Write on red

Famously, Laurie Lee, one of the nation’s most beloved novelists, wrote ‘on wine’.  Whether or not he was ever drunk in charge of a typewriter is unclear but one has to entertain the possibility that, as a poet, he typed without due care and attention.  He did his writing in the Greek Islands, presumably because in the days before bargain booze, affordable New World wines or even Blue Nun, this was the only way he could become sufficiently inebriated to welcome the Muse should she come to visit.  Also, proximity to Mt Parnassus may have helped.

Rock stars smoke, inject, inhale and presumably occasionally insert for inspiration.  Writers drink.  Christ alone knows why, as excessive booze normally leads to feelings of alienation from the world and a profound sense of being under-appreciated and misunderstood, all of which is achievable through the simple act of publishing a slim volume of verse.  Alcohol also inhibits early morning creativity, and certain writers famously were at their creative peak at first light.  Presumably this meant they could post the latest chapter of their novel off to their publishers at eleven in the morning on their way to the pub.

However, in the spirit of enquiry G&P is embarking on a five-part special to explore the effects of various types of alcohol on writing, beyond those of not being able to remember that fantastic idea for a novel you had last night (something about a boy wizard?) just before you passed out, or not being able to decipher the notes scrawled on a beermat that could be a poem, or somebody’s e mail address.

We continue with…red wine.

In doing so, it would be wrong to ignore the role that red wine has played in art.  By art, I mean proper art, a man at an easel with some oil paints, a glass of thinners, a glass of red wine and, if he’s painting a nude, a semi.  I was once told that artists drank red wine to clear their sinuses, or something.  Knowing artists (as I don’t) it was more probably to stop the voices screaming at them to paint, paint, paint the sky green.

On first inspection, the literary associations with red wine appear obvious, it’s all about the horror novel.  Not only does it look like claret, (actually it sometimes is actually claret), but red wine and other red drinks (strangely never Ribena) appear to be the alcoholic beverage of choice for those who wear rings, have lace at their cuffs and have a LOT of vampire literature on their Kindles.

Let’s make this clear right now.  You only need one vampire novel.  It’s called ‘Salem’s Lot’ and after you read it, you will never want to read any vampire fiction ever again.  Front cover blurb quotes?  I’ve got one for the publisher right here “G&P: this book will FUCK YOU UP!”.

So, moving on…

If you are a writer, you can drink red wine to achieve success in a couple of genres.

The first is horror and, as previously pointed out, it might be cliché but damn if it isn’t good fun to read a ghost story with something red at your elbow.  A bloody good horror story has a sensation of creeping dread much like the way a good red creeps up on you.  It swills and swells and surrounds the senses until you feel a bit queer.

The red is the drink of the mystery writer, the murder, the whocaresdunnet, the red is as thick and as dark as the clouds of confusion in a novel or the fog that lends atmosphere (literally) to a story.

Why would you drink red if you were writing?

Well, it mellows things, flattens them out.  Ideal if, in your first draft, you had ‘FUCK ME, THE FANGS, THE FANGS!” as the opening line and then a separate paragraph with 227 exclamation marks.

Red wine builds up to stuff (see also, fortified wine).  It’s the wine people drink three to four decisions ahead of taking a decision, a light procrastinating wine, if you will, and so ideal for mysteries.  “I’ll check out that death threat tomorrow, but first, a glass of this lovely looking wine left on my doorstep!”

It’s also the perfect winter drink (you can stick Horlicks up your arse and, in the case of a recent Horlicks-botherer, actually can).  You’re by the fire, there may be a blanket, there’s certainly an armchair. You have three uninterrupted hours ahead of you, you are of an age when you pick up a paperback rather than a smartphone, what better than a bottle of something cheeky to the point of impertinence to enhance the experience.

The other genre associated with red wine is a niche one; the military biography.  There are three obvious connotations.  The first is blood, soaking into either sand, turf, water or snow depending on your theatre.  The second is the colour of a military man’s coat, either intentionally during the Nepolionic wars where a red jacket was just the thing, or quite unintentionally in any other era when a red jacket meant that you, or somebody near you, had just encountered something sharp.  Finally, red wine is second only to the pineapple as being an essential element of any military anecdote.  ‘This bottle here, these were the damned Frenchies’, that sort of thing.

And that’s that.  There’s a book for every sort of reader and there’s a drink for every sort of writer, some writers indeed (Kinky Friedman, I’m looking at you!) enjoy several types of drink.  Laurie Lee wrote on wine and wrote brilliantly, but sometimes it’s interesting to consider that, if he had written on beer or fizz, he could have left a lasting legacy of military yarns or even romcom.

Of course, what he’s most famous for is cider.

Tesco in the toilet

Trebuchet.

Bless you.

A trebuchet is a siege engine.  That is, it is a bloody huge wooden tower with a weighted throwing arm, designed to throw heavy objects against or over castle walls, from a distance further away than the longest ranged weapon available to the castle inhabitants.

That’s right, like in LOTR.

Trebuchets were the heavy artillery of the age of castles and siege warfare, and lasted right up until the arrival of the sapper, a bloke with a beard and a spade and some stuff he called gunpowder, who explained how he could tunnel under the castle walls and explode the gunpowder.

Two obvious points before we move on, why couldn’t the hirsute little sod keep digging, like a Medieval Manic Miner, for a few more yards and so make a tunnel into the castle enabling troop deployment into the Keep?  Also, why did none of these idiots ever think of attacking the castle through the weakest point; the gift shop.

Imagine though, having something like a trebuchet.  A tall tower with a throwing arm like Ian Botham on a good day.  And these things were made out of wood, not Lego.  Essentially, you took a tree, which had been withstanding gales and gusts for decades, then strengthened it with all sorts of fastening and, oh I don’t know, elastic bands or whatever, then you pulled the bugger back and then…TWANG!

I love trebuchets.

What I love about them, is their versatility.

Previously, I may have remarked that I have something of an antipathy for the popular chain store and tenth circle of Hell, Tesco.  This is based on a number of factors, such as the way they abuse their suppliers, and the way their customers abuse one another when in their stores.  I stopped shopping at Tesco after witnessing an argument between a couple who were pensioners.  I had previously thought that they were just an argumentative pair who shopped at Tesco and who, after 60 years of married life, enjoyed a public bicker.  Now I am more inclined to think that they are a loving pair who, after 60 years of married life, only ever argue in Tesco because of its conducive atmosphere.  I was also not a fan of the way that my local petrol station had a ‘Tiny Tesco’ or whatever the fuck they are called, and that they were convenient and open late when I needed wine.  Yes, I did see people shopping there in their pyjamas.  No, I never did.

So after the curious incident of the guide dog in the Tesco, I was researching how to build a trebuchet, thinking I might contact a farmer, buy a large quantity of manure, then fling the mess at my nearest store (having stocked up on wine beforehand, obviously).  This seemed the only way in which such a callous commercial monster might be wounded.

Then I turned on the radio.

Turns out, Tesco are in the shit.

So this is a company that makes a fortune, right?  A success story, right?  They post profits and then go and rub themselves against trees or something, right?

Apparently not.

Apparently, somebody has now queried the company accounts and the problem is that what was reported as ‘Finest’ is actually rather more ‘Value’, and either quite a lot of people forgot to carry the decimal point, or there has been a gross (or net, I’m not quite there with the accounting terms) misstatement of the amount of money that the company makes.

The enjoyment of the misfortune of others is a concept so alien to most civilized societies that only the Germans have a word for it.

What an absolute bunch of arseholes.

I mean, it’s not as if you had any ethical credibility, or were an outstanding employer, or your food was that good or your stores were a pleasure to visit.  All you had was that you made shedloads of money, and also possibly that you had the good grace to keep your shops that were attached to garages open late so that people who fancied something red and cheeky of an evening didn’t have trek the extra five minutes along the road to Sainsbury’s.

Write on spirits

Famously, Laurie Lee, one of the nation’s most beloved novelists, wrote ‘on wine’.  Whether or not he was ever drunk in charge of a typewriter is unclear but one has to entertain the possibility that, as a poet, he typed without due care and attention.  He did his writing in the Greek Islands, presumably because in the days before bargain booze, affordable New World wines or even Blue Nun, this was the only way he could become sufficiently inebriated to welcome the Muse should she come to visit.  Also, proximity to Mt Parnassus may have helped.

Rock stars smoke, inject, inhale and presumably occasionally insert for inspiration.  Writers drink.  Christ alone knows why, as excessive booze normally leads to feelings of alienation from the world and a profound sense of being under-appreciated and misunderstood, all of which is achievable through the simple act of publishing a slim volume of verse.  Alcohol also inhibits early morning creativity, and certain writers famously were at their creative peak at first light.  Presumably this meant they could post the latest chapter of their novel off to their publishers at eleven in the morning on their way to the pub.

However, in the spirit of enquiry G&P is embarking on a five-part special to explore the effects of various types of alcohol on writing, beyond those of not being able to remember that fantastic idea for a novel you had last night (something about a boy wizard?) just before you passed out, or not being able to decipher the notes scrawled on a beermat that could be a poem, or somebody’s e mail address.

We continue with…spirits.

Shall we mention ghost stories?  Let’s not.

Shall we mention Hemmingway?  Earnest, not Wayne.  Well, there’s a school of thought that spirits make one mean, and certainly EM appeared to have it in for bulls, fish, Big Game and many of God’s creatures that had never harmed him, but are we to blame that all on spirits?  Let’s not.

Spirits are a man’s drink.  Ignore those adverts that come on at Christmas featuring a girl in a glittery frock with a tumbler of some brownish liquid.  This is a game, but ultimately doomed, attempt to extend spirits sales past the saturated male market to women.  Does that advert also have the same woman, with perfect lipstick, pulling on a thick cigar?  Thought so, the famous and famously successful advertising company of Malefantasy and Wankjet (London, New York, Pontypool) strikes again.  The only spirit women drink is vodka, and that’s only because the makers of cranberry juice really, really know how to market that stuff.

No, spirits equal men.  Spirits, ingested, throw everything into sharp relief, including emotions.  That’s why gin makes women sad and why scotch, and any other spirit, at all, makes men angry.  The drinker of spirits writes about manly stuff.  Spies, war, sports, and of course, drinking.

The spirit drinker, one feels, is above all an adventurer.

Spirits are ideal when travelling to places where you need to take the maximum amount of drinkable alcohol for the minimum encumbrance.  When the first man lands on Mars, he’ll have scotch with him (this is after Scotland gains independence and launches a hilariously ambitious, but surprising successful, space programme).  If you need to go further, faster, spirits are your friend.

The same goes with drinking them.  If you don’t have time to faff around with beer, or enjoying your drink by droning on endlessly about the complexities of the nose, as you do with wine, then reach for the hard stuff.

Because drinking spirits is not enjoyable.  If it was, mixers wouldn’t exist.

Spirits also bring, as aforementioned, and depending on the spirit in question, a certain clarity of thought.

Gin.  Instant Hogarthian and Dickensian purity, being able to describe with absolute clarity the cruddy undersole of the human condition, be it sociatial or personal.

Vodka.  Ah, vodka.  The easy association would be with Russian novels so thick they look like normal novels that have fallen into the bath.  And that’s about right.  Always, always be suspicious of any alcohol that is clear.  Rule of thumb, if it looks like you could clean spark plugs with it, avoid ingesting it.

Bourbon.  Interestingly, not actually a drink in and of itself.  Bourbon is Scotch and sweetness, like the classic cocktail of Scotch and Irn Bru.  Bourbon is one of those wonderful drinks that foreigners make.  It’s like one of those ‘fuLl engliSH breaKFasts’ that you see advertised on Greek island tavernas, with an image of the Full English that the attempt on your plate bears little resemblance to.  The genius of bourbon production is this; just as Scotch is named for a geographical area which enables the purchaser to build brand loyalty based on faux clan association, so naming your beverage after a backwoods hillbilly, Confederate general or similar will enable your customers to decide whether they are Daniels or Beam, without realising that because of the amount of sugary syrup added to the booze required to make the muck drinkable, they are all Colas.

Scotch.  The associations are largely positive.  Spies (of the right sort).  Men with the right sort of beard.  The sort of chap who has an estate in the Highlands and who vacates London during August.

In fact Scotch is the only spirit to write on, and to read on.  Picture an author with a tumbler of scotch by his (lady authors are also available) side.  Pull back.  Typewriter?  Helicopter extract?  Very possibly, and more importantly, possibly not just on the page.

Spirits, never in the form of ‘shorts’ which in any civilized society are never a measure of alcohol and only ever the apparel of adolescent schoolboys, but rather served as the more manly ‘large one’, are also the preferred drink, or ‘lunch’, as the technical term has it, of journalists.  In particular, whisky is the go-to drink of foreign correspondents.  This is because it not only helps them blot out any horrors of war they may encounter, but, back in the day when wars had not yet migrated to the dusty arsehole of the world where people didn’t drink (hence: war), whisky was currency.  Apparently during the 1970s, it was standard practice to produce at any border crossing, in this order; a litre of Johnny Walker, a carton of 200 fags, your passport, your press credentials.

Single malt may be the tipple of choice for fiction writers and for heroic explorers who publish bestselling accounts of their travels (possibly posthumously).  For the journalist though, it has to be whisky and for the epitome of the journalist, the foreign correspondent, it has to be Johnny Walker, named for the famous Radio 2 DeeJay.  Classy.

Of course, today, a foreign correspondent today is more likely to be holed up in Costa sipping latte, weaving a story out of unsubstantiated tweets and blog posts, Wiki entries and Google Earth snapshots than actual reportage.

Every little yelps

In a week where Sainsbury’s ejected a couple from their store for kissing, Tesco proved that when it comes to corporate fuck-ups, they’re still the nation’s number one, by behaving like number twos.  Tesco is changing its business model, from constructing the sort of out of town gigasouks that suck all commerce from the nation’s charming high streets to forsaken industrial centres on the edge of town, to opening shops on formally charming high streets.  This allows them to sell crisps at artificially low prices, and so unfairly compete with the local shops, and put them all out of business that way. 

This includes opening stores in petrol stations.

This is handy for two reasons.

Firstly, it is the law to buy fruit and nut whenever you fill up. 

But secondly and far more importantly, the proximity of Tesco and a plentiful supply of four-star is very convenient as, after hearing a news story about Tesco this week, I no longer wanted to boycott Tesco (a normal reaction for the usual reasons; that it is a social evil, and that the sort of people who shop there go there to shout at their kids or have marital disputes), I wanted to burn every fucking store to the ground.

So, what was it that made me want to turn that purveyor of tampons and Pot Noodle into a barbeque pit?

Well, apparently, a woman with a guide dog was ejected from a Tesco store this week, because the staff objected to her dog being in the store.

Her. Guide dog.

And apparently, while this trio of twats were harassing a blind woman, another customer was pointing out, er, actually, you can’t really do that.

That is one of the three acceptable reactions of a bystander.  The other is to use the distraction to shoplift as much confectionery as possible.  The third is to pop out, and return a short time later with a sloshing jerrycan and a Zippo.

So let’s examine just how fucking utterly detestable this Tesco staff were.  You might want to simply punch a Tesco member of staff hard in the face when they ask you for the millionth time if you have a Club Card, but witnessing them hassling a blind woman would, I think, send any right thinking Englishman running to aisle three (sporting goods), to return with a cricket bat, in each hand.

But wait, let’s be fair.  Maybe it was an isolated incident with some staff newly arrived from…another fucking dimension I presume, if they have managed to go through life without encountering guide dogs.  I mean, did they not bother with any training?  Lesson twelve, dogs: if a skinny man with lots of tattoos, no shirt and few teeth comes into the shop to buy Rizzla and has a snarling weapon dog, not on a lead, with him, then politely ask him to tether his dog outside (go on, do just that, and please note that when the nurse gives you your tetanus shot, she doesn’t ask if you’ve got a fucking Club Card). 

If the dog is a Labrador, has a harness on and is being held on to by a blind person, you approach and ask if you can offer any assistance.

It’s good to see that the fuck-wittage of Tesco floor staff and training staff is actually outshone by the cack-handed stupidity of their customer service staff because, after the woman rightly complained about the incident, Tesco offered her a twenty quid voucher.

Two things here.  Firstly, twenty quid is an insult and, er, why in the name of a blue and white striped fuck would the lady in question ever shop at Tesco again?

Then, apparently, somebody said something to somebody and suddenly the story was all over the papers (rightly trumping the other commercial clangers of the week).  This is possibly because people like to have a go at the heartless giant that is Tesco, but mainly because this is a total fucking outrage.

Apparently Tesco have promised to make a sizable donation to a charity of the woman’s choice.

Presumably the staff have been sent for ‘reeducation’.

This sort of thing would never happen at Waitrose.

U2 can't even give it away

Ah, Bono. 

Ah, the other lads in the band. 

What have ye done now?

Like many men, I have a relationship with U2.  As a young man, I bought ‘Rattle and Hum’.  You had to, it was the law, like belonging to the Hitler Youth in 1930s Germany but slightly less regrettable.  Achtung Baby was an important album.  It must have been, as I don’t think I bothered to remove it from my CD player for about two years.

Then came the later albums and, even though I am partial to Flood as a producer, the band’s move to megalither status was never quite ironic enough to convince me that U2 had not sold out. 

Then they went so far up their own arse that it needed a prospecting proctologist to locate them, aided by the light that Bono by now thought shone from there, or so we were led to believe.

The sound became less edgy which, given the moniker of their lead guitarist, was ironic.

Then came this.

In an act of stunning philanthropy (unless that’s the one to do with stamp collecting) or, alternatively, the greatest act of piracy since Cap’n ‘Beardless Nancy’ Coot captured an entire Spanish silver fleet at the mouth of the Amazon single-handedly (literally, the left one had been eaten by a shark, instead of the traditional hook, he sported the much more practical, and piratical, corkscrew), U2 gifted their latest album ‘Songs of innocence’, to the nation, or at least that portion of the nation that has iTunes.

I downloaded and listened and it’s not bad.

Some people, however, are not happy.

Presumably some are unhappy because they take the same view of a free U2 album that I took of getting a free ‘Times’ delivered with my groceries whether I wanted it or not; at free, it’s overpriced.

But more were unhappy because this was an affront to their personal space and an assault on their taste and was clogging up their new iPhone with unwanted music.

Finding an album already installed for free on your new iPhone and thinking ‘meh’ rather than ‘woo-hoo’ is, I would contest, one of those ‘first world problems’ that are supposed to exist.  If there is a problem here, it’s twofold.

The first is that anyone who doesn’t like what is essentially a free gift must have a sense of entitlement so vast it has its own gravitational pull.

The second is, if you have just bought a ‘phone that has something installed on it by the manufacturer that you don’t like…then maybe you made a mistake buying an Apple product.

Really.

Because I don’t know if you did any research before you spunked what I’m pretty sure was more than a fiver on your new ‘phone, but Apple, who make the lovely, desirable and apparently bendy iPhone, do have something of a reputation for installing shit on their devices that you need the cyber equivalent of penicillin to shift.

For years, we had Google maps on our iPhones.  Now we have Apple’s own mapping system.  This is because either:

a)    the data that Apple can collect about our roaming habits has to be worth something to somebody; or

b)    Apple have been paid eighty galizzion dollars by the people who make maps to make paper maps relevant again by making a mapping app so unreliable, you’d be better off packing a sextant and a compass than an iPhone if considering a trip.

All in all, U2 did a good thing in a cruel world.  The album is good (the best for a whole actually, maybe because it was free, maybe not, but what the hell) and the intention was too.

As for those who complained..the Department of Homeland Security thanks you for your feedback on what happens when you overtly install benign compulsory technology on a device that can track your movements and monitor your calls, txt messages and e mails.  And that, Congressmen, is why we install monitoring software, in all ‘phones, covertly.

Oh come on, why else do you think your brand new ‘phone comes out of the box with 0.4GB memory already used?

I look for forward to songs of experience.

Write on fizz

Famously, Laurie Lee, one of the nation’s most beloved novelists, wrote ‘on wine’.  Whether or not he was ever drunk in charge of a typewriter is unclear but one has to entertain the possibility that, as a poet, he typed without due care and attention.  He did his writing in the Greek Islands, presumably because in the days before bargain booze, affordable New World wines or even Blue Nun, this was the only way he could become sufficiently inebriated to welcome the Muse should she come to visit.  Also, proximity to Mt Parnassus may have helped.

Rock stars smoke, inject, inhale and presumably occasionally insert for inspiration.  Writers drink.  Christ alone knows why, as excessive booze normally leads to feelings of alienation from the world and a profound sense of being under-appreciated and misunderstood, all of which is achievable through the simple act of publishing a slim volume of verse.  Alcohol also inhibits early morning creativity, and certain writers famously were at their creative peak at first light.  Presumably this meant they could post the latest chapter of their novel off to their publishers at eleven in the morning on their way to the pub.

However, in the spirit of enquiry G&P is embarking on a five-part special to explore the effects of various types of alcohol on writing, beyond those of not being able to remember that fantastic idea for a novel you had last night (something about a boy wizard?) just before you passed out, or not being able to decipher the notes scrawled on a beermat that could be a poem, or somebody’s e mail address.

We continue with…fizz.

I am writing this drinking a glass of cold, white fizz.  Let us be clear from the start that fizz has a place in writing, both in the formulation of the art and in its enjoyment.  This is also true of other arts, whilst theatre may only be enjoyed by the judicious use of gin during the interval (I don’t make the rules) any visit to an art gallery is enhanced by wandering around with a glass of something, making sure you drink it before it gets warm.  My favourite place for doing this is the RA in their Summer Exhibition, so much so that if I picture, well, a picture, I can feel the sensation of the bobbles and sparkles from the glass alighting on my wrist.

Fizz comes in many forms, not simply that directed into the face of an unsuspecting Formula 1 podium hostess like sparking French bukake.  It has a part to play in literature certainly, one need only think of the scene in ‘John MacNab’ when the gentlemen poachers underline the serious of their task by swearing off ‘the Widow’ until the poaching is done.

But what does the writer who drinks fizz write?  Well, it may depend on the fizz in question.

Champagne probably indicates a high-end sex and shopping novel of such thickness that even if dropped in the pool on holiday, no noticeable swelling occurs.

Prosecco and Cava?  Chick lit.  Funny if it’s Prosecco, not quite so good if it’s Cava.

Finally, anything that fizzes because it’s had something done to it chemically?  Self publishers.  And yes, I do include anyone that sells their vampire novellas on Kindle.

But mainly, we’re talking romance.  Because until Rohypnol came along, no drug was so associated with seduction as fizz.  And if the perfect place to enjoy a romantic novel is indeed in the bath surrounded by scented candles with a glass of something cold and sparkling, rather than on a crowded bus with 90% organic condensation running down the windows and pigeon-shit flavoured rain thrashing down outside, then surely it must put fizz in the prose if there’s fizz in the author.

Life, for sure, goes better with bubbles, in the bath and in the glass.

It adds a touch of class too.  You are unlikely to see two women fighting after a few too many glasses of fizz.  Crying in mascara destroying style whilst assuring one another that all men are bastards yes, but hostile to a sister?  Never.  Champagne is there to celebrate the end of hostilities, not start them (unless it’s a toast at a wedding, boom boom!).

Fizz is romance in a glass.  If we overheard the object of our affections describe us to a friend as ‘the champagne of lovers’, we would simultaneously think how wonderful, sophisticated and complex we are, possibly spoiling the effect by bellowing ‘fucking get in!’ at the news.  To be described as ‘the Pernod of boyfriends’ may leave one puzzled and Googling.  The connotations are all good.  Very few moments of tragedy or heartbreak are associated with bubbles, unless the Bubbles in question is the professional name of a clown wanted by Yewtree, or the ones in your IV.

Fizz, then, is the drink of love.  We order it when we wish to impress, when we are celebrating, when there’s a free bar.

To drink fizz when writing is to have the bubbles percolate the prose, to make it light as air, so that even though the only bubbles that feature in the first paragraph of the first page are those created by the raindrops on the grey puddles on the pavement walked by Cilla Oddshaw, the plain Jane PA who is shortly to turn the life of successful-but-in-need-of-fixing Clive Bigkock around, we know that by the end of the novel, or indeed by page fifteen if Cilla makes her appetite for innovative filth clear to Clive early on, there will be champagne corks popping, and, later, a wedding.

Fizz, you see, is frolicsome fun for fillies.  Wildly sexist?  OK, picture a chick lit author.  Pull back from the head and shoulders shot.  Is she holding a pint of stout?  No, thought not.

Write on beer

Famously, Laurie Lee, one of the nation’s most beloved novelists, wrote ‘on wine’.  Whether or not he was ever drunk in charge of a typewriter is unclear but one has to entertain the possibility that, as a poet, he typed without due care and attention.  He did his writing in the Greek Islands, presumably because in the days before bargain booze, affordable New World wines or even Blue Nun, this was the only way he could become sufficiently inebriated to welcome the Muse should she come to visit.  Also, proximity to Mt Parnassus may have helped.

Rock stars smoke, inject, inhale and presumably occasionally insert for inspiration.  Writers drink.  Christ alone knows why, as excessive booze normally leads to feelings of alienation from the world and a profound sense of being under-appreciated and misunderstood, all of which is achievable through the simple act of publishing a slim volume of verse.  Alcohol also inhibits early morning creativity, and certain writers famously were at their creative peak at first light.  Presumably this meant they could post the latest chapter of their novel off to their publishers at eleven in the morning on their way to the pub.

However, in the spirit of enquiry G&P is embarking on a five-part special to explore the effects of various types of alcohol on writing, beyond those of not being able to remember that fantastic idea for a novel you had last night (something about a boy wizard?) just before you passed out, or not being able to decipher the notes scrawled on a beermat that could be a poem, or somebody’s e mail address.

We continue with…beer.

I am writing this in the pub.  It’s actually called ‘The Red Lion’, which might give an insight into the sort of place it is, at three o’clock on a weekday afternoon, which might give you an indication of my commitment to my research.  Pubs off hours are very different to pubs when civilians (those who drink at Christmas/anyone who orders a Guinness last when getting a round in) frequent them.  They are communities.  The barmaid (who doesn’t know me, I hasten to add, I’m not rich enough to make a habit of this) asked me how I was?  OK, this may be barcraft 101 but it’s also a loaded question.  I’m in a pub at three in the afternoon, chances are things may not be going well (I will need many drinks) or I am celebrating something (many, many drinks, you’re not found ‘not guilty’ every day).  Actually, I see why she asked.

It’s also got a priests hole, and once upon a time there would have been a humorous sign, but Yewtree has fucked that for us as well.

The drink of choice is Stella Artois.  If ever there was an advertising Big Lie, Stella is a prime example of it.  Marketed as posh lager, it even comes, Belgian style, served in its own glass, a goblet style thing.  Anyone who is familiar with this beer knows that it should indeed be served in its own drinking vessel, but that this should be a plastic pint glass.  Stella, you see, has a reputation for turning people into aggressive nutters.

So what should one write on Stella?  Well, I am typing one handed while I make notes for a series of books that will be written under the pen-name of ‘Jack Stroud’ and will follow the fortunes of the males of the ‘Fret’ family as they fight in every war since..,let’s see, yes, the English Civil War.  Titles so far include ‘Royal Fret’, ‘Fret in Tartan’, ‘Fret at the Front’, ‘Frontline Fret’, ‘Fret and the Ruby’, ‘Fret Pulls It Off’, ‘Fret of the Artic’, ‘Fret of the Antarctic’, ‘Fret of the Falklands’, ‘Frantic Fret’, ‘The Fret Files’ (short stories) and, of course, ‘Fret with Wings’ (possibly featuring a female Fret).

Obviously, these will take off (especially the last one).  At that point, I employ an army of ghost writers and project the story of the Fret family backwards, as the Fret family take on the French, the Dutch, the Romans and the Vikings.

A movie adaptation you say?  Ha!  Remember, I’ve been drinking.  Stick your movie option up your arse, along with your assertion that this entire idea is predicated on the plot line from the Forrest Gump movie that every male in Lieutenant Dan’s family line had fought and died in some conflict.

I’m thinking…cut out and dress doll line.  Right?  Right?  Remember those 2D dolls you used to get in the back of magazines, with cut out clothes and tabs and so on?  Well, how about a Fret…but with loads of uniforms, it would be a cross between a really crap and outdated effort to keep kids quiet and a cutting edge publishing phenomenon and, here’s the kicker, it would be fucking useless on Kindle, unless Kindle comes with a printer.

Also, I’d market the cut out and keep doll and costumes with a colouring book and crayons and bundle it with the latest book in the Fret series, subtitled ‘Last of the Frets’ but titled in Great Britain ‘Fucking Fret!’ and in the US or any other country that doesn’t speak English properly ‘Fret’s annoyed’.  The plot is, er, just like the other plots, Fret has a hard time in some conflict, considers leaving, thinks on his family, rediscovers his courage and fucks somebody over with a rusty bayonet that belonged to his grandfather, or a pottery shard that a distant relative left buried in the sand, or in the side of an enemy also buried in the sand…

…details are unimportant.  What’s important is that the story involves Fret, this Fret, finding a diary from a Fret, that Fret, who fought in some previous war that, and here we go, not only gives him the courage to fight on, but actually reveals a hidden path to outflank the enemy.

Fuckin’ YEA!  This is going to be the first colouring book ever to win a BAFTA.  Did I type BAFTA, I mean Booker.  Fuck it, they need to invent a new category of BAFTA, or merge them, the first BOOFTA winner is, me!

So.  That’s beer then.  I suspect bitter might, paradoxically, inspire one to write something bucolic, possibly involving a bicycle and a clergyman, maybe even a crime thriller. But lager?  Lager is a war story in a glass.  Goblet.  Plastic beaker.  Whatever.

Write on white

Famously, Laurie Lee, one of the nation’s most beloved novelists, wrote ‘on wine’.  Whether or not he was ever drunk in charge of a typewriter is unclear but one has to entertain the possibility that, as a poet, he typed without due care and attention.  He did his writing in the Greek Islands, presumably because in the days before bargain booze, affordable New World wines or even Blue Nun, this was the only way he could become sufficiently inebriated to welcome the Muse should she come to visit.  Also, proximity to Mt Parnassus may have helped.

Rock stars smoke, inject, inhale and presumably occasionally insert for inspiration.  Writers drink.  Christ alone knows why, as excessive booze normally leads to feelings of alienation from the world and a profound sense of being under-appreciated and misunderstood, all of which is achievable through the simple act of publishing a slim volume of verse.  Alcohol also inhibits early morning creativity, and certain writers famously were at their creative peak at first light.  Presumably this meant they could post the latest chapter of their novel off to their publishers at eleven in the morning on their way to the pub.

However, in the spirit of enquiry G&P is embarking on a five-part special to explore the effects of various types of alcohol on writing, beyond those of not being able to remember that fantastic idea for a novel you had last night (something about a boy wizard?) just before you passed out, or not being able to decipher the notes scrawled on a beermat that could be a poem, or somebody’s e mail address.

We being with…white wine.

White wine suits poets.  It’s bucolic.  It’s also, these days (as Stewart Lee would say) bloody strong.  Back in the day, there’s a chance that Laurie Lee was drinking something delicious, refreshing, good with fish and not terribly alcoholic.  So, a couple of glasses with lunch and then crank out a few thousand words of gorgeous literature, then a nap.  Great.  The poets of today do not have it so easy.  White wine is literary rocket fuel, in that all the action happens very quickly and in a very short space of time.  First sip, feel inspiration tingle, middle third of glass, burst of creativity, bottom third of glass, decision time.  Second glass, your day’s work is over.  The only major literary decision you are going to make for the rest of the day is trying to get the password on your Majestic account right to order another crate of the stuff.

The thing about white wine is this, it’s an event in a glass.  It should be served chilled, cold enough to disguise the fact that you are serving your guests the £3.99 special with notes of grass and petrol.  This should chill the glass, resulting in that race to the bottom before it gets warm that only The Queen is immune to (special gloves, liver like a…well, liver like a monarch rather than a weak and feeble woman).  Glasses of white wine look especially good when placed next to manual typewriters.  The portions are these:

A bottle of white wine in the afternoon – poets

A carafe of white wine – novelists

A glass of white wine – readers and people who think that they have something fresh to write about vampires.

Alcohol, of course, is famous for allowing one to overcome one’s inhibitions.  To this extent, the reveal of the true self, one wonders if Dr Jekyll’s formula was actually: gin.  But if employed by the author, white wine, very much the perky, sharp, slightly noisome friend/fiend in the bottle, can be beneficial.

It’s summer.  Bees drone, lawnmowers drone, drones, well, buzz, which is odd, because bees also buzz, and some bees are drones, but few if any bees carry cameras.

OK, I’ve had a glass of wine.  That’s the rule.  Drink while you write.  I don’t make the rules, apart from this one.

Oh, and fank thuck for spelllcheck.

Right.  It’s summer, cows moo, bees drone and the poet or novelist is in his or her shed.  It’s too hot to write, it’s too hot to think.  Cotton is sticking to buttock in a way that is more uncomfortable than alluring.  Then.  Sandwiches and a glass of white wine.

The inspiration flows.  The verse is conjured, the stanzas flow.  The plot thickens as the characters develop, maybe one of the characters has a glass of wine and a ham sandwich.  I would read that book.

Cold white wine is a shock to the system, it’s invigorating.  It opens up a world of wonder and excitement and here’s why authors really, really love it, it leaves us wanting more.

Associated with: spy novel, novels about the Napoleonic war, poetry about hedges, anything to do with sport (grass notes), anything to do with the sea (great with fish), any author who writes 250 words a day.  Literary lunches.  Literary launches.

White wine is very much a summer drink, while glorious halcyon days may be bad for creativity, who needs inspiration when you have condensation beading on the outside of the glass?  After a second glass it’s time to put away the typewriter, and Google the reviews of your last book, after a third, the real work of the afternoon, going on Amazon under an assumed name and reviewing/shitting all over the latest offering from that wanker who called your last effort ‘disappointing’.

Finally, white wine is the only drink on the planet whose character is wholly unchanged by being served in a plastic receptacle.  At a literary festival?  Don’t know what to order?  Let me tell you what’s going to be delicious, refreshing and pleasingly cool in the hand in a sweaty marquee in a summer in the Shires.  Served from a box?  Oh, OK.

Review - The Assassination Bureau, Ltd

Assassination these days is such an impersonal affair.  Typically, some bloke living in a dusty climate, usually sporting the sort of beard normally associated with the wilder sort of prophet or cider-guzzling tramp, turns to his mate and just has time to say ‘Do you hear somethi…’ before his world gets, briefly, loud and bright.  A few hours later green and grainy footage is released, shot from the nosecone-cam of something travelling very vertically very quickly towards what looks like an ariel view of two blokes, with beards, in a dusty climate.  It’s green and grainy for the few seconds before everything goes, briefly, white.  Cut to a newscaster who, depending on the broadcaster, will either gravely announce the spectacular televised passing of some boogyman who bothered democracy and goats in equal measure, or will be shouting ‘USA, USA’ and doing fist-pumps.  About three minutes after that, the footage will be on YouhooTube, edited into a montage with a dozen other clips just like it and accompanied by a booming rock soundtrack, probably ‘We will rock you’ by Queen.

That’s twenty first century assassination, impersonal and remote, courtesy of a drone built by a corporation somewhere in a state with more wheat than culture and flown by a bloke in an anonymous looking building in a retail park in Newport Pagnell.

Jack London’s portrayal of assassination is a stylish affair.  Set in early twentieth century America it has it all; a trans-continental chase featuring steam trains and ocean liners, fine dining, gentlemen, a lady, quite a lot of violence both implied and explicit, and a profound sense that the author thinks that it probably would be a good idea if an organisation such as the Assassination Bureau actually existed.

For The Assassination Bureau Ltd., assassination is an art.  More than that, assassination, if practiced perfectly, can be a social service.  The assassins of the Assassination Bureau Ltd. have practiced their craft and are perfectionists.  If a client comes to them and wants a target assassinated, then the Bureau will conduct its own discreet enquiries and only if convinced that the assassination is socially and morally justified will it act.

This purpose is set out in the first few pages of the book.  If you have the money, you can approach the Bureau to have somebody killed.

So it is that rather unpleasant types are done away with (apparently in a variety of styles, business clients prefer to have their enemies disposed of in a discreet fashion, whilst anarchist groups prefer something a little more ‘red’), as those too frightened to bloody their own hands hand over a sizeable wad of cash.  The services of the Bureau do not come cheap.  The Assassination Bureau, it is clear, is very much a luxury service.

Ivan Dragamiloff, Chief of the Bureau, is convinced of its moral rightness, as are those assassins, skilled craftsmen all, who deliver the service.  Indeed, a sizeable chunk of the novel is given over to the debate about the rightness, or otherwise, of a select, secretive and unaccountable body of men engineering social change, to the benefit of their bank balance, by bullet and bomb.

The opening pages are fascinating enough, a secret society of assassins, moral ambiguity and a Chief of an organisation who has the decency to run the Bureau from a book lined study with a deaf-mute servant.  Things step up a gear though when the fabulously named Winter Hill discovers the existence of the Bureau, meets with the Chief and, after successfully convincing the Chief of the moral wrongness of the organisation, pays for the Chief himself to be assassinated, by his own organisation.

Bound by the strict moral code that allows the assassins to do their work with an easy conscience, the Bureau set about trying to assassinate the Chief, himself a master assassin.

The pace is relentless, letting up only for occasional truces that usually involve a spot of fine dining followed by mayhem.  The narrative stays with Hill and the chase is played out in a series of telegrams he receives as the members of the Bureau try, and fail, to assassinate their own Chief.  As a narrative device, it’s a compelling, interesting way of building suspense.  Then, as the chase moves into high gear and the protagonists come together for a series of confrontations building towards the climax, the narrative becomes more conventional, even if the subject matter does not.

Moral certainties are examined in some detail in the book.  Of course there is the whole ‘is it right to kill a bad person’ question which kickstarts the plot with the same instant results as slippering a fox, but other questions arise too, such as just who is in a position to judge who is bad?  The victims of the Bureau include thugs and bent policemen and corrupt politicians, but also respected businessmen, beloved family men, who happen to, at some point in their past, have had a ruinous effect on the lives of others.  One can reform oneself, but one cannot escape the past.

An outstanding read and a romantic vision of a bygone age when value really was put on personal service, even if it was of a type you would rather have avoided.