, before indulging in extended bouts of crazed flea scratching.
And it wasn’t just Watson either. That bloody cat from next door was just as bad. Not only did the sight of it provoke hair raising, spitting and caterwauling on Watson’s part, but the creature was shameless in terms of coming through the cat flap into the kitchen, as silent as a shadow, and eating all of Watson’s vile food. John wasn’t so much concerned about Watson’s welfare and diet, he was more outraged at being exploited by this malevolent invader. It was a violation of some sort.
There was Watson now, under the table on his special mat, out of the full glare of the sun, stretched out like an outline of a cat in an Egyptian mural, panting and heaving. John was really just waiting for him to die. He can’t have much longer to go now, surely, he thought. How long had they had him? Must be over fifteen years. Well, that was a pretty good innings in cat terms. He had had a good life. It was for the best that he keeled over sooner rather than later instead of spoiling John’s retirement with his incessant demands and interruptions. Much more likely for the cat to outlive him, by tripping him up on the stairs as he was rushing to open yet another pouch of foul smelling “chicken in gravy”. Yes, he thought, that cat will be the death of me.
He turned back to the crossword. He’d made pretty good progress but there was one corner that he had barely touched. Nine across – if he could just get that, it would open up that whole area of the puzzle and with a bit of luck he could polish off the rest in time to start cooking the dinner. Courgette Lemon linguine tonight, he thought, a new one of Jamie’s. Nine across, come on now. “Let’s see. ‘More elegant woman, with higher degree, seen as dangerous.’ Eight letters.” He sucked the end of his pen. “Now what could that be? Higher degree. PHD? MA, maybe?”
Beneath the table, Watson suddenly roused himself, sitting up and nervously scanning the horizon. The hairs on his back stood to attention and a faint hiss slipped from his mouth.
John looked down. “For God’s sake, Watson, calm down. You frightened the life out of me then.”
There was a rustle from the bushes to his left, the ones that screened the fence from view and Watson’s hissing began again but louder this time. He stretched up onto his paws and arched his back. John became aware that the birdsong had stopped and there was an eerie, oppressive silence, broken by more faint rustling from the bushes. At this, Watson flew into one of his manic fits, screeching, and running in circles before scrambling up the trunk of the gnarled old lilac tree.
John turned to look up at him, annoyed that his crossword break was being spoiled. “Watson, you stupid animal. It’s just next door’s cat. It’s just another bloody cat……”
He never got to finish the sentence. A crash sent his coffee cup flying and scattered chairs and newspaper to all corners of the patio.
Sometime later there was the sound of a key being turned in the front door. The door opened.
“It’s only me John love. Have you heard about the zoo? I was just listening to it on the radio in the car. I hope Watson’s all right. We really should keep him indoors until…….”
Outside on the patio, amid the broken pieces of cup, the scattered chairs and the pages of the Guardian, blown against some low-lying shrubs, Watson sat neatly on his mat, lapping with a delicate pink tongue from the wide streak of blood that was smeared across the paving stones. The blood, like a watercolour wash of crimson on a white canvas, was dragged across the stone, finishing where the bushes spilled over the edge.
The bushes quivered but no breeze blew and no birds sang.
Writer walks into windowless, dusky room and switches light on. Room gets darker. The End
I’d been meaning to read The Kellerby Code since the beginning of Summer. I’d noticed a few references to it in the weekend supplements, and then it began to be more heavily promoted with Richard Osman’s one word verdict: Genius. On further investigation, it seemed that the book was a comedy, set in a Country House, with shades of Evelyn Waugh and P G Wodehouse. It sounded delicious, just right for two weeks away in the Mediterranean sun.
Such is the power of marketing – selling a book in shedloads, even though it falls apart virtually the minute you begin to read it. Its only possible virtue is its future role in Creative Writing courses as a manual on how not to write a novel.
I know this sounds cruel. After all, it is Mr Sweet’s debut novel and budding writers need gentle encouragement, but I really think you can put away your sympathy and save it for more deserving cases. He has, after all, sold millions, made a fortune, and has nicely set up a second career to slot alongside his night job as a Stand Up comedian, probably now with a multi book follow up deal.
The TV adaptation can’t be far away. And, to be honest, that will probably be much better than the book, because no one would have to read it and…….How can I put this politely? This is very, very badly written. Thankfully for you, dear reader, I’ve already read it, so that you don’t have to.
SPOILER ALERT!
(But actually, dont worry, You’re never going to read this book…)
Although both Brideshead and Blandings are both referenced in the book, and the title is an echo of The Code of the Woosters, the real comparisons are with the film, Saltburn, and Patricia Highsmith’s The Talented Mr Ripley. It’s about a lower middle class young man, Edward Jevons, who falls in with a posh, entitled, aristocratic set at Oxford, whose leader, Robert, takes him under his wing and simultaneously patronises and exploits him. The gilded crew naturally fall into highly paid jobs in the arts and finance, via their discreet network of patronage and influence, while Edward, embarrassing oik that he is, is reduced to tutoring the ghastly offspring of the Chelsea and Knightsbridge elite. His real job, however, is to be Robert’s unofficial factotum and gopher, being expected to fulfill a myriad of trivial bits of domestic administration, unpaid, at the drop of a hat. This is done under the heading, Friendship, apparently, because Robert is grappling with the higher problems of being an up and coming theatre director and has no time to wipe his own arse and he doesn’t much care for getting his hands dirty.
Tom RipleyThe Cast of Saltburn
Edward is completely besotted with this world, leaving his roots behind him, and is completely blind to the fact that his new posh friends actually despise him, and refer to him as Jeeves behind his back. The situation is complicated by the fact that he is totally in love with Stanza (yes, really), more posh entitled totty who treats him like dirt and things really begin to take off when Robert starts going out with her and eventually marries her. The second half of the book brings a murder, which is the trigger for Edward’s descent into nervous breakdown territory and several more, ludicrous murders.
The plot is actually quite engaging, and even when the coincidences and hugely overblown prose threatened to make me chuck the book against the wall and admit defeat, wanting to have narrative resolution kept me going. The characters are uniformly ghastly. I read the whole book without incurring any warm feelings or concerns about anybody – not the vile poshos, and certainly not the wholly pathetic Edward, whose whinings and self pity produced a dreadful toxic cocktail of a personality that was more repellant than sympathetic. In the end, I felt the Bullingdon club crowd were actually too nice to him
The “twists” and “turns” of the plot were laughably poor. At times we were asked to believe that Edward, presumably our hero, had never read or seen a contemporary detective drama and was completely unaware of CCTV, DNA, fingerprints or even the basic fact that the police might ask him some questions and then triangulate his answers against what other witnesses/suspects had said. None of it matters though – there are so many loose ends and plot holes, so many inexplicable decisions made, that the real pleasure of the book was seeing what the next ridiculous plot twist was going to be. The concept of suspending disbelief was taken to new heights, such that in the end it became not a matter of suspension of disbelief but total disappearance of belief. This is a book that rests entirely on blind faith, like a religion, but without the rewards religion purports to offer. Textual Fundamentalism is the way forward. It stops hard pressed writers having to give a second thought to all those tiresome ideas about credibility, motivation, or authenticity.
But the worst is yet to come. My God, the prose, dear reader, the prose. The analogy that pushed its way into my consciousness, as I was ploughing through this car crash of a book was that of the IKEA flat pack piece of furniture. You get the damn thing home and open it up, and then diligently read through the language-less instructions.
Bolts and screws of various sizes are included in separate plastic bags, but it’s not until you have nearly constructed the thing that you realize that it doesn’t fit together and that you’ve used the wrong screw for the wrong bit of MDF. Here, Mr Sweet discovered that he’d been sent a big bag of commas and a tiny bag of full stops.
Sentences stagger on, many clauses lashed together by commas, desperately searching for a full stop, until they collapse, bleeding and exhausted. This is someone with a nice turn of phrase and a vocabulary that they are secretly very proud of, but who is determined to show you everything they can do. In every sentence. Every time. As a former GCSE and A level English teacher, my greatest priority was to impress upon my students the utter beauty of the short sentence, and the absolute necessity of a variety of sentence lengths and structures, so that there was some sense of rhythm to the whole thing. So that it sounded good when read aloud and felt nice in the mouth. Here, it sounds like radio static and tastes like a mouthful of Brylcreem. Back in the day, if little Jonny were one of my students, his submission would have tested my powers of constructive feedback and diplomacy.
My sincere suggestion to you, dear reader, is don’t bother with this. Watch Saltburn instead. Or watch and read The Talented Mr Ripley. And for advice on how to write sublime sentences, read some Wodehouse. You know it makes sense.
The new album by Fontaines DC is alive and kicking
More than five years worth of water has disappeared under the bridge since Dublin’s finest, Fontaines DC, released their debut album, Dogrel. There have been two more since then – A Hero’s Death and Skinty Fia, but neither of them generated the same excitement as their first, with its originality and verve.
They arrived heralded as nouveau punk and although those comparisons are always inevitably flawed and misleading, there was something in that characterisation. That album was many things but, like the original punks, one thing it was not, was polite. There was an authenticity and a couldn’t-care-less attack to it. This is us, it seemed to declare, and we don’t care what you say about it. This was my review of it at the time:
But now comes their fourth studio album, Romance, and it’s a game changer. Old heads with old hands now and they have produced something of rare beauty that triumphantly confirms what that first album promised: They’re gonna be Big. The start of the album generates fear of disappointment, with the title track, Romance. Moody, doomy synth washes with dark, dark lyrics:
Into the darkness again,
In with the pigs in the pen
Don’t worry! It’s a deliberately misleading start. It’s not doom and gloom that await you in this album, it’s joy and beauty. This is not a band trying to curry favour with its potential new audience, playing it safe. It would have been so easy to start the album with Favourite for some uplifting poppy melody, but that is a trap they sidestep, preferring instead to make demands on their fan base. And they are demands that are worth responding to. After three listens, the subtle pleasures of vocals, lyrics and atmospheric layers lodge themselves in your brain, and you’ll wonder why you doubted them in the first place.
The album goes from strength to strength. The single, Starburst, is the perfect antidote to the slow gloom of Romance. First, strange mellotron is studded by liquid arpeggio piano notes that ooze a grave, poignant portent. Then the uptempo beat and word heavy, almost rapping rhythmic vocals – this will be the standout track on first listen. But that won’t last, as the subtle pleasures of all the other tracks begin to elbow you for attention.
The melodies are gorgeous, the lyrics subtle and clever, the vocals sweet, particularly the unexpected harmonies that punctuate many of the songs. It’s a repeat of the Black Keys scenario, back in 2011. After releasing three well respected hard electric blues rock albums, that clocked up mega critical approval but few sales, the Black Keys suddenly discovered how to write classic pop songs with killer hooks and choruses and came up with El Camino. Still quintessentially Black Keys, with their DNA pulsing through it, it was a compulsively fabulous commercial record. So it is with Fontaines and this album. It retains its Dublin accent, but uses it to tell better stories that will pull in a bigger audience. They look a little different as well. But then, don’t we all….
Fontaines now…
Fontaines then…
The two standout tracks for me at the moment have that unmistakable classic quality of great songs: they sound like they’ve been discovered, excavated in an archaeological dig rather than having been newly created. It’s as if they’ve always been here. Have a listen, first to the sublime “Bug”.
Then the closing song of the album, “Favourite”. In a pre-streaming age, this would have been the opener to pull the audience in, on vinyl or CD. Lovely shiny guitar riff and cleverly worked chorus, this is classic pop.
Do yourself a favour and follow these instructions.
Regular readers of this blog will know that, if nothing else, it is eclectic, covering the highways and byways, the nooks and crannies of human interest. Fiction, Politics, Football, Writing, Theatre, Film, Music, original short stories – all human life is here. So you will forgive me, I’m sure, if this latest blog is unashamedly devoted to self-promotion. After a hiatus of a couple of years, my podcast Telling Stories has returned. When the kids move back out, the old recording studio moves back in. I’ve used it to contribute to Librivox, which in essence is an audio book version of The Gutenberg project. Anyone who passes the technical recording test can volunteer to read books that are out of copyright, and there is a vast library of free audio books, produced by said volunteers.
If you like listening to audiobooks, give this a go. It’s barely publicised, and the quality of the readers is varied, but with a bit of trial and error, you’ll be able to find something to your taste, that doesn’t offend your rigorous standards of fiction, technical specs and reading voice. It’s a really worthy project and deserves more support. Check it out at Librivox
Another project even more worthy of support is my Podcast. I’ve resumed the momentous task of turning my YA book, The Watcher and The Friend into an audio book, via regular recordings on my podcast, Telling Stories. I’m trying to post a weekly chapter. Have a look at the ones I’ve done since the new studio arrived. The links are here. Try it and pass it on if you like it. Or even if you don’t.
Make Sure you listen to the episodes in the right order! If you havent started yet, follow the links to the beginning and click follow on the Spotify Podcast page
A Cold Wind Blows – Book 2 of The Yngerlande Variations
Finally, some exciting news. The sequel to the book is scheduled to be published later this year. It’s called A Cold Wind Blows, and I’m very pleased to be able to give you a sneak preview of the new cover – designed by me and produced by the very talented Youness Elh. More on this later!
Before we start, it’s always good to remind ourselves of the calibre of Tory MP we have had to suffer for the last 14 years…
Ah, that’s better. Now, lets think about the election for the last time.
At the time of writing, the general election is only four days away. It can’t come soon enough, after what has been a thoroughly miserable, profoundly depressing campaign. And the polls haven’t shifted a notch in terms of closing the gap, so we might as well have had a seven day campaign and spared everyone the grief. Instead, there’s been five weeks of watching a dwindling band of Tories, the few left who are still prepared to debase themselves, lie through their teeth on the media treadmill every day, which has left me feeling very detached from the whole business. Those Tories that have declined to take part in the undignified circus have done so, not because of an outbreak of guilt, or remorse, or shame, or the sudden rediscovery of a moral compass, but because they realise the game is up and there’s nothing in it for them anymore. Some (Jenrick, Patel, Braverman) have been largely silent and/or invisible because they are busy plotting their post election-rout leadership bid. Others like Jenkyn have been shamelessly brown nosing Nigel Farage, and fantasising about their dream merger with Reform and a possible comeback for Johnson. Students of 1930s Germany might recall strange parallels with Von Papen, Hindenburg and Hitler. That didn’t end well for anyone. Others have gone on holiday (Baker), gone to the betting shop (Williams) or gone mad (Nadine Dorries, Liz Truss) Yes, I know Mad Nad is not standing, but it’s always good to remind everyone just how ghastly the last fourteen years have been. Johnson posted one troop-rallying video, looking like a man who had just returned from a treasonous Bunga Bunga party in a Russian Oligarch’s Italian mansion, security detail nowhere to be seen, having over indulged on everything he was offered: cocaine, call girls, state secrets. When nobody took any notice he clearly thought, “Fuck this for a game of soldiers, I’m off” and buggered off back to the Sardinian villa ( paid for, of course, by some other gullible rich bastard who hasn’t the wit to realise that Johnson currently has the establishment clout of Matt Hancock, is shagging his wife, and has left a steaming turd in the middle of the villa’s marble floor.)
Meanwhile, Rishi Sunak has just plain gone, being helicoptered in to factory after factory wearing yellow hi vis and a glassy fixed smile giving the same answer to every question: “bold action….no plan…no surrender…” The loyalty troops (James Cleverly, Mel Stride) in the party are talking up the idea that losing but getting over a hundred seats would be an act of heroic, leadership brilliance, before preparing to shaft him on July 5th. “Et tu, Jimmy?” gasps Sunak as the knife strikes. It almost makes one nostalgic for Matt Hancock, who has been airbrushed from History. I sometimes wonder whether someone called Matt Hancock did actually exist, or whether I just keep having a recurring bad dream. It can’t be that though, because when I wake up, the reality is even worse.
It looks like the ever wonderful Channel 4 news’ undercover filming of the Reform racist members/ workers/volunteers might shoot Farage’s fox, or at least wound it so they take votes from Tories, but not too many. It’s impossible to overstate the importance of them not taking any seats and having a lower share of the vote than the Tories. It would be the icing on the cake if Farage were to fail in Clacton, but that remains a real risk. The undercover filming was like one of those mad bits of social research that pop up now and then. You know the sort of thing, a research project that concludes that school students in classes that suffer from poor behaviour tend to achieve less well academically. No shit, Sherlock. I’m sure it’s come as an earth shattering shock to most sentient UK electors, that people associated with the sexist, homophobic, racist Reform party, led by the sexist, racist and homophobic Nigel Farage, are, deep down, er, sexist, racist and homophobic.
And yet, it still feels like squeaky bum time, regardless of what the polls say. What would be the perfect outcome, in Fantasy General Election land?
A narrow Labour majority
Lib Dems as second largest party.
Greens having 4+ MPs
Tories below 100
Reform with 0
The last two items generate wider support for PR
Starmer drops the mask, acts according to his centre left instincts, pushed by the Lib Dems, and jettisons the woeful policy positions taken up to appease the Daily Mail.
I am planning Election night, laying in a choice selection of fine wines and delicacies, having cleared my diary for the day after. I am determined to enjoy the evening because the cold-light reality of the next day will be depressing: a hangover, a Starmer-led Labour Government, with a shameful list of frit, populist policies and a weather forecast of rain. I’d like to think that, if the choice of 2024 General election songs was between Steely Dan, Change of the Guard (If you live in this world, you’re feeling the change of the guard”) of The Who, Fighting in the Streets (“Yeah, come meet the new boss, Same as the old boss”) then Steely Dan would win. But no, I fear The ‘Oo will triumph. Have a listen here and make your own mind up
We Dont Get Fooled Again
But I suppose it could be worse. Biden or Trump, anyone?
Finally, just to remind you where all the hollowing out of British society started, have a look at my memories of the infamous 1979 election, and the day I broke the law in the struggle against fascism. Or Margaret Thatcher at any rate. Enjoy the night, comfort yourself with how much worse it would have been under the fascists, and get ready for disappointments ahead,
Stop Press! The last word to Rishi Sunak, who this morning trumpeted his opinion that life in Britain is much better now than it was in 2010. Clueless.
Rish! and The Tories exposed as desperate and shameless after only two weeks.
I write this after two weeks of an already dismal and depressing election campaign – almost a third of the way through. Nothing much has shifted in terms of the polls – Labour are still a country mile in front and the Conservatives are still resolutely useless. So much so that my ingrained fear of the media establishment lying the Conservatives back to power, reinforced by enduring many unsuccessful campaigns in the past, has not really kicked in. I should be sitting back enjoying the campaign assured of victory, but I’m not. First, it’s extremely depressing watching a series of Tory ministers (or at least the few that are still standing ) lie their way through interviews, knowing that the supine interviewers will not call them out on their lies.
Second, unlike 1997, we are deprived of the delicious prospect of watching one grotesque Tory criminal after another being trounced by tactical voting. The biggest of beasts is vulnerable to ending their career in a rerun of the Portillo moment, shuffling from foot to foot in a drafty sports centre, as bepearled supporters sob uncontrollably. It’s petty and unworthy, I know, but it’s been the only thing keeping me going since 2010. Who would give the most pleasure? Jacob Rees Mogg? Michael Gove? Priti Patel? Cruella Braverman? Mark Francois? Andrea Jenkyns. Dear me, even reading the list sends a shiver down the spine, as the full depth and breadth of the Tory fuckwittery is laid bare. Deeply stupid. Deepy incompetent. Deeply callous. In some cases, vaguely criminal.
The trouble is that evolution has not produced a creature with a more acute nose for danger to their own self interest than the average sitting Tory MP. They’ve known for at least the past year that their days are numbered, and so they grandly announce their intention to stand down, citing privilege and honour, having made sure that they have secured a lucrative directorship or three of some businesses involved in their area of ministerial “expertise”. No reckoning for these charlatans after all. Michael Gove, taken by surprise by Rishi’s shock election call, didn’t even tell him he wasn’t going to stand. His announcement that he was standing down produced the most extraordinary paeans of praise for this supposed modern day titan of Westminster. The bar is set very low indeed if Gove is a titan. Coke head, drinker, lickspittle, his main achievement is proclaimed by the Torygraph and The Spectator as the rescuing of Education from the clutches of the Blob, all, supposedly in the name of “Standards”. Standards my arse, as Jim Royle might have commented. Now there’s someone who would have made a better Education Secretary than Gove. Along with Pingu, and Ant and Dec. What an interview shortlist that would have made.
The other source of pleasure denied, of course, is the prospect of an incoming Labour government that would begin the herculean task of repairing the damage created by 14 years of incompetence, greed and corruption. But unlike 1997, when there was real excitement at the end of Thatcherism, and what a Blair government could achieve, there is no similar joy or hope. Starmer has continued to disappoint and, lately, enrage. Before any of you Labour centrists explode, ranting about middle class Corbynistas threatening to jeopardize the Starmer project and thus betray “hard working families”, let me explain. (And don’t worry by the way about non-working, non families. No-one gives a toss about them. It’s their own fault.)
I absolutely get the strategy of saying virtually nothing and making no commitments that might give the Tories an easy target. We’ve been shafted too many times before by The Sun and the Mail. But what Starmer has done has gone way beyond that, way beyond what might reasonably be deemed sensible and cautious. Their policies have gone to the right of the Tory party. Watering down of the Green deal. Processing immigrants overseas. Keeping the 2 child benefit cap. Not nationalising Water, Energy, Rail etc. Not talking about Europe and the single market. Not talking about PR. The list is endless – a Mandelson-advised Labour party outflanking the Tories on the right. Who’d have thought it?
There does seem to be a genuine prospect that the Conservative Party might split after the election. Whereas before that would have been a reason for celebration, now it would just be a bit of schadenfreude. Why? Because there’s no need for the Tory Party, given the transformation of Starmer’s Labour. The Tories, who had via Brexit turned into the English National party, can split asunder. The knuckle draggers will migrate to Reform UK, who are basically the Nazis with fewer policies. The Tories who represent seats in leafy Middle England will join Labour. Socialists and even mildly left of centre libs will join the Greens. And this inexorable drift to the populist Right will continue unchecked unless Labour is deprived of a majority and PR somehow gets itself back on the table. And at the moment, that doesn’t seem likely.
This is the mother of all own goals. After what has happened since 2010, the appetite for socialist policies in poll after poll is enormous. They are clearly popular and different to the tired old policy sacred cows that derive from redundant concepts of sound money. The trouble is you have to make the case for them over time, and in doing so, debunk the hysterical name calling that promises of increased public sector spending always provokes. But the leadership don’t really seem to believe in it any more. Despite Starmer bizarrely self identifying as a – gulp – socialist. I’m still trying to work out the Machiavellian calculations that lie behind that announcement. Perhaps he just forgot.
The latest talking point is of Rishi Sunak taking politics and his own reputation into the gutter by his deliberate, desperate and blatant lies on tax. As ever with Rishi, despite the endearing flutter of excitement amongst the Media attack dogs on the night of the first debate, it’s all gone pear shaped twelve hours later. Everything he touches turns to dust, and I predict that before the end of the campaign, there will be major defections and open warfare amongst the Tories. It really couldn’t happen to a nicer bunch of people.
It was to be expected, of course. The Forty five year Thatcherite experiment has produced a shed load of evidence of its own spectacular failure. In every area of governance, Britain is significantly worse than it was in 2010. You only have to walk through your local town centre to see it with your own eyes. And you’d have to walk because it’s too hard to get a bus or a train. Even they can’t defend the rising tide of shit their ideology has generated, so the only thing left is to lie about it. And they’re not even very good at that, apart from their lack of shame. They are certainly world leaders at that.
I am still undecided, but currently The Greens are making it hard for me to vote Labour, but I suspect I’ll wait until the July 4th and assess the state of play then. The way things are going , I’ll be able to vote Green with a clear conscience, knowing that Labour’s majority is unthreatened. Labour’s continuation of right wing policies, their timidity on economics, their disgraceful position on Gaza and Israel’s genocidal madness make it increasingly hard to support them. Ultimately though, I take the Mick Lynch line on this: the very worst iteration of a Labour government is a hundred times better than the very best iteration of a Tory one. But it’s getting very close.
Hold the Front Page! Latest Tory haplessness – just before going to press the D Day scandal was breaking. Sunak’s crack team of advisors have outdone themselves this time. I’m starting to believe a tweet I read that suggested that the only rational explanation for their campaign’s increasing level of incompetence is the idea that Rish! has got a hedge bet on that depends on him losing the election by achieving less than 100 MPs. It’s delicious – the ultimate vaccuous flag shaggers hoisted by their own petard by the Dad’s Army propaganda sheets, The Torygraph, The Mail, The Sun and The Express.
More ramblings from the election battleground next week.
Something weird is happening to films. It’s crept up slowly, revealing itself bit by bit, until now there’s so much evidence that it’s irrefutable. We are living through the Golden Age of Cinema, after the Wasteland of Pandemic Lockdowns and their aftermath. What’s driving this? Lockdown. Streaming. The unstoppable proliferation of narrative outlets and the demand for stories that will satisfy the gamut of tastes and preferences. The thirst for longer narratives with space to develop character, relationships, themes. The usual stuff.
It seemed, when we were in the middle of it, that Lockdowns were going to destroy cinema, as everyone got used to staying in and subscribing to a range of streaming services. The content was good and it was cheap. But by the end, we were all thirsty for the experience of going out again. In the same way that Zoom, at first a lifeline, became an annoyance, when it became obvious that the experience it provided was thin gruel compared to the Michelin-starred flavour of talking to real people in the same room, with eye contact, nuance and body language. You know, like properly being alive.
At first, it was hard, going to the cinema again. An act of faith, even. We went to see countless films in cinemas, to find that there were only six or seven other people dotted around the auditorium. It was only a matter of time, we agreed, that there would be a wave of closures to match the decimation of retail units in High Streets across the country. But, somehow they clung on.
And then, probably about a year or so ago, I began to notice something else, when watching the trailers. For at least ten years before Lockdowns, sitting through the trailers was usually a deeply depressing experience. I had become innured to the naked cynicism of the adverts. Corporations were desperately, unsubtly trying to sell me stuff. Millions of pounds of production costs, undercut by appallingly, clankingly obvious scripts, overlaid with equally grim music tracks. The combination of visuals (admittedly, often very beautifully shot visuals), terrible scripts, and obvious music overlays characterised all cinema adverts. Having to sit through them, always left me feeling vaguely unclean before getting ready to watch a film, usually with some kind of moral message.
During this period, it was difficult to distinguish between the ads and the trailers for films that were coming our way. They too, were just an extension of this appeal to the basest instincts of Homo Sapiens: Marvel adaptations, Fantasy CGI fests, endless, mindless, explosions, car chases (or spacecraft chases, Dinosaur chases, orc chases etc) It was like watching human evolution going backwards and I did despair of the celebration of stupidity it all seemed to represent. Don’t get me wrong. There’s a place for escapist/adventure/action type films. But a) do them well, and present a story with a plot that makes sense and respects your audience and b) make them as part of a wider, more diverse offering.
So the first time it happened, it was a bit of a shock. After the film, on the walk from the cinema to the car, the conversation was less about the film, and more about the trailers. Puzzled expressions and lines like, “There’s some really interesting looking films coming up”, were delivered hesitantly, as if it was just a scam to get us back, but really we would find that nothing had changed.
But it has. Every month there are great films and , on leaving the cinema, I think, “That’s the best film I’ve seen this year.” Over and Over again. I may be wearing rose tinted spectacles, but I can’t remember this happening before. They are long (sometimes too long), have stories, have interesting characters and believable relationships, are beautifully filmed in interesting locations, have significant human dilemmas to be resolved. I don’t know how long this is going to go on for. I’m just determined to enjoy it while it lasts. Because when it all blows over, and we are forced to trawl through mediocre shit on Netflix, recreating that Friday night visit to Blockbuster, where everything in the shop, could be pulped without adversely impacting the stock of human happiness, we’ll be forced to reminisce sadly about the time when going to the movies was great.
And what have been the films that have inspired this analysis? Well, since you asked so nicely, in no particular order…
Oppenheimer
Barbie
Saltburn
Poor Things
Zone of Interest
Killers of the Flower Moon
All of us Strangers
Anatomy of a Fall
Past Lives
The Holdovers
I can just about narrow this down to a top five:
5. Saltburn
Saltburn
I’m amazed that this film divides opinion. It’s a funny, stylish Brideshead pisstake that turns the usual working-class-oik-adopted-by-the-bastard-Upper-Classes-at-Oxbridge-before- being-humiliated trope on its head. People who don’t like this are the same as those who didn’t get Don’t Look Up a couple of years ago – sadly very wrong.
4. Killers of The Flower Moon
Lots of moaning from the older cinema-goer ( my very own tribe) about toilet breaks needed because of its excessive length. Not for me. It flew by and I loved it. Fascinating, unknown (to me) story from American Twentieth Century history, with fabulous performances from De Niro, Gladstone (who really should have changed her name to De Gladstone) and the ever underappreciated Leonardo De Caprio. And if bladder control is increasingly a problem for you, there’s a range of remarkably effective, discreet products you can now buy. Next to the Maltesers in the cinema shop.
3. Poor Things
Wow! What a treat this film is. Visually stunning, steam punky Glasgow vibe, moving through Europe to Paris and back. Amazing performances from Emma Stone and Mark Ruffalo, who is hilarious all the way through and who should have won an Oscar, if that particular travesty of an award ceremony had anything to do with quality rather than promotion and virtue signalling. Is it a feminist epic? What a dim question – of course it is. How to learn to become a woman in a patriarchal society is a great premise and it’s delivered in an un-hectoring way. The scenes in the Parisian brothel are notable for the collection of highly unprepossessing men who make up their client list. In any other year, this would have been the best film of the year by a mile.
This brings us to the top two, and we move into a completely different league of experience. In Joint First Place are:
Zone Of Interest
This is an amazing film. The Second World War and the holocaust are strange subjects. In one sense, how can you go wrong? They naturally carry their own drama, their own horror so they’re a gift as subjects for people who are making stories. The downside, of course, is the fact that they’ve been done to death. How could you possibly find anything new or compelling to say, when confronted by the ultimate, still barely believable, example of the worst of humanity? But Zone of Interest pulls it off.
It’s a great premise. The mundane domestic arrangements of the Auschwitz commander whose family home abuts the death camp are an obvious way of exploring how absolute evil becomes commonplace. Generations of GCSE English students will also be familiar with the poem Vultures by Chinua Achebe on the same theme:
Thus the Commandant at Belsen Camp going home for the day with fumes of human roast clinging rebelliously to his hairy nostrils will stop at the wayside sweet-shop and pick up a chocolate for his tender offspring waiting at home for Daddy’s return…
Praise bounteous providence if you will that grants even an ogre a tiny glow-worm tenderness encapsulated in icy caverns of a cruel heart or else despair for in the very germ of that kindred love is lodged the perpetuity of evil.
Vultures. Chinua Achebe
Everything positive that has been said about this film is true. The soundscape is extraordinary and a compelling reason to watch it on the big screen. There are some wonderful scenes: the commandant hurriedly getting his kids out of the nearby river, running through idyllic woodland next door, when he realises that the water is carrying some horrific evidence from the camp next door. This is followed by frantic scrubbing of the kids in the bath. The commandant’s wife casually sorting through booty left behind after prisoners had been exterminated: fur coats, gold teeth, jewellery. The negative night scenes, of a young girl from the village visiting the outside work areas hiding food for the inmates, are both beautiful and haunting. It’s a film that will never leave you, once seen.
All of Us Strangers
This is the film that sums up, for me, the new approach of adult serious films, for adult serious people. Please note: Adult and Serious does not mean Boring. Far from it. The four central performances are luminous: Andrew Scott, Paul Mescal, Clare Foy and Jamie Bell are all brilliant. It’s so good, you want a new category of Oscar: the ensemble acting award. People talk to each other. They struggle with their feelings, they show what it is to be alive as an individual in an alienating society. There’s a hint of lockdown isolation, but that is suggested rather than laid on with a trowel. It’s enlivened by some, beautiful, subtle magic realism, in the form of the Scott character going back to visit his childhood home as part of his research for a new film he’s working on and finding his parents, unaged, still living there. It uses this device to explore memories of childhood and regrets for all of the things that were not said. Tears are shed in the audience. Beautiful.
The Old Grey Owl 