Special edition
Oh, Ariel's as hopping mad as a kangaroo who's just found his joey in the billabong again. And rightly so since he's taking to task a reviewer for a web publication I like (and subscribe to) but who has written a somewhat nasty review of the limited edition of PS Publiaction's Ramsey Campbell collection. He also mentioned another publication moaning about these sorts of publiactions being rip-offs, heavily priced to screw gullible fans. Ariel protests but notes he is a little biased, being the webmaster for PS.
Well, my only connection it that as a bookseller I buy in PS books, all of which are limited edition, signed and numbered titles, all one offs (which is more than some big publishers do - they'll do more if it sells a lot). I've dealt with Peter who runs it for a while now and he's always struck me a decent bloke who is obviously very much into this because he cares about good quality fantastic fiction. There's no real money to be made in this, it's a love thing. The fact I've sold several of these very collectable books, all by good authors and with other famous authors doing often informative introductions, proves to my mind that most SF fans agree with me. There are some publishers - usually the big ones - who often make 'limited editions' which are frankly cheap, nasty and clearly cash-generating cows. Pete is the quality end of the market and if anyone doubts that then they should check out the list of excellent talent who are happy to write for him (and not for huge fees) - Adam Roberts, Ken MacLeod and piles of others.
If a reviewer didn't enjoy a book then they are entitled to say so of course, but not to pick on a small publisher of quality SF who produces excellent and unusual material. Surely all fans - and certainly reviewers who do their work free because they love books - should be promoting this sort of endeavour?
Friday, October 31, 2003
Everybody was Kung-fu fighting
As part of my rolling week-off movie fest I went to see Tarantino’s Kill Bill (volume 1 since he chopped it in two). Totally excellent flick, choc-full of all sorts of pop-culture, music and movie references, as you’d expect from Tarantino. Also, as you’d expect, a non-linear narrative that moves around chronologically - as he always does - shot in an extremely stylish manner (although the heavy stylism doesn’t get in the way of the story in the way Luc Besson or Tony Scott sometimes let it) with fantastic, almost cartoon-like characters.
In fact at one point the comic-book violence and characterisation is taken literally when we get origin tale for Lucy Lui’s character told in anime (which will please Alex no doubt). Although that did raise one niggling, nit-picking point for me - animated Lucy Lui quite clearly has blue eyes. Surely someone in the animation team should have noticed a mistake like that?
Again there are gallons of blood and violence - the blood literally fountains from severed heads and limbs during the Samurai fight sequences as the Bride (Uma Thurman) wields her Katanna to deadly effect. As with QT’s other films though the violence is, as I said cartoon-like and stylised and not just a simple blood-bath for the hell of it. It’s also fun! I’m certainly looking forward to the second instalment of Kill Bill with more gusto than I am the third Matrix movie next week. I’ll certainly be toddling along to see it and review it, but the second one, although not terrible was certainly below par. But as I said in my review of Reloaded, it’s hard to judge it because it comes with the baggage of expectation and hype, while the first film was a surprise virtual head-fuck. Of course you could say that of The Two Towers and yet it was magnificent. Well, we’ll see soon enough.
As part of my rolling week-off movie fest I went to see Tarantino’s Kill Bill (volume 1 since he chopped it in two). Totally excellent flick, choc-full of all sorts of pop-culture, music and movie references, as you’d expect from Tarantino. Also, as you’d expect, a non-linear narrative that moves around chronologically - as he always does - shot in an extremely stylish manner (although the heavy stylism doesn’t get in the way of the story in the way Luc Besson or Tony Scott sometimes let it) with fantastic, almost cartoon-like characters.
In fact at one point the comic-book violence and characterisation is taken literally when we get origin tale for Lucy Lui’s character told in anime (which will please Alex no doubt). Although that did raise one niggling, nit-picking point for me - animated Lucy Lui quite clearly has blue eyes. Surely someone in the animation team should have noticed a mistake like that?
Again there are gallons of blood and violence - the blood literally fountains from severed heads and limbs during the Samurai fight sequences as the Bride (Uma Thurman) wields her Katanna to deadly effect. As with QT’s other films though the violence is, as I said cartoon-like and stylised and not just a simple blood-bath for the hell of it. It’s also fun! I’m certainly looking forward to the second instalment of Kill Bill with more gusto than I am the third Matrix movie next week. I’ll certainly be toddling along to see it and review it, but the second one, although not terrible was certainly below par. But as I said in my review of Reloaded, it’s hard to judge it because it comes with the baggage of expectation and hype, while the first film was a surprise virtual head-fuck. Of course you could say that of The Two Towers and yet it was magnificent. Well, we’ll see soon enough.
Thursday, October 30, 2003
Bolloxed
My chum and ex-flatmate Brendan is starting his own business in print and design. I strolled along the road to his new premises about 5 minutes from my flat having failed to get him on his mobile. Knowing Brendan, a man who more than once left for work with his keys still dangling in the lock, I figured he probably left his phone somewhere and that's why he didn't answer. Oddly enough I bumped into him on the street, walking back to find his phone which he had left out on the fence near his new work palce. Lucily one of the builders fitting it out spotted it for him.
So, we look round the work in progress of what will hopefully be his new business by next week then bugger off to my local, the Caley Sample Room (owned by the world-renown Caleodnian Brewery, the world's finest) for a 'couple' of pints. Find out the beer is discounted until 5pm during the week. 2 pints. 4 pints. Some nachos and another set of pints and another. Brendan's girlfriend Amanda turns up on her way home from work to give him a lift. We have more beer and food. And chocolate cake. A grand total of 8 pints later and we're starting to think we should go home... Oh, the best drinking sessions are the ones that are totally unplanned and just grow organically from a 'couple' to a full-on session of heavy drinking and talking bollocks. A grand old Celtic tradition.
My chum and ex-flatmate Brendan is starting his own business in print and design. I strolled along the road to his new premises about 5 minutes from my flat having failed to get him on his mobile. Knowing Brendan, a man who more than once left for work with his keys still dangling in the lock, I figured he probably left his phone somewhere and that's why he didn't answer. Oddly enough I bumped into him on the street, walking back to find his phone which he had left out on the fence near his new work palce. Lucily one of the builders fitting it out spotted it for him.
So, we look round the work in progress of what will hopefully be his new business by next week then bugger off to my local, the Caley Sample Room (owned by the world-renown Caleodnian Brewery, the world's finest) for a 'couple' of pints. Find out the beer is discounted until 5pm during the week. 2 pints. 4 pints. Some nachos and another set of pints and another. Brendan's girlfriend Amanda turns up on her way home from work to give him a lift. We have more beer and food. And chocolate cake. A grand total of 8 pints later and we're starting to think we should go home... Oh, the best drinking sessions are the ones that are totally unplanned and just grow organically from a 'couple' to a full-on session of heavy drinking and talking bollocks. A grand old Celtic tradition.
NEW LEADER
Cult British comedian, the late Frank Howerd is to challenge for the leadership of the troubled Conservative Party. Despite the notable handicap of having been dead for several years it is still thought by most political pundits that Mr. Howerd has by far the best chance of success. Speaking through a medium, Frankie stated that he had been talked into running for the leadership after some Tory rebel MPs had persuaded him that it was a chance to be the star of the biggest comedy show in Britain. “How could I turn down the opportunity to slip into Maggie Thatcher’s trousers?” remarked Frankie via his psychic translator, before adding, “Oh, titter ye not.”
Mrs. Thatcher has already said she will keep out of the leadership contest but did remark that it was about time the party had someone with big eyebrows in the front ranks again, something the Tories have lacked since Bernard Ingham’s day. A friend of Frankie Howerd’s remarked that as one of his most successful roles had been as the Roman slave Lurkio in Up Pompeii Mister Howerd was well prepared for an arena of politics where friends suddenly plunged daggers into the back of their leader.
Cult British comedian, the late Frank Howerd is to challenge for the leadership of the troubled Conservative Party. Despite the notable handicap of having been dead for several years it is still thought by most political pundits that Mr. Howerd has by far the best chance of success. Speaking through a medium, Frankie stated that he had been talked into running for the leadership after some Tory rebel MPs had persuaded him that it was a chance to be the star of the biggest comedy show in Britain. “How could I turn down the opportunity to slip into Maggie Thatcher’s trousers?” remarked Frankie via his psychic translator, before adding, “Oh, titter ye not.”
Mrs. Thatcher has already said she will keep out of the leadership contest but did remark that it was about time the party had someone with big eyebrows in the front ranks again, something the Tories have lacked since Bernard Ingham’s day. A friend of Frankie Howerd’s remarked that as one of his most successful roles had been as the Roman slave Lurkio in Up Pompeii Mister Howerd was well prepared for an arena of politics where friends suddenly plunged daggers into the back of their leader.
Thin ice
A report in the news today has raised alarm over the shrinking habitat of polar bears. These ferocious but cuddly carnivores rely on thick, floating ice to allow them access to sea-going seals. Scientists have discovered that between global warming thinning the ice significantly and the amount of Arctic territory the bears have lost to opportunistic adventurers like Ranulph Fiennes and other publicity stunt maniacs the bears are now facing a crisis. The WWF (the conservationists, not the wrestlers) have proposed housing some of the bears temporarily in Scottish council houses as these are often cold and draughty enough to allow the formation of large volumes of pack ice, although this depends on the bears being able to switch from hunting seals to hunting the elderly and Neds.
A report in the news today has raised alarm over the shrinking habitat of polar bears. These ferocious but cuddly carnivores rely on thick, floating ice to allow them access to sea-going seals. Scientists have discovered that between global warming thinning the ice significantly and the amount of Arctic territory the bears have lost to opportunistic adventurers like Ranulph Fiennes and other publicity stunt maniacs the bears are now facing a crisis. The WWF (the conservationists, not the wrestlers) have proposed housing some of the bears temporarily in Scottish council houses as these are often cold and draughty enough to allow the formation of large volumes of pack ice, although this depends on the bears being able to switch from hunting seals to hunting the elderly and Neds.
Wednesday, October 29, 2003
New blog
Hurrah - one of my friends in Southern California (luckily not too close to the fires, but closer than I'd like, but she's hot stuff and can handle it) has joined the blogging community, writing under the name of Lili 'because she wants to' (and why not?). Is it a secret tribute to Lili von Schtuck, the Teutonic Titwillow from the classic Blazing Saddles? Who knows?
Hurrah - one of my friends in Southern California (luckily not too close to the fires, but closer than I'd like, but she's hot stuff and can handle it) has joined the blogging community, writing under the name of Lili 'because she wants to' (and why not?). Is it a secret tribute to Lili von Schtuck, the Teutonic Titwillow from the classic Blazing Saddles? Who knows?
I swear it's SF
Inspired by an article in the new SFX - and believe me that doesn't happen too often - on favourite SF swear words I decide to try and see what came up on Google when I put some in.
Drem (from Farscape), as in that's a load of drem. I knew this one already since it is near where I live - it's a village in East Lothian near Edinburgh. Main business is inbreeding and shooting the drem in the local pub.
Drokk - a favourite of Britain's top comics character, Judge Dredd, as in Holy Drokk! Came up on a site on the Egyptian Book of the Dead because the mail address is Drokk@ for some reason. Also a fabulous site called Drokk.com which you just have to look at! PLus, for some odd reason, a site on electronic music. Plus obviously a lot of site on Dredd.
Smeg, from Red Dwarf. See also smegger. Can be used in various ways - oh smeg, smeg off, eat smeg or just plain old smeg. Also Italy's leading manufacturer of kitchen appliances. One day I aspire to own one - not because they are any better than other, cheaper fridges, I just want a fridge that says 'smeg' on it.
Feldercarb, from the original BAttlestar Galactica (will it be in the new version?). For the first time ever I didn't find a single hit on Google with this search.
Frell - another Farscape one and like smeg very versatile. Only notable link was this one, but it is actually a good one as it is the Urban Dictionary and actually lists words from fantasy such as frell. Handy
Inspired by an article in the new SFX - and believe me that doesn't happen too often - on favourite SF swear words I decide to try and see what came up on Google when I put some in.
Drem (from Farscape), as in that's a load of drem. I knew this one already since it is near where I live - it's a village in East Lothian near Edinburgh. Main business is inbreeding and shooting the drem in the local pub.
Drokk - a favourite of Britain's top comics character, Judge Dredd, as in Holy Drokk! Came up on a site on the Egyptian Book of the Dead because the mail address is Drokk@ for some reason. Also a fabulous site called Drokk.com which you just have to look at! PLus, for some odd reason, a site on electronic music. Plus obviously a lot of site on Dredd.
Smeg, from Red Dwarf. See also smegger. Can be used in various ways - oh smeg, smeg off, eat smeg or just plain old smeg. Also Italy's leading manufacturer of kitchen appliances. One day I aspire to own one - not because they are any better than other, cheaper fridges, I just want a fridge that says 'smeg' on it.
Feldercarb, from the original BAttlestar Galactica (will it be in the new version?). For the first time ever I didn't find a single hit on Google with this search.
Frell - another Farscape one and like smeg very versatile. Only notable link was this one, but it is actually a good one as it is the Urban Dictionary and actually lists words from fantasy such as frell. Handy
Halloween fantasies
I had an interesting dream last night, which given the season of the Witch I thought I’d share with you. It’s a dark, dank castle. Cobwebs everywhere, gloomy portraits with eyes which follow you, suits of armour that you’d swear moved occasionally - all the finest Haunted Castle clichés.
And as I walk through this cold, stone-lined building I see a light under one oaken door. Opening it I step into a huge hall. There in front of a roaring fire is home style guru Linda Barker, naked and bent over one of the bloody sofas she keeps trying to hock to us in drokking adverts right now while a huge, brick-red demon with a penis like a chainsaw is mercilessly sodomising her over her own sofa (with interest free credit). On the rug nearby is Lawrence Llewellyn-Bowen, also naked. His torso has been ripped open by the scissors Linda Barker uses in her other adverts - always cutting prices, snip, snip - and another demon is emptying his torso out and using his organs and his intestines for some rather original interior decoration and happily ignoring his cries of pain and protests that his liver colour clashes with the drapes.
You think there is some truth in the idea that our dreams often are an outlet for our daytime annoyances?
Coming soon, the new Big Brother which is set in a Nazi SS Experiment Camp… Vote for which inmate gets subjected to a wacky experiment by a mad Nazi scientist each week.
Oh, I love my dreams…If this is being sick I don't want to be cured. Just keep me away from sharp objects.
I had an interesting dream last night, which given the season of the Witch I thought I’d share with you. It’s a dark, dank castle. Cobwebs everywhere, gloomy portraits with eyes which follow you, suits of armour that you’d swear moved occasionally - all the finest Haunted Castle clichés.
And as I walk through this cold, stone-lined building I see a light under one oaken door. Opening it I step into a huge hall. There in front of a roaring fire is home style guru Linda Barker, naked and bent over one of the bloody sofas she keeps trying to hock to us in drokking adverts right now while a huge, brick-red demon with a penis like a chainsaw is mercilessly sodomising her over her own sofa (with interest free credit). On the rug nearby is Lawrence Llewellyn-Bowen, also naked. His torso has been ripped open by the scissors Linda Barker uses in her other adverts - always cutting prices, snip, snip - and another demon is emptying his torso out and using his organs and his intestines for some rather original interior decoration and happily ignoring his cries of pain and protests that his liver colour clashes with the drapes.
You think there is some truth in the idea that our dreams often are an outlet for our daytime annoyances?
Coming soon, the new Big Brother which is set in a Nazi SS Experiment Camp… Vote for which inmate gets subjected to a wacky experiment by a mad Nazi scientist each week.
Oh, I love my dreams…If this is being sick I don't want to be cured. Just keep me away from sharp objects.
Book club
A very nice lady called Angela at the Central Library in Edinburgh has kindly added the details of the SF book reading group Alex and I are now running at the bookstore.
A very nice lady called Angela at the Central Library in Edinburgh has kindly added the details of the SF book reading group Alex and I are now running at the bookstore.
Cabin fever
What with helping set up a new bookstore and all that jazz I haven’t been to as many movies as usual recently. Well, I’m making up for it on this week off. Finally got round to catching Cabin Fever this afternoon. A horror movie from a first time director which, unusually for most modern horror films, is actually - gasp! -horrifying. Nothing like watching murderous hicks, sexed-up teens and the fleash falling off of them as the necrotising bacteria goes to work to cheer you up on a day off.
It takes a pretty cliched set-up - bunch of attractive college kids go for a break in the rural backwater full of rednecks and inbred freaks and something nasty in the dark woods - and delivers a scary film that managed to disturb even this old gorehound occasionally. It also featured some nods to classic horror movies of yesteryear. Most obviously it references Sam Raimi’s original The Evil Dead, what with the remote shack in the woods with something nasty lurking nearby. There are also little references to Friday 13th and Camp Crystal Lake, Deliverance, Southern Comfort, 28 Days, Romero’s zombie flicks and a whole score more, including a rather neat twist towards the end on the redneck stereotypes. Most enjoyable horror I’ve seen for a while and it has me in just the right mood to go and see the re-release of the cleaned-up and restored print of the original Alien movie this weekend.
Ridley has always been a favourite director of mine - although he’s not been so hot in the last decade - and I’ve always thought this was a classic piece of horror-SF. It’s basically a variation on the Old Dark House tale set in the equally confined setting of a commercial starship. Comrade Ken obviously enjoyed it judging by his recent blog, although I did have to point out to him that the Nostromo in Alien was not the first movie to show a starship as a run-down place of work - John Carpenter’s student flick, the fabulously 70s Dark Star, had an even more downbeat ship several years before (you have to love a film when the captain records in the ship’s log that a section self-destructed last week and destroyed the ship’s entire supply of toilet paper).
What with helping set up a new bookstore and all that jazz I haven’t been to as many movies as usual recently. Well, I’m making up for it on this week off. Finally got round to catching Cabin Fever this afternoon. A horror movie from a first time director which, unusually for most modern horror films, is actually - gasp! -horrifying. Nothing like watching murderous hicks, sexed-up teens and the fleash falling off of them as the necrotising bacteria goes to work to cheer you up on a day off.
It takes a pretty cliched set-up - bunch of attractive college kids go for a break in the rural backwater full of rednecks and inbred freaks and something nasty in the dark woods - and delivers a scary film that managed to disturb even this old gorehound occasionally. It also featured some nods to classic horror movies of yesteryear. Most obviously it references Sam Raimi’s original The Evil Dead, what with the remote shack in the woods with something nasty lurking nearby. There are also little references to Friday 13th and Camp Crystal Lake, Deliverance, Southern Comfort, 28 Days, Romero’s zombie flicks and a whole score more, including a rather neat twist towards the end on the redneck stereotypes. Most enjoyable horror I’ve seen for a while and it has me in just the right mood to go and see the re-release of the cleaned-up and restored print of the original Alien movie this weekend.
Ridley has always been a favourite director of mine - although he’s not been so hot in the last decade - and I’ve always thought this was a classic piece of horror-SF. It’s basically a variation on the Old Dark House tale set in the equally confined setting of a commercial starship. Comrade Ken obviously enjoyed it judging by his recent blog, although I did have to point out to him that the Nostromo in Alien was not the first movie to show a starship as a run-down place of work - John Carpenter’s student flick, the fabulously 70s Dark Star, had an even more downbeat ship several years before (you have to love a film when the captain records in the ship’s log that a section self-destructed last week and destroyed the ship’s entire supply of toilet paper).
Tuesday, October 28, 2003
Free booze
Attended the launch of Tom Devine's Scotland's Empire last night, hosted by his publisher Penguin at the National Museum of Scotland with some chums from work. Excellent surroundings - Victorian glass and steel, wide open with galleries, very classy but gives the unnervng effect when you look directly up that you are in a giant aviary - and plenty of free champagne to guzzle for a couple of hours. Devine's previous history, The Scottish Nation, actually knocked Harry Potter off the top seller spot for a few weeks in Scotland when it came out in PB. Devine dissects Scottish identity and character and, like a number of leading Scots historians, is very strong on social history and not just the usual kings, queens and generals that dominate too many other histories. Always good to see a good book making big waves and hopefully it will sell as well as it's predecessor. Now we just need to secure some more invites to Iain Banks' whisky book launch :-)
IDS? FUK more like
Amongst the hilarity of the sitcom that is the stab-in-the-back-in-the-dark shennanigans within the Conservative party is one thing that has been bugging me for weeks now. When the frag did Ian Duncan Smith suddenly becomes IDS? One day he is the lamest, dullest wee man then suddenly he is not only rebranded with a cooler sounding moniker but the media seem to have colluded in this makeover.
And now I come to think of it, doesn't 'IDS' sounds awfully like the anacronym for an STD? Oh no, he caught a case of IDS by having unprotected politicla intercourse. Symptoms include loss of hair, compelte personality wipe, a charisma bypass and social exclusion.
Attended the launch of Tom Devine's Scotland's Empire last night, hosted by his publisher Penguin at the National Museum of Scotland with some chums from work. Excellent surroundings - Victorian glass and steel, wide open with galleries, very classy but gives the unnervng effect when you look directly up that you are in a giant aviary - and plenty of free champagne to guzzle for a couple of hours. Devine's previous history, The Scottish Nation, actually knocked Harry Potter off the top seller spot for a few weeks in Scotland when it came out in PB. Devine dissects Scottish identity and character and, like a number of leading Scots historians, is very strong on social history and not just the usual kings, queens and generals that dominate too many other histories. Always good to see a good book making big waves and hopefully it will sell as well as it's predecessor. Now we just need to secure some more invites to Iain Banks' whisky book launch :-)
IDS? FUK more like
Amongst the hilarity of the sitcom that is the stab-in-the-back-in-the-dark shennanigans within the Conservative party is one thing that has been bugging me for weeks now. When the frag did Ian Duncan Smith suddenly becomes IDS? One day he is the lamest, dullest wee man then suddenly he is not only rebranded with a cooler sounding moniker but the media seem to have colluded in this makeover.
And now I come to think of it, doesn't 'IDS' sounds awfully like the anacronym for an STD? Oh no, he caught a case of IDS by having unprotected politicla intercourse. Symptoms include loss of hair, compelte personality wipe, a charisma bypass and social exclusion.
Fraudsters
Haven't been onlinine a few days - come on and downlaod a pile of emails including not one but two attempted frauds, pretending to be form my bank and asking me to verify my password and logon etc by emailing it to them. Now obviously the bank would never ask me for this and certainly not via an unsecured email, but some poor trusting sod will respond to it without thinking (unlike cynical and web-wise buggers like me).
The fraud was made all the more transparent because it has been reported already in the press. In fact when I contacted the Halifax they had a message covering exactly this and telling you where to send the information to help them track the bastards down, which I did. Barlcays were not geared up as well as Halifax, so I had to fill in one of their annoying forms then type my text into one of those annoying wee boxes - the equivelant of the automated phone services you get from them I suppose. Anyway I passed them on - they were obviously just some bunch of really lame crooks as a hacker would just try to burn into the bank's central system for this sort of info.
And a message to fraudsters - these things, like people pretending to be gas meter readers before robbing you, only work on very stupid people, like the elderly and you are low down scum for even trying it. And your second lesson is sending me a message from a bank I don't have an coount with is a bit of a giveaway (being Scottish I don't bank with the like sof Barclays who hardly exist up here). And thirdly and msot painfully obvious - when you have found someone's email from whatever source and try to auto-spam them with this crooked message you should refrain from sending two absolutely identical messages (word for word) from two different banks to the same email account. Kind of looks suspicious to even a trusting fool. Shagwits.
Haven't been onlinine a few days - come on and downlaod a pile of emails including not one but two attempted frauds, pretending to be form my bank and asking me to verify my password and logon etc by emailing it to them. Now obviously the bank would never ask me for this and certainly not via an unsecured email, but some poor trusting sod will respond to it without thinking (unlike cynical and web-wise buggers like me).
The fraud was made all the more transparent because it has been reported already in the press. In fact when I contacted the Halifax they had a message covering exactly this and telling you where to send the information to help them track the bastards down, which I did. Barlcays were not geared up as well as Halifax, so I had to fill in one of their annoying forms then type my text into one of those annoying wee boxes - the equivelant of the automated phone services you get from them I suppose. Anyway I passed them on - they were obviously just some bunch of really lame crooks as a hacker would just try to burn into the bank's central system for this sort of info.
And a message to fraudsters - these things, like people pretending to be gas meter readers before robbing you, only work on very stupid people, like the elderly and you are low down scum for even trying it. And your second lesson is sending me a message from a bank I don't have an coount with is a bit of a giveaway (being Scottish I don't bank with the like sof Barclays who hardly exist up here). And thirdly and msot painfully obvious - when you have found someone's email from whatever source and try to auto-spam them with this crooked message you should refrain from sending two absolutely identical messages (word for word) from two different banks to the same email account. Kind of looks suspicious to even a trusting fool. Shagwits.
Saturday, October 25, 2003
Virtual babes
A good article on the BBC-I science pages on a new exhibition on virtual women. No, not cross-dressing men, you silly, twisted little boy - virtual women; digital babes. Lara, Annanova etc. Intersting how many virtual models have the same unreal body shape and proportions of comic book heroines such as Wonder Woman. Gee, you'd never guess a lot of these were designed by lonely guys, would you? But then, anyone who has looked at the tautly muscled, bare-chested, square-jawed hero holding the swooning lady on the cover of women's romance novels knows that women are just as guilty of this virtual idealising of a gedner's body shape as men. We're probably just more up-front about it.
So when will the android wives be reliable and affordable? And doesn't this example look a lot like Angelina Jolie? A woman famous for playing the flesh and blood version (albeit in almost comic form) of a woman who was a digital babe originally, now modelled for digital beauty. How post-modern.
A good article on the BBC-I science pages on a new exhibition on virtual women. No, not cross-dressing men, you silly, twisted little boy - virtual women; digital babes. Lara, Annanova etc. Intersting how many virtual models have the same unreal body shape and proportions of comic book heroines such as Wonder Woman. Gee, you'd never guess a lot of these were designed by lonely guys, would you? But then, anyone who has looked at the tautly muscled, bare-chested, square-jawed hero holding the swooning lady on the cover of women's romance novels knows that women are just as guilty of this virtual idealising of a gedner's body shape as men. We're probably just more up-front about it.
So when will the android wives be reliable and affordable? And doesn't this example look a lot like Angelina Jolie? A woman famous for playing the flesh and blood version (albeit in almost comic form) of a woman who was a digital babe originally, now modelled for digital beauty. How post-modern.
Faster than a speeding bullet
And so a little piece of the future ended on Friday as the last three Concordes - one flying down from here in Edinburgh - came in to land in Heathrow. Design work starting in the 1960s and carrying passengers by the 1970s (just in time for the oil crisis to throttle the programme’s success, amongst other factors). Four decades later and she still looks like the most futuristic aircraft on the planet. And before anyone thinks I’m being sexist, there is no argument here - Concordes, like the great ships, are always ‘she’. Way back in the old dawn-days of the internet - early 90s, before the graphic-based Web) - a gender issues chat room I subscribed to debated calling ships and planes ‘she’. Some feminist academics were outraged and thought this was yet another piece of proof that all men were pigs who objectified women. I tried to explain that it is a tradition stretching back to antiquity where new ships once had maidens sacrificed as an offering to the gods to bless the ship. Later it would be a ewe, leading to the tendency to name a ship ‘she’. The argument raged for a few days until some subscribers who were women who were also serving officers in the US Navy said they thought of their ships as a she and they were proud of them, so they academics could just shut the hell up.
I digress, as I usually do. Forty years and there is nothing even in development that comes close to Concorde. In true British fashion we - along with the French (and isn’t it amazing we built this great accomplishment with a nation we fought with for centuries beforehand?) - we created something amazing and ground-breaking. Then let it all trickle away. We spent billions to develop this leading edge technology. She should have been the first generation, with other, newer, bigger, faster craft to follow, building on all of that effort and investment. Instead of which we pissed it all away on the orders of bloody accountants. I know there are pressing matters we need to spend our money on, but we also need, as a nation and as individuals, to dream on a bigger scale. Now the people who built her are retired or dead and anyone who wants to build a new supersonic craft will have to do without all of that expensively-acquired expertise. There is simply nothing else like her. The best fighter jets can only sprint a short distance at mach 2 while Concorde effortlessly cruises for hours at this speed - and even faster.
Her Rolls Royce Olympus engines are still the most efficient jet engines in the world, as one proud engineer pointed out. The materials and shapes that sculpt her are astounding - Concorde flexes as she goes through huge temperature variations from the high altitude - 60,000 ft, the edge of space - and her enormous velocity, to say nothing of the stress of moving through air turbulence at 1,350 MPH.
Like Concorde I was born of the Space Age when the future was so bright we had to wear shades. Doctor Who on the TV, Carl Sagan talking us through images from the Viking landers on Mars and taking us through the Cosmos, the first test-tube baby. By the colder 80s the Information Age was replacing the dying embers of the dream of the Space Age. Cost-effective was the mantra. No place for dreams. The boy who watched Cosmos in his astronaut playsuit grew up and realised with a sinking heart he would probably never ever grow up to be an astronaut, or even have holidays on the moon. But still there was Concorde. I still have an early 2000 AD annual with a feature on her sandwiched between Dan Dare and Judge Dredd strips. “Is this the closest you’ll come to space travel?” was the headline. That stuck with me. If day-trips to space that we were promised in the 60s and 70s never happened then there would still be Concorde. Making the comic book dream come true - flying faster than a speeding bullet. Arcing across the Atlantic at a height so great the curve of the Earth was visible, the clouds thousands of feet below you, the stars visible through the clear canopy above you as you grazed the edge of space. The X series of rocket craft that many 50s astronauts earned their wings in had to struggle to get to these heights only 20 years before - now people were drinking champagne and relaxing on a comfortable flight.
But I never got to fly in her and now I never will. Another little piece of the once-so-bright future disappears into the cold, uncaring embrace of crushing reality and takes with it one of my lifelong dreams, unfulfilled. A gleaming symbol of technological modernity in the cynical post-modern age. But it’s not a time to be bitter or regretful. Instead we should simply marvel at this astonishing machine. Why did so many thousands turn out to see her yesterday? Because we are proud of her. The Russian spent billions on their attempts but their version was badly flawed. American companies like Boeing and McDonnell Douglas spent millions on research but never got further than the drawing board. They never built her. They tried and couldn’t build her. We did. With 1960s technology we took on the biggest aero spatial innovation and development after the Apollo programme and we made it work. And we made her beautiful, shaped by the forces of nature to an elegant swan-shape embodying power with grace. This year marks 100 years since Orville and Wilbur first took to the air - could they have dreamed that a mere 6 decades after that 12 second flight that people would fly in this manner? A century of powered flight, both a sad and somehow appropriate point for Concorde to take her final bow. We should be proud of what our classic-age boffins built. We should also wonder why we have allowed our dreams to become so small.
There is a chapter on Concorde in the excellent The Back Room Boys - the Secret Return of the British Boffin, which is due to be published in November - expect a review in the next few weeks on the Alien.
And so a little piece of the future ended on Friday as the last three Concordes - one flying down from here in Edinburgh - came in to land in Heathrow. Design work starting in the 1960s and carrying passengers by the 1970s (just in time for the oil crisis to throttle the programme’s success, amongst other factors). Four decades later and she still looks like the most futuristic aircraft on the planet. And before anyone thinks I’m being sexist, there is no argument here - Concordes, like the great ships, are always ‘she’. Way back in the old dawn-days of the internet - early 90s, before the graphic-based Web) - a gender issues chat room I subscribed to debated calling ships and planes ‘she’. Some feminist academics were outraged and thought this was yet another piece of proof that all men were pigs who objectified women. I tried to explain that it is a tradition stretching back to antiquity where new ships once had maidens sacrificed as an offering to the gods to bless the ship. Later it would be a ewe, leading to the tendency to name a ship ‘she’. The argument raged for a few days until some subscribers who were women who were also serving officers in the US Navy said they thought of their ships as a she and they were proud of them, so they academics could just shut the hell up.
I digress, as I usually do. Forty years and there is nothing even in development that comes close to Concorde. In true British fashion we - along with the French (and isn’t it amazing we built this great accomplishment with a nation we fought with for centuries beforehand?) - we created something amazing and ground-breaking. Then let it all trickle away. We spent billions to develop this leading edge technology. She should have been the first generation, with other, newer, bigger, faster craft to follow, building on all of that effort and investment. Instead of which we pissed it all away on the orders of bloody accountants. I know there are pressing matters we need to spend our money on, but we also need, as a nation and as individuals, to dream on a bigger scale. Now the people who built her are retired or dead and anyone who wants to build a new supersonic craft will have to do without all of that expensively-acquired expertise. There is simply nothing else like her. The best fighter jets can only sprint a short distance at mach 2 while Concorde effortlessly cruises for hours at this speed - and even faster.
Her Rolls Royce Olympus engines are still the most efficient jet engines in the world, as one proud engineer pointed out. The materials and shapes that sculpt her are astounding - Concorde flexes as she goes through huge temperature variations from the high altitude - 60,000 ft, the edge of space - and her enormous velocity, to say nothing of the stress of moving through air turbulence at 1,350 MPH.
Like Concorde I was born of the Space Age when the future was so bright we had to wear shades. Doctor Who on the TV, Carl Sagan talking us through images from the Viking landers on Mars and taking us through the Cosmos, the first test-tube baby. By the colder 80s the Information Age was replacing the dying embers of the dream of the Space Age. Cost-effective was the mantra. No place for dreams. The boy who watched Cosmos in his astronaut playsuit grew up and realised with a sinking heart he would probably never ever grow up to be an astronaut, or even have holidays on the moon. But still there was Concorde. I still have an early 2000 AD annual with a feature on her sandwiched between Dan Dare and Judge Dredd strips. “Is this the closest you’ll come to space travel?” was the headline. That stuck with me. If day-trips to space that we were promised in the 60s and 70s never happened then there would still be Concorde. Making the comic book dream come true - flying faster than a speeding bullet. Arcing across the Atlantic at a height so great the curve of the Earth was visible, the clouds thousands of feet below you, the stars visible through the clear canopy above you as you grazed the edge of space. The X series of rocket craft that many 50s astronauts earned their wings in had to struggle to get to these heights only 20 years before - now people were drinking champagne and relaxing on a comfortable flight.
But I never got to fly in her and now I never will. Another little piece of the once-so-bright future disappears into the cold, uncaring embrace of crushing reality and takes with it one of my lifelong dreams, unfulfilled. A gleaming symbol of technological modernity in the cynical post-modern age. But it’s not a time to be bitter or regretful. Instead we should simply marvel at this astonishing machine. Why did so many thousands turn out to see her yesterday? Because we are proud of her. The Russian spent billions on their attempts but their version was badly flawed. American companies like Boeing and McDonnell Douglas spent millions on research but never got further than the drawing board. They never built her. They tried and couldn’t build her. We did. With 1960s technology we took on the biggest aero spatial innovation and development after the Apollo programme and we made it work. And we made her beautiful, shaped by the forces of nature to an elegant swan-shape embodying power with grace. This year marks 100 years since Orville and Wilbur first took to the air - could they have dreamed that a mere 6 decades after that 12 second flight that people would fly in this manner? A century of powered flight, both a sad and somehow appropriate point for Concorde to take her final bow. We should be proud of what our classic-age boffins built. We should also wonder why we have allowed our dreams to become so small.
There is a chapter on Concorde in the excellent The Back Room Boys - the Secret Return of the British Boffin, which is due to be published in November - expect a review in the next few weeks on the Alien.
Tuesday, October 21, 2003
My Band Wagon
I'd just like to drive Ariel made by announcing that I am, in fact, the new J K Rowling. Yes, it's official, kids, writing under my pen name of Alouisius Pengiun I will soon be bringing out my new children's fantasy series from Facsimile & Fukkwhit publishers entitled The Enchanted Gravy Train. This is no mere media hype however, I am the new J K Rowling. To prove it you can read my book and see how I made my kid's fantasy by chopping and taking parts from loads of other, better fantasies and stitching them together without a single original idea of my own. To further prove it I will take all the money I make from forcing poor, exploited booksellers to work at midnight serving screaming rugrats and drunken students selling my new books and buy a huge Scottish estate then moan about how hard it is to come up with a new book under all that pressure of being successful and refuse to do proper book tours to piss of my young fans. You, see - the evidence is solid - I am the new J K, at least until next week's new one...
Or, to put the point another way - stop trying to create new J K Rowling's by media hype you sad newspaper twats and just read some good fucking books and tell you readers about them. Or better still, unplug your fetid little brains and tell your readers to come to the Alien Online and we'll give them more good book recommends than they can handle.
I'd just like to drive Ariel made by announcing that I am, in fact, the new J K Rowling. Yes, it's official, kids, writing under my pen name of Alouisius Pengiun I will soon be bringing out my new children's fantasy series from Facsimile & Fukkwhit publishers entitled The Enchanted Gravy Train. This is no mere media hype however, I am the new J K Rowling. To prove it you can read my book and see how I made my kid's fantasy by chopping and taking parts from loads of other, better fantasies and stitching them together without a single original idea of my own. To further prove it I will take all the money I make from forcing poor, exploited booksellers to work at midnight serving screaming rugrats and drunken students selling my new books and buy a huge Scottish estate then moan about how hard it is to come up with a new book under all that pressure of being successful and refuse to do proper book tours to piss of my young fans. You, see - the evidence is solid - I am the new J K, at least until next week's new one...
Or, to put the point another way - stop trying to create new J K Rowling's by media hype you sad newspaper twats and just read some good fucking books and tell you readers about them. Or better still, unplug your fetid little brains and tell your readers to come to the Alien Online and we'll give them more good book recommends than they can handle.
I come back to you now at the turning of the tide
No, not Gandalf in the Two Towers but me returning to my own bookstore after a month on secondment helping to organise and set up a new Waterstone's bookshop. As I finished that post last week I had the most odd feeling inside. What was this? Oh, I know now - job satisfaction. And also being appreciated for doing it bloody well. Long, long time since I felt those feelings in Waterstone's. But now I'm back to my own poor, run-down, long-overdue-for-refit branch with far too few staff for the jobs required, extremely busy customer base and huge goods-in backlog with the poor staff fretting through the nasty day. Oh the joy. And a return to dealing with customers once more. Stupid middle-aged woman haranguing me because we don't have sofas to sit on in our store. Trying to explain that the store was built long before the current lifestyle of bookstore shopping doesn't bother her. It is my personal fault obviously. Older people take moaning to folk who work with the public to a fine art. Yeah, go on you old bastards, moan and piss off the poorest paid people in the fucking country. You really think we care what you say? Maybe a good cold winter will thin out these old fuckers a little. heh heh. So perish all who deserve my wrath. Oh those little revenge fantasies to help make it through the day... Gonna need more of them before the Xmas season is over.
No, not Gandalf in the Two Towers but me returning to my own bookstore after a month on secondment helping to organise and set up a new Waterstone's bookshop. As I finished that post last week I had the most odd feeling inside. What was this? Oh, I know now - job satisfaction. And also being appreciated for doing it bloody well. Long, long time since I felt those feelings in Waterstone's. But now I'm back to my own poor, run-down, long-overdue-for-refit branch with far too few staff for the jobs required, extremely busy customer base and huge goods-in backlog with the poor staff fretting through the nasty day. Oh the joy. And a return to dealing with customers once more. Stupid middle-aged woman haranguing me because we don't have sofas to sit on in our store. Trying to explain that the store was built long before the current lifestyle of bookstore shopping doesn't bother her. It is my personal fault obviously. Older people take moaning to folk who work with the public to a fine art. Yeah, go on you old bastards, moan and piss off the poorest paid people in the fucking country. You really think we care what you say? Maybe a good cold winter will thin out these old fuckers a little. heh heh. So perish all who deserve my wrath. Oh those little revenge fantasies to help make it through the day... Gonna need more of them before the Xmas season is over.
My new book
I would like to announce to readers of the Woolamaloo Gazette that I am releasing the letters John F. Kennedy gave to me when I built my own Tardis and went back in time to 1962. In those astounding letters Jack Kennedy told me how he feared he would be killed in an apparent accident in his car. Eleven months later he was apparently shot by Lee Harvey Oswald as his car drove through Dealey Plaza in Texas. The fact that I am only releasing these historic letters now has, of course, nothing to do with the fact that I am about to go on a publicity tour for my new book, John F Kennedy - Was There a Conspiracy? I’m sure you’ll agree this may re-write history and will want to read the extracts exclusively in the Daily Masturbator starting tomorrow. Back and to the left. Back and to the left…. Sorry, got stuck there for a moment…
Damned good
Top new show tip from yer Uncle Joe is Dead Like Me on Fridays on Sky. Girl trying to figure out what the hell to do with life and why it sucks is killed by a supersonic toilet seat falling from the Mir station. Wakes up dead and finds she's been recruited as a Reaper, someone who has to mark then pull the soul of someone about to die. Pretty funny in an often sick manner (oh, one of my favourite types of humour) and even the scenes which could be schmaltzy, such as when she is told her assignment is to take the soul of a young kid and she tries to cheat fate are actually handled well. Think some sugary Mid-West-pleasing crap like Highway to Heaven but scripted by the David Lynch and some of the writers from the X-Files. A show about the afterlife where our heroine is killed by a space age loo seat in the first episode and then gets her assignments to pick up souls on Post-It notes in a Waffle House has to be interesting.
I would like to announce to readers of the Woolamaloo Gazette that I am releasing the letters John F. Kennedy gave to me when I built my own Tardis and went back in time to 1962. In those astounding letters Jack Kennedy told me how he feared he would be killed in an apparent accident in his car. Eleven months later he was apparently shot by Lee Harvey Oswald as his car drove through Dealey Plaza in Texas. The fact that I am only releasing these historic letters now has, of course, nothing to do with the fact that I am about to go on a publicity tour for my new book, John F Kennedy - Was There a Conspiracy? I’m sure you’ll agree this may re-write history and will want to read the extracts exclusively in the Daily Masturbator starting tomorrow. Back and to the left. Back and to the left…. Sorry, got stuck there for a moment…
Damned good
Top new show tip from yer Uncle Joe is Dead Like Me on Fridays on Sky. Girl trying to figure out what the hell to do with life and why it sucks is killed by a supersonic toilet seat falling from the Mir station. Wakes up dead and finds she's been recruited as a Reaper, someone who has to mark then pull the soul of someone about to die. Pretty funny in an often sick manner (oh, one of my favourite types of humour) and even the scenes which could be schmaltzy, such as when she is told her assignment is to take the soul of a young kid and she tries to cheat fate are actually handled well. Think some sugary Mid-West-pleasing crap like Highway to Heaven but scripted by the David Lynch and some of the writers from the X-Files. A show about the afterlife where our heroine is killed by a space age loo seat in the first episode and then gets her assignments to pick up souls on Post-It notes in a Waffle House has to be interesting.
Monday, October 20, 2003
NEW ISRAELI ATTACK ANGERS DELI MANAGER
Dateline, the Middle East. Today jets of the Israeli airforce launched a missile attack on Abdul’s Bakery & Delicatessen in the Occupied Territories. Israeli intelligence had marked the small and popular local business as a stronghold of the Islamic terror group/freedom fighters (delete as belief indicates) Hammas. Unfortunately it turned out the intelligence was based on a poor translation from Arabic to Hebrew and actually Mr. Abdul’s shop was actually well known for the quality and quantity of his extremely fine hummus. Luckily Mr. Abdul was closed for mid-day prayers and no-one was injured, the American-made F-15s destroying only some unfortunate chickpeas and garlic and an Israeli tank driver who was left with egg on his face after one of the shop’s omelette’s exploded in the attack.
In a related story Devonshire Constabulary raided the premises of a well-known Cornish pasty maker which was thought by anti-terrorist officers to be a hotbed of organisation for Fundamentalist Cornishmen.
If only the real world were this ridiculous but harmless and silly, instead of being this ridiculous but bloody and awful.
Dateline, the Middle East. Today jets of the Israeli airforce launched a missile attack on Abdul’s Bakery & Delicatessen in the Occupied Territories. Israeli intelligence had marked the small and popular local business as a stronghold of the Islamic terror group/freedom fighters (delete as belief indicates) Hammas. Unfortunately it turned out the intelligence was based on a poor translation from Arabic to Hebrew and actually Mr. Abdul’s shop was actually well known for the quality and quantity of his extremely fine hummus. Luckily Mr. Abdul was closed for mid-day prayers and no-one was injured, the American-made F-15s destroying only some unfortunate chickpeas and garlic and an Israeli tank driver who was left with egg on his face after one of the shop’s omelette’s exploded in the attack.
In a related story Devonshire Constabulary raided the premises of a well-known Cornish pasty maker which was thought by anti-terrorist officers to be a hotbed of organisation for Fundamentalist Cornishmen.
If only the real world were this ridiculous but harmless and silly, instead of being this ridiculous but bloody and awful.
Sunday, October 19, 2003
Kneale
My goodness, the BBC seems to have been producing some good programmes for me tonight. After the tribute to Edwin Morgan I was channel hopping and came across a programme on BBC4 about Nigel Kneale, covering many of his TV dramas, of which a fair number were quite groundbreaking for the early era of TV broadcasting. Naturally, being a geek I was especially interested in the sections dealing with 1984 (with Peter Cushing) and, of course, the staggeringly good Quatermass tales (was that really fifty years ago?). Fantastic drama and fabulous SF - one of those SF pieces that cross the genre to drag in people who don’t normally watch or read it, in much the way 90s shows like the early X-Files or Ultraviolet did (he was approached to write for the X-Files). His fascination with TV technology lead him to create s programme in which the TV company of the future has what we would now call a ‘reality’ show - decades ago. There’s a screening of his inventive and creepy Stone Tape afterwards - scientists who discover their new recording technology has picked up a ghost who is recorded inside the fabric of a building (now a semi-respected theory in some circles). Excited to find this we have a ghist tale investigated by modern science instead of priests - but in true fashion there is more here than they understand - if the sonte of the bulding can 'record' ghosts then what about the stones deep in the Earth? What do they hold? Do I stay up late or tape the Stone Tape? Or both.
Despite the 70s clothes and fashions which make some of the scientists look like Open Unviersity lecturers it's still a damned fine story, a clever variation on the classic British ghost tale and spooky as hell. And how young is Jane Asher in htis?
My goodness, the BBC seems to have been producing some good programmes for me tonight. After the tribute to Edwin Morgan I was channel hopping and came across a programme on BBC4 about Nigel Kneale, covering many of his TV dramas, of which a fair number were quite groundbreaking for the early era of TV broadcasting. Naturally, being a geek I was especially interested in the sections dealing with 1984 (with Peter Cushing) and, of course, the staggeringly good Quatermass tales (was that really fifty years ago?). Fantastic drama and fabulous SF - one of those SF pieces that cross the genre to drag in people who don’t normally watch or read it, in much the way 90s shows like the early X-Files or Ultraviolet did (he was approached to write for the X-Files). His fascination with TV technology lead him to create s programme in which the TV company of the future has what we would now call a ‘reality’ show - decades ago. There’s a screening of his inventive and creepy Stone Tape afterwards - scientists who discover their new recording technology has picked up a ghost who is recorded inside the fabric of a building (now a semi-respected theory in some circles). Excited to find this we have a ghist tale investigated by modern science instead of priests - but in true fashion there is more here than they understand - if the sonte of the bulding can 'record' ghosts then what about the stones deep in the Earth? What do they hold? Do I stay up late or tape the Stone Tape? Or both.
Despite the 70s clothes and fashions which make some of the scientists look like Open Unviersity lecturers it's still a damned fine story, a clever variation on the classic British ghost tale and spooky as hell. And how young is Jane Asher in htis?
Morgan’s spiced
Suddenly remembered - just in time - that BBC Scotland was running a long-overdue programme on one of my favourite poets and fellow Glaswegian, Edwin Morgan. The Poet Laureate of the city of my birth has long been a favourite of mine and has to be the leading contender for Greatest Living Scots Poet ™. Many of his poems chronicle the changing face of the city over his long life; a history in verse. Some are gorgeous love poems, their true meaning often hidden because of the illegality of homosexuality. In fact Morgan didn’t come out until he was in his 70s. When he did he did it with a vengeance, crossing swords with Cardinal Winning and other bigoted fools who were outraged that the new Scottish parliament wanted to repeal the homophobic Clause 28 law (the same year Winning was a leading voice in calling for the ancient law banning Catholics form inheriting the throne to be repealed as a piece of archaic bigotry - can you spell ‘hypocrisy’ children?). Like Cyrano de Bergerac (who he famously made over into Scots) he took up his poet’s quills and used it to expose the bigotry, the poem covering God talking to his Cardinal and telling him this is exactly the sort of behaviour that will stop him getting into heaven.
Drawn to the romance, imagination and beauty of space exploration and SF Morgan often incorporates theses themes into his verse - rocket ships, Nessie, first landing on another world and his fabulous Planet Wave (written to go along with music by Jazz musician Tommy Smith) which has the narrator following the creation of the universe and the unfolding of planets, stars and life. I found it amusing when they showed photos of Morgan in the 60s that this SF-tinged bard looked then very much like Isaac Asimov. Now in his 80s and facing prostate cancer - something too many men face, including in my own family yet there are no regular tests for me as there are for women - Morgan remains free of bitterness and full of the same optimism that often glows within his work. In that respect he often reminds me of the grand old man of SF, Arthur C Clarke - both are well-educated men who have lived long lives, seen so much unfold and yet both men still showcase faith in the future in their work. I wonder if they read each other’s work? I passed on a copy of his later collection to Neil Gaiman at the last gig I had with him, thinking Neil would enjoy it (but then Neil will read anything) and as a little thank you for the several excellent gigs I’ve had with him and for his writing.
Morgan is a national treasure and as a fine bonus for me we had Alasdair Gray not only talking about him but reading some of his work. One of my favourite authors and one of the finest Scottish novelists reading the work of one of the finest Scots poets - perfect. If you’ve never read him, you need to. What’s life without poetry?
Suddenly remembered - just in time - that BBC Scotland was running a long-overdue programme on one of my favourite poets and fellow Glaswegian, Edwin Morgan. The Poet Laureate of the city of my birth has long been a favourite of mine and has to be the leading contender for Greatest Living Scots Poet ™. Many of his poems chronicle the changing face of the city over his long life; a history in verse. Some are gorgeous love poems, their true meaning often hidden because of the illegality of homosexuality. In fact Morgan didn’t come out until he was in his 70s. When he did he did it with a vengeance, crossing swords with Cardinal Winning and other bigoted fools who were outraged that the new Scottish parliament wanted to repeal the homophobic Clause 28 law (the same year Winning was a leading voice in calling for the ancient law banning Catholics form inheriting the throne to be repealed as a piece of archaic bigotry - can you spell ‘hypocrisy’ children?). Like Cyrano de Bergerac (who he famously made over into Scots) he took up his poet’s quills and used it to expose the bigotry, the poem covering God talking to his Cardinal and telling him this is exactly the sort of behaviour that will stop him getting into heaven.
Drawn to the romance, imagination and beauty of space exploration and SF Morgan often incorporates theses themes into his verse - rocket ships, Nessie, first landing on another world and his fabulous Planet Wave (written to go along with music by Jazz musician Tommy Smith) which has the narrator following the creation of the universe and the unfolding of planets, stars and life. I found it amusing when they showed photos of Morgan in the 60s that this SF-tinged bard looked then very much like Isaac Asimov. Now in his 80s and facing prostate cancer - something too many men face, including in my own family yet there are no regular tests for me as there are for women - Morgan remains free of bitterness and full of the same optimism that often glows within his work. In that respect he often reminds me of the grand old man of SF, Arthur C Clarke - both are well-educated men who have lived long lives, seen so much unfold and yet both men still showcase faith in the future in their work. I wonder if they read each other’s work? I passed on a copy of his later collection to Neil Gaiman at the last gig I had with him, thinking Neil would enjoy it (but then Neil will read anything) and as a little thank you for the several excellent gigs I’ve had with him and for his writing.
Morgan is a national treasure and as a fine bonus for me we had Alasdair Gray not only talking about him but reading some of his work. One of my favourite authors and one of the finest Scottish novelists reading the work of one of the finest Scots poets - perfect. If you’ve never read him, you need to. What’s life without poetry?
Thursday, October 16, 2003
Books
After polishing off my eagerly anticipated copy of Robert Reed’s Down the Bright Way a few days ago I’ve used my long bus trip to my temporary posting to zip through Russo’s bloody good Unto Leviathan. A proof I had put to one side intending to get around to it (a problem Ariel can identify with methinks) it was the first thing to hand after the excellent Reed novel (proper review soon). Hmmm, don’t know much about it or the author - should I begin this or one of the other large number of new books pending or one of the older ones I never got to read on my backlist?
What’s this? A letter inside the book, not from a PR person as is usual with adfvance copies but a letter by Tim Holman who runs Orbit, TimeWarner’s excellent SF stable and the publisher of no less than Iain M Banks and Ken MacLeod, as well as the aforemtioned Mister Reed. Well, I know Tim always picks the good stuff, so I start reading Unto Leviathan and damn it is absolutely brilliant! At it’s core it is a classic Old Dark House and comes across as an SF-Horror novel by way of Banks or any of the earlier authors I mentioned - basically anyone who likes them will enjoy this. Very spooky and atmospheric, Russo cleverly avoids any out and out gore or action and settles for Poe-like sense of claustrophobia and crawling dread, wisely leaving much to the imagiantion which ups the creepiness level no end. Wonderful to just come across such a book pretty much by surprise really. Now back to Endless Nights and more Gaiman pleasure (now it's the return of the Ariel-James Lovegrove-me super review tag-team for that one, so keep 'em peeled). Really must reclaim my proof of Quicksilver from Alex at some point and actually read it before Matthew disowns me.
And a word to Matthew - dragons should always have a name beginning with a D, just as gargoyles must have a name beginning with G. It is a very old tradition observed the world over which I’ve just made up.
After polishing off my eagerly anticipated copy of Robert Reed’s Down the Bright Way a few days ago I’ve used my long bus trip to my temporary posting to zip through Russo’s bloody good Unto Leviathan. A proof I had put to one side intending to get around to it (a problem Ariel can identify with methinks) it was the first thing to hand after the excellent Reed novel (proper review soon). Hmmm, don’t know much about it or the author - should I begin this or one of the other large number of new books pending or one of the older ones I never got to read on my backlist?
What’s this? A letter inside the book, not from a PR person as is usual with adfvance copies but a letter by Tim Holman who runs Orbit, TimeWarner’s excellent SF stable and the publisher of no less than Iain M Banks and Ken MacLeod, as well as the aforemtioned Mister Reed. Well, I know Tim always picks the good stuff, so I start reading Unto Leviathan and damn it is absolutely brilliant! At it’s core it is a classic Old Dark House and comes across as an SF-Horror novel by way of Banks or any of the earlier authors I mentioned - basically anyone who likes them will enjoy this. Very spooky and atmospheric, Russo cleverly avoids any out and out gore or action and settles for Poe-like sense of claustrophobia and crawling dread, wisely leaving much to the imagiantion which ups the creepiness level no end. Wonderful to just come across such a book pretty much by surprise really. Now back to Endless Nights and more Gaiman pleasure (now it's the return of the Ariel-James Lovegrove-me super review tag-team for that one, so keep 'em peeled). Really must reclaim my proof of Quicksilver from Alex at some point and actually read it before Matthew disowns me.
And a word to Matthew - dragons should always have a name beginning with a D, just as gargoyles must have a name beginning with G. It is a very old tradition observed the world over which I’ve just made up.
Opposition leader under inquisition
The leader of the Progressive Penguin Party, Jackson Echo Turmoil - known universally as JET - is to face an enquiry by the Parliamentary Ombudsman for Naughty Goings-On. It has been alleged by Piebald Crock, an investigative journalist for the Groinyard newspaper that JET used his MP’s office expenses to pay his secretary to be his wife. Allegations of nepotism and mis-use of tax-payer’s money for non-parliamentary functions are being levelled. JET argues he did nothing wrong and welcomes an enquiry, saying that a reliable and dutiful wife was essential to any party leader and was therefore an essential part of his job. Coming so soon after his recent leadership challenge by Frederick Underhill King (dubbed FUK by the media) this can only weaken JET’s position.
The leader of the Progressive Penguin Party, Jackson Echo Turmoil - known universally as JET - is to face an enquiry by the Parliamentary Ombudsman for Naughty Goings-On. It has been alleged by Piebald Crock, an investigative journalist for the Groinyard newspaper that JET used his MP’s office expenses to pay his secretary to be his wife. Allegations of nepotism and mis-use of tax-payer’s money for non-parliamentary functions are being levelled. JET argues he did nothing wrong and welcomes an enquiry, saying that a reliable and dutiful wife was essential to any party leader and was therefore an essential part of his job. Coming so soon after his recent leadership challenge by Frederick Underhill King (dubbed FUK by the media) this can only weaken JET’s position.
Tuesday, October 14, 2003
Book Club
The second SF Book Club tonight and again it went very well - plus we were a couple of folk up on the last time and as we've sold many times the normal amount for this month's book it was a bit of a success even before the gig! Tonight was Richard Matheson's I Am Legend, excellent classic novel. Everyone got their teeth stuck into this Cold War SF meets Vampire novel and the discussions ranged from the role of mythic archetypes and vampire mythology to germ warfare, paranoia and, yes, Kate Beckinsale's arse in tight leather in Underworld (okay, I brought that one up). Very enjoyable night all round and a feeling that Alex and I are building on something rewarding and worthwhile here. Just a shame about a couple of fellow geeks who were, once mroe, no-shows (but were probably busy dealing with their facial fuzz judging by their recent blogs, for shame!).
Now as the lovely Kate from Titan has sent me a copy of the new Sandman collection, Endless Nights I need to get some reading done on something I've really been looking forward to. Expect an unusual (and naturally incisisve, illuminating and wonderful) review by Ariel and myself on the Alien soon.
Bloody drivers
Bloody car drivers who think they can park anywhere. I got off my bus tonight and tried to use the pedestrian crossing near my home. Except I can't because an inconsiderate driver has parked her bloody car right on the crossing. No, not on the zig-zag lines as so many often do (which is equally illegal and fucking dangerous anyway) but actually slap bang on the middle of the crossing. So to get over the road I need to walk around her fucking car, off the crossing lane an into the road. Not only has she stopped here to let her immensely fat-arsed friend off, she then decides to sit and have a chat with her - hey, what's the hurry? She looks up and sees me trying to corss. Does she go, oops, and move on? Does she buggery. So I lean in the open window and ask if she's aware she is parked on a crossing. I'm just about to move, she answers, pissed off at my terrible affrontery. I ask why the hell she is parked right over the crossing in the first place. No need to swear she shouts, show some respect. I tell her people who do this kind of things don't deserve any bloody respect and would she please get out of the fucking way. Her fat friend gets out, swears at me and walks off, while lazy driver just sits there to piss me off. So I kick her door panel sveral times and put some nice dings in it, give her the finger and walk on. I like to think I did my civic safety duty today. I like to think I made a difference. I wish she were a rarity but folk do this all the time. I find it immensely amusing when parents stop on the crossing area to drop off their mewling brats for school - exactly the sort of parents who drive their people carriers to PTA meetingst to protest at the dangerous roads near the schools...
The second SF Book Club tonight and again it went very well - plus we were a couple of folk up on the last time and as we've sold many times the normal amount for this month's book it was a bit of a success even before the gig! Tonight was Richard Matheson's I Am Legend, excellent classic novel. Everyone got their teeth stuck into this Cold War SF meets Vampire novel and the discussions ranged from the role of mythic archetypes and vampire mythology to germ warfare, paranoia and, yes, Kate Beckinsale's arse in tight leather in Underworld (okay, I brought that one up). Very enjoyable night all round and a feeling that Alex and I are building on something rewarding and worthwhile here. Just a shame about a couple of fellow geeks who were, once mroe, no-shows (but were probably busy dealing with their facial fuzz judging by their recent blogs, for shame!).
Now as the lovely Kate from Titan has sent me a copy of the new Sandman collection, Endless Nights I need to get some reading done on something I've really been looking forward to. Expect an unusual (and naturally incisisve, illuminating and wonderful) review by Ariel and myself on the Alien soon.
Bloody drivers
Bloody car drivers who think they can park anywhere. I got off my bus tonight and tried to use the pedestrian crossing near my home. Except I can't because an inconsiderate driver has parked her bloody car right on the crossing. No, not on the zig-zag lines as so many often do (which is equally illegal and fucking dangerous anyway) but actually slap bang on the middle of the crossing. So to get over the road I need to walk around her fucking car, off the crossing lane an into the road. Not only has she stopped here to let her immensely fat-arsed friend off, she then decides to sit and have a chat with her - hey, what's the hurry? She looks up and sees me trying to corss. Does she go, oops, and move on? Does she buggery. So I lean in the open window and ask if she's aware she is parked on a crossing. I'm just about to move, she answers, pissed off at my terrible affrontery. I ask why the hell she is parked right over the crossing in the first place. No need to swear she shouts, show some respect. I tell her people who do this kind of things don't deserve any bloody respect and would she please get out of the fucking way. Her fat friend gets out, swears at me and walks off, while lazy driver just sits there to piss me off. So I kick her door panel sveral times and put some nice dings in it, give her the finger and walk on. I like to think I did my civic safety duty today. I like to think I made a difference. I wish she were a rarity but folk do this all the time. I find it immensely amusing when parents stop on the crossing area to drop off their mewling brats for school - exactly the sort of parents who drive their people carriers to PTA meetingst to protest at the dangerous roads near the schools...
Sunday, October 12, 2003
Wedding bells
No, not for me of course being too independent/bloody pathetic (delete as applicable) for such a union. Family wedding time back home on the west coast. Great, not in a church. Oh, it is a religious ceremony... Female minister has as one of her readings a segment of Paul's letters tot eh Corinthians on the virtue of love. Odd choice as I seem to recall he was one of the early Christian missionaries who was incredibly mysoginistic. Still, pretty service marred only by lack of room in my sporran for both my wallet and my hip flask full of 20 year old single malt (and none for the MiniDisc to listen to surreptitiously during the boring bits of the service).
Pleasant as it all was there is nothing like seeing your little cousin (by ten years) getting hitched to make you feel old and the fact that all weddings, like most big social functions, are designed for couples, so it rather reinforces your isolation - come along and look at the dateless wonder! Depressing in the extreme these occassions for some of us. The dreadful disco and the consequent drunken dancing aunties and uncles which are mandatory on such occassions were as awful as you would imagine. The meal was lovely though and it was still nice to see so much of the family again, including the Canadian chapter, who were camped out at my parent's house, so it was pretty crowded. Like all weddings a mixture of lovely moments and depression-inducing ones (gee, a bit like marriage I guess!).
And yes, I did wear a kilt, resplendent in my Clan Gordon colours (which a member of Clan Gordon of 200 years ago would never have seen of course, but hey, that's Walter Scott and the re-invention of Scottish identity for you). And no, I did not wear any pants under it - when I strut my stuff in plaid I do it the proper way. But I had forgotten how awkward it is to go to the loo in a kilt! Basically face urinal, grasp kilt front with one hand, perform the Carry on up the Khyber maneuvre, aim and fire. And look out for drips and little cousings trying to put cameras under your kilt.
No, not for me of course being too independent/bloody pathetic (delete as applicable) for such a union. Family wedding time back home on the west coast. Great, not in a church. Oh, it is a religious ceremony... Female minister has as one of her readings a segment of Paul's letters tot eh Corinthians on the virtue of love. Odd choice as I seem to recall he was one of the early Christian missionaries who was incredibly mysoginistic. Still, pretty service marred only by lack of room in my sporran for both my wallet and my hip flask full of 20 year old single malt (and none for the MiniDisc to listen to surreptitiously during the boring bits of the service).
Pleasant as it all was there is nothing like seeing your little cousin (by ten years) getting hitched to make you feel old and the fact that all weddings, like most big social functions, are designed for couples, so it rather reinforces your isolation - come along and look at the dateless wonder! Depressing in the extreme these occassions for some of us. The dreadful disco and the consequent drunken dancing aunties and uncles which are mandatory on such occassions were as awful as you would imagine. The meal was lovely though and it was still nice to see so much of the family again, including the Canadian chapter, who were camped out at my parent's house, so it was pretty crowded. Like all weddings a mixture of lovely moments and depression-inducing ones (gee, a bit like marriage I guess!).
And yes, I did wear a kilt, resplendent in my Clan Gordon colours (which a member of Clan Gordon of 200 years ago would never have seen of course, but hey, that's Walter Scott and the re-invention of Scottish identity for you). And no, I did not wear any pants under it - when I strut my stuff in plaid I do it the proper way. But I had forgotten how awkward it is to go to the loo in a kilt! Basically face urinal, grasp kilt front with one hand, perform the Carry on up the Khyber maneuvre, aim and fire. And look out for drips and little cousings trying to put cameras under your kilt.
Canned Clothing
Yes, girls, never be worried about laddering your stockings or tights again now you can use the handy spray on leggings!
Yes, girls, never be worried about laddering your stockings or tights again now you can use the handy spray on leggings!
Bear-faced cheek
An environmentalist campaiger who fought ot pretect North American bears had a run in with a bear who was most ungrateful for his years of campaigning on behalf of his species and ate both him and his girlfriend in Alaska. When the bear was killed human remains were found inside the stomach and the couple's last few horrific minutes were captured audio-only on their video camera, ending speculation that rednecks or others hostile to environmentalists had something to do with the couple's disappearance. Horrific and awful as it is, I can't resits saying - what a grizzly (sic) end :-)
An environmentalist campaiger who fought ot pretect North American bears had a run in with a bear who was most ungrateful for his years of campaigning on behalf of his species and ate both him and his girlfriend in Alaska. When the bear was killed human remains were found inside the stomach and the couple's last few horrific minutes were captured audio-only on their video camera, ending speculation that rednecks or others hostile to environmentalists had something to do with the couple's disappearance. Horrific and awful as it is, I can't resits saying - what a grizzly (sic) end :-)
Thursday, October 9, 2003
The Governator
So it's 'hasta la vista' to Gray Davies and in comes the mighty Arnie as Governor of California, joining such other great thespians turned political philosophers as Ronald Reagan. At last poor, suffering California now has a governor who will kick ass.
Sorry, I meant to say a governor who will fondle ass.
Allegedly.
Doesn't it make you glad to live in dear old rainy Blighty? Where even the most respected, Shakespearian thespian would still be ridiculed for running for office. The nearest we've had is dear old Glenda Jackson as a Labour MP or Scottish comedian Elaine C Smith as an MSP. What would we have? Ross Kemp as the Mayor of London (sorting out London's transport problems and making sure everyone has a very short haircut)? Ewan MacGregor as the Lord Provost of Edinburgh? Bet he'd still get his willy out! And yes, before anyone who read the earlier Young Adam blog asks, he did indeed get his fabled willy out in that film too (so at least the nudity was pretty well-balanced male to female). Could his famous knob be put to good use as an ambassador for our fine city? Would it be on the official Edinburgh web site?
And why not other lands following this fine model of Us democracy? Juliette Binoche as President of France? I don't know this wonderful actresses' political leanings, but I suspect there would be some gratutious nudity in her term of office. Omar Shariff as President of Egypt? If he had trouble from other arabs he's just shoot them around his well. Worked in Lawrence of Arabia. What about Steve Irwin as Prime Minister of Australia? If he can deal with crocodiles he can deal with international politicians - crikey he nearly had me there! And why not Peter Jackson for PM of NZ? Instead of a cabinet he could have a Council of Elrond to advise him... And finally why not Ariel's old drinking buddy (I didn't get to drink with him, just chat backstage as he told Ian Rankin and myself tall tales before our gig) Tom Baker? Tom Baker for Prime Minister! I hereby announce the commencement of a campaign that all geeks should take up - Tom Baker for Prime Minister of Britain! Jelly babies for all! Manifesto to follow!
So it's 'hasta la vista' to Gray Davies and in comes the mighty Arnie as Governor of California, joining such other great thespians turned political philosophers as Ronald Reagan. At last poor, suffering California now has a governor who will kick ass.
Sorry, I meant to say a governor who will fondle ass.
Allegedly.
Doesn't it make you glad to live in dear old rainy Blighty? Where even the most respected, Shakespearian thespian would still be ridiculed for running for office. The nearest we've had is dear old Glenda Jackson as a Labour MP or Scottish comedian Elaine C Smith as an MSP. What would we have? Ross Kemp as the Mayor of London (sorting out London's transport problems and making sure everyone has a very short haircut)? Ewan MacGregor as the Lord Provost of Edinburgh? Bet he'd still get his willy out! And yes, before anyone who read the earlier Young Adam blog asks, he did indeed get his fabled willy out in that film too (so at least the nudity was pretty well-balanced male to female). Could his famous knob be put to good use as an ambassador for our fine city? Would it be on the official Edinburgh web site?
And why not other lands following this fine model of Us democracy? Juliette Binoche as President of France? I don't know this wonderful actresses' political leanings, but I suspect there would be some gratutious nudity in her term of office. Omar Shariff as President of Egypt? If he had trouble from other arabs he's just shoot them around his well. Worked in Lawrence of Arabia. What about Steve Irwin as Prime Minister of Australia? If he can deal with crocodiles he can deal with international politicians - crikey he nearly had me there! And why not Peter Jackson for PM of NZ? Instead of a cabinet he could have a Council of Elrond to advise him... And finally why not Ariel's old drinking buddy (I didn't get to drink with him, just chat backstage as he told Ian Rankin and myself tall tales before our gig) Tom Baker? Tom Baker for Prime Minister! I hereby announce the commencement of a campaign that all geeks should take up - Tom Baker for Prime Minister of Britain! Jelly babies for all! Manifesto to follow!
Monday, October 6, 2003
Bleak
Caught the film adaptation of Young Adam this weekend. A pretty faithful adaptation of Alexander Trocchi’s bleak novel of a rudderless drifter set on the canal barges of 50s Scotland. Trocchi has often been compared to the closest Scottish literature has come to Bill Burroughs for pure fucked-upedness mixed with remarkably unusual writing for the period (this is a man who later pimped his wife to feed his heroin habit). The colourless, post-war austerity Scotland setting is perfect to match the film, the joyless, bleak, industrial vista matching the narrative perfectly. There were some wonderful pieces of cinematography, like a high-angle shot of Ewan MacGregor’s Joe walking the length of the moving longboat barge, giving the effect that he is walking but standing still (like walking backwards down an up escalator).
In one flashback scene we see him pull his girlfriend (a gorgeous Emily Mortimer) down to the floor of the rowboat they are in. The camera view switches to a medium longshot, looking side-on at the rowboat, which now appears to be floating empty against a cold, Scottish winter landscape, a perfect visual signifier for the directionless, rudderless, drifting, essentially empty life of the central protagonist. Peter Mullan was excellent as ever as Les, while the fantastic Tilda Swinton was almost unrecognisable as the middle-aged housewife, Ella (until you have a close-up of her astonishing, almost alien-like eyes).
Caught the film adaptation of Young Adam this weekend. A pretty faithful adaptation of Alexander Trocchi’s bleak novel of a rudderless drifter set on the canal barges of 50s Scotland. Trocchi has often been compared to the closest Scottish literature has come to Bill Burroughs for pure fucked-upedness mixed with remarkably unusual writing for the period (this is a man who later pimped his wife to feed his heroin habit). The colourless, post-war austerity Scotland setting is perfect to match the film, the joyless, bleak, industrial vista matching the narrative perfectly. There were some wonderful pieces of cinematography, like a high-angle shot of Ewan MacGregor’s Joe walking the length of the moving longboat barge, giving the effect that he is walking but standing still (like walking backwards down an up escalator).
In one flashback scene we see him pull his girlfriend (a gorgeous Emily Mortimer) down to the floor of the rowboat they are in. The camera view switches to a medium longshot, looking side-on at the rowboat, which now appears to be floating empty against a cold, Scottish winter landscape, a perfect visual signifier for the directionless, rudderless, drifting, essentially empty life of the central protagonist. Peter Mullan was excellent as ever as Les, while the fantastic Tilda Swinton was almost unrecognisable as the middle-aged housewife, Ella (until you have a close-up of her astonishing, almost alien-like eyes).
Bodice rippers
Continuing my sojourn down by the dark waters of Leith’s harbour side. Today I was sorting out a load of import books, mostly the most dreadfully generic crap you can imagine - awful novels for the romance section. Titles such as The Puritan and the Pirate and Seduced by a Rogue will give you an idea of how bottom of the literary barrel this worthless junk is. Almost every cover had a woman with heaving bosoms swooning into the arms of a tall, dusky, dark-haired, hugely muscled man in a pirate shirt, open to his navel. And I thought some fantasy covers were generic!
Will, the assistant manager had a quick flick through one and read out a few choice pieces of purple prose to keep us entertained. Let’s just say the prose matched the covers. The finest one had a woman in medieval-style clothes hanging onto a tall, dark-skinned, dark haired, muscle-bound man, naked save for a kilt and a big sword (oo-er). Dark hair, dark eyes and tanned, olive skin is, of course, de rigueur for all Caledonians (not) and the kilt he’s wearing didn’t exist until several centuries later and the sword is a little odd for a highlander of that period, but hey, what’s a little accuracy when you’re writing for morons who lap this shit up unquestioningly? Oh well, it gave us all a feeling of superiority for a while to look down on the purveyors of such awfulness. Although, as entire coach loads of pensioners arrive daily at the Ocean Terminal to visit the mall and see Britannia and this stuff is principally bought by old grannies it may well be a goldmine of a section.
Continuing my sojourn down by the dark waters of Leith’s harbour side. Today I was sorting out a load of import books, mostly the most dreadfully generic crap you can imagine - awful novels for the romance section. Titles such as The Puritan and the Pirate and Seduced by a Rogue will give you an idea of how bottom of the literary barrel this worthless junk is. Almost every cover had a woman with heaving bosoms swooning into the arms of a tall, dusky, dark-haired, hugely muscled man in a pirate shirt, open to his navel. And I thought some fantasy covers were generic!
Will, the assistant manager had a quick flick through one and read out a few choice pieces of purple prose to keep us entertained. Let’s just say the prose matched the covers. The finest one had a woman in medieval-style clothes hanging onto a tall, dark-skinned, dark haired, muscle-bound man, naked save for a kilt and a big sword (oo-er). Dark hair, dark eyes and tanned, olive skin is, of course, de rigueur for all Caledonians (not) and the kilt he’s wearing didn’t exist until several centuries later and the sword is a little odd for a highlander of that period, but hey, what’s a little accuracy when you’re writing for morons who lap this shit up unquestioningly? Oh well, it gave us all a feeling of superiority for a while to look down on the purveyors of such awfulness. Although, as entire coach loads of pensioners arrive daily at the Ocean Terminal to visit the mall and see Britannia and this stuff is principally bought by old grannies it may well be a goldmine of a section.
Elegant
I caught half an hour of a programme called Speed Machines this evening. It was covering the rivalry between the LMS and LNER railway companies trying to outdo each other for speed, one running the west coast mainline from London to Glasgow, the other the east coast to Edinburgh. Imagine the 1930s, a time when long-distance overland travel meant going by rail and that railway was (if you could afford it) almost like travelling by one of the great liners of he age, with silver service in the restaurant car (no Maxipack cardboard cup here).
This was the final hurrah of steam powered locomotion in Britain, as diesel and electric engines were just round the corner after the looming war. But what a finale! These enormous engines with drive wheels taller than a grown man, breathing smoke and fire like an iron dragon, thundered across the length of the islands, breaking new world records as they went. 112mph, 114mph. Seems slow to us now, I know - how many of us have had the illicit pleasure of matching those speeds in our own cars? But this was bloody fast, world-record making as I said.
And speed and wonderful service was only part of it. This was the Art Deco era and these prestigious machines had to not only be fast but be beautiful; a marriage of contemporary art, science and engineering. Effortlessly elegant, with the coaches also streamlined and all in fine matching livery, streaking across the landscape. People used to come out to watch them go past and the driver would always blow the whistle and wave to the round-eyed kids. Just before war blew across the land they reached their apogee when the gorgeously-sculpted Mallard charged across the British Isle in 1938 at 126 MPH, streaming smoke, bellowing steam and fire from her fiery heart, almost a living creature. It’s a record that was never beaten.
Its 2003 now and we have a crapped-out rail service which struggles and creaks and falls apart (often literally) if the wrong leaves fall on the line (assuming the incompetent privatised engineering firms who do the maintenance have managed to put proper track down). The trains are often late or cancelled, the staff surly and the service piss-poor. What ever happened? Didn’t we invent this entire technology? And doesn’t this remind us of how we nurtured and perfected it for decades? One old driver of these magnificent creatures compared it to being the ‘Concorde of its day’. Another piece of fantastic engineering that was coupled to the most simple and elegant, artful lines and another piece of British engineering history, a world-beater, which was allowed to be wasted and scheduled to take her last flights this very month (for shame). Even if we had a good, modern rail service today it wouldn’t quite match the magical elegance of the pre-war era - over-priced sandwiches and instant coffee don’t match eating silver service in a restaurant car with food prepared by a real chef. And no modern engine, not even those Japanese Bullet trains or the French TGV holds the sheer magical wonder of those fire-breathing beasts. As one old driver put it, they brought together all four elements; fire to burn, coal from the earth, water to boil into steam and air to combust the hole thing and produce awesome amounts of power, all controlled by two sweating men.
But it’s not all doom and gloom - we still innovate in these islands, as our newest Nobel Laureate today can attest (as can the fact that we have produced so many Nobel winners). And yes, I did have a train set as a boy. A bloody huge one as a matter of fact. And yes, I did have to wrest my father away from it to get a chance myself.
I caught half an hour of a programme called Speed Machines this evening. It was covering the rivalry between the LMS and LNER railway companies trying to outdo each other for speed, one running the west coast mainline from London to Glasgow, the other the east coast to Edinburgh. Imagine the 1930s, a time when long-distance overland travel meant going by rail and that railway was (if you could afford it) almost like travelling by one of the great liners of he age, with silver service in the restaurant car (no Maxipack cardboard cup here).
This was the final hurrah of steam powered locomotion in Britain, as diesel and electric engines were just round the corner after the looming war. But what a finale! These enormous engines with drive wheels taller than a grown man, breathing smoke and fire like an iron dragon, thundered across the length of the islands, breaking new world records as they went. 112mph, 114mph. Seems slow to us now, I know - how many of us have had the illicit pleasure of matching those speeds in our own cars? But this was bloody fast, world-record making as I said.
And speed and wonderful service was only part of it. This was the Art Deco era and these prestigious machines had to not only be fast but be beautiful; a marriage of contemporary art, science and engineering. Effortlessly elegant, with the coaches also streamlined and all in fine matching livery, streaking across the landscape. People used to come out to watch them go past and the driver would always blow the whistle and wave to the round-eyed kids. Just before war blew across the land they reached their apogee when the gorgeously-sculpted Mallard charged across the British Isle in 1938 at 126 MPH, streaming smoke, bellowing steam and fire from her fiery heart, almost a living creature. It’s a record that was never beaten.
Its 2003 now and we have a crapped-out rail service which struggles and creaks and falls apart (often literally) if the wrong leaves fall on the line (assuming the incompetent privatised engineering firms who do the maintenance have managed to put proper track down). The trains are often late or cancelled, the staff surly and the service piss-poor. What ever happened? Didn’t we invent this entire technology? And doesn’t this remind us of how we nurtured and perfected it for decades? One old driver of these magnificent creatures compared it to being the ‘Concorde of its day’. Another piece of fantastic engineering that was coupled to the most simple and elegant, artful lines and another piece of British engineering history, a world-beater, which was allowed to be wasted and scheduled to take her last flights this very month (for shame). Even if we had a good, modern rail service today it wouldn’t quite match the magical elegance of the pre-war era - over-priced sandwiches and instant coffee don’t match eating silver service in a restaurant car with food prepared by a real chef. And no modern engine, not even those Japanese Bullet trains or the French TGV holds the sheer magical wonder of those fire-breathing beasts. As one old driver put it, they brought together all four elements; fire to burn, coal from the earth, water to boil into steam and air to combust the hole thing and produce awesome amounts of power, all controlled by two sweating men.
But it’s not all doom and gloom - we still innovate in these islands, as our newest Nobel Laureate today can attest (as can the fact that we have produced so many Nobel winners). And yes, I did have a train set as a boy. A bloody huge one as a matter of fact. And yes, I did have to wrest my father away from it to get a chance myself.
More Big Read
It’s almost time for the BBC to whittle down the top 100 books people voted for as their favourite novels down to 21 finalists. There was a regrettable lack of Scottish writers due to the natural imbalance caused by there being a lot more English voters than Scots. Still, it has been a very good way of getting a lot more people buying books, which is never a bad thing.
However, I thought I’d see if I can pick some of my own favourites (and not restrict myself to fiction only). I couldn’t put them in any particular order and indeed the list is likely to change from week to week as I suddenly recall other books that I’ve read over the last three decades (and believe me that is a lot of books).
High on any list of mine (and a scandalous omission form the Big Read) is the fantastic Lanark by Alasdair Gray, surely the finest Scottish novel of the 20th century. I’ve had the delight of meeting Alasdair and hearing him give a reading at a bash by his publisher Canongate and he is a national treasure. I treated myself to a limited edition slipcase hardback of Lanark a couple of years ago, covered in artwork by Alasdair and each volume signed and numbered - a beautiful edition of a fantastic book.
Interview with the Vampire, by Anne Rice. Originally published way back in the mid-70s this steamy first-person narrative is a lush, beautifully-described horror novel, dealing with immortality, love and loss. Claudia, the eternal child Lestat and Louis create was a character Rice developed to help her deal with the loss of her own child and is such a tragic and incredibly moving character, often imitated since (check out Homer in the excellent vampire film Near Dark for instance). In the opinion of this bookseller and consumer of many a Gothic novel, the best vampire novel since Dracula. Shame her later books aren’t quite as good (although I still enjoy them).
Beauty by Sheri S. Tepper. Sheri manages to combine this imaginative re-telling of Sleeping Beauty and a variety of other folkloric tales with an almost gritty realism in places. She uses the juxtaposition of magical and mundane settings and time piece, all held together by the struggle through life of a girl becoming a woman on a male-dominated world (Sheri always features very strong female leads and manages it without getting on a soapbox or hitting you over the head with gender issues). I love all of her novels very much, but Beauty (re-issued a few years back by Gollancz’s Fantasy Masterworks) is a gorgeous, moving, thoughtful work.
More to come.
It’s almost time for the BBC to whittle down the top 100 books people voted for as their favourite novels down to 21 finalists. There was a regrettable lack of Scottish writers due to the natural imbalance caused by there being a lot more English voters than Scots. Still, it has been a very good way of getting a lot more people buying books, which is never a bad thing.
However, I thought I’d see if I can pick some of my own favourites (and not restrict myself to fiction only). I couldn’t put them in any particular order and indeed the list is likely to change from week to week as I suddenly recall other books that I’ve read over the last three decades (and believe me that is a lot of books).
High on any list of mine (and a scandalous omission form the Big Read) is the fantastic Lanark by Alasdair Gray, surely the finest Scottish novel of the 20th century. I’ve had the delight of meeting Alasdair and hearing him give a reading at a bash by his publisher Canongate and he is a national treasure. I treated myself to a limited edition slipcase hardback of Lanark a couple of years ago, covered in artwork by Alasdair and each volume signed and numbered - a beautiful edition of a fantastic book.
Interview with the Vampire, by Anne Rice. Originally published way back in the mid-70s this steamy first-person narrative is a lush, beautifully-described horror novel, dealing with immortality, love and loss. Claudia, the eternal child Lestat and Louis create was a character Rice developed to help her deal with the loss of her own child and is such a tragic and incredibly moving character, often imitated since (check out Homer in the excellent vampire film Near Dark for instance). In the opinion of this bookseller and consumer of many a Gothic novel, the best vampire novel since Dracula. Shame her later books aren’t quite as good (although I still enjoy them).
Beauty by Sheri S. Tepper. Sheri manages to combine this imaginative re-telling of Sleeping Beauty and a variety of other folkloric tales with an almost gritty realism in places. She uses the juxtaposition of magical and mundane settings and time piece, all held together by the struggle through life of a girl becoming a woman on a male-dominated world (Sheri always features very strong female leads and manages it without getting on a soapbox or hitting you over the head with gender issues). I love all of her novels very much, but Beauty (re-issued a few years back by Gollancz’s Fantasy Masterworks) is a gorgeous, moving, thoughtful work.
More to come.
Sunday, October 5, 2003
Ansible
Wow, an honourable mention for me this month in Dave Langford’s mighty SF perennial, Ansible. My contribution to the ongoing debate that’s been rumbling on in various web sites for a few months now on the subject of what is and isn’t SF (notably Booker winning Canadian author Margaret Atwood who denies the Handmaid’s Tale and her recent Booker short listed Oryx and Crake are SF because ‘she doesn’t have robots and spaceships in her books’). Regardless, Ansible reports how I nevertheless managed to sell quite a number of copies from our SF section as well as mainstream fiction. I do hope the writer of such fine ‘speculative fiction’ appreciates the little extra royalties my colleagues and I earned her by knowing our audience.
Wow, an honourable mention for me this month in Dave Langford’s mighty SF perennial, Ansible. My contribution to the ongoing debate that’s been rumbling on in various web sites for a few months now on the subject of what is and isn’t SF (notably Booker winning Canadian author Margaret Atwood who denies the Handmaid’s Tale and her recent Booker short listed Oryx and Crake are SF because ‘she doesn’t have robots and spaceships in her books’). Regardless, Ansible reports how I nevertheless managed to sell quite a number of copies from our SF section as well as mainstream fiction. I do hope the writer of such fine ‘speculative fiction’ appreciates the little extra royalties my colleagues and I earned her by knowing our audience.
“Sometimes when I feel like killing someone, I do a little trick to calm myself down. I'll go over to the persons house and ring the doorbell. When the person comes to the door, I'm gone, but you know what I've left on the porch? A jack-o-lantern with a knife stuck in the side of it's head with a note that says "You." After that I usually feel a lot better, and no harm done."
Jack Handey
Jack Handey
“And if I die today I’ll be the happy phantom and I’ll go chasin’ the nuns out in the yard and I’ll run naked through the streets without my mask on and I will never need umbrellas in the rain and I’ll wake up in strawberry fields every day and the atrocities of school I can forgive the HAPPY phantom has no right to bitch”
The Happy Phantom from Little Eathquakes
Tori Amos
The Happy Phantom from Little Eathquakes
Tori Amos
Wednesday, October 1, 2003
Whose body is it anyway?
The woman who was trying to force her former partner to legally release his medically stored sperm has failed in her high court bid. This was the only way she could have a child of her own and the inference has been throughout that the man is in the wrong, persecuting this poor woman by refusing his permission. But the truth is that she expects this man who she is no longer in a relationship with to be the father of his child with the attendant moral and legal responsibilities that go with this. As he is no longer withher he does not want this. She says this is a breach of her human rights. But what about the man's rights? If the situations were reversed woman's groups would be outraged over this case. After all one of the central tenents of the women's movement has been that a woman's body is hers alone. Woman's body, woman's choice on all reproductive matters. Personally I've always subscribed to this myself - no-one else (esepecially religious zealots) has the right to tell a woman what to do with her body. But surely men must be accorded the same rights?
Today the courts agreed that without the consent of both of them this cannot go ahead. She may appeal and put everyone through even more of what is basically an attempt to legally hijack a part of the man's DNA. I'm not unsympathetic to the woman's plight and her natural desire to have a child, but this is not the way to do it. Even if she was successful, what on Earth would she tell this child when it grew up? If she cannot give birth to he won child there is always adoption, and lord knows there are a lot of kids out there waiting for a chance to have the lvoe and attention of a family, something most of us take almsot for granted most days. I know it's not the same as giving birth, but if she wants to have a family this is surely an option rather than pursuing this hurtful course?
The woman who was trying to force her former partner to legally release his medically stored sperm has failed in her high court bid. This was the only way she could have a child of her own and the inference has been throughout that the man is in the wrong, persecuting this poor woman by refusing his permission. But the truth is that she expects this man who she is no longer in a relationship with to be the father of his child with the attendant moral and legal responsibilities that go with this. As he is no longer withher he does not want this. She says this is a breach of her human rights. But what about the man's rights? If the situations were reversed woman's groups would be outraged over this case. After all one of the central tenents of the women's movement has been that a woman's body is hers alone. Woman's body, woman's choice on all reproductive matters. Personally I've always subscribed to this myself - no-one else (esepecially religious zealots) has the right to tell a woman what to do with her body. But surely men must be accorded the same rights?
Today the courts agreed that without the consent of both of them this cannot go ahead. She may appeal and put everyone through even more of what is basically an attempt to legally hijack a part of the man's DNA. I'm not unsympathetic to the woman's plight and her natural desire to have a child, but this is not the way to do it. Even if she was successful, what on Earth would she tell this child when it grew up? If she cannot give birth to he won child there is always adoption, and lord knows there are a lot of kids out there waiting for a chance to have the lvoe and attention of a family, something most of us take almsot for granted most days. I know it's not the same as giving birth, but if she wants to have a family this is surely an option rather than pursuing this hurtful course?
Twilight's last gleaming
Autumn time in Scotland, probably the most gorgeous season in this ancient country. Heading home from a hard days slog on my secondment at Ocean Terminal the sun was just setting across the harbour. By the time the bus rounded the base of Calton hill twilight had descended. Trees rapidly shedding leaves turned from emerald and gold to a deep, dark green as the shadows grew around them. Princes Street a few minutes later, running east to west, driving after the setting sun. It dipped below the horizon completely and the eastern sky was streaked in soft pinks and deep reds, stretching to a purple overhead, arcing back to the west and the darkening night sky slipping quietly in.
Looking down into the valley of Princes Street Gardens, the gathering darkness falling over the trees as if someone were putting a carbon coloured blanket over them for the night. The golden light was reflecting warmly off the stones of the Castle before the evening shadows spread across Castle Rock. A huge harvest moon was already in the sky, Diana barely waiting for Apollo to leave the heavens. On my shiny new MiniDisc the music from Edward Scissorhands, just perfect to go along with this scene. Golden twilight over the gardens and the Castle, a magical scene. No wonder people thought the land of Faerie was the land of eternal twilight. It’s a magical time of night, when the mundane day metamorphoses into mysterious night and enchanted creatures creep cautiously from hidden places. Truly, as Keat's put it, autumn is "the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness."
And soon, oh so soon, this golden time of utter golden beauty will sip into the long, dark, cold Scottish winter. Icy winds coming up the Forth, driven across the North Sea from the Arctic. Eighteen hours or more of deep darkness. God I love it! I get S.A.D. in reverse - those long hours of pesky bright sunlight are depressing. Twilight and night-time are magical. Darkness promises mystery laced with danger. And today in the Metro I read about the latest dating sensation which is a restaurant with no electric lighting on, only candles. Nice and dark, flickering candlelight. I do my best work by candlelight; maybe I should put on my finest pirate shirt and go see if there are any nice vampy girls there?
Autumn leaves float to the ground
As our planet orbits round and round
Golden carpet of crunching leaves
Shadows stretching over the eves
Endless turning, endless seasons
We try so hard to give them reasons
But no reason have i ever found:
The Earth turns ever to her own sound
The drumbeat is life
Autumn time in Scotland, probably the most gorgeous season in this ancient country. Heading home from a hard days slog on my secondment at Ocean Terminal the sun was just setting across the harbour. By the time the bus rounded the base of Calton hill twilight had descended. Trees rapidly shedding leaves turned from emerald and gold to a deep, dark green as the shadows grew around them. Princes Street a few minutes later, running east to west, driving after the setting sun. It dipped below the horizon completely and the eastern sky was streaked in soft pinks and deep reds, stretching to a purple overhead, arcing back to the west and the darkening night sky slipping quietly in.
Looking down into the valley of Princes Street Gardens, the gathering darkness falling over the trees as if someone were putting a carbon coloured blanket over them for the night. The golden light was reflecting warmly off the stones of the Castle before the evening shadows spread across Castle Rock. A huge harvest moon was already in the sky, Diana barely waiting for Apollo to leave the heavens. On my shiny new MiniDisc the music from Edward Scissorhands, just perfect to go along with this scene. Golden twilight over the gardens and the Castle, a magical scene. No wonder people thought the land of Faerie was the land of eternal twilight. It’s a magical time of night, when the mundane day metamorphoses into mysterious night and enchanted creatures creep cautiously from hidden places. Truly, as Keat's put it, autumn is "the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness."
And soon, oh so soon, this golden time of utter golden beauty will sip into the long, dark, cold Scottish winter. Icy winds coming up the Forth, driven across the North Sea from the Arctic. Eighteen hours or more of deep darkness. God I love it! I get S.A.D. in reverse - those long hours of pesky bright sunlight are depressing. Twilight and night-time are magical. Darkness promises mystery laced with danger. And today in the Metro I read about the latest dating sensation which is a restaurant with no electric lighting on, only candles. Nice and dark, flickering candlelight. I do my best work by candlelight; maybe I should put on my finest pirate shirt and go see if there are any nice vampy girls there?
Autumn leaves float to the ground
As our planet orbits round and round
Golden carpet of crunching leaves
Shadows stretching over the eves
Endless turning, endless seasons
We try so hard to give them reasons
But no reason have i ever found:
The Earth turns ever to her own sound
The drumbeat is life
Ad angel
Anyone spotted the new Vision Express - you’re eyes need to be watched over - advert shamelessly cribbing from Wim Wender’s beautiful Wings of Desire and Faraway, So Close? Complete with opticians as the invisible angels. Hmmm. Well, it’s not as bad as the awful Hollywood remake with Nicholas Cage, City of Angels. Take my word for it - ignore that version, but if you haven’t seen it you really have to see Wings of Desire, a charming, magical tale, beautifully composed and shot.
Anyone spotted the new Vision Express - you’re eyes need to be watched over - advert shamelessly cribbing from Wim Wender’s beautiful Wings of Desire and Faraway, So Close? Complete with opticians as the invisible angels. Hmmm. Well, it’s not as bad as the awful Hollywood remake with Nicholas Cage, City of Angels. Take my word for it - ignore that version, but if you haven’t seen it you really have to see Wings of Desire, a charming, magical tale, beautifully composed and shot.
Beat it
Picked up my new toy yesterday, a very cute and incredibly tiny Sharp MiniDisc, a fraction of the size of my old, deceased one. The reward I picked from a catalogue for long service in Waterstone’s. Ten years now - that is really depressing - at least they didn’t send me one of the horrid Perspex awards with my name on it as some colleagues received (it looks exactly like a very small tombstone). Still, depressing as that is, especially given I have spent a lot of time in the last 3-4 years trying so unsuccessfully to get another job. Still, on the other hand it’s a free gift and a rather splendid one and I’ll take any perks I can get from the buggers - after all they’ve had plenty of good stuff out of me over the years.
Anyway, apart from being incredibly small (not much bigger than the MiniDiscs themselves it’s also designed to integrate with other pieces of IT. USB link directly into my little laptop along with software which takes any type of music files I’ve downloaded or sampled from the onboard CD and converts them into a format for the MiniDisc, downloading them all rapidly. The long play feature means I can get over 300 minutes of song on there with perfect digital playback. I fed a blank disc 120 minutes of music in about 15-20 minutes. Much better than plugging into the back of my old stereo and fun to see something so well designed to integrate with other technology. Gorgeous sound and as a bonus it is shiny and has flashing lights. These things are important.
I do try not to be concerned with the material things in life, but dammit, I do like them soooo much. Especially when they are clever and shiny and make me feel as if the music is inside my head. Some Philip Glass this morning, elegant strings followed on my mix by deaf Scottish solo percussionist Evelyn Glennie (one of my musical heroes) playing Achibo Ache’s Dreams of the Cherry Blossoms. Warm, vibrant Marimba reproduced perfectly in my head, and then onto another Glennie track which ends with Oriental drummers (think the Crouching Tiger soundtrack during the fight scenes). Fast, kinetic, powerful. Percussive music is the oldest of all musical types in all cultures in the world and percussion instruments comprise the largest family of all musical instruments. From the most high-tech digital drums through simple five-piece drum kits (oh how well I recall bashing those skins), precision, hand-crafted marimbas to hollowed logs, it’s the most primitive form of music in one way, practised since before modern humans and at the same time the form which holds together the most sophisticated symphony. Percussion beats like the heart, or the swell of the sea crashing on the shore.
There you go, from shiny new toy to a short musical monograph inside one paragraph. Don’t say I’m not diverse.
Picked up my new toy yesterday, a very cute and incredibly tiny Sharp MiniDisc, a fraction of the size of my old, deceased one. The reward I picked from a catalogue for long service in Waterstone’s. Ten years now - that is really depressing - at least they didn’t send me one of the horrid Perspex awards with my name on it as some colleagues received (it looks exactly like a very small tombstone). Still, depressing as that is, especially given I have spent a lot of time in the last 3-4 years trying so unsuccessfully to get another job. Still, on the other hand it’s a free gift and a rather splendid one and I’ll take any perks I can get from the buggers - after all they’ve had plenty of good stuff out of me over the years.
Anyway, apart from being incredibly small (not much bigger than the MiniDiscs themselves it’s also designed to integrate with other pieces of IT. USB link directly into my little laptop along with software which takes any type of music files I’ve downloaded or sampled from the onboard CD and converts them into a format for the MiniDisc, downloading them all rapidly. The long play feature means I can get over 300 minutes of song on there with perfect digital playback. I fed a blank disc 120 minutes of music in about 15-20 minutes. Much better than plugging into the back of my old stereo and fun to see something so well designed to integrate with other technology. Gorgeous sound and as a bonus it is shiny and has flashing lights. These things are important.
I do try not to be concerned with the material things in life, but dammit, I do like them soooo much. Especially when they are clever and shiny and make me feel as if the music is inside my head. Some Philip Glass this morning, elegant strings followed on my mix by deaf Scottish solo percussionist Evelyn Glennie (one of my musical heroes) playing Achibo Ache’s Dreams of the Cherry Blossoms. Warm, vibrant Marimba reproduced perfectly in my head, and then onto another Glennie track which ends with Oriental drummers (think the Crouching Tiger soundtrack during the fight scenes). Fast, kinetic, powerful. Percussive music is the oldest of all musical types in all cultures in the world and percussion instruments comprise the largest family of all musical instruments. From the most high-tech digital drums through simple five-piece drum kits (oh how well I recall bashing those skins), precision, hand-crafted marimbas to hollowed logs, it’s the most primitive form of music in one way, practised since before modern humans and at the same time the form which holds together the most sophisticated symphony. Percussion beats like the heart, or the swell of the sea crashing on the shore.
There you go, from shiny new toy to a short musical monograph inside one paragraph. Don’t say I’m not diverse.
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