I feel unusual

Wimped out of most of the larking this weekend, ‘cos of feeling like shit. Woke up yesterday with what I thought was a hangover, only far beyond what a few ales should bring on. Despite yacking my guts up, aspirin, Coca-Cola and the good cheer of chums, I still felt miserable and unfunny by the afternoon.

Perhaps I’m getting old, I thought. And then a chum pointed out I had temperature reminiscent of a firestorm. Now think it’s some sort of Horrid Cold – the first of the season. Joy.

Fell home in a bit of a blur, and slept for the rest of the day – bar two excursions to the garden, returning toads the little sod brought in. And R., who I put up in exchange for floor space in Swansea, had to brave the taxis and 363s of South London all on his own. Weird thing about Horrid Colds and Flu is that you look better than you feel, so he probably thought me a right old wuss. No change there, then.

Slept most of today as well, though watched some telly and Star Wars. The Doctor rang from the States, and everything there has gone brilliantly. A well-received paper to the Smithsonian Institute in Washington DC, no less. She mighty fine, that one. And the sonic screwdrivers she bought for her fan-mate’s kids have gone down a treat. So well done J., who sourced them.

Feeling miserable and missing her, I then did all the washing up I have not done since she left. And put some washing on. I even thought about hoovering.

No trick-or-treaters this year – unless I just slept through them. And the cat seems less freaked by the fireworks. This strikes me as like that bit in horror movies when it’s just too quiet.

Time Travellers has been seen in bookshops, and two paid reviewers tell me they’ve received their copies – so all on tenterhooks now. Meeting tomorrow to finish another book-shaped project, which will get announced in due course. The Settling has been cast, and my mum is delighted. Also – though it’s again got to be announced officially – I seem to be doing a book signing. Gosh.

Phil has typed up his talk on the Spirituality of New Show, and after all my nagging him, I now need to go and read it. So that I can then hack apart his claims for the naïve, superstitious flimflam they must be.

I think I am feeling a bit better…

Cabbage cleans the blood

5,561 usable words written today and sent in, linking together something that’s due to be announced any day now. Woo!

Last night, splendid fellows took me to see What have you done today, Mervyn Day?, with live music by St Etienne. We also had pizza and beer. The film is really interesting, with all sorts of facts and perspectives on the Lea Valley – like no one actually calling it that. And plastic and petrol and the Labour Party were all invented where the Olympic Park will now be. Proper social history, like. Not sure about the blood, but the splendid fellows passed on that cabbage might help with cancer.

It’s been ages since I last saw live music, and this was a corker. Recommend A Good Thing, which is out as a single on Monday. Sarah Cracknell still has the voice of an angel, and looks just as magnificent as she did when I first fancied her in my teens. The Barbican, though, is not built for dancing.

(Probably a good thing as far as my splendid fellows were concerned.)

Have heard from the Doctor, who has arrived, is tired and is missing the cat. Little sod brought me two toads today.

Having done my chores, off now to have some tea, and thence to the pub to begin a weekend of very serious, sober and spiritual reflection as part of a writers conference.

No, really. That’s what it is.

Lies, damn lies

A couple of weeks ago, I signed this blog up to Site Meter, partly 'cos of being curious, and mostly 'cos it was free. And very easy to do, too.

If you're feeling nosy, you can look up my stats (there's also a link at the bottom of the page), and even play with trends and locations and wossnames like that. 17 visitors a day, though, is actually not all that bad.

My current favourite is the "Countries" tab. I think I know who the Finnish and Canadian visitors might be. But Singapore?

And Saudi Arabia?

Well, whatever it is you were looking for, I hope you weren't too disappointed.

Dancing with planks

To see Stephen Fry last night, talking about his new book on poetry. It seems - having heard his excerpts and read up to chapter one – like exactly the sort of thing that would have made my teens very different.

Had the same feeling last year about Bryson’s unravelling of science and Wilson’s vivid, teeming history; books that opened windows in my head. They had me wide-eyed and delighted, buying more copies for everyone’s birthdays, muttering, “Now I get how it works…”

That said, had they been around as I started my A levels, I’d probably not have read them anyway. Studiously ignored the much-spoken of Ways Of Seeing for years. No idea why – it’s quite brilliant.

Fry had lots of interesting things to say – especially so, since they reached through to this entrenched prosodophobe. I’d been coming round to the idea, though, that poetry might have some value. An evangelical chum put some rude and funny verse my way. Then William Goldman compared screenplays to poetry as an exercise in concise writing, nuggets of meaning that can’t be said in any fewer words. Which has been useful in all sorts of ways.

I’ve written scripts of one sort and another, stories and pitches and blurbs, and then there’s the ever-concise copy that pays the rent. But never poetry. Lyrics, a bit. Bits of stories. But a great deal of what clutters the notebooks I’ve been keeping since my teens is bits of phrasing, execrable puns, shufflings and reshufflings of words. And though I bought Fry’s book for the Doctor (as something to take to the States tomorrow), I found myself leafing through it last night until 1 in the morning.

On the value of poetry, Fry cited Wilde, that all art is useless. But he then goes further: that the unnecessary embellishments of life are what make it worth living. We can subsist on food pills and concrete tower blocks, but it deadens us, erodes our social abilities and empathy. Instead, we – the lucky ones – have wine and music and painting, things that rise above the okay, the that’ll-do, the (and it is a pejorative) mediocre. I’m wary of using the term “art”, but by care of our “craft”, we can make stuff we do that much better.

Which is a cosy idea, but not new. It made me think of the Parable of the Talents, where there’s an inherent, moral obligation to make the most of what we’ve got. (Jesus, of course, taught morality through stories, which is why the Bible still has great moral value, without our having to believe any of it’s literally true, or that the main character is still alive.)

So Fry’s point seemed to be that making the most of the language we use – mucking about with top words like “plank”, “Bonobo” and “spoon”, then revising, cutting, rethinking the arrangements – makes for a better existence.

That playing is important. I remember Robert Harris talking about writing Pompeii (on the South Bank Show, I think). He’d done his research, he’d plotted the book out. The actual writing was just a series of “solutions” to get him to the end. But I hate the idea of just joining the dots. The last month of writing The Time Travellers was miserable because I knew where the thing was going, and I was shackled to this predestined end. So I came up with ways of doing things differently, to try and surprise myself (and keep me awake). Even the very last chapter is full of stuff I came up with right at the last minute.

(Though whether that actually keeps it fresher and more interesting, isn’t my decision. We’ll see soon enough…)

Afterwards, there were questions (and yes, the inevitable non-question from someone, going on about who they were and then making some judgment on all that had been said. You have to have one of these at any Q&A. If the organisers ask people specifically not to do this, you get loads of them).

Fry’s answers were longer, more rambling, more expansive – which made me think that he must have prepared his talk. It had been more concise, more structured, more sure. It was, for his efforts (and though I think rambling has value of its own) better.

No questions about Fry writing Droo (I was too cowardly). But a chum sent me this brilliant piece of balanced, unbiased reporting.

Parallel lines

Today, Microsoft Word didn't recognise "microsite". Since I'm hot-desking at work and the defaults aren't my own, it automatically changed it to "crosstie".

This, as well as not being helpful, was not a word I'd ever heard of before. So I looked it up.

Oh, it's sort of from "tie across", and is an American word for sleepers (the things that hold railway tracks in place).

It doesn't, as I'd thought, rhyme with "frosty".

Power over the sea!

Went to the Trafalgar 200 wossname in Trafalgar Square yesterday, which was fun - especially when a bit of scenery caught fire during the big finale. Looked like it might do damage to the newly repointed National Gallery...

The whole thing was a big advert for the Royal Navy, with lots about its core values (courage, care, killing baddies...). But it was free, and the rain held off, and the final column-in-lights was cool. Overall, we learned that Nelson had a big willy, the Royal Navy still has that big willy, and you could have a big willy too, if only you signed up.

In other news, Joe Ford has written some very nice things about Lost Museum - at least, nice about me. (NB the full review contains SPOILERS.)

"I am full of hope for Simon Guerrier’s upcoming first Doctor novel, after listening to this story I expect it will be a real winner. Three things leapt out of me here, his excellent grasp of established characters; the ability to tell a satisfying self-contained story and the inclusion of some unique ideas. Most regular Doctor Who audio would be lucky to get one of those right, here Guerrier achieves a remarkable feat of squeezing it all into fifty-five minutes."

The shortness of the play (they're usually 65 minutes or more) is entirely my fault; the script was the wanted 70 pages, but it's meant to be fast and furious from the start, and I didn't compensate for that. Did the same thing with The Coup...

Oh, and I get a mention in this review of A Day In The Life. I'm simply "boring". Which will come as no surprise to readers of this blog...

Small, far away

Oceans of time ago, I dragged a mate to an exhibition at the Hayward Gallery to see “Full Moon”, Michael Light’s vast and remastered photographs from the Apollo moon missions. Although the accompanying book is well worth picking up, it can’t capture the wow factor of seeing lunar landscapes blown up huuuuuuge.

One of the oddest things about the pictures is the non-effect of the moon’s puny atmosphere. (It does actually have one. “Just the Apollo missions to the Moon increased the atmospheric density by a factor of 10,” as Mark Kidger explains.) Your traditional landscape shows aerial perspective – the blue-green blurring of distant hills in the distance. But the moon’s mountains remain pin-sharp, and since they’re also very much larger than anything down here, the real life moon looks like bad CGI.

At first, you’d think this obvious, cheap special effect would lend itself to the NASA never landed on the moon stuff. But not when you think about it; an “earthly” perspective would give away the scam.

Anyway. Having been dazzled by alien vistas, our ticket also got us in to a showing of portraits by Chuck Close, who I’d never heard of. Yes, I am a philistine.

Close’s portraits are huuuuuuge. They’re based on photographs, with the subject usually staring down at you from above. Reproductions in books and online don’t really do them justice – it’s the sheer bloody scale of them that’s amazing. The close scrutiny of the near and everyday made a great contrast to the moon snaps, and both muck about with the border between art and science. Which is nice.

Got to see Close speak last night at the NPG, as part of their self-portrait thing. He was candid about the mechanics of producing his work, and made some interesting links between his slow, one-cell-at-a-time method (which can surprise him even though the “bigger” picture turns out like he’d planned), and the same incremental steps in writing a novel. As he said, with each portrait based on a photo, it’s the “means” he’s interested in, not the “ends”.

It seemed to me that what's changed in his heads over the years is more interest in process, and an ease with showing his working. Precise airbrushing has been superseded by “wrong” colours, wild, whirling marks and a freedom close-up on the canvas that makes the portrait, only comprehensible from the far side of the room, all the more brilliant.

I also really liked his unpretentious style. A portrait of his grandmother-in-law, all done in his own thumbprints, had been hailed for "the intimacy of his having touched every detail of the face." No, said Close, he’d just been thinking how to make his work forge-proof.

Er… golly. Lots on art, and nothing at all on the new Boards of Canada album what I accidentally bought yesterday. Will have to do something about that sometime.

P-L-A-Y, playaway-away-way

Been to see two plays this week, which is something of a record. On Tuesday it was Mike Leigh’s "Two Thousand Years", about a guardianista family battling with itself.

“For the first time, the National Theatre has commissioned Mike Leigh to create an original play. Following his usual methods, Leigh has been working with his team to explore characters, relationships, themes and ideas.”

We went, to be honest, because the thing we’d booked for got cancelled, and I had entirely no idea what to expect. I’d not been in the Cottesloe before, and it’s a small, intimate place – one I didn’t really fit into.

Though I still had my doubts as the play began, it soon proved utterly mesmerising. The thing’s surprisingly contemporary, the characters discussing Katrina as well as the situation in Iraq and the West Bank. In fact, I now realise, over the summer the NT were advertising just “a new play by Mike Leigh” without any details of what it might be about…

Another thing that struck me (and still without giving anything away because you should go see it) is that some of the scenes are very short. In some cases there’s just one line, or even someone saying nothing at all, and speaking some development with a look. It punctuates the longer, more involved scenes. And it never occurred to me, what with the practicalities of staging it, that theatre could do stuff like that.

By turns political, funny, silly and deeply moving, “Two Thousand Years” is also really well observed. I recognised elements from my own and other people’s families. One to take the parents to.

Then, last night, we took O. to see “Henry the Great” by Nicola Lyon, in which five actors (including Donald Sinden and Dr Who's Richard Briers and Penelope Wilton) narrated the life of actor Henry Iriving. The pink and green striped ties – on the stage and in the audience – showed the play’s debt to Irving’s beloved Garrick Club (where the play was first performed last week).

(Also spotted Michael Kilgarriff in the audience. Smart red tie, not the tatty pink-and-green, I noticed. "That man was a Giant Robot," I told O. "Good-o," he replied, so paralysed with delight he looked bored.)

Again, I had little idea what the thing would be like, and it proved a really good hour of top facts and good jokes, culled from multiple sources (such as Ellen Terry’s autobiography). Two favourite examples:

Irving’s Hamlet was believed definitive, but Walter Collinson (Irving’s own tailor) much preferred his Macbeth. Which was odd, Irving thought, because that performance had been so derided. So, he asked his tailor, why the Scottish play? Collinson replied, “You sweat much more in that.”

At his height, Irving was making money through advertising – his face appeared selling beer and crackers and so on. His profile as Hamlet even appeared on the packaging of pills, the slogan, “To Beechams, or not to Beechams.” (Cue terrible groan from audience).



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The cooking fat just jumped on the keyboard. Best go see to the little sod’s needs.

Necessary detail

Went to see Serenity again with a brother last night, who was surprised to really enjoy it. Guess over the years he’s had to put up with more than enough shit from me... But he jumped at all the jumpy bits. And at thing that weren’t that jumpy. Wuss.

Definitely stands up to repeated viewings, though. Knowing where the wild plot is tumbling, you see how Whedon has packed in all the needed details early on: the reavers, Mr Universe, the relationships of the crew. It’s a deft and concise bit of writing. Git.

Since we just missed the 6 pm showing, we killed some hours before the next one getting soaked, eating steak, and generally just chatting ‘bout shit. Outside, the London Film Festival was apparently just under way, though we couldn’t see across Leicester Square for the rain. My review of The Constant Gardener, though, is now up at Film Focus.

Spent today working through the producer’s notes on The Settling, though he seems largely happy with it. Woo. The "audience won’t have a clue who Stafford and Castle are", he says. And he’s right. Revised script sent back in, though there may be some work still to do.

The cat has been racing in and out of doors all day, and I had to chase the Evil Grey Cat out of the kitchen at one point. The EGC makes this terrible, whingey mewling at the best of times, and my own little sod seems only to fight back when you’re watching. It’s been weeks since I last threw a glass of water over EGC, which probably explains why he’s all cocky again.

As-yet-announced scribbling work now awaits, and then off to commemorate the centenary of Henry Irving’s funeral.

The roof of the world

This morning I went to a meeting, met some nice people, agreed some things about work, and stared dazedly out of the window. We were on the top floor of 1 Canada Square, and the view – as I’d predicted for Time Travellers – is breath-taking.

It’s odd to look down on the Millennium Dome, the anorexic Thames Barrier, and the tiny scrap of runway that is City Airport, with planes bundling down on to with alarming speed and ease. On clear days, they say you can see Cambridge and the Chilterns...

I like my job.

Blearing

My eyes have gone funny, having spent the afternoon copying out faded, photocopied, tiny print from six or seven years ago. Well, my fingers were doing the actual copying, but my eyes were keeping close watch.

Odd day yesterday, with some very good news that promised also to be rather expensive. Only Barclays couldn't do a transfer of the wanted amount via the Internet. So I rang them.

"It needs to be paid in one go," I said.

"Well," said the helpful, friendly man. "You could do it in installments over the week."

Nor could they do a transfer of wanted amount over the phone - even after going through security checks and questions. So, though I was freelancing in an office, I trooped off to see them in person, at the place round the corner. Which was swarming with lost looking souls. Spent 20 minutes in the queue, to find they can't do a transfer of wanted amount at the counter. Queued to see a personal banker, to discover they can't do a transfer of that kind after 3 pm. It was 2.58 by their own clock.

"But by the time we've filled in the form..." said the smiling, friendly lady.

Gah!

Was at the bank as they opened this morning, and this time the transfer was one the counter could do. Spent some time filling in a form, only to be told it was the wrong bit of paper for transferring sums to another bank. But by half nine, all was done. Of course, the form had to be faxed off to somewhere and then processed from there. But by now it should all be done.

Should be. They said they'd ring me if there were any problems.

They said.

Still don't really believe this is happening. But when all transactions have been made, I will admit what it is I am spending my money on.

Then, last night, to the pub to discuss work-type things. As a result, I am now swamped in projects of one kind or another. And some very exciting ones, too. There will be, as ever, some announcement some time. But drank two bottles of fizz with the Doctor to celebrate.

Hmm. Realise none of the above is actually very revealing. But at least an air of mystery makes me seem interesting.

And now back to washing up sauncepans.

Hoot crowd

So it's not another Bad Wolf. Already, of course, there’s talk among Droo authors about which things they’ve written this new show will be like, or whether it might mean More Books. My own mercenary first thought was, "definitely no UNIT year two, then..."

The UN objected to the acronym UNIT anyway, as detailed in Droo’s magazine. Had a go coming up with other things it might stand for. Best so far is "You know it’s top secret".

Speak of which... The office continues to debate the new James Bond. Is he suitably dishy? Should he be blond? Can he act the right way? Wasn’t he once some bum northerner?

I reckon Craig is an excellent choice, and an excellent actor and all. It’s odd to criticise him as 007 based on his previous work. Sir Sean had a dark past of odd film roles; Brosnan played terrorists in Long Good Friday and Fourth Protocol; Dalton owed "everything to Flash"; Lazenby's acting career prior to OHMSS had consisted of hefting crates. Only Sir Roger Moore had a suitable background as the Saint and Lord Brett Sinclair. Oh, and Niven, too.

It is surely a Good Thing to have an able and versatile actor, who might just bring something new to the dour silhouette Bond can be.

Like every Bond flick since ever, this new one is promised to be darker, grittier, more real and more like Fleming’s books. I assume we’ll soon hear how Vesper Lynd is a new kind of Bond girl, not like the ones who just melt when he looks at her, and able to handle her own. And Le Chiffre is a new kind of villain, un-camp and with a proper MO...

In all this effort to be more like the books' sexist, misogynist dinosaur, they’re also saying they’re ejecting regulars like John Cleese and Moneypenny – though the later, er, is in the book:

"What do you think, Penny?' The Chief of Staff turned to M's private secretary who shared the room with him.

Miss Moneypenny would have been desirable but for eyes which were cool and direct and quizzical.

'Should be all right. He won a victory at the FO this morning and he's not got anyone for the next half an hour.' She smiled encouragingly at the Head of S whom she liked for himself and the importance of his section.'"

Ian Fleming, Casino Royale, p. 23.

The first bit of skirt in the Bond books, and note she’s a new kind of Bond girl, not like the ones who just melt when he looks at her, and able to handle her own...

Speculative fiction

Crap things writers do:

• Whinge about writing.
• Miss deadlines.

Apologies for being guilty of the former to talk about the latter…

Deadlines are good; I don’t ever miss them. If there’s a deadline, the work gets done.

• Show off the whole bloody time.

Partly that’s to do with having employed people myself, and dealing with the fall-out when stuff comes in late – if at all. It’s also probably to do with just showing off.

(With Time Travellers nearly on the shelves, I’m suddenly much happier about the thing, having hated the last couple of months actually writing it. Was delighted to escape, lolloping off to edit other people's stuff and write scripts. Scripts and anthologies involve other people, so there’s more showing off to be done. At least in the immediate. But now, having 288 pages written by me – and me alone – is something I’m already dining out on…)

• Go on and on about some "great idea", rather than actually writing it.

Writing on-spec, on the other hand, I’m just rubbish at. Having cleared the decks a bit a fortnight ago, I fully meant to get up to my eye-balls writing up all kinds of projects that occasionally grace my notebook. Stuff that isn’t Who-related, too.

And has any of it got done? Of course not.

• Find ways not to write, then grouse about not getting stuff written.

Anything else is much more absorbing. I’ve abandoned the housework, deleted computer games, avoided mailing lists, banned TV during the day… and I can still stare at the wall for hours…

What’s worked in the past is promising stuff to chums: “I’m writing a thing on-spec, and if I get it to you on Friday, could you look it over?” Not even at that stage yet, though. Hum ho.

Pitches, though, I can do. Pitched a whole raft of stuff to various souls this week, and have been asked to write up a few of them. Pitches are good because they’re showing off again. Keep it brief, make it different, leave enough space for the bosses to add their own stuff… and you might just win some new deadlines.

• Fill up blogs and webpages with self-indulgent old tosh like this.

Unfortunate taste

So, as promised, those lions.

The Ghost and the Darkness is not the most brilliant of films and certainly not as good as William Goldman’s script, which I happened across first. It was going for a pound in a Greenwich bookshop and, when I finally read the thing, proved utterly mesmerising. Haunting, epic, funny and terrifying… You can understand Goldman’s despair (in the excellent Which lie did I tell?) at Hollywood’s failure to properly realise “Jaws directed by David Lean”.

The story is pretty simple, and based on real events. At the end of the nineteenth century, Prime Minister (and uncle) Bob Salisbury had to apologise to the Lords for delays in building a railway through Kenya. It seemed, he said, that two lions had appeared in the Tsavo area and, “conceived a most unfortunate taste for our porters.”

In charge of the construction was a chap called Patterson (played, in the film, by Val Kilmer), and it’s his job to get shot of the man-eaters. Goldman fleshes out the story expertly. I’d misremembered as Patterson’s own a brilliant bit where, sitting alone in his makeshift treehouse, he learns that lions climb trees…

Still, Patterson’s version is glorious, boy’s own stuff:

"The hunter became the hunted; and instead of either making off or coming for the bait prepared for him, the lion began stealthily to stalk me! For about two hours he horrified me by slowly creeping round and round my crazy structure, gradually edging his way nearer and nearer. Every moment I expected him to rush it; and the staging had not been constructed with an eye to such a possibility. […]

I kept perfectly still, however, hardly daring even to blink my eyes: but the long-continued strain was telling on my nerves […]

About midnight suddenly something came flop and struck me on the back of the head. For a moment I was so terrified that I nearly fell off the plank, as I thought that the lion had sprung on me from behind. Regaining my senses in a second or two, I realised that I had been hit by nothing more formidable than an owl, which had doubtless mistaken me for the branch of a tree […]

The involuntary start which I could not help giving was immediately answered by a sinister growl from below."

Lieutenant Colonel JH Patterson, DSO, "The Man-eaters of Tsavo and other east African adventures".

The lions are now on display at Chicago’s Field Museum, and last summer I dragged the Doctor along to see them. She was born not far from Tsavo, museums are her thing, and anyway, I wanted to see them…

They weren’t at all what I’d expected, to be honest. Put back together from the rugs Patterson had made from their skins, the two lions are smaller and a bit more battered than they were in real life. But the thing that really surprises is that they’re not anything like the lions in my head (and in the film). Goldman named them “Ghost” and “Darkness” because of their manes.

Tsavo lions, however, are maneless.

Christmas cover

Stuart Manning is jolly clever, isn't he?

I think we're beginning to materialise

I have made a Dr Who book and it is real.

Just this minute received 20 copies of Time Travellers, and have no one but the cat at whom to grin inanely. Guess the thing will start appearing in shops over the next three or four weeks...

Have already promised copies to more than 20 people, though.

I love the news

Vieing for the top-slot on the telly at the moment:

1) 20,000 dead in an earthquake.

2) Old plasticine lost in fire.

Admittedly the latter includes Morph, Chas and Gillespie, but it's not really the same, is it?

Hc svnt dracones

A fun night last night, arguing through the details of A Project. We also had chips and covered a range of topics probably best not repeated here (though perhaps something on New Dr Who and religion some time soon...). The gate-crashing Doctor enjoyed herself, too, fetching drinks and generally making herself useful. Wifes are good.

To clear the cobwebs today, we fell up the hill for curry in Sydenham with S., and then the three of us went off to see monsters. It was a beautifully sunny afternoon, so the place was full of chirpy kids and families, and there were heron and ducks to coo at, too. Having spotted differences between the cumbersome brutes towering before us and modern science's wiry, birdie dinosaurs, we staggered up the hill for an afternoon pint, and accidentally fell into the small and tawdry museum.

There's some fascinating stuff in the cases, and the footage of weird stage acts is fun, but there's so much more that could be done with that place. The shop's not even got DVDs(!) Still, once the Doctor had begun perusing the bookshelves things began to get expensive. I bought a biography of Henry Cole - amongst other things, inventor of the Christmas card, and something of a hero. Also forked out for a lavishly-illustrated heavyweight on the Albert Memorial, which the Doctor fell in love with. Had to explain on the way home that it is not, in fact, cool. Still, there's apparently lots in it she didn't know about the eminent Victorian bloke she wants to write her own book about.

With my beer and some crisps, I will now be draft audience to a talk on Salman Rushdie. Husbands can be good, too.

Not just a comedy

Lost Museum has got 5 stars from Doctor Who Review. "It excels on every level," they say. Hooray!

That said, they also gave 5 stars to the previous Benny play:

"The Kingdom of the Blind is another triumph for Jacqueline Rayner. If only she could write all the Bernice plays."

Doctor Who Review: Kingdom of the Blind

Yes, if only.

As requested, I have sent Tom at Dr Who’s Magazine a picture of myself. The Doctor vetoed me sending any silly ones, which made finding something quite a challenge. Even when I'm actively not mugging like a loon, I still look like I am. (This may just be an excuse, though.)

Too unshipshape to manage Liadnan's birthday last night, which I only found out about last minute anyway. Glad he's taking it so well, and not slipping into a miasma of despair and glum poetry.

Oh, and received word that my friend the PVC Diva has set up a secondary LJ wossname, Thrifting Divas, for "them that likes charity shops and thrifting." Didn't realise she LJ'd in the first place, so have spent a happy time catching up with all her news.

I like charity shops, but only really for books. Too much a ridiculous shape to fit most cast-off clothes.

Off to the pub tonight, but It Is Work. If I keep repeating that, maybe I'll believe it.

I must be unwell

"Much of the story of Fitzrovia is of talent blighted, promise unfulfilled and premature death through drink."

Michael Bakewell, Fitzrovia – London's Bohemia, p. 5.

We've got lions

Plus-oned the Doctor in to see The Constant Gardener last night. As well as rather liking that Ralph Fiennes, she was born in Kenya and knows much of its politics and whatnot from her parents.

Having "Nairobi" in her passport can cause problems. One week before 9/11, I took her on a day-trip to Paris (I had a full-time, proper-type job back then) where we quaffed wine, looked at nice windows and art, were dismayed by the response to a fire alarm, and staggered back to Gard du Nord a bit pished.

The Doctor continued ahead through passport control while I struggled with my bag. She got stopped and had her bag searched. The officious squit scrutinised her passport and asked "Why were you born in Nairobi?"

"That's where my mum was," she replied, bless her. Humour is bad in these situations.

Anyway, by this time I had turned up, figured there was a bag-searching thing going on, and had helpfully plonked my satchel beside the Doctor's, the flap wide open to show off my poor choice in books. The squit glanced at this, then at me.

"Is she yours?" he asked.

"Oh yes," I said, helpfully.

He nodded. "You can go."

The Doctor fumed all the way back to Waterloo. (Good name for our link to France, that. And you see a pub called "The Wellington" as you come out the exit, too).

I talked about the book of Constant Gardener a couple of months ago, and will one day enthuse here about Tsavo's lions. In the meantime, this should be the Kenyan national anthem. Forget Norway.

Foul play

Less is more

Long day of writing which hasn't produced very much. Have decided against most of what I've managed. The Thing is, on reflection, much better as it was...

Started three or four different attempts at a blog entry, too. Even dared to just paste in an old fanzine article from years ago. Reading the thing again (to take out people's names), what I remembered as witty and literate turned out to be rather lame.

Guess it's a good thing that I can see when my writing's a bit shit. Hum ho.

Circuits and rings

People get weirdly proprietorial about weddings.

The Doctor and I (hitched 18 months ago) planned something entirely easy and hassle-free, and were both amazed by how difficult a few people wanted to make it. We've since burned bridges with people who weren't able to just turn up and have a good time, but there were all sorts of questions about venues and guests and food and music and last-minute changes to attendees... We spent months only dealing with people who couldn't (or wouldn't) come, and sorting out stuff that weren't working.

A month before the wedding, all that changed. I rang in from my glorious, surprise stag bash in Budapest to see how the hen night had gone. We were both wide-eyed and excited to discover that most of our chums were really up for the party. And that – disparate and unlikely a gang as our mates might be – it might all just work out fine.

As it did, too. Ours remains the best wedding I’ve ever been to.

Anyway, watched Panorama last night, and even the Doctor (who stalked round Windsor Castle on our honeymoon, muttering "Parasites!") felt sorry for Charles and Camilla. Practical decisions about venues and guests were headlined in the press as shocking conspiracy. Painful compromises, to ensure things were done "properly", were lambasted as gross impropriety. And then the Pope went and died...

The weekend was fun. On Saturday, the Doctor experimented (successfully) with home-made pizza, and we watched I Heart Huckabees. I didn’t know much about the film – reviews I can remember either loved or hated it, without really explaining why. We loved it, and the Doctor was quick to spot the debt owed to Barthes and the exploration of meaning. I especially loved the wild silliness of it – such as the small kid away in the back of one scene, playing basketball and sporting a cavalier beard and moustache. The sex scene is daft and dirty and wonderful, too. Laughed and laughed from beginning to end, and had to watch the free-wheeling music video twice.

Yesterday, a gaggle of manly, tough men took G. go-karting for his birthday. Meant a fair bit of deviousness, plotting and hanging-around, but the driving was brilliant.

Yeah, I could do this - unlike when I went target shooting last year – deftly over-taking m’colleagues at 50 mph, and no bumps or crashes or facing-the-wrong-ways to lose me points. More practised drivers of cars fared less well. Perhaps they were too worried about knocking their vehicles about. Me, I was perfectly controlled and all over the place. In fact – unheard of for me and physical activity – there was some debate afterwards about whether I came first.

(I deferred, of course, to the chap who signs my cheques...)

Oh, and it was a year ago on Saturday that I got commissioned for Time Travellers. So I've spent exactly a year beavering away from one Dr Who project to the next. Suddenly I've no Who-related deadline looming (immediately, anyway), and I've actually time to write Other Things.

Which is good, because there's this idea I've got...

What have I got in my pocket?

A leaving do last night for M. - who's not actually leaving, just not being full-time any more. M., who teaches and runs tours about art stuff, is always good for odd morsels of story. We chatted about the Courtauld, and its glorious "Don Quixote and Sancho Panza" by Daumier, which I fell in love with on a school trip half my life ago.

M. told me that in the 1830s, Daumier covered a court case as part of his politicising against Louis-Philippe's government (he'd already been to prison for drawing Louis-Philippe on the toilet). As now, drawing was not permitted in the court room. So Daumier spent the court case with his hands in his pockets, which he'd stuffed full of clay. Just by touch, he created busts of the principle characters...

Top fact! Admittedly, couldn't corroborate this story online (though I didn't google very hard). Will probably have to read a book or something. Golly.

(I was also spellbound by "Ratapoil" when I saw it in Washington last year. Brilliantly creepy, it's just the right size to walk off with under your arm, too.)

Settling in

Done, delivered, freeeeeeeeee!

Went to "Look at me", last night, then wine and fish and chips. The night before, as we watched some of her birthday present, the Doctor mocked me for scribbling down a bit that tickled me:

"[Descartes has] become a symbol of a pure intellect, but I find him a sympathetic figure. He started life as a soldier - he wrote a book on fencing - but he soon discovered that all he wanted to do was think. Very, very rare, and most unpopular.

Some friends came to call on him at 11 O'clock in the morning, and found him in bed. They said, 'What are you doing?'

He replied: 'Thinking.' They were furious.

To escape interference, he went to live in Holland. He said that the people of Amsterdam were so much occupied with making money that they would leave him alone. However, he continued to be the victim of interruptions, and so he moved about from place to place. Altogether, he moved house in Holland 24 times.

In the end, he was run to earth by that tiresome woman, Queen Christina of Sweden, who carried him off to Stockholm to give her lessons in the new philosophy. She made him get out of bed early in the morning and as a result he caught a cold and died."

Kenneth Clark, Civilisation, 8. The Light of Experience.

(Wikipedia says that, "letters to and from the doctor Eike Pies have recently been discovered which indicate that Descartes may have been poisoned using arsenic.")

The Sontaran Experiment...

...is pretty damn cool. And as Sarah-Jane says, right at the end of episode one, "Links!"

• The Quest for Truth
  The European Commission representation in the UK (yes, them) has a myth-busting section. It's fab, and includes this damning rejection of lies about bosoms.
• Lushury
  M'colleague B Woodhams saw this and thought of me. The git.
• Bus ting
  Another not-great review of Day in the Life, where mine is just "heart-warming". Disagree with a lot of what's said, and I'll have you know that (my own) "tedious commute across London" swings past Rose's house (though the explicit reference to that got cut).

Briefly...

Draft of the Settling finished, and going through people's notes. Also pitched something somewhere else (more of which if it happens), and listened to the first episode of Thicker Than Water, which fell through my letterbox this morning. Top stuff, with a TARDIS scene that's really rather moving.

The Doctor is suffering, submerged by a cold. Despite not being able to speak, she's still bossed me about. Quite a trick.

Nice time in the pub last night, though we're all old and rubbish and left by 10. Much appreciation of my new, spanking haircut, with girls wanting to run their hands through it. So that worked, then. L, sweetly, asked permission. Though not from me...

And the thing in the book that threw me yesterday?

"His name was George Mouse; he wore wide suspenders to his wide pants".

John Crowley, Little, Big, p. 8.

Settling bill

The Secret Project I’ve not been talking about here for weeks finally got announced. In fact, the script for Dr Who and the Settling is due in on Friday. Pretty much there, and lots of sitting-on-trains this weekend helped.

Swansea was great fun, and I got to walk down the bit of street from The Unquiet Dead. Not that I’d have recognised it, were it not for my local guide. Telly people are clever.

Spent most of my time in the convention fringe (i.e. the bar) catching up with old friends and making many new ones. Bit vague on things after my excitement that the bar was still serving after midnight… Am told I get bigger the more I drink.

Sunday was mostly nodding and smiling while the hangover faded to black. May have talked myself into some more work. We’ll see.

Then to Bristol in the evening, which took forever. Like last Sunday, there were no trains. Ng. The best mate, who’s just bought a house in St George’s, took me for medicinal beers and a curry. Ended up watching Team America until 3 in the morning.

Yesterday, got to chat to the sister for a bit, then greasy spooned and headed for home and the neglected Doctor.

As well as scripting, I also finally got round to The Gallifrey Chronicles, which is everything lovely that everyone’s said it is. Not sure I understood all of it – a mixture of my booze-battered brain and not having entirely followed the previous books in the run. And I glowered sternly at the occasional, overly-indulgent bits, such as a description of 26 things the Doctor is, one for each letter of the alphabet. But great fun, chock full of wondrous, wild ideas, and actually rather moving. The git.

Now reading Little, Big, which put odd images into my head on the bus this morning. I’ll explain that one tomorrow.

Oh, and happy birthday M. See you in the pub shortishly.

You lied, Edward

There is a Swansea.

I am going there now.

The cost of secrets

A retired chum tells me that posting a letter used to be cheaper if you didn't seal the envelope and only tucked the flap in. Wanting a bit of evidence for this top fact, I googled the following.

"On 1st October 1870, the first official postcards in Britain were issued by the Post Office. [...] The officially produced Post Card carried a prepaid stamp to the value of 1/2 d, a new postal rate for open correspondence. The postal rate for letters in a sealed envelope remained at one penny. At half the standard postal rate, the Post Card was immediately popular, and 675,000 were sold on the first day of issue."

David Simkin, "Seaside photography - the picture postcard"

Wonder when that stopped being the case. Wonder if my legion of readers can supply the answer. Oh, go on. It works for Neil Gaiman.

It can be very nasty...

...being interviewed, but I seemed to survive my first ever go. Mr D Darlington of Dr Who's Magazine had a beer waiting when I arrived, which helped soften the blow. Hopefully, somewhere in the ums and ahs and going-off-on-tangents, I said something intelligible about wanting real and lasting consequences...

Got a postcard from one E Robson this morning, who reports that,

"In Stockholm everybody stops at around 3 O'clock for coffee and cake. It is therefore the most civilised city in the world."

He also took my advice and went to the Vasa museum, which is cool - even if it makes the (also cool) Mary Rose look a bit scrappy. I'm off to Sweden myself in November.

Am just over half way through proofing History of Christmas, and the cover is apparently due on the Internet shortly. Also finished a very readable, very damning book on cost-benefit analysis and the way it's misused in the US to curtail regulation of health, the environment and so on.

"How can bizarre, hypothetical calculations about tiny sums of money stand in the way of using our knowledge and resources to do the right thing? ... A large, and growing, chunk of our collective resources is already allocated to the militaryon the basis of passionate claims about moral imperatives. Those who care about civilian objectives have to answer in kind, not imagine that they can win the debate with careful spreadsheets and subtle tradeoffs."

Frank Ackerman and Lisa Heinzerling, "Priceless - on knowing the price of everything and the value of nothing", p. 223.

I'd love to see the same sort of study focusing on public spending in the UK. I suspect it'd make similarly harrowing reading.

Another final thought

Delighted to see Jerry Springer The Opera has managed a reprieve, after the insidious campaign against it. Christian Voice's latest, charming, argument is that those staging the play will "sacrifice community cohesion".

It's not exactly the tolerant, forgiving attitude, is it? Those who object to the play don't have to go see it, nor do they have to like it, and this campaign of hatred is missing some pretty fundamental points.

The portrayal of Jesus and his family in the opera is not meant to be literal or true. There are explicit warnings to that effect within the opera itself. Instead, it's a fevered imagining by (the character of) Jerry Springer, reflecting his own preoccupations, fears and guilt. It's tasteless and over-the-top, but that’s the point: Springer’s treatment of ordinary people and their problems is just as despicable.

In Act One, Springer is seen cynically exploiting the real misery and crises of his guests, mistreating his staff, and refusing to accept any sort of responsibility for what happens on his show. This is a bloke who even gives airtime to the Klan.

Act Two is not, then, putting Jesus on trial; it's Springer's own soul that's at stake. The Jesus and his family we see are clearly all distorted versions of guests we met in Act One, their sordid, tawdry problems warped to Biblical, operatic proportions.

So what’s worse, a guest “entertaining” a baying crowd by declaring his infidelities to his heartbroken wife, or a twisted dream of Jesus claiming to be “a bit gay”?

The conclusion Springer reaches through his absurdist dream seems to be that he can’t shirk responsibility for his guests, that he can’t stand to one side, passing objective comment as the fighting ensues. He has to get his hands dirty. Forced to justify himself, forced to broker some kind of peace between the warring deities, Springer is left to ask some pretty serious moral questions about our – all of our – obligations to one another.

As a morality play, then, I’d argue Jerry Springer The Opera actually serves to bolster community cohesion. Instead of the pat moral summary at the end of (the real) television show, the opera poses complex questions… ones we have to think about for ourselves. If it’s not the “uplifting morality” story that some Christians might be used to, surely it deserves merit for appealing to exactly those people who wouldn’t go near anything smacking of self-congratulatory moral worth.

Jesus himself taught morality by telling stories that questioned people’s values. The parables are so well-known that it’s worth remembering how controversial they were in their time. Imagine a modern version of “The Good Samaritan”, where it’s not Pharisees and the rich who stroll past the man in need, it’s our own moral guardians and public leaders. And rather than help coming from a Samaritan – the sworn enemy of the people Jesus was telling his stories to – what would we feel if the “good” man was (considering criticism of the opera) gay? Or a Nazi, or a terrorist?

(Actually, typing that last bit made me think of how ordinary people become terrorists – is it just that they’re shown a concern by extreme groups that’s otherwise lacking in “civil” society?)

I don’t have a problem with mocking religion – it’s healthy to question authority. Yes, I’d rather the mocking was done well, with intelligence and wit, but like Life of Brian before it, Jerry Springer The Opera achieves that, and puts forward shrewd insights in amongst all the funny stuff. For which it should be celebrated.

And though some people will object to their gods getting teased, I’ve no time for any deity not man enough to take it.

Why I died

Took forever to get down to Winchester yesterday to see my folks, due to the usual joys of trains. The coach from Woking came in (for some reason) at the south end of town, so I got to point out to the Doctor the carpark that was once Winchester's other train station (and the one that Sherlock Holmes used). Much discussion of the damnable Dr Beeching, which seems all the more pertinent in these apocalyptic days where petrol for cars threatens to be as much as £1 per litre.

Laughable, really, when compared to a litre of milk (84p), six large, free range eggs (99p), or a loaf of bread (91p). (Source: Sainsbury's)

Petrol Direct also made me laugh.

Anyway. Had a huge and lovely lunch and caught up on family stuff. Then to the pub with a friend while we waited for the trains we'd been promised would be working again at half four to be working again.

This morning, I saw Revolver (review should be live soon). Verdict: well, I feel especially professional for staying till the end. Which was more than some.

Went to see O afterwards, who is well enough to be bored and restless. We had soup.

My death last week has been officially announced. Now to get on with writing something that hasn't...

Other people's news

Everybody else has news: B's dog died; O's in hospital, still waiting for an operation; M's going to be a daddy, sometime next March...

My uncle and auntie are over from the States, and last night we fell in to a proper, smoky pub and got drunk. Saw some people I used to know and work with, too, and caught up on gossip and chips.

Phil has sent me a world of notes on something I'm writing but Still Cannot Speak Of. Damn him, everything he's saying is right.

So there'll now be some stuff about the importance of discipline.

Impressive living

Got sent a link to Joe Ford's (mostly) positive review of A Life Worth Living. Glad he enjoyed it, though I (obviously) disagree with him on some points.

Joe also gives "a major thumbs up" to the number of "unknown writers" in the book. Hooray! Really pleased the effort is appreciated (and not just by the writers themselves).

New writers mean more work for the editor, because of the additional time taken reading submissions, making suggestings, getting the stories into shape, and so on. They also mean competition for the few enough gigs. It's far easier to just employ someone you know is reliable, a "name" whose inclusion can be a selling point.

Still, Big Finish published my first ever published fiction ("The Switching"), and I'm absurdly, toadyingly grateful for that. And new writers - either new to writing, to Dr Who, or just to Big Finish - also play a big part in History of Christmas and (though contributors have yet to be announced) Something Changed.

Reckon I've paid off my debt now.

Corpsing

A fun day being a number of dead bodies. Practising in the mirror yesterday, I'd been hoping to emulate John Turturro's "Do. Not. Seek. The. Treasure!" in O Brother, Where Art Thou? Think it probably ended up more the noble and learned Baron, Lord Greenback.

Anyhoo.

Be sure to grab yourself the new Dr Who Magazine. Not that I'm biased or anything...

"Simon Guerrier's 'How You Get There' is in another league than the other stories in the anthology, and the opening four pages are the best thing in the collection. The story illustrates the theme of the small kindnesses that make life worth living, as the Seventh Doctor takes a bus journey to save the world. If the other stories were of this standard, the book would be something special."

Matt Michael, "Off the Shelf - Short Trips: A Day In The Life",
Doctor Who Magazine 361 (12 October 2005), p. 65.

Tra la la...

Ask for me tomorrow...

...and you shall find me a grave man.

Catching it

What I said yesterday, in the spoilery paragraph? Forget it. Blimey. Episode 20. The Doctor couldn't watch all of it.

Trafalgar Square was brimming with people at lunch, to celebrate the cricket. So brimming I couldn't actually get out of the office. Odd to see so many people so pissed so early in the day, too. Haven't seen that since... oh, since we won the rugby two years ago.

Losing it

Spent Saturday working on things-we-still-can't-speak-of, and think I've now caught up with the two weekends I spent larking. But we'll see. I may just have written crap.

As a reward for a day's work, the Doctor and I followed our neighbour to a party down the street, which was already well underway. The punch involved vodka, schnapps, oranges and lemons. Went down very easily. And there was beer and chatting and new friends to be made.

Yesterday, however, was not fun. Coca-cola and aspirins had me in an okay state by mid-afternoon, but the Doctor really suffered. Think we've both overdone it with work and activities recently. We were promising each other never to drink again, and all that sort of thing.

Anyway. I watched "Century Falls", which is an example of the kind of the great kids' telly they're not interested in making any more. Spooky, strange and morbid, it has a village of freaky old people trying to take over the brains of an unborn baby, while freaky children risk death exploring their psychic powers. It's surprisingly humourless for Russell T Davies - although that may be because some of the quirkier stuff (about the lead girl being fat, for example) is under-played in "grittily real" style, so comes across a bit flat. But I was hooked.

Also still hooked on "Lost" - we're now up to episode 19. Probably done by the end of the week.

Selfishly, it's a similar wheeze to something I was working on myself (though my idea was set indoors, with a cast of just four - so evidently the UK TV version). But Lost is brilliantly written and played, and constantly surprising. Locke remains my favourite character, although all the characters are good. Think they've missed a trick, though, in... well, highlight to read what might be considered a spoiler:

They've missed a trick in not killing off a regular character yet. We've had deaths of people whose names we're not even sure of, but both Charlie and Shannon have both been killed onscreen - brutally, suddenly, unexpectedly. And then, just when we're reeling from the full, extraordinary shock of that, they've had a miraculous resurrection. And then there's Claire's lucky escape from Ethan - whose death means the whole abduction can be put to one side. I hope that's not what happens - it'd feel like the show was pulling its punches.

I harbour concerns that the producers are making it all up as they go along, and that - like X-Files and Twin Peaks before - interest will wain the more questions get posed without any kind of proper resolution. I'm hoping it's all been worked out, that the mysteries all add up to some overall plot... The way the back-stories overlap, I'm hoping the future all ties together, too. Basically, I'm hoping that, having earned my commitment, the show now won't let me down...

Awalto

Just got home to find three copies of The Lost Museum CD amongst the post. Listening to it now, and just grinning and grinning.

Simon Robinson, who had the horror of making my script sound good, has... well, made it sound bloody amazing. I believe the term is "Woot!"

Yes, I have read a poem

A splendid fellow plus-oned me into a press screening of Serenity last night, which is truly magnificent and deserves to do wonders. No spoilers here - just go see the thing. Trust me on this.

A year ago, while the Doctor was off travelling and I hurried to meet the deadline on A Life Worth Living, another chum passed on the box-set of the original TV series. I'd noble ideas about watching an episode a day over lunch, maybe another one each evening for tea, and otherwise getting on with my urgent work.

Not a chance. Watched the whole thing in a day. Damn, it's good: lively, funny, sexy, scary, ambitious, surprising and just plain rude...

(Still met the deadline, though. I'm quite good, too.)

Finally picked up my own copy of the series last week (a snip at £18, upstairs in the Oxford Street HMV). Will bliss myself out watching it again while I wait for the movie to come out proper.

Ng'othruok

What seems like a lifetime ago, a tatty, home-made comic discussed,

"a word of chameleonic genius, the semantic equivalent of the Scrabble blank."

It's funny, I'd never wondered until now what Wikipedians had come up with. And I have work to catch up with and deadlines pressing, so the results turn out to be an ever more guilty pleasure. Ah, bliss.

The "in different languages" is especially heart-warming. It could do with a pronunciation guide, though, And in some kind of playable-audio wossname.

Better than the movies

Cleared up this weekend's revelries, then off to the Imperial War Museum. Had time for two exhibitions - "Great escapes" (£6 each, until 31 July, 2006) and "Secret war" (free and permanent) - before seeing the brother-in-law on to his bus.

Both exhibitions start with dashing movie clips and displays of books and games, before telling the true stories that inspired the Hollywood myths. There's a wealth of information, and with my current spy-fever, it was great to have so much about the history of MI5, MI6, the Special Operations Executive and SAS. "Great escapes" especially had the kids in mind, so there was a fair amount of stooping to read the hidden information boards and take part in forging travel documents and listening to possible tunnelling... Glad it was quite quiet, to be honest.

If there was anything missing it was accounts of enemy escapees and spies. I remember my grandparents telling me about Germans who kept English money in their pockets when they came on bombing raids. If they were shot down, they had enough to survive on but never any change. The pubs were on the look out for young men buying single pints of beer with pound notes. That was a fortune back then.

"Secret war" did better, with details of a German spy ring foiled in the First World War, and brief mention of Kim Philby and Anthony Blunt. Still, it all seemed a bit one-sided - though I can't really be surprised if the Imperial War Museum shows some imperialist bias.

But stories of why Oxbridge's finest went over to the other side, and how they were eventually found out are just as thrilling as tales of our pluckly lads working behind enemy lines. And have inspired just as gripping films, books and drama serials.

If not, at least yet, any board games.

Speaking of imperialism, we saw Team America last night. Laughed and laughed - and won't ever watch Thunderbirds now without thinking of puppets that swear, explode, puke and shag. The Doctor, who chose this when we couldn't find Vanity Fair in the shop, inevitably liked the bit with the panthers best.

Old lady

First thought this morning: I'll never wake up with a twenty-something again. Until my tawdry mid-life crisis kicks in, anyway.

(The Doctor is 30 tomorrow.)

'I'll see what I can do!'

Christ.

The news just gets more and more appalling. Reeling from the stories and images, so just some random thoughts, really.

(So many people have more insightful things to say. Here's just one of them.)

Anyway, President Bush says the initial, shoddy response to the crisis, and the total absence of any kind of emergency infrastructure, is "not acceptable". There speaks a man who doesn't even know what "unacceptable" means.

"The incident in the already crippled city came after Louisiana's governor said 300 'battle-tested' National Guardsmen were being sent to quell the unrest.

'They have M-16s and are locked and loaded. These troops know how to shoot and kill and I expect they will,' Kathleen Blanco said."

BBC News, "Bush vows to step up Katrina aid"

"Yee-ha", she might have added.

Among the mailing lists and news sites struggling to understand what's happened, I got passed on this editorial from the Taiwan News:

"New Orleans may go down in history as the first major city in an advanced country to be lost to the process global warming [...] We sincerely hope that the Bush administration will take the call from Hurricane Katrina and reconsider its energy and environmental policies and replace ostrich-like escapism with leadership in the global effort to deal with the crisis of global climatic change."

Taiwan News editorial, "Katrina calls, Bush should listen"

Odd, probably-inappropriate thing: I'd been raving to a mate about Kim Stanley Robinson's "Forty signs of rain" only a week ago, which is about the US administration being forced to acknowledge the effects of climate change as one of its major cities is flooded out.

The follow up, "Fifty degrees below" is out on Monday, and couldn't be any more timely.

Conflict builds character

Finally watched Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind last night, which I’d been meaning to get to for ages, it having been highly recommended by several trustyworthy sources. Loved Adaptation, which I’d been told it was quite like - though that isn’t actually true.

But bloody hell, that was a bit good. I can see why a friend was totally freaked, describing it as a very bad trip. Beautiful and sad, it really struck a chord – especially with the stupid, tetchy arguments-about-nothing getting between two people who really spark off each other. In fact, it’s so easy to identify with the Joel and Clem’s relationship, it’s little wonder the film’s so affecting.

The cast are all excellent. Jim Carrey’s consistently at his best when down-playing these constricted characters, unable to express themselves properly. It reminded me of him in both Man in the Moon and the Truman Show. Like Robin Williams, he’s absolutely brilliant when he can resist the obvious clowning around. Perhaps Carrey should sport a beard for his serious work, too.

Not sure the prologue works, though, with Joel and Clem meeting again as strangers. Were we meant to think that was them meeting for the first time, and I’m just being too clever? As it was, it gave away the resolution – that some vague recollection is spared.

But it’s a brilliant film, and incredibly unsettling. It’s not just the amnesiac procedure that’s invasive, the men conducting it prove to be equally, creepily icky in taking advantage of their patients.

Smiert spionen

On the instructions of my younger brother, the advice of my brother-in-law, and because I'd always meant to anyway, I've been reading more John le Carre, and pursuing Harry Palmer on DVD.

Funeral In Berlin is fab, though without John Barry's music, it lacks some of the cool of The Ipcress File. Also, the back of DVD case gives the whole plot away. The stark ruin on Berlin, contrasting drear on the East and devil-may-care fun on the west, really beefs up the atmosphere - though making the London scenes a bit dull.

I'll seek out Billion Dollar Brain next, but won't bother with the two 90s films, which I remember lacking the essential style and verve of the 60s films.

The spy genre really suffered as a result of the cold war ending - I still reckon James Bond films would be better if they were set back in the 1950s. You can just imagine Q's latest, incredible gadget: "Information is stored on this shiny disc, and read by a beam of light we call a 'laser'...".

"[Latimer] had made a corner for himself in what was known as the 'Mad Mullah Department,' studying the intricate and seemingly indecypherable web of Muslim fundamentalist groups operating out of the Lebanon. The notion so beloved of the amateur terror industry that these bodies are all part of a superplot is nonsense. If only it were so - for then there might be some way to get at them! As it is, they slip about, grouping and regrouping likes drops of water on a wet wall, and they are about as easy to pin down."

John le Carre, "The Secret Pilgrim", p. 178.

The Secret Pilgrim attempts to reconcile the cold war past with the unknown future of the intelligence service. It's the autobiography of Ned (James Fox's character in the film of The Russia House) - from an over-eager young intelligence officer almost killing the wrong man, to a cynical and world-weary negotiator glad to retire from a rampantly corporate world. The final episode, where Ned tries to appeal to Sir Anthony Bradshaw's conscience on the small matter of his "having HMG by the balls" is a precursor to The Constant Gardener, which I'm about four fifths of the way through now.

The book, recently made into a film, is about a a mild-mannered government employee investigating the savage murder of his wife, and carrying on the work she began to expose a gross, corporate conspiracy in the medical world. It's interesting that in this, the intelligence service seems to be in the pocket of the profiteers, and are - unlike in Smiley and Ned's day - the villains. I'm not quite sure I understand why,

"Where there's tuberculosis, you suspect AIDS... Not always, but usually."

John le Carre, The Constant Gardener, p. 252.

Will have to ask one of my clever, medical friends...

I've also been reading the first volume of Queen and Country, which updates the excellent Sandbaggers telly series, which I got through last year. Tough and gutsy like it's original, it does show some basic errors with London geography and idioms - though I'm told these get improved on later in the run.

Also reading Y: The Last Man, which is cool, too. Hoorah for good comics.

Things to see and do

A long weekend of fun activities, prior to the Doctor's birthday.

Tate Modern's Frida Kahlo exhibition was fun, though the Doctor didn't like the portraits with monkeys. We were both impressed by Moses, which made me think of Joseph Campbell's "The Hero With A Thousand Faces", which I read earlier this summer and which interlinks different religions, mythologies and psychoanalysis of dreams into one great (if overly-generalising) gestalt.

We'd been meaning to get to Theatre of Blood for ages, and it was brilliant. The Doctor burrowed into my shoulder for some of the gorier bits, and I was surprised how funny it proved was. The special effects and illusions were expertly done, too. Still trying to figure out if they really rolled away the barrel of wine away with Tim McMullan curled up inside it - I can't see how they can have done it otherwise.

We also met up with chums, ate very well, had a picnic, and saw various films - Casablanca, The Hunger, and The Rising. Comments on those to follow.

We're now working our way though Civilisation and Lost - four episodes in to each, and loving them. The fourth episode of Lost was the one to really hook me. Lock's miraculous recover is just such a wonderful thing, and a perfect contrast to all the death and destruction and freaky weirdshit.

Tree for travellers

So, so pleased by what Black Sheep came up with. And, yes, the traffic-light tree really exists.

Des idées napoléoniennes

Long weekend of running about doing things. Bought shoes, a coat and trinkets for the Doctor's imminent birthday. Caught up with various chums I've not seen in ages. Seen some top telly pilots, been to a wedding, to Whitstable and the dentist, and for curry. Done various bits of writing and reading, too, which I'll talk about another time. And approved two covers for things what I've written, which will turn up on the Internet soonish.

Napoloeon III (1808-1873) was a rum sort of fellow, and probably the most interesting bit of my History A-level. A couple of fun things about him turned up in a book I read earlier this summer. For one thing, he inspired the classic Tube map:

"Napoleon's anxious draftmanship indirectly benefitted London, repaying the city's hospitality to him. When he finally presented the Prefect of Paris, Baron Hausmann, with plans for redesigning the French capital, the main thoroughfares were highlighted in primary colours, in red, yellow and green, according to their importance. This unheard-of finishing touch was taken up by later planners and designers, most notably the Mondrian of the Tube, Harry Beck."

Stephen Smith, "Underground London: Travels beneath the city streets", p. 204.

And then there's this:

"[Napoloeon] spent two years in London, from 1838 to 1840. This was at the time of the Chartist riot, when the movement for universal suffrage which had begun in provincial England culminated in disorder and panic in the capital. Louis Napoleon was sworn in as a special constable and paced a beat in the West End, in the company of the cook from the Atheneum."

ibid.

So Napoleon III was on the same side as the Duke of Wellington - who'd been put in charge of London's fortifications against the seditious, democratic mob. Which is a bit weird - like Christopher Lee and Peter Cushing both being on the same (baddie) side in Star Wars.

(Oh, and in checking Wikipedia for the link, I love what it says about his son: "The Zulus later claimed that they would not have killed him had they known who he was.")

Second coming

The new issue of DWM includes the results of the 2004 readers' poll. It's the first time I've ever had something of mine in the running (well, I've been in anthologies that did good, but that's someone else's glory).

Anyway. The Coup came second last in a group of 17. Ho hum.

"At least I can only get better," I told the Doctor, with my usual, tough resolve.

"Or," she replied, "next year you could come last."

Hello there

There's been a couple of occasions in recent weeks when I've had to remind people that blogs, newsgroups and mailing lists don't count as private conversations. Nor are they conversations-in-public that others might accidentally eavesdrop, like something overheard on a train journey. No, they're readily accessible and searchable, and stored for posterity. You can't really get more public, as conversations go.

In fact, email should probably come with the same kind of warning. It's so easily forwarded to the wrong people (and accessed by IT and management at work) that numerous mates have been stung by blowing-off-steam messages and bitchy one-liners getting sent to the people they're sniping at. I once had a brilliant dinner where people compared catastrophies having hit REPLY instead of FORWARD, or where things they'd emailed months ago suddenly being sent round the office.

So, a rule of thumb: these things get read, and they're likely to get read by the people you're talking about.

Still, I've been surprised by the numbers of people who mention this 'ere blog to me - either taking me to task for things they don't agree with, or wanting to know more about things I've mentioned fleetingly, or wanting to know why I even bother. Blimey, these things really do get read.

Oh, and incidentally: tough, patience, and not really sure yet.

Let meaning choose

Writers can be very, very dull on the subject of writing. There are myriad books, websites and blogs detailing aspects of The Craft, debating the use of the serial comma, or ranting against particular phrases, quirks of punctuation and things-they-should-still-teach-in-schools. There's an awful lot of smug, not actually practical, no-you're-wronging involved.

As I often have to explain as part of my job, there's no general consensus on style. Really. While correct spelling has been agreed for hundreds of years, punctuation is still largely a matter of taste. For every style guru who'll insist on one rule, there’s another expert who'll vehemently disagree.

Kingsley Amis put it very nicely: there are those to be scorned because they know/care less about punctuation and grammar than you do, and those to be scorned because they know/care more; that is, there are berks and there are wankers.

I've just been sent this link to Orwell's "Politics and the English Language", which feels disturbingly topical for something sixty years old. It's a manifesto for clarity in writing and thinking, and everyone should read it. You don't need to know the difference between a noun and an adjective, nor why the split infinitive is perfectly acceptable English, nor any rules for hyphens, semi-colons and commas. These will all come, of their own accord, just so long as your meaning is clear.

"A scrupulous writer, in every sentence that he writes, will ask himself at least four questions, thus:

• What am I trying to say?
• What words will express it?
• What image or idiom will make it clearer?
• Is this image fresh enough to have an effect?

And he will probably ask himself two more:

• Could I put it more shortly?
• Have I said anything that is avoidably ugly?"

Recent reads

Didn't get very far with Albion before giving up, I'm afraid. Which is a shame, because since the end of For Tomorrow, I've been looking for a comic to follow. Or, more accurately, borrow. By the end of issue 2 of Albion, I was just left feeling I'd missed something, and couldn't be arsed to wonder what.

So, since I was helping myself to someone else's bookshelf anyway, I picked up We3 because it had a cool cover. Blimey. That was a bit good - even the Doctor was hooked, getting cross over my shoulder 'cos she was reading faster than me. Hooray for a good comic! Seems like ages since I last read something that wasn't, ultimately, a disappointment.

Am now reading The Men Who Stare At Goats. Loved Ronson's Them, and again this manages to mix the geekily-observed funny with the liberally-minded terrifying. It can be funny, with Prudence Calabrese explaining how she got into psychic "remote viewing" and appeared on TV to reveal details of the Martian satellite flying alongside the Hale-Bopp comet, and then terrifying when Prudence discovers that her and her colleagues' predictions may have influenced the 39 people who killed themselves to join the said alien vessel.

"'It's kind of stressful to talk about,' she said. 'I don't really know what to say.'
'I guess you weren't to know that all the excitement would, uh, lead to a mass suicide,' I said.
'You'd think that if you were a remote viewer you should have been able to figure that out ahead of time,' said Prudence."

Jon Ronson, The Men Who Stare At Goats, p. 121.

Of course, Prudence is also revealed (on page 97, and then again on page 100) to have been a big fan of Dr Who...

Just getting to the stuff about the torturing of Iraqi prisoners, which is even more weird and awful all at once. Still, it's so full of weird stories, I can't help wondering it's not a massive exercise in counter-intelligence.

Thinking of that, a few chums outside of the Smoke continue to ask the same questions: What is London like since the bombings? Or, What's changed? Or, Do you feel like you're living under siege?

Well no, not really. It's not that different, though there are a lot more police around. I've seen people having their bags searched as I've walked to work, and I've had to open my bag a few times for security people to peer in to. But, well, for all this talk of there being another one due any time, I think there was more grim anticipation before July 7th. No, things are just carrying on...

Hmm. I was going to type something about "things carrying on as if normal", but that reminds me of Salam Pax from ages ago:

"A BBC reporter walking thru the Mutanabi Friday book market (again) ends his report with :
'It looks like Iraqis are putting on an air of normality'
Look, what are you supposed to do then? Run around in the streets wailing? War is at the door eeeeeeeeeeeee!"

It wouldn't be very British, would it?

And to finish, another chum has started a blog, it's hardly rocket science, which promises to deal with the challanges of the Brit surviving abroad. Already it has made me laugh, especially this bit:

"The thing is, I come from England. Although we have very poor weather, and our teeth can be pretty gross, termites don't figure in our indigenous fauna."

Right. Off to the pub.

If you are wise you'll listen to me

Back from a long weekend across the border in Cornwall. Had a great time, though I am entirely knackered out. Hate the fact I can’t sleep on trains, and – as discussed before – driving is not my idea of a laugh.

Hired a fat-arsed little Meganne at Plymouth, which really wasn’t built with a gallumphing six foot three me in mind. Kept knocking the windscreen-wipers into action with my knee, and clutch control is a sod when you have to twist your ankle round to reach the pedals. The laughably steep West Looe Hill - with cars parked all up what’s barely a single lane and vans bombing down towards you - was Not Fun.

Have dreamt three nights running of being packed into a box I don’t fit, with the lid being pressed shut over my protruding ankles and feet. Can’t imagine why.

Still, all worthwhile. Wedding on Saturday was shockingly good, with fireworks and bands, and scallops-wrapped-in-bacon. We have also made some new friends. Felt overly sober, though, having Behaved 'cos of driving duties. As a result, my "dancing" was, I’m told, worse than usual. That’s quite an achievement, actually.

On Sunday we were off to chums in a converted mill (well, a converting mill, since there's still work to be done) just outside Bodmin, where there were more pals and Pimms and a feast. Around midnight, those who were staying had to contend with a bat who wanted to join the party. Eerie, sweet things, bats, utterly silent as they zip about overhead. Eventually directed the thing in the direction of an open window, and retired about oneish.

The pals who'd left, it turned out, fared worse – their car broke down and they didn't see home till gone five. As I said, cars can pretty much sod off.

The Doctor, meanwhile, performed wonders as an ace navigator all weekend – especially clever since she’s not a driver herself – and ensured there were beers and wines waiting when driving chores had been done.

In an effort to stretch my twisted limbs, on Monday we went for a two-hour walk with Charlie and the Chocolate Factory waiting at the end of it. Really enjoyed the film. A clever chum had pointed out the worlds of Dr Who represented by (the utterly fantastic) Deep Roy, James Fox and Annette Badland. I also wonder whether Grandpa George was specifically cast to look like Roald Dahl... Not so upset by the Christopher Lee segments as others (such as Gaiman) have been. Felt it gave the film some depth – and made it more than just some lurid, occasionally sickly, eye-candy.

Anyway. Back home last night to cat-sick and house chores and work. Got quite a lot done of the stuff I took away with me. Had taken Time Travellers proofs to read on the train, and sadly kept laughing at my own jokes – and worse, at my own turns-of-phrase. Think it all hangs together, though.

A world of secret projects still needs battling, though. Best get on with it.

You can believe he has secrets

Off to the pub tonight, with lots of things I can't talk about. Like the new Dr Who, I tell myself.

Since getting back from Bristol I've begun writing up something I can't talk about, started a big, new project I can't talk about, been okayed for something I can't talk about, and invoiced for something I can't talk about. Yet. And there's a whole load of stuff of mine coming out in the next few months, and I shouldn't be talking about any of that yet, either.

This, of course, is where the Internet is a dangerous temptation. And having a blog even worse. I have to content myself with sharing my secrets with the wife and cat. Lucky them.

At least I'm not alone in this. I guess it's a Writer Thing that you only talk about Old Stuff, while anything you're actually doing (and interested in) is embargoed until months after you've handed it in and forgotten all about it.

Sharing details of these top secret projects with those in the same boat doesn't lighten the load, either. Oh no. It's not just that it means shouldering more salacious details that can't be passed on, I'm also terribly envious of what they've got out in the world just now...

Eddie Robson, for example, is similarly writing things he can't talk about yet. Still, I found out today he has his own blog, which is typically brilliant, sharp and better-than-what-I-do. And I should be collecting his new book on Film Noir tonight, which I did proofing duties on and so have already read. And it's brilliant, sharp and better-than-what-I-do, too. Damn him.

Matthew Sweet is also writing something he can't talk about yet. But he's on the telly next week dishing dirt. And in the Times today, and all that sort of thing. Gah!

And Joe Lidster is writing things not to be spoken of, and said he'd kill me even for the merest mentioning. So that's just between you and me, eh?

Did I really write that?

Just back from Bristol, where the Doctor and I looked in on friends' new babies. Got a bit drunk last night, which was fun, and also went to the obligatory museums. The Doctor liked the slavery stuff at the Industrial Museum, and the Georgian House was cool, too, though had an awful lot of steps when you're lugging a heavy bag. Both museums were nicely free.

Have been reading Tom Reilly's revisionist history of Cromwell in Ireland, for reasons which may one day come to light. Lots of detail, though it's sometimes quite repetitive. I can also see where the Amazon reviewer is coming from about the Reilly favouring secondary sources over primary... but there's really no need for how savage that review is. Academics, eh?

Popped in to the Big Finish offices on Friday and got to hear the first few minutes of Lost Museum. Golly. Had a Ron Grainer moment. Oh, and Christmas is in - I think it works. And proofs of Time Travellers are in the post.