Review - The Dancing Floor

I had this review from W_.  We were both guests at a friend’s place and, Scottish weather being Scottish weather, the haggis hunting that day had been postponed due to the traditional sleet and snow that typifies Spring in the Highlands.  Seeking distraction and entertainment, I wandered to the library hoping to find at least our host’s selection of plainly bound pornography.

W sat by the fire, both were smoking.  Beside him on a small table rested an oversized decanter.  The glass was in his hand.  W was known to bring his own supplies on these trips, having once being forced to spend a weekend snowed in on the moors with only the host’s blended scotch to pass the time.

‘You’ll want the Buchan.’  He advised, gesturing to a bookcase with his foot.  ‘To your left, second shelf, yellow dust jacket.  ‘The Dancing Floor’.  That’s what you want.’

He topped up his glass and, without invitation, began.

‘The Dancing Floor may not be the greatest book ever written, but it’s the greatest adventure story I’ve ever read.

Its construction is superb.  Its author’s audacity breathtaking.  It begins with an admirably short introduction where the writer explains that this is a story he heard from a friend as they both passed the time when taking civilized refuge from an unseasonable climate.  By the end of that first paragraph, one is hooked.

The astonishing thing is that, for a novel of adventure, so very little happens for so very long.  Buchan shows exceptional nerve, and prodigious skill, in maintaining, and building, tension, moving inexorably towards the climax, where a lot happens in a very short period of time.

The premise is intriguing.  The first portion of the book deals with the storyteller’s friendship with a young friend of the family, and how this singular young man is visited by an annually recurring dream.  Surely, the reader thinks, this must be the key to the adventure and not just mystical tosh.

It’s a measure of Buchan’s confidence that the Great War is briefly explained as an wholly unexpected interlude offering adventure and excitement.  One cannot but help admire Buchan’s mastery of understatement here, as both central characters are clearly profoundly affected by their experiences at the front, most markedly in it being confirmed to them, on a grand scale, that when beastly things are in the offing, a British gentleman is justified in grabbing a pistol and the initiative and jolly well sorting things out, no matter where this might take him.

Then the book takes a most unexpected turn, the young man and his strange dream all but vanish from the narrative and we are introduced to a rare and exotic bird, a young and, naturally, beautiful woman who is far braver than any of the male characters.

Her somewhat shocking behaviour in London society is explained away by her growing up abroad and, page by page, we learn more about her background, and the terrible fate that awaits her.  She is determined to make amends for her father’s misdeeds at the family home on a remote Greek island.  The islanders however, think that this can best be achieved by torching said home, and her.

And so the book races towards its conclusion, but not before Buchan pulls off a masterstroke, changing narrative perspective at a crucial point but in such a way as to excite the reader rather than to frustrate.

This is a masterpiece.  Its depiction of London pre and post Great War is superb and Buchan’s depiction of the effect of the conflict on even the stoutest of English hearts is surprisingly compassionate in a tale of high adventure.  He is also gifted in describing the society of the time.

The Dancing Floor is a tale of high adventure, dazzlingly well written.  It is about destiny, self determination, family, friendship, conflict and Bad Blood.  It even manages to combine a dash of mysticism with what some might consider heroics, and what other will recognise as the British gentleman at his best, under pressure, with nothing but his wits and a firearm to save the day.

An astonishing tale of high adventure, astonishingly well written.

Anyway, you should read it.’

I bought my copy of ‘The Dancing Floor’ in the Brazen Head second-hand bookshop in Burnham Market, North Norfolk.  This book is the epitome of why it is simply wrong to own a Kindle.  It’s hardback, it’s got its dust jacket and it’s in fairly good condition.  I’d guess from the ‘reprinted’ history at the front that it’s the June 1938 edition.  Knowing this, it’s not too much of a stretch to think that somebody may have been reading this very book, a thrilling tale of high adventure that includes a passage on the characters adventures during World War One, whilst World War Two raged about them.

What really thrilled me though was when a bus ticket fell out of it as I read on and turned the page.  Then a few pages later, another appeared.  Two tickets, both dated July, one for 9:23, another 10:49.  A return trip…where?  To enlist?  Was some young man reading this book as he bumped to and from an appointment with destiny?

What could make this better?  Only one thing, the tickets have an advert for ‘Turners quality sausages’ and ‘Turners pork pies’ on the reverse!

Those tickets have remained there for what must be decades, and one can only speculate why.  I certainly hope that whoever originally owned the book finished it.

I do know this.  It cost me £4 and it is now the most precious volume in my possession.  The bus tickets still sit inside it, holding place.

You don’t get that with a Kindle.

And as we’re discussing war, the other thing you don’t get with a Kindle is stopping power for a bullet.  It might hold 20,000 books, but the only way a Kindle is every going to feature in a ‘I’d have been a goner if it hadn’t been for my hardback copy of ‘Reform School Girls’ I always carry in my breast pocket’ story is if they bring out the Kindle Kevlar.

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.

Helen Skelton, action (figure) hero

In the regular polls held to decide who is the greatest Briton, Winston Churchill wins so consistently that a better poll might be 'second greatest Briton'. However, maybe its time he started looking over his shoulder, because the man has competition.

Helen Skelton is a Blue Peter presenter ('Blue Peter' rather than 'children's television' presenter because 'children's television presenter' conjures an image of a twat with highlights and primary coloured dungarees being condescending to kiddies while thinking that while their HND in drama and applied mime from their local 'University', formally a poly, formally a junior school, got them this job, they should, according to the career plan they drew up aged nineteen that's currently stuffed at the back of their sock draw, be playing the lead in 'The Cherry Orchard' at the Old Vic, rather than pretending to be a cloud and getting paid less than the other presenter - a puppet. A Blue Peter presenter could, one feels, if required, easily give an update from the front line of a war zone, they have that sort of calm authority.) who has not only paddled the length of the Amazon in a kayak, but recently skied, kite-boarded and cycled her way to the South Pole.

The girl has, to put it plainly, gumption. On television she comes across as exactly the sort of no-nonsense northern lass that forms the backbone of many a community. If it was all going tits up at lambing time, she's the sort of person one could expect to keep heads cool and soapy water warm. She's also very, very attractive. During her Amazon adventure, she had to get an anti nausea shot in her bum. The resulting footage and strain of simultaneously processing a fear of needles and the sight of a pretty bottom gave many a dad a funny turn.

Certainly, if these achievements are not worthy of the accolade of greatest Briton (something that in this jubilee year may just go to the most famous corgi-botherer in the land) then surely it's deserving of that other most public form of recognition - the action figure.

Action figures are great. For somebody who grew up sending his action man on dangerous missions behind the sofa, the joy of an action figure is in playing with them. They is why I have never understood the practice of issuing pop star action figures or dolls. I mean, just how much fun could you have with a collection of figures only slightly more plastic than their real life counterparts? The only purpose they could serve, I imagine, is to do reconstructions of acrimonious break-ups and backstage spats.

If you are a pop star, and they suggest making an action figure of you, decline. One day, ten or twenty years from now, you will be sitting on a chat show sofa, plugging your memoir, pasta sauce range or release from rehab/prison and the host will reach behind him to pull out a six inch tall reproduction of you in your prime. This is unsettling for two reasons, the first is that it's bad for your confidence to compare the dynamic miniature you to the middle aged balding fatty you currently resident on the sofa, the second that it's unsettling to think that somewhere out there is somebody who has held on to an action figure of you, who is not your mum.

Then the host simulates sex between your doll and a plastic gorilla and you're back on the crack.

Helen Skelton is the exception. She would make an fantastic action figure. First of all, think of the outfits and the accessories! Helen in the Amazon, Helen in the Antarctic, Helen in space! And you could have the studio, complete with pets and cameras, you could recreate your own episode of Blue Peter. Who of us have not, at some time or another, dreamed of stepping into the stilettos of Biddy Baxter and manipulating the young minds of the nation - but for good!

Best of all, Blue Peter being the show it is, they would no doubt show you how to make your own playsets rather than shelling out for them in the shops.