Chris Davison's Blog
January 6, 2014
The Taken Review
The Taken
by Julianne Lynche
It’s Bloody Brilliant.
Oh come on. That’s what’s important, isn’t it? How good a read it is. So why bother going through some pretentious old twaddle concerning thematic structure, character development, narrative progression or all the rest of it that litters Amazon and the like, when the most important thing is that it’s a bloody good read that lifts you up and carries you along on a tornado that would frankly leave Dorothy and Toto with severe motion sickness.
OK.
Now I’ve got the point home, let’s be a little pretentious. I think I’ve earned it.
I’m a 50 year old man who loathes the label YA. Young Adult fiction. I simply don’t believe it exists. It’s a marketing ploy by the publishing industry that churns out multiple sub standard books that are little more than clones of the current manufactured trend. It rates only slightly above EF, (Erotic Fiction) as a means by which the publishers can make money. Most authors simply sit and churn out books to a prepared plot outline.
There is either fiction or reference reading. That simple. What matters is how good it is.
And Julianne is very good.
OK. The temptation there is to whack in quite a lot of ‘very’ when writing about her. Simply because she is at the top of her game with The Taken. For a start, she’s not writing ‘YA’ Fiction. She’s just telling a bloody good story.
And that is important.
The story is a basic supernatural mystery, which is about all that I’ll say on the plot. You want to know more, buy the book, it’s not going to cost you a fortune now is it?
The characters however bring the book to life. The heroine is a rare creature. Faulted and totally believable. You don’t doubt that she exists, partly because of her faults. Teenage hormones, naivety, short temper, occasional arrogance. These traits make her less than your typical heroine, and so much more honest and real. Her progression through the book shows her growing up and taking on a responsibility for others that belays her age and immaturity. The male lead is... inept, ineffective and macho. Frankly he’s a bit of a pillock. Like your typical adolescent. He wants to be THE HERO, but when his bottle goes and he runs for the hills, it is real. Even the minor characters have a believability to them that normally you would not find in a book. Any book.
Add onto the characters you have a rattling and slightly confusing plot. Not everything is spelled out for you. The author obviously credits her readership with the intelligence to be able to work things out for themselves. She doesn’t feel the need to spoon feed you every tiny detail. Thereby making you a participant in the story as you work out the mystery for yourself. It takes both confidence in yourself and your readership to attempt this, let alone have it work. And work it certainly does.
The writing is most typically Julianne Lynche. It shines with the skill of the story teller. Rare noweredays. It is quite a frantic book, taking you along fast with its phraseology, to the point when it ends and you feel vaugley resentful that it’s over. However, when a book is as good as this, can a sequel be far behind?
I ruddy hope so. As, being the exact opposite of the target audience, I loved it and frankly want more.
Now.
by Julianne Lynche
It’s Bloody Brilliant.
Oh come on. That’s what’s important, isn’t it? How good a read it is. So why bother going through some pretentious old twaddle concerning thematic structure, character development, narrative progression or all the rest of it that litters Amazon and the like, when the most important thing is that it’s a bloody good read that lifts you up and carries you along on a tornado that would frankly leave Dorothy and Toto with severe motion sickness.
OK.
Now I’ve got the point home, let’s be a little pretentious. I think I’ve earned it.
I’m a 50 year old man who loathes the label YA. Young Adult fiction. I simply don’t believe it exists. It’s a marketing ploy by the publishing industry that churns out multiple sub standard books that are little more than clones of the current manufactured trend. It rates only slightly above EF, (Erotic Fiction) as a means by which the publishers can make money. Most authors simply sit and churn out books to a prepared plot outline.
There is either fiction or reference reading. That simple. What matters is how good it is.
And Julianne is very good.
OK. The temptation there is to whack in quite a lot of ‘very’ when writing about her. Simply because she is at the top of her game with The Taken. For a start, she’s not writing ‘YA’ Fiction. She’s just telling a bloody good story.
And that is important.
The story is a basic supernatural mystery, which is about all that I’ll say on the plot. You want to know more, buy the book, it’s not going to cost you a fortune now is it?
The characters however bring the book to life. The heroine is a rare creature. Faulted and totally believable. You don’t doubt that she exists, partly because of her faults. Teenage hormones, naivety, short temper, occasional arrogance. These traits make her less than your typical heroine, and so much more honest and real. Her progression through the book shows her growing up and taking on a responsibility for others that belays her age and immaturity. The male lead is... inept, ineffective and macho. Frankly he’s a bit of a pillock. Like your typical adolescent. He wants to be THE HERO, but when his bottle goes and he runs for the hills, it is real. Even the minor characters have a believability to them that normally you would not find in a book. Any book.
Add onto the characters you have a rattling and slightly confusing plot. Not everything is spelled out for you. The author obviously credits her readership with the intelligence to be able to work things out for themselves. She doesn’t feel the need to spoon feed you every tiny detail. Thereby making you a participant in the story as you work out the mystery for yourself. It takes both confidence in yourself and your readership to attempt this, let alone have it work. And work it certainly does.
The writing is most typically Julianne Lynche. It shines with the skill of the story teller. Rare noweredays. It is quite a frantic book, taking you along fast with its phraseology, to the point when it ends and you feel vaugley resentful that it’s over. However, when a book is as good as this, can a sequel be far behind?
I ruddy hope so. As, being the exact opposite of the target audience, I loved it and frankly want more.
Now.
June 16, 2013
The Strange and Accidental Death's of Mr Snuggles.
People have asked me, while on Goodreads, what sort of things do I write.
Simply put, things like this...
THE STRANGE
ACCIDENTAL
DEATH’S
AND REBIRTH’S
OF
Mr SNUGGLES
Dedicated to Mr Snuggles
Mr Snuggles II,
Mr Snuggles III
Mr Snuggles IV
Mr Snuggles V
Mr Snuggles VI
and soon
Mr Snuggles VII
When Mr Pete Whitlow came to live with his relation, by legal action, Mr E.M. Faustus, he was already aware that beneath the gruff, aggressive and sexualised manner of Mr E.M. Faustus there lay a heart of gruffness, aggression and sexual rapscallioninity unlike anything he had ever encountered.
Yet despite their differences, of which there were too many to number, he loved Faustus like a brother. In return, Faustus loved him like a second cousin, once removed, the kind you don’t really like, but see at weddings and funerals so have to be nice to them, and occasionally would send birthday cards to, providing his Mum rang him, to remind him and sent him the card to sign an post.
They worked well together. Fautus proved to be the brains and muscles while Pete was around, made exceptional coffee and upon occasions, when required, could decapitate vampires, werewolves and an occasional naughty person with one good old yank on his bonce.
But they had to be naughtily psychotic to bring that side out in Pete.
So Faustus and Pete rubbed along well enough together. And their home life became complete when firstly they birthed a child, via adoption, and then found the joys of Lilly Mae. Though in Pete’s case it mainly revolved around taking the dogs for extremely long walks. And not getting his throat bitten out around full moon. And remembering to put the toilet seat down.
The only fly in the ointment was Faustus’ irrational use and abuse of Mr Snuggles. Pete’s pride and joy. A Teddy Bear of the finest order.
Mr Faustus seemed to take an instant dislike to Mr Snuggles. Due, primarily to what he saw as ‘the judgemental way the little bastard looks at me.’
It was in the second week of their living together that Mr Faustus had to break the news to Pete that Mr Snuggles had met with an unfortunate accident.
The accident occurred whilst Pete had been asked to go to the local shopping parade and collect a parcel of sweetmeats for Mr Faustus. During that period, Mr Faustus had decided to poison a stump that lay in their garden, just beginning to jut new spring growth. Knowing the propensity of Elder to spread, if not controlled, Mr Faustus decided to mix a small, poisonous concoction to prevent both its spread, and life. A concoction that consisted primarily of petrol mixed with certain explosive chemicals.
All mixed in that universal kitchen appliance, the liquidizer.
It seemed though that Pete’s dogs had been playing a game of ‘tug’ with Mr Snuffles. Well, one must have let go, which surprised the other to such an extent that he threw said Mr Snuggles high into the air. Mr Snuggles, heedless of his course, was ill prepared for his landing in the liquidizer.. Mr Faustus failed to notice the bear through the glass walls of the beaker and popped on the lid and turned it on. Quickly reducing it to shredded pulp.
After lighting a cigarette he wandered outside and unceremoniously dumped the contents on the Elder stump.
It was his surprise at seeing the severed head of Mr Snuggles looking up at him that caused the cigarette to fall from his mouth and onto the mixture, which duly ignited, rendering Mr Snuggles remains to ash by the time Pete had returned.
When he broke the news to Pete, Mr Faustus became so overwhelmed with grief that he temporarily lost his mind, and was oft to be found giggling in corners.
Not all was lost however, as a dejected Pete wandered about the market place of the weekend, he found a stall that sold Children’s Playthings. There, amidst various toys of pink and green, of girls and boys, lay a brand new, uncremated Mr Snuggles. Seeing it as an omen, Pete immediately purchased the bear and skipped home to show Mr Faustus the bear that had returned to his warm and loving family. A reincarnation, if you will.
Sadly, whilst holding the identical outward appearance of The first Mr Snuggles, Mr Snuggles II seemed prone to suicidal fits of depression.
Within two days Pete discovered Mr Snuggles II slowly revolving in the toilet bowl, his feet banging against the toilet seat. Mr Faustus attempted to explain to Pete that this was normal in reincarnated soft toys. That it would be best to let the bear work through it.
But the warning came too late.
Within two days of drying upon the line, Mr Snuggles II had somehow contrived to fashion the washing line into a rudimentary noose and hang himself, directly over the barbecue. Which when lit, for an impromptu sandwich of steak and onions, by Mr Faustus, caused the bear to join the first Mr Snuggles in the ash bin.
Not to be deterred, Pete decided to purchase a third Mr Snuggles, of which the market vendor assured him, he could obtain a ready supply.
Sadly Mr Snuggles III died in equal strange circumstances. Upon this occasion the result of the attentions of an over sexed rabbit that had been force fed Viagra before being accidently locked in a bread bin, who threw the well rodgered remnants on Mr Snuggles III out (after three days), straight into the waiting jaws of a carelessly placed document shredder.
Mr Snuggles IV met his end after falling from the office window, whilst on one of his occasional visits to Pete’s place of employ. Mr Faustus Consulting Investigational agency. He fell into a large boiling pot of pitch, Navvies were using to resurface the street outside the office. His presence was not noticed until too late, but which time he had become bonded to the roads very surface.
His face could still be seen gazing up from the byway.
Mr Snuggles V simply vanished one day. It was the day Faustus has spent several hours with drain rods in the back garden, trying to clear a rather difficult blockage in the sewer pipes. So, as he pointed out to Pete, he could not be held responsible for the loss of the cherished bear, having not been in the house.
The death of Mr Snuggles VI was resultant of a small accident. Initially a small accident.
Pete was receiving instruction from Mr Faustus as to the correct manner of the appropriate way to use an electrically powered circular saw. A simple task of cutting a length of board. Concentrating so hard upon achieving a straight cut, Pete failed to notice that he had placed Mr Snuggles VI upon the timber before him.
As Mr Faustus pointed out, Pete must have done this, for he had never been seen to touch the bear, in any of his incarnations. Therefore he could not be held responsible.
When the circular saw caught Mr Snuggles VI midriff, it quickly caught upon a surprisingly large metal rod that was inserted lengthways from rectal passage, as it were, into brain pan.
The best description of said metal rod that Pete was able to come up with later, after the fire brigade had left, was nail.
The striking of the metal blade against the surface of the metal ‘nail’ caused a series of small sparks. These sparks caused the interior of Mr Snuggles VI, the stuffing, to ignite. It appears that at some point in the recent past that Mr Snuggles VI had consumed a large amount of what, the fire investigators referred to as lighter fluid. Consequently Mr Snuggles VI immediately became a burning mound.
Acting swiftly, Pete scooped up Mr Snuggles VI and threw him into a nearby bucket, which contained a liquid that was labelled as ‘water’. Much to his consternation, it was at this point Pete discovered it was petrol for the self-propelling lawnmower.
The Chief Fire Officer later referred to Pete, hurling the bucket of petrol, from the workshop, and into the shrubbery, as ‘Biggest F#####g Molotov Cocktail’ he had ever seen.
To further compound the difficulty, it appears that some miscreant had hidden a large quantity of plastic explosives, buried in a shallow pit beneath the Azaleas. Under Police Interrogation Mr Faustus later stated that one of his prior lady friends may have secreted said explosives there with the thoughts of an attempt upon his life.
Mr Snuggle however was not as lucky as Mr Faustus.
Mr Snuggle was distributed over three streets. His nose was later discovered in a window box eight doors down the street.
Now, Mr Snuggles VII was permanently in residence, unless in Pete’s bed, within an airtight safe, built into the wall of Pete’s room. He had rejected Faustus’ suggestions that air holes were drilled.
Accidents of any form could occur at almost any time.
Simply put, things like this...
THE STRANGE
ACCIDENTAL
DEATH’S
AND REBIRTH’S
OF
Mr SNUGGLES
Dedicated to Mr Snuggles
Mr Snuggles II,
Mr Snuggles III
Mr Snuggles IV
Mr Snuggles V
Mr Snuggles VI
and soon
Mr Snuggles VII
When Mr Pete Whitlow came to live with his relation, by legal action, Mr E.M. Faustus, he was already aware that beneath the gruff, aggressive and sexualised manner of Mr E.M. Faustus there lay a heart of gruffness, aggression and sexual rapscallioninity unlike anything he had ever encountered.
Yet despite their differences, of which there were too many to number, he loved Faustus like a brother. In return, Faustus loved him like a second cousin, once removed, the kind you don’t really like, but see at weddings and funerals so have to be nice to them, and occasionally would send birthday cards to, providing his Mum rang him, to remind him and sent him the card to sign an post.
They worked well together. Fautus proved to be the brains and muscles while Pete was around, made exceptional coffee and upon occasions, when required, could decapitate vampires, werewolves and an occasional naughty person with one good old yank on his bonce.
But they had to be naughtily psychotic to bring that side out in Pete.
So Faustus and Pete rubbed along well enough together. And their home life became complete when firstly they birthed a child, via adoption, and then found the joys of Lilly Mae. Though in Pete’s case it mainly revolved around taking the dogs for extremely long walks. And not getting his throat bitten out around full moon. And remembering to put the toilet seat down.
The only fly in the ointment was Faustus’ irrational use and abuse of Mr Snuggles. Pete’s pride and joy. A Teddy Bear of the finest order.
Mr Faustus seemed to take an instant dislike to Mr Snuggles. Due, primarily to what he saw as ‘the judgemental way the little bastard looks at me.’
It was in the second week of their living together that Mr Faustus had to break the news to Pete that Mr Snuggles had met with an unfortunate accident.
The accident occurred whilst Pete had been asked to go to the local shopping parade and collect a parcel of sweetmeats for Mr Faustus. During that period, Mr Faustus had decided to poison a stump that lay in their garden, just beginning to jut new spring growth. Knowing the propensity of Elder to spread, if not controlled, Mr Faustus decided to mix a small, poisonous concoction to prevent both its spread, and life. A concoction that consisted primarily of petrol mixed with certain explosive chemicals.
All mixed in that universal kitchen appliance, the liquidizer.
It seemed though that Pete’s dogs had been playing a game of ‘tug’ with Mr Snuffles. Well, one must have let go, which surprised the other to such an extent that he threw said Mr Snuggles high into the air. Mr Snuggles, heedless of his course, was ill prepared for his landing in the liquidizer.. Mr Faustus failed to notice the bear through the glass walls of the beaker and popped on the lid and turned it on. Quickly reducing it to shredded pulp.
After lighting a cigarette he wandered outside and unceremoniously dumped the contents on the Elder stump.
It was his surprise at seeing the severed head of Mr Snuggles looking up at him that caused the cigarette to fall from his mouth and onto the mixture, which duly ignited, rendering Mr Snuggles remains to ash by the time Pete had returned.
When he broke the news to Pete, Mr Faustus became so overwhelmed with grief that he temporarily lost his mind, and was oft to be found giggling in corners.
Not all was lost however, as a dejected Pete wandered about the market place of the weekend, he found a stall that sold Children’s Playthings. There, amidst various toys of pink and green, of girls and boys, lay a brand new, uncremated Mr Snuggles. Seeing it as an omen, Pete immediately purchased the bear and skipped home to show Mr Faustus the bear that had returned to his warm and loving family. A reincarnation, if you will.
Sadly, whilst holding the identical outward appearance of The first Mr Snuggles, Mr Snuggles II seemed prone to suicidal fits of depression.
Within two days Pete discovered Mr Snuggles II slowly revolving in the toilet bowl, his feet banging against the toilet seat. Mr Faustus attempted to explain to Pete that this was normal in reincarnated soft toys. That it would be best to let the bear work through it.
But the warning came too late.
Within two days of drying upon the line, Mr Snuggles II had somehow contrived to fashion the washing line into a rudimentary noose and hang himself, directly over the barbecue. Which when lit, for an impromptu sandwich of steak and onions, by Mr Faustus, caused the bear to join the first Mr Snuggles in the ash bin.
Not to be deterred, Pete decided to purchase a third Mr Snuggles, of which the market vendor assured him, he could obtain a ready supply.
Sadly Mr Snuggles III died in equal strange circumstances. Upon this occasion the result of the attentions of an over sexed rabbit that had been force fed Viagra before being accidently locked in a bread bin, who threw the well rodgered remnants on Mr Snuggles III out (after three days), straight into the waiting jaws of a carelessly placed document shredder.
Mr Snuggles IV met his end after falling from the office window, whilst on one of his occasional visits to Pete’s place of employ. Mr Faustus Consulting Investigational agency. He fell into a large boiling pot of pitch, Navvies were using to resurface the street outside the office. His presence was not noticed until too late, but which time he had become bonded to the roads very surface.
His face could still be seen gazing up from the byway.
Mr Snuggles V simply vanished one day. It was the day Faustus has spent several hours with drain rods in the back garden, trying to clear a rather difficult blockage in the sewer pipes. So, as he pointed out to Pete, he could not be held responsible for the loss of the cherished bear, having not been in the house.
The death of Mr Snuggles VI was resultant of a small accident. Initially a small accident.
Pete was receiving instruction from Mr Faustus as to the correct manner of the appropriate way to use an electrically powered circular saw. A simple task of cutting a length of board. Concentrating so hard upon achieving a straight cut, Pete failed to notice that he had placed Mr Snuggles VI upon the timber before him.
As Mr Faustus pointed out, Pete must have done this, for he had never been seen to touch the bear, in any of his incarnations. Therefore he could not be held responsible.
When the circular saw caught Mr Snuggles VI midriff, it quickly caught upon a surprisingly large metal rod that was inserted lengthways from rectal passage, as it were, into brain pan.
The best description of said metal rod that Pete was able to come up with later, after the fire brigade had left, was nail.
The striking of the metal blade against the surface of the metal ‘nail’ caused a series of small sparks. These sparks caused the interior of Mr Snuggles VI, the stuffing, to ignite. It appears that at some point in the recent past that Mr Snuggles VI had consumed a large amount of what, the fire investigators referred to as lighter fluid. Consequently Mr Snuggles VI immediately became a burning mound.
Acting swiftly, Pete scooped up Mr Snuggles VI and threw him into a nearby bucket, which contained a liquid that was labelled as ‘water’. Much to his consternation, it was at this point Pete discovered it was petrol for the self-propelling lawnmower.
The Chief Fire Officer later referred to Pete, hurling the bucket of petrol, from the workshop, and into the shrubbery, as ‘Biggest F#####g Molotov Cocktail’ he had ever seen.
To further compound the difficulty, it appears that some miscreant had hidden a large quantity of plastic explosives, buried in a shallow pit beneath the Azaleas. Under Police Interrogation Mr Faustus later stated that one of his prior lady friends may have secreted said explosives there with the thoughts of an attempt upon his life.
Mr Snuggle however was not as lucky as Mr Faustus.
Mr Snuggle was distributed over three streets. His nose was later discovered in a window box eight doors down the street.
Now, Mr Snuggles VII was permanently in residence, unless in Pete’s bed, within an airtight safe, built into the wall of Pete’s room. He had rejected Faustus’ suggestions that air holes were drilled.
Accidents of any form could occur at almost any time.
May 29, 2013
Shhhh. It's a Secret.
This Blog started out as a simple opportunity to promote my website. www.emfaustus.com
A very nice gentleman was giving people the opportunity to promote their blogs on his blog. All they had to do was share something embarrassing about their Father.
Sounds easy, doesn’t it?
Not when the list is longer that the entire trilogy of four books you’ve just written. (Don’t pull me up on that. I know what I mean.)
For a start there was his chronic alcoholism. Not normally a subject for a laugh, but you probably never saw my Dad try to pick a fight with a lamp post.
Don’t get me wrong. The Lamp Post started out as his bestest friend in the whole wide world. They had a good half hour having a laugh and a joke with each other. Yet, as friendships can, they fell out. Words were spoken. Things said that could never be taken back. Words became pushing and shoving, then the inevitable punch and head butt.
They were very good at Casualty. While they stitched him up and put his hand into a cast, they hardly laughed at all.
Then there was the time, about two years after my Mum had died, that Dad decided a little Ladies Company wouldn’t go amiss. The main problem was.... well, Dad wasn’t exactly a ‘looker’. Years of being a glass blower had left him with no eyebrows and a hole in his false teeth that you could have comfortably pushed an espresso cup through. Add onto that the ‘comb over’. Dad refused to admit that he was bald you see, so he carefully sculpted his hair each morning, from the sides to the top of his head. Held in place with soap. God help him in a high wind, and is it rained he ended up with a frothy Afro.
And he was no great shakes at chatting up the ladies. When your opening line is ‘You don’t sweat much for a Fat Lass.’.... Fortunately he’d lost his teeth years before. Though he did have some success chatting up Charlotte. Shame that his eyes were so bad he never realised that ‘Charlotte’ was in fact ‘Richard’. You would have thought that the stubble would have given it away.
And then there was the time..... Oh God’s. There are just too many of them.
My Father embarrassed me in oh so many ways. More than I can begin to sum up. Yet, the strangest was through his joy in wearing Ladies Underwear.
Not the full set you understand. It wasn’t a transvestite thing. No coming to terms with his feminine side. Rather a question of support.
“When a man hits a certain age...” he far too often said to me.... “He needs something to hold the Old Undercarriage up and in place. There’s nothing worse than dangly, chaffed nadgers.”
Other peoples Fathers gave them words of wisdom to lead them through life. Mine told me to wear ladies nickers to keep my nadgers from hanging.
The knowledge that he wore panties was bad enough, but when he started recommending them to my friends, that was worse. And when he would ask my girlfriends, in all seriousness, how they felt about elasticated gussets... I didn’t have a lot of long term relationships with women after they met my Dad. Though a short tem girlfriend did introduce my Dad to Victoria’s Secrets. They used to chat a lot about lingerie. The downside was that the only lingerie I got to see was what my own Father bought by Mail Order.
Oh.... and when Transformations opened a branch in Newcastle Upon Tyne, to cater for the TV market... Dad was a regular. He bought almost all of his underwear from there. They even started calling him by his first name and making him coffee when he went in. He used to go just for the coffee, he said.
Even when he died, he insisted on being cremated in his best suit and a pair of Black Victoria Secrets Panties, with a reinforced gusset and lace trim. As he said himself;
‘I don’t want to be sat on a cloud with a bloody harp for Eternity with me bollocks dangling like an overused punchbag.’
I would at this point be apt to promote my own novels, website, various blogs, but the memory of Dad, sat with the football team and discussing the relative benefits of cotton over nylon ... or the amount of men who came up to me at his funeral and told me how his advice on Lyrca had changed their lives....
He was right though. When you get to a certain age, restraint and lifting does improve your life. Go for a cotton lycra mix.
A very nice gentleman was giving people the opportunity to promote their blogs on his blog. All they had to do was share something embarrassing about their Father.
Sounds easy, doesn’t it?
Not when the list is longer that the entire trilogy of four books you’ve just written. (Don’t pull me up on that. I know what I mean.)
For a start there was his chronic alcoholism. Not normally a subject for a laugh, but you probably never saw my Dad try to pick a fight with a lamp post.
Don’t get me wrong. The Lamp Post started out as his bestest friend in the whole wide world. They had a good half hour having a laugh and a joke with each other. Yet, as friendships can, they fell out. Words were spoken. Things said that could never be taken back. Words became pushing and shoving, then the inevitable punch and head butt.
They were very good at Casualty. While they stitched him up and put his hand into a cast, they hardly laughed at all.
Then there was the time, about two years after my Mum had died, that Dad decided a little Ladies Company wouldn’t go amiss. The main problem was.... well, Dad wasn’t exactly a ‘looker’. Years of being a glass blower had left him with no eyebrows and a hole in his false teeth that you could have comfortably pushed an espresso cup through. Add onto that the ‘comb over’. Dad refused to admit that he was bald you see, so he carefully sculpted his hair each morning, from the sides to the top of his head. Held in place with soap. God help him in a high wind, and is it rained he ended up with a frothy Afro.
And he was no great shakes at chatting up the ladies. When your opening line is ‘You don’t sweat much for a Fat Lass.’.... Fortunately he’d lost his teeth years before. Though he did have some success chatting up Charlotte. Shame that his eyes were so bad he never realised that ‘Charlotte’ was in fact ‘Richard’. You would have thought that the stubble would have given it away.
And then there was the time..... Oh God’s. There are just too many of them.
My Father embarrassed me in oh so many ways. More than I can begin to sum up. Yet, the strangest was through his joy in wearing Ladies Underwear.
Not the full set you understand. It wasn’t a transvestite thing. No coming to terms with his feminine side. Rather a question of support.
“When a man hits a certain age...” he far too often said to me.... “He needs something to hold the Old Undercarriage up and in place. There’s nothing worse than dangly, chaffed nadgers.”
Other peoples Fathers gave them words of wisdom to lead them through life. Mine told me to wear ladies nickers to keep my nadgers from hanging.
The knowledge that he wore panties was bad enough, but when he started recommending them to my friends, that was worse. And when he would ask my girlfriends, in all seriousness, how they felt about elasticated gussets... I didn’t have a lot of long term relationships with women after they met my Dad. Though a short tem girlfriend did introduce my Dad to Victoria’s Secrets. They used to chat a lot about lingerie. The downside was that the only lingerie I got to see was what my own Father bought by Mail Order.
Oh.... and when Transformations opened a branch in Newcastle Upon Tyne, to cater for the TV market... Dad was a regular. He bought almost all of his underwear from there. They even started calling him by his first name and making him coffee when he went in. He used to go just for the coffee, he said.
Even when he died, he insisted on being cremated in his best suit and a pair of Black Victoria Secrets Panties, with a reinforced gusset and lace trim. As he said himself;
‘I don’t want to be sat on a cloud with a bloody harp for Eternity with me bollocks dangling like an overused punchbag.’
I would at this point be apt to promote my own novels, website, various blogs, but the memory of Dad, sat with the football team and discussing the relative benefits of cotton over nylon ... or the amount of men who came up to me at his funeral and told me how his advice on Lyrca had changed their lives....
He was right though. When you get to a certain age, restraint and lifting does improve your life. Go for a cotton lycra mix.
May 15, 2013
I don't get here enough. Have to change that.
It's been a funny couple of days.
And I don’t mean Funny Ha Ha.
It probably began yesterday morning when a chunk of the roof blew off in a gale. But that’s getting a little ahead of things.
Now, I should say to anyone who’s never read my material before, that I own a Time Share. Not one of those apartments where you regret having to visit twice a year. No. The Time Share is in my Mind.
I share my brain with a fictional Private Eye who works in the 1940’s genre and is surrounded by the ‘differently alive’. Now if you think that sounds weird, you should try living with him. He gets all the fan mail, the applause and the women. I get the death threats and people complaining about my spelling.
The rest of the time, I run a little café. Nice little place which makes money… most of the time. So for about eight hours a day, six days a week I’m what you could call a ‘cook’. Nothing fancy, but I’m pretty good at it.
And that’s where the trouble started.
Last Thursday.
6:30 am.
That was when the egg wok exploded.
You see, we cook our eggs in a wok. That’s all we cook in it.
But sometimes, they just stop working. They ‘explode’. In reality that means 'The Element in The Wok Burnt out.' However in this case, it actually blew up, sending very hot oil in the rough direction of a place I'm rather fond of and would rather nothing that registers a temperature of 170 degrees anywhere near. I'm quite fond of my penis and would really rather not see it fried, sautéed nor scalded.
Consequently, without a second thought, I dropped my trousers.
Just as a young pretty blonde policewoman walked through the door.
"Well, thanks for the offer Chris." said the young pretty blonde police woman, "but I eat muff. So am I arresting you or making myself a coffee while you explain this?"
She was quote good about it. She only helped herself to two cups of coffee.
But they say these things come as triplets. I should have guessed it wouldn’t be that simple…
I bought a new Washburn Mandolin a few days ago. After discovering how much I enjoyed playing the Ukulele, I decided to give my skills with a mandolin a work out. So I bought a sweet little number from Amazon and gave it a good thrashing. Damn. It was fun.
Enough fun for me to dig out ‘The Old Cheese Grater’. Now… You’d think that when I call a Musical Instrument ‘Old Cheese Grater’ I would be giving myself a bit of a clue as to how it played. Nevertheless, I picked up Old Cheese Grater yesterday and retuned her.. Emblazoned with musical mando fever I fingered and struck a chord. Hard and heavy. Metal as fuck. Well... as metal as a mando will let you be.
That would have been a good point to remember that you play a Mandolin with a pick. Not your fingers.
My middle finger.
The one on my right hand.
The one that serves many uses. Typing being just one of them.
That finger.
It used to have a finger nail
Now it has no finger nail.
Now it is sans de nail.
Now, it bleeds and hurts like buggery.
Oh… Then I woke up today to find that the roof has blown off.
Not the whole roof. Just the bits that are stuck on either end. Those bits. The bits that keep the wind and rain out and make the roof look like its finished.
But I’m a big boy. I can deal with things like that. I get a builder to sort it.
Cue telephone call to insurance Company, who said; 'Please hold. This call is important to you, and let's face it.... Unles you happen to have a few grand in your back pocket to pay the bill, you're pretty fucked matey boy. Whatever your problem, we don’t care. We will however force you to listen to this recorded message again and again and again until you lose the will to live. Suffer you poor fool and dance to our tune. Curently we are too busy to take your telephone call. Trained swans are rubbing our bodies with Heather honey, before releasing swarms of giant butterflies who will caress our tones physiques with their feet, wings and tongues, delivering us to heights of sensual pleasure that no mere pleblian like you will ever encounter. So we have no interest in talking to you. When one of our especially trained morons is free from mixing our drinks within gold and diamond punch bowls, we may allow him to talk to you. Sweat away, and don't you dare put the phone down, because you're having an emergency, while we are having multiple orgasms.'
Click.
"Hello, My name is Kevin." came the highly Indian voice at the end of the line.
"Hello, Kevin, My name is Chris. Half my roof has blown off in a gale and I'd like to make an insurance claim please."
"Hello. My name is Kevin."
"Hello Kevin. Can I put in my insurance claim please?"
"Say ‘Please, Kevin’. For my name is Kevin. It is my real name. I do not work in a call center in India. I am not pretending to be someone from Europa by adopting a Westernised name. It is not a trick and I wish you to repect that before we go any further. My name is Kevin."
"Yes. I think we have established that your name is Kevin. Can I put in my insurance claim please?"
"I am not here to be abused sir over my choice of name that I was very careful in choosing and have registered it as my own name, having changed it by very expensive legal means a considerable number of months ago. Your use of irony is most not appreciated. It ranks alongside sarcasm as the lowest form of wit."
“Kevin, I…”
I do not appreciate you using my name for what you may feel to be comedic device. Sir. The tone of your voice implies that you do not believe my name to be Kevin, nor that it has ever been Kevin. I suspect that you believe me to be in a call centre in some major Indian city. Let me tell you that you could not be further from the truth. From this very window I can see Big Ben, The Thames, Hadrians Wall, and many other major London landmarks.”
“But Hadrians Wall is in Northumberland.”
“A common misconception. Hadrians Wall runs from London to Edinburgh directly. I can see the entire length of it from this very window, for it is a London Vista. I am so proud to be looking at my home town.”
“Kevin. I studied archaeology for five years. I lived on Hadrians Wall for twenty years.. I’ve conducted major digs around Hadrians Wall. I wrote a paper on Hadrians eclectic use of a pre-Norman Flying Buttress. I know where Hadrians Wall is.”
Scilence for a whole thirty seconds.
“It is the Other Hadrian whose wall I am looking at.”
"I'm sorry. Kevin. I just want to make an insurance claim."
"Then why did you ring the Insurance advisory line and ask to speak to Kevin?"
"I didn't. I just got transfered to you."
"I will transfer you to the Insurance claim line. Do not bother me again. I am a very busy English man."
Click.
"Don't you wish you hadn't rang now, you obnoxious little bleb of excremental mucus? Just let your world collapse around you, while we continue to siphon money from your bank account, visit your family in the night and engage them in debauchery that would boggle the mind of a perverted bestial degenerate and drain your soul, drop by drop, till you are but an empty shell. We would laugh at your piteous state, but frankly that would require too much effort. Instead, we shall simply make your day infinitely worse by playing music that you will not be able to wrench from your head, but will simultaneously forget. Music played by a talentless three year old. On a recorder. Accompanied my her tone deaf brother who has just gained Grade One in his violin. Suffer We care not.”
After ten minutes my ears began to bleed.
Click.
"Hello. My name is Kevin."
And I don’t mean Funny Ha Ha.
It probably began yesterday morning when a chunk of the roof blew off in a gale. But that’s getting a little ahead of things.
Now, I should say to anyone who’s never read my material before, that I own a Time Share. Not one of those apartments where you regret having to visit twice a year. No. The Time Share is in my Mind.
I share my brain with a fictional Private Eye who works in the 1940’s genre and is surrounded by the ‘differently alive’. Now if you think that sounds weird, you should try living with him. He gets all the fan mail, the applause and the women. I get the death threats and people complaining about my spelling.
The rest of the time, I run a little café. Nice little place which makes money… most of the time. So for about eight hours a day, six days a week I’m what you could call a ‘cook’. Nothing fancy, but I’m pretty good at it.
And that’s where the trouble started.
Last Thursday.
6:30 am.
That was when the egg wok exploded.
You see, we cook our eggs in a wok. That’s all we cook in it.
But sometimes, they just stop working. They ‘explode’. In reality that means 'The Element in The Wok Burnt out.' However in this case, it actually blew up, sending very hot oil in the rough direction of a place I'm rather fond of and would rather nothing that registers a temperature of 170 degrees anywhere near. I'm quite fond of my penis and would really rather not see it fried, sautéed nor scalded.
Consequently, without a second thought, I dropped my trousers.
Just as a young pretty blonde policewoman walked through the door.
"Well, thanks for the offer Chris." said the young pretty blonde police woman, "but I eat muff. So am I arresting you or making myself a coffee while you explain this?"
She was quote good about it. She only helped herself to two cups of coffee.
But they say these things come as triplets. I should have guessed it wouldn’t be that simple…
I bought a new Washburn Mandolin a few days ago. After discovering how much I enjoyed playing the Ukulele, I decided to give my skills with a mandolin a work out. So I bought a sweet little number from Amazon and gave it a good thrashing. Damn. It was fun.
Enough fun for me to dig out ‘The Old Cheese Grater’. Now… You’d think that when I call a Musical Instrument ‘Old Cheese Grater’ I would be giving myself a bit of a clue as to how it played. Nevertheless, I picked up Old Cheese Grater yesterday and retuned her.. Emblazoned with musical mando fever I fingered and struck a chord. Hard and heavy. Metal as fuck. Well... as metal as a mando will let you be.
That would have been a good point to remember that you play a Mandolin with a pick. Not your fingers.
My middle finger.
The one on my right hand.
The one that serves many uses. Typing being just one of them.
That finger.
It used to have a finger nail
Now it has no finger nail.
Now it is sans de nail.
Now, it bleeds and hurts like buggery.
Oh… Then I woke up today to find that the roof has blown off.
Not the whole roof. Just the bits that are stuck on either end. Those bits. The bits that keep the wind and rain out and make the roof look like its finished.
But I’m a big boy. I can deal with things like that. I get a builder to sort it.
Cue telephone call to insurance Company, who said; 'Please hold. This call is important to you, and let's face it.... Unles you happen to have a few grand in your back pocket to pay the bill, you're pretty fucked matey boy. Whatever your problem, we don’t care. We will however force you to listen to this recorded message again and again and again until you lose the will to live. Suffer you poor fool and dance to our tune. Curently we are too busy to take your telephone call. Trained swans are rubbing our bodies with Heather honey, before releasing swarms of giant butterflies who will caress our tones physiques with their feet, wings and tongues, delivering us to heights of sensual pleasure that no mere pleblian like you will ever encounter. So we have no interest in talking to you. When one of our especially trained morons is free from mixing our drinks within gold and diamond punch bowls, we may allow him to talk to you. Sweat away, and don't you dare put the phone down, because you're having an emergency, while we are having multiple orgasms.'
Click.
"Hello, My name is Kevin." came the highly Indian voice at the end of the line.
"Hello, Kevin, My name is Chris. Half my roof has blown off in a gale and I'd like to make an insurance claim please."
"Hello. My name is Kevin."
"Hello Kevin. Can I put in my insurance claim please?"
"Say ‘Please, Kevin’. For my name is Kevin. It is my real name. I do not work in a call center in India. I am not pretending to be someone from Europa by adopting a Westernised name. It is not a trick and I wish you to repect that before we go any further. My name is Kevin."
"Yes. I think we have established that your name is Kevin. Can I put in my insurance claim please?"
"I am not here to be abused sir over my choice of name that I was very careful in choosing and have registered it as my own name, having changed it by very expensive legal means a considerable number of months ago. Your use of irony is most not appreciated. It ranks alongside sarcasm as the lowest form of wit."
“Kevin, I…”
I do not appreciate you using my name for what you may feel to be comedic device. Sir. The tone of your voice implies that you do not believe my name to be Kevin, nor that it has ever been Kevin. I suspect that you believe me to be in a call centre in some major Indian city. Let me tell you that you could not be further from the truth. From this very window I can see Big Ben, The Thames, Hadrians Wall, and many other major London landmarks.”
“But Hadrians Wall is in Northumberland.”
“A common misconception. Hadrians Wall runs from London to Edinburgh directly. I can see the entire length of it from this very window, for it is a London Vista. I am so proud to be looking at my home town.”
“Kevin. I studied archaeology for five years. I lived on Hadrians Wall for twenty years.. I’ve conducted major digs around Hadrians Wall. I wrote a paper on Hadrians eclectic use of a pre-Norman Flying Buttress. I know where Hadrians Wall is.”
Scilence for a whole thirty seconds.
“It is the Other Hadrian whose wall I am looking at.”
"I'm sorry. Kevin. I just want to make an insurance claim."
"Then why did you ring the Insurance advisory line and ask to speak to Kevin?"
"I didn't. I just got transfered to you."
"I will transfer you to the Insurance claim line. Do not bother me again. I am a very busy English man."
Click.
"Don't you wish you hadn't rang now, you obnoxious little bleb of excremental mucus? Just let your world collapse around you, while we continue to siphon money from your bank account, visit your family in the night and engage them in debauchery that would boggle the mind of a perverted bestial degenerate and drain your soul, drop by drop, till you are but an empty shell. We would laugh at your piteous state, but frankly that would require too much effort. Instead, we shall simply make your day infinitely worse by playing music that you will not be able to wrench from your head, but will simultaneously forget. Music played by a talentless three year old. On a recorder. Accompanied my her tone deaf brother who has just gained Grade One in his violin. Suffer We care not.”
After ten minutes my ears began to bleed.
Click.
"Hello. My name is Kevin."
April 23, 2012
Firsty little bloggy
OK...here's the thing. I have this website...I know I should publicise it, but not on here. This place is different. Here I don't plan on being the Character of EM Faustus. Here, it will be just Chris.
Problem is...I have spent so much time writing as Faustus, writing as myself feels a little odd, but I'll get used to it. I got used to early onset male pattern baldness.
I used to have shoulder length white hair. Now...billiard ball.
I have embarked upon the joys of Twitter today, aftrer pressure. Odd little thing Twitter. It's like Facebook for the mentally challanged. And epople talk in squiggles. What the Hell does it all mean?
Not that I actually care.
I care more about where that tube of haemaroid cream is.
But on the rememberance that this is a book site I can highly recommend a couple I re-read this weekend. One is The Abberation by Bard Constantine. For the pennies it will cost on Kindle, well worth the money.
The other was Ray Bradbury's 'Something Wicked This Way Comes'. Though I did have a problem.
The problem was I have eight seperate copies of it. Eight copies, including two in hardback. Oh...and the film, and three audio books.
If you have'nt read it. Go for it. However you read it, it is one of the greatest books of American Literature. Enjoy.
Well, now back to the joys of Tax accountancy and the end of years
Problem is...I have spent so much time writing as Faustus, writing as myself feels a little odd, but I'll get used to it. I got used to early onset male pattern baldness.
I used to have shoulder length white hair. Now...billiard ball.
I have embarked upon the joys of Twitter today, aftrer pressure. Odd little thing Twitter. It's like Facebook for the mentally challanged. And epople talk in squiggles. What the Hell does it all mean?
Not that I actually care.
I care more about where that tube of haemaroid cream is.
But on the rememberance that this is a book site I can highly recommend a couple I re-read this weekend. One is The Abberation by Bard Constantine. For the pennies it will cost on Kindle, well worth the money.
The other was Ray Bradbury's 'Something Wicked This Way Comes'. Though I did have a problem.
The problem was I have eight seperate copies of it. Eight copies, including two in hardback. Oh...and the film, and three audio books.
If you have'nt read it. Go for it. However you read it, it is one of the greatest books of American Literature. Enjoy.
Well, now back to the joys of Tax accountancy and the end of years
