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Saturday, December 31, 2022
No One Round Here Reads Tolstoy: Memoirs of a Working-Class Reader by Mark Hodkinson (Canongate 2022)
Friday, December 30, 2022
Thursday, December 29, 2022
Friday, December 23, 2022
On Days Like These: My Life in Football by Martin O'Neill (Macmillan 2022)
Within a few days I’m in residence above McKay’s Café, in a room – essentially a converted attic – with Seamus and another ten guys, much older than us, who rise much earlier than we do and arrive back at their digs much later than we do. They spend the night chatting about their respective jobs and at the weekend, if they don’t go back home, spend the early hours of the morning detailing their conquests of some hours before. Nottingham, I’m told early on, is a city with five girls to every fellow, so the chances of them getting hitched with someone, at least for the evening, are, I surmise, reasonably decent. Even so, I’m not convinced that their bawdy stories – told to each other at four o’clock on a Sunday morning – ring completely true. Some of these men have, in all honesty, not been introduced to a bar of soap in a week. So if these stories have a semblance of truth then Seamus and I feel that we must have a chance ourselves of finding a girlfriend, because we have not only washed, but also have a little aftershave to hand.
I have been at the club less than twenty-four hours. Bill Anderson, as he tends to do when under some stress, reaches for his breast pocket and produces an outsize handkerchief to wipe some beads of sweat from his brow. If my affair at the Henry Road landlord’s house is causing him to perspire, heaven knows what Saturday at White Hart Lane might do to him.
Regardless, he brings me into the reserve team dressing room and introduces me to the players. Most of these lads are my age, perhaps a year or eighteen months older, one or two are a little younger. In fact, John Robertson, almost a complete year younger than me, came on as a substitute last Saturday against Liverpool and may well start the game this coming weekend against Tottenham Hotspur.
Robertson is an interesting character. A young Scotsman from the outskirts of Glasgow, he has been at the club since he was fifteen years old. He is a very talented centre midfield player, with two really good feet, and can spray passes all over the pitch. Robertson is extremely well thought of at the club and a player of much promise. He is also extremely popular in this dressing room, despite the fact that he seems to have plenty to say for himself. All this I glean from my first fifteen minutes in the changing room on 21 October 1971. The introductions finished, Bill departs and I put on my Nottingham Forest training gear, with the number 10 sewn into the shirt and tracksuit. This will be my training number for the next decade. I am acutely self-conscious of the large birthmark over my right shoulder, and keep my back to the wall when disrobing. But they will spot it eventually after training when we jump into the communal bath adjacent to the dressing room. I suppose I will have to endure the almost endless ribbing I received from the Distillery players, who seemed to find continuous mirth at my expense.
Thursday, December 22, 2022
Wednesday, December 21, 2022
Monday, December 19, 2022
Saturday, December 17, 2022
Fergie Rises: How Britain's Greatest Football Manager Was Made At Aberdeen by Michael Grant (Aurum Press 2014)
Monday, December 12, 2022
Sunday, December 11, 2022
Fingers Crossed : How Music Saved Me from Success by Miki Berenyi (Nine Eight Books 2022)
Wednesday, December 07, 2022
Monday, December 05, 2022
Why Me? by Donald E. Westlake (Mysterious Press 1983)
Saturday, December 03, 2022
Nobody’s Perfect by Donald E. Westlake (Mysterious Press 1977)
Tiny said to him, “You the driver?”
“The best,” Murch said, matter-of-factly.
“It was a driver got me sent up my last stretch,” Tiny said. “Took back roads around a roadblock, made a wrong turn, come up behind the roadblock, thought he was still in front of it. We blasted our way through, back into the search area.”
Murch looked sympathetic. “That’s tough,” he said.
“Fella named Sigmond. You know him?”
“I don’t believe so,” Murch said.
“Looked a little like you,” Tiny said.
“Is that right?”
“Before we got outa the car, when the cops surrounded us, I broke his neck. We all said it was whiplash from the sudden stop.”
Another little silence fell. Stan Murch sipped thoughtfully at his beer. Dortmunder took a mouthful of bourbon. Tiny Bulcher slugged down the rest of his vodka-and-red-wine. Then Murch nodded, slowly, as though coming to a conclusion about something. “Whiplash,” he commented. “Yeah, whiplash. That can be pretty mean.”
“So can I,” said Tiny, and the door opened again . . .
Sunday, November 27, 2022
Jimmy the Kid by Donald E. Westlake (Mysterious Press 1974)
Thursday, November 24, 2022
Bank Shot by Donald E. Westlake (Mysterious Press 1972)
The lieutenant looked out the side window, though without any hope. They were climbing a hill, and just ahead was the sign for McKay’s Diner. The lieutenant remembered the free cheeseburger he’d been promised, and smiled. He was about to turn his head toward the captain and suggest they stop for a snack when he saw the diner was gone again. ‘Well, I’ll be darned,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘That diner, sir,’ the lieutenant said as they drove by. ‘They went out of business already.’
‘Is that right.’ The captain didn’t sound interested.
‘Even faster than I thought,’ the lieutenant said, looking back at the space where the diner had been.
‘We’re looking for a bank, Lieutenant, not a diner.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The lieutenant faced front, began again to scan the countryside. ‘I knew they wouldn’t make it,’ he said.
Sunday, November 20, 2022
The Fugitive Pigeon by Donald E. Westlake (Random House 1965)
Saturday, November 19, 2022
The Prisoner of Brenda by Colin Bateman (Headline 2012)
‘Are you deliberately trying to provoke me?’
‘It’s a distinct possibility,’ I said.
‘You do know that there can only be one winner here?’
‘It’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.’
‘What?’
‘A bird in the hand is—’
‘Enough! Jesus, Mary and Joseph! I’ve had you down as a troublemaker from the moment you were carried in here, and now it’s right out in the open for everyone to see! Well, you listen to me, mister, we live by harmony here, not anarchy! These pizzas have been brought in from outside at not inconsiderable expense, as a special treat, but they’ll bloody well go in the bin if you continue with this outright . . . defiance – yes, that’s exactly what it is – defiance! Do you think I’m going to go without dinner tonight? No, but these poor souls, they certainly will if you do not see the error of your ways and apologise for your attitude and your behaviour. Immediately.’
Her stare was intense.
Michael slipped off his earphones. ‘Apologise, man, you’re not going to win.’
Joe said, ‘Do it, I’m starving.’
Malachy pointed a finger at me. ‘Say “you’re sorry. We get pizza once a month if we’re lucky. Don’t fuck it up.’
Andy stared at the pizzas.
JMJ raised an eyebrow. ‘Well?’
Yes, her eyes were good, but she was no Nurse Brenda – or Alison, for that matter – and I knew my plan was good, and for every moment I held my silence I knew that it was drawing closer to fruition.
‘Okay,’ she said, ‘have it your—’
I spoke. Muttered.
‘What was that?’ JMJ snapped. ‘If you’re going to apologise, speak up, let everyone hear you.’
I said, a little louder, ‘Food fight.’
She screwed up her eyes and leaned a little closer. ‘What was that?’
‘I said . . . FOOD FIGHT!’
I reached down and picked up one of the pizzas. It was cold and as firm as a discus. “The orderly looked from the pizza to me to JMJ and back, utterly confused and seeking direction.
JMJ began to say, ‘Put that d—’ but then had to duck as I Frisbeed it across the dining room towards her. It smeared off her left shoulder and hit the wall behind her, leaving a snail trail of cheese as it slipped to the floor.
‘C’mon!’ I yelled, urging the others to join in, ‘Food fight!’ I lunged at another pizza just as the orderly jumped at me, knocking me forwards and across the table. ‘Food fight!’ I screeched. He had me by the neck, pressing down. I screwed my head to one side and spat out: ‘C’mon, you half-wits! Food fight! This is your chance! C’mon!’
But they sat there, looking blankly at me. I managed to grab another pizza but a second orderly came rushing in and caught my hand and bent my fingers back until I let go and then they pulled me up and back and JMJ came round the table and put her face in mine and raised her hand and grabbed my cheek and pinched it between her fingers and twisted it and snarled, ‘Anything you want to say now?’
‘Yes . . . yes!’
‘Well?’
‘You don’t eat pizza with forks, you fucking witch!’
‘Pathetic!’ And she twisted my cheek even harder and it brought tears to my eyes and she smiled and said, ‘Take him to his room and lock him in, and I don’t want to see him until breakfast. You can have a long hard think about your behaviour and I expect a full and sincere apology or I swear to God . . . !'
Thursday, November 17, 2022
Friday, November 11, 2022
Friday's Playlist #27.5
- Gene Loves Jezebel, 'Suspicion' (The House of Dolls)
- The Beatles, 'Doctor Robert' (Revolver)
- Amy Rigby, 'The Summer Of My Wasted Youth' (18 Again - An Anthology)
- Gil Scott- Heron, ' Lady Day and John Coltrane' (Pieces of a Man)
- Elbow, 'Scattered Black and Whites' (Asleep in the Back)
- Shelagh Mcdonald, 'Let No Man Steal Your Thyme' (Album)
- Paul McCartney, 'Jenny Wren' (Chaos and Creation in the Backyard)
- Los Lobos - 'Will the Wolf Survive?' (How Will the Wolf Survive?)
- Summer Fiction - 'She's Bound To Get Hurt' (Summer Fiction)
- Charlie Rich - 'The Most Beautiful' (Behind Closed Doors)
Friday's Playlist #27 (For real this time . . . )
That's hilarious. Turns out I'd had an earlier notion to revive the Friday Playlist on the blog. The post below has been hiding in drafts since 2011! Half the bands listed I don't have a scooby about. I don't even know where I might have stumbled over them. By 2011 MySpace was long gone as an online space for finding new music, and the wonderful PBS/WNET 13 New York Noise had been cancelled fours years before. Maybe I was sniffing around Pitchfork 11 years ago, and just 'liking' what was in fashion. I'm being a bit harsh on myself; the Holy Ghost and The Suicide Commandos' tracks are both top notch, and I love Ivy's cover of the Steely Dan classic. The only track on the playlist that I couldn't find on Spotify was The Polyamorous Affair track. Click on the link below to find it on YouTube.
. . . And there's only 9 tracks listed. Maybe back in 2011 the door bell rang and I never got back to the post. Think of the missing 10th track as a John Cage tribute.
From Sep 30, 2011
Only a three and a half year gap between numbers 26 & 27, but when you've got as few readers as I have, who's counting?
Please don't let me be misunderstood. The revival of the Friday Playlist isn't a late attempt to revive the flagging fortunes of the blog's sitemeter . . . or even to dredge up that old notion of turning the blog into a music blog. Just me taking advantage of Spotify recently launching in the US.
What was once 'ongoing series'
Holy Ghost!, 'Do It Again' (Holy Ghost!) The Suicide Commandos, 'She' (Make A Record) LCD Soundsystem, 'Drunk Girls' (This Is Happening) Dr. Feelgood, 'Roxette' (Down By The Jetty) Thunderclap Newman, 'Look Around' (Hollywood Dream) The Bitter Springs, 'Big Sweaty Dad' (Poor Trace) Ivy, 'Only A Fool Would Say That' (Guestroom) The Polyamorous Affair, 'White Hot Magic' (Bolshevik Disco) The Ark, 'Patchouli' (We Are The Ark)
Tuesday, November 08, 2022
Be Stiff: The Stiff Records Story by Richard Balls (Soundcheck Books 2015)
Monday, November 07, 2022
Sunday, November 06, 2022
Hooked: Addiction and the Long Road to Recovery by Paul Merson with Rob Bagchi (Headline 2021)
Friday, October 28, 2022
Tuesday, October 25, 2022
Monday, October 24, 2022
Sunday, October 23, 2022
Remainders of the Day: More Diaries from The Bookshop, Wigtown by Shaun Bythell (Profile Books 2022)
Friday, October 21, 2022
A Heart Full of Headstones by Ian Rankin (Orion 2022)
'Are you quite sure?’ Bartleby had asked him on more than one occasion.
‘I’ve a life’s worth of mitigation,’ Rebus had assured him.
‘Then not guilty it is,’ Bartleby had agreed.
Doors were being opened to allow access to the Crown’s first witness. Andrew, who had handed police the CCTV from Cafferty’s penthouse, strode in. He wore an expensive suit and sported a new haircut. Dapper and ready for bigger things, he locked eyes with Rebus, and grinned.
Sunday, October 16, 2022
Dr. Yes by Colin Bateman (Headline 2010)
I have never in my whole life actually physically pursued a case, because any kind of activity requiring increased motor function is something I have to be wary of, but I could hardly help myself. Of course I didn't know it was a case then. Then it was just a man walking past my window - but what a man! You see, in my field of crime fiction, Augustine Wogan was an enigma, a myth wrapped up in a legend, a barely published novelist and screenwriter who was known to so few that they didn't even qualify as a cult following, it was more like stalking. He was, nevertheless, Belfast's sole contribution to the immortals of the crime-writing genre. His reputation rested on three novels self-published in the late 1970s, novels so tough, so real, so heartbreaking that they blew every other book that tried to deal with what was going on over here right out of the water. Until then, novels about the Troubles had invariably been written by visiting mainland journalists, who perhaps got most of their facts right, but never quite captured the atmosphere or the sarcasm. Augustine Wogan's novels were so on the ball that he was picked up by the RUC and questioned because they thought he had inside information about their shoot-to-kill policy; shot at by the IRA because they believed he had wrung secrets out of a drunken quartermaster; and beaten up by the UVF because they had nothing better to do. He had been forced to flee the country, and although he had returned since, he had never, at least as far as I was aware, settled here again. I occasionally picked up snippets of information about him from other crime- writing aficionados, the latest being that he had been employed to write the screenplay for the next James Bond movie, Titter of Wit, but had been fired for drunkenness. There was always a rumour of a new novel, of him being signed up by a big publisher or enthusiastic agent, but nothing ever appeared in print. The books that made up the Barbed-Wire Love trilogy were never republished. They are rarer than hen's teeth. I regarded the box of them I kept upstairs as my retirement fund. In those few moments when I saw him pass the shop, I knew that if I could just persuade him to sign them, their value would be instantly quadrupled. They say money is at the root of all evil, but I have to be pragmatic. I am devoted to crime fiction, but I am also devoted to eating, and Augustine Wogan was just the meal ticket I was looking for.
Tuesday, October 11, 2022
The Day of the Jack Russell by Colin Bateman (Headline 2009)
Saturday, October 08, 2022
Mystery Man by Colin Bateman (Headline 2009)
Friday, October 07, 2022
Thursday, October 06, 2022
Lurking in the drafts for some reason . . .
. . . don't ask me why. Probably thought at the time that I was going to pen a 5,000 word blog post on the intersection of Darts and Revolutionary Socialism but I got sidetracked watching a Still Game marathon.
It happens . . . it happens too often.