Pub quiz

Mental days at work as we prepare for the massive 150th anniversary issue of the Organ. No time for creative writing, still little for blogging.

Although I did take time out of my busy schedule to attend the Society of Young Publishers pub quiz. I mention this only because The Organ came in second out of about 40 teams and we won some champers and chocolates. A proud day.

But it turned messy. Catastrophically bad service meant our food didn't arrive - so it was just booze. I ended up blathering on to the Publisher's Association c.e.o. at night's end, yet cannot seem to recall anything I said. Rather worrying.

Persepolis

I went to see Persepolis the other day. It was touching, humanising and helped explains some of the shifting factions in Iran - it might be good for folk in the West to see it. A lot of stuff about being an outsider and misunderstood, too, which in some ways I could relate to.

It also made me think how coddled we are in the West. Marjane Satrapi is about my age, I guess, maybe a little older. She's lived through war, bombings, political repression, a regime change that took away much of her rights (being a woman). And being connected and fairly well off by Iranian standards, she had it a lot better than most Iranian women. Indeed, part of the film deals with this as she gets to flee to Vienna and then France. In the West, though, we get people to fight wars for us - mostly our poor and minorities - are so apathetic about politics most of us don't vote and let our rights slowly seep away (see most post 9/11 homeland 'anti-terrorist' measures, recent moves to mess with abortion laws, etc.). We are all like Satrapi's Viennese 'anarchist' friends in the movie, spouting off platitudes, but not really engaging.

I also went to Persepolis. It is shop, this little slice of foodie paradise in Peckham. Yes, in Peckham. Forgive me but every time I walk through Peckham I sort of hum Elvis' In The Ghetto. But Persepolis is a blast of sunshine (it's painted sunburst yellow) amid the run down corner shops, dodgy mobile phone stores, less than salubrious pubs and off licenses. It's an emporium specialising Iranian and Middle Eastern cuisine that sells everything from fresh baked pastries to hookahs. It just smells right - like how I imagine a Middle Eastern bazaar does. It's well worth a trip to Peckham for a visit. Might want to wear Kevlar, though. The owners have also written a very good book which is worth checking out.

Attacks and the city

Yesterday a friend's house was burgled. She was at her flat in Crouch End and two guys smashed through a window and robbed her at knifepoint. It was hardly the haul of the century, she's in the process of moving and a lot of her prized possessions - laptop, digital cameras - were at the new place. She only had a fiver in her wallet and was able to cancel her credit cards straight away.

It could have been so much worse - and, obviously, not just from a robbery perspective. They didn't touch her, but she is pretty shaken. Not helped by my leaving a rather ratty voicemail message when she didn't show up last night at the movie we were meant to see. I felt more than a bit guilty when she told me what had happened today.

I'm not one to be alarmist over crime, but it seems an inordinate amount of people I know in London have been attacked or threatened. I was jumped by three guys at a tube station last year, was pummeled as they tried to grab my manbag (insert your own double entendre here), but managed to hold on to it because it had a digital recorder and notebook from an interview I had done but not written yet. A committed journo above all else.

I've lived in places that you would figure would have a similar level of crime to London - hard as nails Glasgow, Budapest, Rome, Hamburg and erm, Edinburgh. But I never experienced any bother in any of the cities and didn't know anybody who did. Actually in Budapest I was almost hit by a knife thrown my way - I was walking by a dodgy pub when it came whistling out the open door past my head. Some guy ran out of the pub to pick it up, said bocsánat (sorry) to me as if he accidentally trod on my toes before running back inside. I didn't stick around to see what happened.

There seems just to be a heightened level of casual violence here. Probably not helped by the Met, who are the most woefully inept police force on the planet. No matter, Boris will soon sort it all out.

Yo Ho Ho

I've been stuck into John Drake's Flint and Silver, which comes out in July from Harper, after being given a proof the other day. It's a prequel to Treasure Island, about how Long John Silver first became a pirate, how there came to put the buried treasure on Treasure Island.

It is difficult to try to copy one of the giants of literature - Stevenson himself wrote an essay 'The Sedulous Ape' about how writers copy great writers to try to find their own styles - still more difficult to take his characters. On one level, it doesn't work at all. You are constantly comparing this to Treasure Island and, fun as it is, Flint and Silver won't be an enduring work of great literature.

But, blow me mateys, it is fun. To fully disclose, I'm a sucker for most books that have sailing ships, muskets and breeches (I myself look damn good in breeches, let me tell you). The characterisation is coarse and Drake seems not to have heard the 'show don't tell' rule of writing. But the plot whips along, Flint is a villain you love to hate and I missed my bus stop because I was so engrossed in reading it on the way home today. I ended up in Peckham - scary.

You can't really fault Harper for it, but there is more than a whiff of Pirates of the Caribbean opportunism. The cover art looks so close to Johnny Depp I wonder his agent doesn't ask for an image rights fee.

This reminds me, a few months ago I read Alberto Manguel's brilliant novella Stevenson Under the Palm Trees about RLS's dying days in Samoa. Manguel has RLS meeting a psychotic Scottish man named Baker who I guess is Stevenson's dark side, a man acting out horrible things that RLS as a writer only imagines.

The final scene in the book gave me nightmares for some time and still disturbs. Stevenson, straining to open a bottle of wine is struck by the cerebral hemorrhage that kills him. His dying words to his wife, standing nearby, are 'My face, is it changed?' I don't know why that creeps me out so - maybe something about this great mind trapped in this failing body (he was tubercular and died at 44). Ultimately we're all trapped in these failing bodies, all our faces will change and decay and rot. Stevenson's maybe just went a lot quicker than most of ours will.

Scotland's other national drink

I was at a publishing 'do the other night in the very grand Stationers Hall near St Paul's. I had not had much to eat all day; I virtuously went to the gym at lunch time and only ate a multi-seed bagel and banana afterwards. Alas, I ended up having five glasses of wine on an empty stomach (I wasn't helped by the tiny wee canapes that were being served) and ended up very merry indeed. In my cups I told one of the UK's most senior publishers how I had been recently looking at the Organ's archives and he wasn't such a fat bastard fifteen years ago. He took it with good grace as I recall.

On the way home, I got myself a fried chicken takeaway. This is a very London thing, the city is full of KFC knock-off chicken places - all with red, white and blue color scheme and usually named after a state/city near Kentucky. I got this particularly meal at Memphis Fried Chicken.

I woke up today with a rather sore head. Later I read a very interesting piece in the New Yorker by Joan Acocello on hangovers. Didn't help the head, but at least had some tips for avoiding hangovers. And I had to chuckle about one of the cures from Scotland, drinking Irn-Bru, which Acocello describes as tasting like melted plastic. Which is pretty accurate. Probably nothing in an Irn-Bru can has been made from nature, even the sugar. There is the feel that it was whipped up by the boys in the lab as a sort of joke.

Still an ice cold Irn-Bru on a Saturday morning when you're feeling pretty ropey from the night before - nothing sets you up better.

Manga bleedin' Carta

I was in the British Library reading rooms at St Pancras for the first time. I had been in the building a couple of time before to attend book-y events, but this was my first time using the facilities. It's a stunning building - the collection, of course, mind boggling. The 'turn the page' technology on their website is pretty cool as well.

I was researching parts of my long discussed, much anticipated magnum opus. I now have publisher interest in it after cornering a couple of publishing directors at industry 'dos after I've had enough to drink to tell them all about it. I'm aiming to finish by September.

I was in the Rare Books bit. I looked up at one point and counted 20 cctv cameras that I could conceivably be in the frame of. A trifle over the top, even given the UK penchant for surveillance. When I first moved here the sheer scale of the coverage used to frighten me. Big Brother and all that. I've been told, but I've really not checked this out, that you can go from central London to Manchester and be on camera the entire way. I've realised, though, this is Britain. Odds are, half of the cameras won't work full stop, the other half probably will be shut down for cost saving measures.

I popped into the exhibitions on the way out to look at some of the British Librariy's treasures. It is a bibliophiles wet dream. Jane Austen juvenilia, the log book of the HMS Victory from Battle of Trafalgar, a third century bit of the new testament...

Best of all is a separate room for the Magna Carta. It is startling to see, this 800 year old document, the foundation for much of British (and American) law and society, just there. Inches from my nose pressed greedily against the glass case. Almost religious experience. Except I was distracted by this bratty 14 year old who was in the Magna Carta room with me. He was with his family, squirming around, complaining, wanting to go watch the FA Cup. His father shut him up by saying, in a voice rather too loud for the BL, 'Jimmy this is the bloomin' Magna fucking Carta.'

I kind of smiled and looked back - yeah, it is the Magna fucking Carta.

The 51st state

There are many deeply held notions about America and Americans that the British have. Americans have no sense of irony, they are obese with good teeth and, um, love curly fries. All perhaps valid.

But one of the more cherished beliefs is that there are 51 US states. I have heard this a number of times over the past 9 years I lived here. I always tell them the correct number (50 for those of you scoring at home). And nobody believes me. 'Are you sure? Are you sure?' they say, a skeptical look coming over their face, then dismissing my correction with a shake of the head. 'I've always thought it was 51.'

I was at a publishers presentation of its new titles for the Organ today. I won't name the publisher but let's say it rhymes with CarperHollins. Anyway, one of their big books is a travel book by Stephen Fry of his journey through, as the publicity bumpf tells us, 'all 51 states of America.' And this is from a company that has extensive holdings in the US.

Scots, what the hey?

I'm often asked by Americans, 'do they hate us?' They meaning people in Britain. Americans, are often perceived as myopic and self-centred, not caring about the world outside of the 50 states. This is probably true, but like a lot of self-centred people, they care acutely what other people think of them.

The short answer to the question is probably 'yes', but I tend to say now, 'not as much as they hate themselves.'

I thought of this as I've been watching the blood feud that's currently engulfing Scottish publishing. Publishing in general is like a small town - amiable enough, people helping each other out, but if you fall out with the neighbours, it can get really nasty. In Scotland's very small, Edinburgh-centric book business, this is even more the case.

Briefly, the Scottish Arts Council has stripped many Scottish publishers of funding, yet has given a rise to Publishing Scotland the non-profit trade body. This has infuriated Hugh Andrew, head of Birlinn, Scotland's largest publisher. He's left his post on Publishing Scotland and went on a tirade against PS in the Scotsman.

I like Hugh. He's irascible, prickly, a bit of cock, to be honest. But he's intelligent, speaks his mind when many people in the business are too damn careful and has good business nous. His comments aren't surprising; he's not liked the leadership at PS for some time and has railed against them more then one occasion. PS for their part, have done good work - yet I can see Hugh's point that money should go to front line services. But you also need a voice of the whole industry.

I suspect the feud will trundle on for a while - as a publishing journalist this does, I'm afraid, please me greatly. But it's also a shame and something that does no one in Scottish publishing much good. Yet these small town feuds can take a long time to end.

Arran Arran so far away

I was off grid for the last week, as I celebrated my birthday on the lovely Isle of Arran off the west coast of Scotland.

Arriving in Glasgow on the Virgin train from Euston (only 25 minutes late!) I was engulfed by Scotland nostalgia. The craic, the banter in Glasgow was great - I just love being called 'pal'. It felt like a homecoming.

Brilliant weather on the island, where a bunch of my nearest and dearest had a few days of heroic drinking, dancing to cheesy 80s pop (including Flock of Seagulls) and vigorous walking. My faith in humanity was restored: I lost my wallet on a walk on a ridge near Goatfell and some kind fellow hiker turned it into the police. The polus (as they call them in Scotland) even came round to the converted church that we were staying at to drop the wallet off. I don't know who that kind soul was, he didn't leave his name. But bless you, sir, bless you.

It was a big birthday and despite having great fun, I was feeling contemplative. It has not been the best of year's for your humble correspondent, and in many ways I was feeling melancholy about what has been lost - but maybe for the first time in a long while I'm thinking about going forward than back. Although I wouldn't mind eventually going back to Glasgow.

Sexy Sadie

I've had a copy of Sadie Jones' The Outcast for a couple of months and only just got around to reading it. I got it at The Organ's and Random House's Book Video Awards, which celebrated three trailers for RH books made by film students, one for The Outcast. The trailer is pretty good, actually, although it wasn't my favourite.

I hadn't gotten around to reading the book maybe because after the awards we had so many in the office. Piles and piles - couldn't give them away. But after she got nominated for the Orange, I figured I would give it a bash. And I'm glad I did - it's one of the best debuts I've read in some time. Taut, menacing and claustrophobic, it concerns 19-year-old Lewis returning to his Surrey home after a couple years in Brixton Prison.

Lewis went off the rails after seeing his mother drown when he was 10; he drank, self-harmed, got into fights and eventually torches the local church. His return leads to palpable unease in the town, a constant suggestion of violence.

Essentially, The Outcast is an attack of the hypocrisy of post-war middle class Britain. The most violent man in the village is the wife and child beating Dicky Carmichael, the richest man in the area, whose crimes are protected by his status and complicit wife.

There are some quibbles - the last line you can see coming down from a long way off and some of the scenes are melodramatic in an East Enders sort of way. But it's a debut and we can forgive these slips. Well worth picking it up. And we still have plenty of copies at the office.

Run for the hills

The buffoon's in charge. The capital will probably be in flames by the end of the bank holiday weekend. I agree with Paxo at the end of this clip - 'I despair.'

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vRRYDVaXdaA

please no bojo

I voted today - I'm also an Irish citizen, thus able to vote here. On the first ballot I plunked for Sian Berry, because I largely agree with her Green Party policies and, more importantly, she is the hottest politician this side of Segolene Royal.

On the second ballot, I voted for Ken (if no one gets a majority on the first, the counting switches to the second - thus there is scope for protest votes and voting for hotties). Ken is the typical long serving big city pol - unquestionably corrupt, or unquestionably questionable at least. Yet he has improved life in the city somewhat, the congestion charging in particular has freed up the centre of town.

But it was more for my fear of having Boris as mayor. That this racist, homophobic and incompetent buffoon is even in the running, let alone is in serious contention (and may be sitting in city hall by this time tomorrow) astonishes me. It shows how susceptible people are to a wily media presence and the ability to speak in witty soundbites.

I do have a soft spot for Boris - he is great comedy value - but only when he is the MP for some Tory seat in middle England.
Running a big city is largely about competence - making sure the garbage gets collected and the transport works. I wouldn't trust Boris to look after my cat, how people think he can be trusted to manage London, I don't know.