gibberish

I was extremely privileged to be invited to attend the Remembering Service for Michael Wills at The Apex Hotel in Edinburgh’s Grassmarket yesterday, along with Jeana. We knew Michael through his wife Elspeth who both Jeana and I worked with, and for, at different times in our lives.

Michael was, is, one of Edinburgh’s unsung heroes. Having retired from a distinguished career as a librarian at Edinburgh’s Heriot Watt University he took to retirement with relish.

Michael was a striking physical specimin. He suffered for many years from Ankylosing Spondylitis which may have been a consequence of a broken back many years ago. Whether or not this is the case I know not, but either way it meant he walked with a pronounced stoop. His gregarious nature and constant smile marked him out as different from ‘ordinary’ people. In that respect the photo above is very representative of him.

Michael was a true intellectual, but he was in no way elitist about this and this was reflected wonderfully in the unique Remembering Service which featured original poetry (the stunning ‘revising the Blue Guide to Scotland’ by Anna Crowe), Happy the Man by his wonderful wife of 39 years, Elspeth, and a poem written in his honour by his nephew Jonathon Wills.

But the readings from The Origin of the Species (First Edition - where there is no mention of the creation - Michael was a staunch aetheist) and The Song of Solomon (ironically perhaps - a bible story that Michael sent Elspeth as a love letter in his courting days) really added to the eclecticism of the day

A truly moving and beautiful ceremony - we were indeed glad to have had a small place in Elspeth and Michael’s lives.

RIP.

The talent of David Peace is pretty well documented, but not in the mainstream. Which is a shame because in some ways he is a mainstream writer. Well, he writes crime novels and has written one about football. (Incidentally, the best sports book I have ever read as I documented here.)

This is firmly in the crime camp. But it’s not Rebus.

David Peace is a unique writer. His style is more aggressive than Mike Tyson on the downturn.

Short.

Sharp.

One sentence para’s.

And grizzly, basic, twisted, evil, some might say sick, uncompromising but utteerly compelling situations.

A plot more convoluted than the current US Democratic Primaries.

1974 is the first in a quartet of books, now known as the Yorkshire series. It’s set in Leeds, Wakefield, Huddersfield and other cities in the grim north. It is not inconsistent with the grim north America of Silence of The Lambs.

Centring around the story of rookie crime reporter Edward Dunford and the murder of a child (part of a serial killer series we are led to believe) it soon escalates into a full-blown corruption case.

Dunford, the masogynistic beer, whisky fag and sex overindulger soon finds himself way out of his depth in a world of property developers, rugby league stars, mediums and worst of all bent cops.

Rather than painting Dunford as the hero Peace makes him a hateful scumbag, and yet still maintains his heroic stance throughout the book.

I cannot think of a central character, of late, that so deflects your sympathy, and yet in at least small amounts, garners it. I can think of few writers that are so visceral and don’t, frankly, give a fuck.

This is a great book. But if you are in any way sensitive…avoid.

But for me, the best thing is I still have three books to read in the quartet , and this is apparently the safe one.

It’s a thrilling prospect.

Although Josh Brolin, playing Llewelyn Moss, is ostensibly the star of the Cormac McCarthy story, his faultless performance is overshadowed by that of Javier Bardem - the “hood” Anton Chigurh. Bardem’s performance is unquestionably the stuff of Oscars and every time he hits the screen the effect is electrifing. Seemingly inhuman (other than the time he spares the life of an old petrol station owner on the toss of a coin) he radiates evilness.

Set in Texas and on the Mexican border in 1980 the tale verges at times on the preposterous as a tangled web involving trailer trash opportunist, Moss, stumbles upon$2 million dollars as the result of a shoot out between rival Mexican gangs at the handover of a truck load of drugs. Instead of handing it into the police like any good boy would do he decides to keep it and there then follows an elaborate chase to get the money back, led by Bardem , The Mexican’s hired hand. It is much complicated by the simultaneous tracking of Moss by, but the other Mexican gang, a Private detective/hitman, Woody Harrelson, and a “whatever” Police Sherrif, the world and police force-weary Tommy Lee Jones who is nearing his retirement.

In the middle of it all sits the vulnerable and utterly convincing wife of Moss played beautifully by Kelly MacDonald. What a repertoire she has - her range is astonishing and she is quickly becoming one of Scotland’s greatest actresses ever.

The title is in some aways a parody. It’s difficult to reach old age in this racket and the deaths clock up on a regular basis. but also it represents the central theme of the movie which rotates around Thornton’s imminent retirement and the memory of his father, also a copper, who died young (in his 40’s).

It is a movie about death and has strong ethical and moral undertones. Although he has little screen time it is Thornton who is, in reality, the central protagonist as it is he who bookends the action with his reflections on life and its meaning.

The action is pretty grizzly but rarely gratuitous, as the Coen’s have chosen to direct it lightly - no great, epic cinematography - but great cinematography nonetheless, no music AT ALL - it’s almost a Hollywood Dogme film and that adds greatly to its impact.

Heavy-handed direction, big scores, florid cinematography; all would have turned the prepostrousness of the tale into a prepostrous movie. As it is, it succeeds effortlessly in being the movie the great mafia directors (Coppola, Mann, Scorsese) would die for. In the hands of Tarantino the film might have become a parody of the book.

The Coen Brothers are very, very good filmmakers. This is a very, very good Coen Brothers film.

9 out of 10.

In my spare time, when I’m not writing this drivel, I sit on a fundraising committee for the advertising and media industry in Scotland called NABS (National Advertising Benevolent Society). It pays for the repair of broken Ferrari axles and so on. (That’s a joke!)

Last night was the inaugural Burns Supper for said charity and despite doing bugger all in terms of organising it I found myself on the top table clapped in as we followed the piper into the the main suite at the Roxburgh Hotel in Edinburgh. Then, to my delight, I found I was seated next to wit and raconteur, Charlie Mclean, one of world’s greatest authorities on Malt whisky and allegedly the most famous whisky writer in Macedonia.

He can certainly lay claim to having one of the more distinguished moustaches in Edinburgh.

It transpires that all that nosing, swirling and spitting out of whisky to “taste” it is a load of bollocks. You just neck it and move on. That was an interesting and reassuring insight. Between us and not many others we “nosed” a bottle of Old Poulteney.

The event was a triumph and Keith Crane should be knighted or something for his efforts.

My highlight of the evening was, on telling Charlie that he must read a sublime Newfoundland collection of short stories by Alastair Mcleod, called “The lost Salt Gift of Blood” which had been recommended to me by Simon Scott he told me that he had recommended it to Simon Scott.

Now, this is a book that is beyond reviewable. It is possibly the finest book I have ever read (pre blog days) and concerns itself with life in Newfoundlanfd. Taut, sparingly written and seemingly monochromatic it is a bleak but intense insight into human life.

It’s been out of print for years but second hand copies are available through Amazon. Sadly, I lent my copy to some bastard who never gave it back to me but I urge you to read it.

(If you are the bastard I leant it to could you give it back please.)

I played golf in the winter league this morning. I think the “nosing” affected my performance a tad. Four 7’s on the back nine not being the basis of great success, although my partner, Jon Rough (good name for golf), pissed it and won the medal.

(PS.  I gave the book to the Mrs, so forget the above random accusation.)

“I wouldn’t say I was the best manager in the business. But I was in the top one.”

So said Brian Clough; reflecting on his up and down career.

I have written elsewhere about the Clough phenomenon, in my review of the quite remarkable David Peace novel, Damned Utd but this is something different and just as touching.

The man is truly unique and I bought Provided you don’t kiss me, the 2007 William Hill Book of The Year, on the basis that I thought it would be full of ascerbic and hilarious insights into his career as seen by an insider.

It’s written by the previously unknown (in book terms at least) Duncan Hamilton, but surely we can’t have seen the last of him. Hamilton was a rookie sportswriter/reporter on the Nottingham Evening Post and so got first dibs on Cloughie for over 20 years. The relationship he built with Clough is at the heart of this book.

It is a thing of great beauty.

It’s no kiss and tell, despite the title, rather it is a heart felt, honest, even loving reminiscence of how a provincial reporter built an intimate, trusting relationship with the greatest football manager in history; and let’s not overlook this fact. He was.

Let’s get this in perspective. Nottingham Forest winning a League title and two European cups in the late seventies was the equivelant of someone like Stoke, or Colchester doing it now. Provincial, modest crowds (never above 25,000 even at their peak) and peniless.

And yet. And yet.

And yet Clough (and let’s not forget Taylor - Hamilton sure doesn’t) built Nottingham Forest into the greatest team in Europe.

They pissed on the mighty Liverpool.

But the book is not a football borefest. It ain’t for anoraks, it’s for people who love people. Clough was like a surrogate father to Hamilton. It was a love affair of sorts. A truly symbiotic relationship.

As the book moves through the glory years and into Clough’s decline it is sad beyond belief. At several points I was close to tears as Hamilton recounts Cloughie’s decline into alcoholism, his loss of dignity and confidence and his eventual, rather sad, retirement and most heartfelt of all; his death.

This book is a window into the human soul. A historical insight that no-one else could have written.

It IS funny in parts; because Cloughie was a star comedian (indeed he was a mate of Eric Morecambe’s).

But poignancy is its greates virtue.

Wonderful.

Just finished this wee cracker. It’s a ripping yarn about an English crafty criminal turned double agent set during WWII. He’s a womaniser, a serial petty crook, safe breaker, heart breaker and code breaker. It’s all highly unlikely.

But it’s true.

A fun and very easy read that doesn’t need a military mind to enjoy it.

Splendid.

Looking forward to the almost inevitable movie.

As I head off to enjoy, with a heavy cold, the Hogmanay celebrations it’s time to bring the 2007 blog to an end.

Looking back on the year one thing will rise above all other memories of 2007, the passing away of my father.

A great man who had a great send off.

Saturday past was a poignant ending to the year as we committed his ashes and closed a half open door. My Mum, all of my sisters, Jeana, Denny and James were there at a simple ceremony that was just right.

I have said much on this subject , but it can be summed up here.

The Hibees winning their first cup in 16 years was a great highlight too, but slightly marred by the aftermath and then JC’s ‘walking on water’ turning into ‘JC plays Judas’ in December.

Shame on you JC.

A full year of working for myself was very rewarding and proved I can bring the family up at the same time. That meant a lot to me.

As did my 78 on The Queens Course in November and my 78 at Ratho in August, my first ever single-figure-above-par golf round.

Amy’s Standard Grade results were outstanding and made both Jeana and I very proud, as did Tom with his pre-eminence on the golf course and Ria’s determination on the Gymnastics floor. She finally achieved that elusive bridged kick-over during the summer but was once again thwarted in her chase for a merit at her cnmpetition in November because the judges raised the bar and docked her points because her cuffs were too long.

It will happen.

Jeana’s contribution to a beautiful; Queensferry and her ability to manage the Queensferry’s non-gardening population in a rendition of Strictly Come Cat Herding was worthy of merit.

In books Joshua Ferris’, Then we came to the end was my new book of the year.

In music it had to be Robert Plant and Alison Krauss’ Raising Sand.

And my movie of the year? A tough one, but I’ll plump for Control, just edging out Atonement.

TV show of the year? UI’m tempted to go for The Secret Millionaire but the one that inspired me most was the Genius of Photography.

The greatest thing that happened to me technologically was the discovery of Flickr and the amazing avenues it opened for me.

Gig of the year was a close call between midlake at the ABC in Glasgow and Candie Payne at Cabaret Voltaire. But I have to give it to midlake because they are the greatest band on earth right now (including Arcade Fire) and I saw them.

Ridiculous decision of the year undoubtedly goes top The Nobel Prize Jury who gave Al Gore the Peace Prize. Why? Great guy, great politics, great movie. Peace prize? Get real.

But awarding that free kick to Italy in the 90th minute runs it close. But that’s not just ridiculous. That’s corruption.

And my man of 2007, for several reasons, was Mike Donoghue.

Restaurant of the Year was, no question, Kismot.

Best day out was, ironically in a way because it was set amongst so much sorrow, the day Jeana and I walked to Cramond Island in a post-funeral state of exhaustion, shock and trauma to return, in a way spiritually refreshed, and to be met by Tony Delicata’s offer of a free lunch at The Cramond Brig.

Tony. That hit the spot.

Performance of the year went to my sister Jane for her rumbustious rendition of A Fairy Tale of New York at the FAT Christmas show.

Twats of the year? Mondial Insurance. Get it up Ya.

Muppets of the Year. Sky. Get it up ya. (But at least we’ve had a laugh at their expense.)

Wife of the year? Jeana Gorman.

Put it this way. I couldn’t live with me.

And so to 2008.

My hopes?

Terry makes a full recovery.

Terry and I share school barbie duties at St Margarets in June.

Hibees remember they are a football team now that they are a succesful business. You’re not in the dock yet Mr Petrie but there will come a point after you’ve coined in another few million in January when enough is enough. (Oh yes, and we win the Scottish Cup, but even before it starts I’m putting that one on hold for 2009.)

Tom gets down to a 14 handicap.

Tiger Woods wins the Grand Slam (I don’t care I love Tiger Woods) but Scotland also find a golfer (Mark Warren looks the only real contender.)

I win something, anything, at Dundas Park.

PT Anderson wins Best Director at The Oscars.

Amy skooshes her highers.

Ria gets a merit at Gymnastics.

Jeana realises her potential. (Or at least realises she’s realised it!)

My mum and Emily have a fantastic time in China.

Carlisle Utd get promoted to the Championship.

Boris the Spider returns to the racetrack.

I am healthy throughout.

Jeana writes…

I can’t do a top ten of books of the year. I haven’t read that many so it wouldn’t be a very good list. I got off to quite a slow start and then seem to have stuck to the same authors. I’ve decided instead just to let you know what books I have read and what I thought of them. No great analysis though I’m afraid I either like the book or I don’t. (I’ve realised I’ve actually read quite a few so these are the ones that are top of mind.)

FEAR by Jeff Abbott

I read PANIC last year and thoroughly enjoyed it . However, FEAR is much of the same and although the pace is fast you’re left thinking so what.

A Short HIstory of Tractors in UKRAINIAN by Marina Lewycka

I read this on Mark’s recommendation. He said it was hilarious. I’ve never read anything so sick and sad in my life. The poor man’s (he’s 84) wife dies and he subsequently falls in love with a glamourous blonde Ukrainian divorcee (she’s 36). They move in together and she proceeds to abuse him and he ends up locking himself in his room in fear. Mark said it was hilarious. I couldn’t see the funny side and couldn’t wait to finish the book for all the wrong reasons.

The Interpretation of Murder by Jed Rubenfeld

Freud and Jung come to New York and get embroiled investigating a murder. As you do. Once I got my head round the idea the book iimproved but I still felt it was trying too hard or I was missing the point.

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly by Jean-Dominique Bauby

I recommended this to Amy during the Summer. She was looking for something to analyse for English. An excellent book. I re-read it. Jean-Dominique Bauby, editor in chief of French Elle, has a massive stroke and can only communicate by blinking one eye. The book has been “dictated” to his PA by blinking. I originally read it after coming home at midnight after, I think, Gerry Farrel’s 40th. Picked the book up with my cup of tea and as Mark walked in about 3.00 am I told him not to speak to me as I was finishing the last couple of pages. What can I say, go out and buy it. I picked it up for £3.67 in Tesco.

On Chesil Beach by Ian McEwan

I enjoyed this but it was a bit slow. One of those books you feel it’s taking ages to get into and just as you have, it’s finished. I know Ian and Mark really enjoyed it and I read it on their recommendation. But all in all a bit slow.

Things my mother never told me by Blake Morrison

A great read. I enjoyed reading all about his family life and to “hear” it from a different point of view.

I had read And did you last see your father? years ago.

I remembered he was the man in charge of the household and what he said went. A generation thing I think, we’ve all been there in some form or another.

It was great to hear the story from his mother’s point of view. How lives end up the way they do, how we accept the way things are done. I went back and re-read And when did you last see your father? straight after. I don’t fancy the film though it looks a bit sentimental which neither book was.

For one more day by Mitch Albom

Nice wee book all about meeting his mother just one more time after she has died, but not as good as the five people you meet in heaven.

I went onto Google to check if the man has some sort of obsession about the afterlife but couldn’t find anything. Does anyone know?

I then read tuesdays with Morrie.

Loved it. Didn’t put it down until it was finished. Just buy a copy and read it. In fact buy all three, they’re well worth it.
A Thousand Splended Suns by Khaled Hosseini

Loved this. What a life these Afghnistani women have. To read about their lives and the horrors they have to endure. Excellent. If you want to read a book read this.

Then follow it with The Kite Runner if you haven’t read it already.

The Peel Sessions

This is not literary genius, far from it.  Most would argue that it is an anorak’s notebook and that would be very close to the truth.  But, you know what.  It’s great.  It proves that Peel, and his army of producers, most notably John Walters, were demi-gods and men of much greatness that transformed the lives of the bands they broke and their many dedicated listeners (self included).

It’s also a cornucopia of facts.  The headliner being.  Which band did the most Peel Sessions?  The answer is, of course, The Fall with 24.

Yes, 24!

He liked them then…

Truly the world is depleted without him.

It was a slow year for me. I can’t have read more than a dozen books in all, but very few duffers came my way, indeed I think the Mrs may have out-read me and will no doubt post her own best-of by close of play today.

However many of the best books I read were recommended by Ian Dommett, so he goes to the top of my critics list.

In no particular order my favourite reads of the year were.

The Handmaids Tale by Margaret Atwood.

In truth this probably wins by a nose. The fact that it was written in 1985 is a strength as it shows off her perceptiveness even better than if one read it at the time of its release. Is it her best book? Hard to say as she is such a brilliant writer, but it certainly sits alongside Oryx and Crake, The Robber Bride, Alias Grace and he Blind Assassin. All magnificent.

You’ll find my full review here if you are interested.

Then We came to The End by Joshua Ferris

I predict this will be a monster in paperback. It’s been on many year end lists this year and so should get the reviews it deserves when it comes out in PB in 2008. I think it’s slated for a movie too, although the mystery that is implicit in its writing will probably be diluted on screen. I reviewed it here.

The Damned Utd byDavid Peace

My all time favourite sports book. It’s a novel but reads like a Biography od Brian Clough in his 43 days as manager of Leeds Utd. Not a happy experience. It is frightening how out of control Cloughie was. So good was it that I asked for, and recieved, “provided you don’t Kiss me, 20 Years with Brian Clough” for my Christmas. I’m really looking forward to that. Anyway I reviewed David Peace here. Highly recommended.

An Occurance at Owl Creek by Ambrose Bierce

It’s just a short story but it’s packed with drama and a brilliant twist.  Read more here.

 The Virgin Suicides by Jeffery Eugenides

I was blown away by this.  Far superior (aren’t they all) to the movie; it gets right under your skin in a very odd way.  But he’s a very odd writer.  My mother read this and his other masterpiece, Middlesex, on my recommendation and loved both of them.  More here.

The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins

This is an interesting but overwritten and ultimately pompous diatribe against the existence of God.  Nevertheless, until he starts getting overly political about it all it is a very interesting essay and worthy of reading for anyone who has any interest in the existence of god(s).  Read more here.

 Auchwitz by Laurence Rees

I was gripped by this book and I also liked the BBC Drama later in the year that depicted the liberation of Auchwitz.  Not by the same writer.

It’s a detailed account of the concept behind Auchwitz and throws the net of Nazi guilt far wider than Hitler.  Well written and absorbing it is, despite its gruesome content, a compelling read. 

 On Chesil Beach by Ian McEwan

Great, but not his greatest.  I wrote an overly glowing review of this on completion, but, in hindsight, it’s a bit style over content.  Still beats most of the muck that gets published though.

Agent Zig Zag by Ben Macintyre

If this was a novel it would be rejected on grounds of ludicracy.  It is in fact, the true life account of an English Double agent who crossed sides more often than Michael Stewart.  It’s real boys own stuff and a splendid read.  What ho!

This novel is quite extraordinary.  Margaret Atwood, at her best, is a remarkable writer.  But this is perhaps her finest hour.  Her ability to write sci-fi (as in both this novel and in Oryx and Crake) in such a way that it bears comparison to Huxley and Otrwell (as opposed to Asimov and Clarke) AND to write historical period pieces such as Alias Grace and the Robber Bride is, in my experience, unmatched.

Like many of her novels a very strong feminist subplot lies at the core, but that should not put male readers off because the writing is so powerful and the ideas, politics (not just sexual) and plotting are so engaging and page-turning.

The novel was written in 1985 and, like 1984 by George Orwell, it could almost have realised itself in this reader’s lifetime.

It is set, nominally, in the mid 21st century in a dystopian society ruled by men in a land called Gilead - but in reality the USA.  (Atwood’s home nation, Canada, has a minor role as a heroic state.)

Following an unnamed “war” and rebellion a male-run fascist state emerges where women become either reproductive breeders and servents or else sent to the “colonies” to clear up nuclear waste, as fodder.

Our heroine, Offred, is one of these reproductive handmaids and tells her story across the pre- and post-rebellion period reflecting in flashback, throughout the book, on her blissful previous existance and in the present on the indignity of her plight.

The detail and plotting of this novel is breathtaking.  All sorts of “inventions” and political outcomes are now (in 2007) realised from what was fantasy at the time of writing.  Her political insights are incredible and her support for feminism unstinting.

This is a sublime novel and I cannot wait to see the movie again.

Do yourself a favour.  Read it.

Now!

I’ve read all three of Zadie Smith’s books and I’m sorry to say that, for me, she pushed it too far this time.

Issues are, of course, what leads people to write, have ideas and put their opinions on the map, but variety is the spice of life.

Zadie Smith, like Spike Lee, is popular in middle-class arty white society and, I suspect, likes the fact. But both of them are obsessed with being black, to the point that they lose perspective.

On Beauty is, on the surface, a polemic on the shallowness of beauty (or indeed the beauty of beauty), but really it’s about being black. Big bootys as opposed to big beauties. Smith adds a fresh dimension to her writing by introducing a mixed race marriage at its core and an adulterous husband (one white, one black victim).

But it’s the same old same old.

Truth be told, her WRITING is brilliant as ever, but her plotting is feeble and the denouement farcical.

I struggled though all 450 pages of this novel and admired bits of it, I think her dialogue is as good as anybody writing today that I’ve read (It’ll make a good screenplay) but I think Zadie Smith needs a sabbatical to find new writing material/subjects.

Honestly.

Or is it just that I ain’t black?

“They were young, educated and both virgins on this, their wedding night, and they lived in a time when a conversation about sexual difficulties was plainly impossible.”

The opening line of On Chesil Beach sets the whole book out before you like an expansive, inviting fairway with a distant green inviting triumph or disaster in equal terms.

This is a trip, just as in Atonement, through the crippling static electricity that fucks up common sense in the English class system. A generation on from Atonement (in 1962) it covers familiar ground, the class divide, unspeakable things that need to be spoken, guilt, anxiety and foolishness wrapped up in a comedy of manners. Perhaps this is McEwan’s masterpiece. It’s short and to the point and yet the expanse of descriptive prose that this book crams in, tardis-like, is breathtaking. Barely three pages of dialogue punctuate this book. Instead it is a two-sided insider’s view of how the denoument, inevitably comes to be.

The characters are vivid, believable, kind of likeable (despite their demons) and certainly sympathetic. It is one of McEwans’s great strengths that he can build a range of male and female characters that one understands and likes despite, or because of, their frialties. Not many others are as capable, as often as he is.

The book builds itself around a series of ripsnorting set pieces that, as in every McEwan novel, suddenly and, usually unexpectedly, pull the rug out from his characters’ and his readers’ feet and then sets about explaining why and rebuilding a sense of equilibrium. The letter scene in Atonement obviously springs to mind in this respect as does the unforgettable supermarket scene (see I’m talking in screenplay terms here) in A child in time. Saturday is built around this structure too.

As for the Booker?

He gets my vote every time.

If I was a betting man, and I am.  I’d be placing a few bob on it.

“Thanks Mark for your help on this job. I bought you this great book.”

So my friend Ian said to me in late June as he passed me a hard back copy of the above novel. Unknown to me, mainly because it’s American and a first novel by early 30’s Illinoisian Joshua Ferris. It’s had little critical coverage in the UK and that is a great shame because this book is very much worthy of our attention.

It’s set in a Chicago ad agency.

So, I would like it, I’m an adman.

Bollocks.

It has nothing to do with advertising, despite virtually every page of the book being set in this crumbling, despairing, uncreative prison that is called work. What it is, is a book about work. But more than that, it’s about the tribalism that occurs in the workplace. Tribalism that causes a great deal of hurt, but also a great deal of humour. She’s out because she wears the wrong clothes, he’s out because he wrote the wrong headline et al.

But the real clue to its central theme of tribalism comes from the fact that, like the awesome Jeffery Eugenides’ ‘Virgin Suicides’, it is written in the third person plural.

This simple literary device allows the book to be massively judgemental and, on the rare occasion , when it slips into third person , to be desperately personal.

It is funny as hell. It is sad as hell. It is so well observed that it can only have come from the pen of an advertising lifer. Wrong. Joshua Ferris has barely stepped over the threshold of an ad agency in his life.

It essentially captures, like I’ve never read before, the culture of the workplace. The situation is bleak, post Dotcom-boom the ad agency in question is going bust, people all around are dying (hence the title - on two levels) but a “pro bono” cancer campaign is holding the mutinous ranks together. They all know it’s a facade. So do we.

As the book progresses blackness clouds the skies and we don’t know whether to laugh or cry. The answer is…both.

I urge you to buy this book. You will not regret it.

This little taster might get you going…

]

But then, it just makes it look wanky.

It is not. Far from it.

A first novelist’s masterpiece and an American writer to join the Frantzen ranks.

Roll on number two.

Atonement is a majestic and moving novel, one of my favourites by one of my favourite authors, so I approached the movie with optimism and trepidation in equal measure.

I need not have worried; it is executed with impeccable taste, brilliantly directed, acted, soundtracked and photographed. Surely it will do some damage at the Oscars.

It’s essentially a caustic attack on the class society in England where the stiff upper lip leads to all sorts of under-the-radar cruelty.

James McAvoy (essentially a bit of a Lady Chatterley’s lover being as he is the housemaid’s son) falls for the toffee-nosed Cecilia Tallis, (Keira Knightley)and, in the process, drives her 13 year old sister into a fit of jealousy that has tragic consequences for McAvoy.

This is magnified when the young Brioney (brilliantly played by Saoirse Ronan) acts as go-between between the aforementioned James McAvoy (now certainly one of Britain’s best actors) and Knightley (who carries the part off more than adequately).

The film is in three acts. The first set in Brideshead Revisited English opulence, the second in Northern France around the D Day landings and containing a 5 minute steadicam tracking shot that takes the breathe away, the third in the suburbs of war torn London.

Each is rendered differently and observed immaculately. In the snobbery of pre-war rural England the tension can be cut with a knife and the language and mannerisms of upper class torpor are fantastically realised.

The war scenes, aside from the amazing tracking shot, are less well executed (budget restrictions methinks) but the ending is deeply satisfying.

Special applause has to be reserved for Dario Mariavrelli’s soundtrack which uses the sound of typewriter keystrokes as a hugely original percussion instrument that adds energy to the whole piece.

Brilliant.

10/10

James gave me a short collection of stories by this 19th Century American writer which is fronted by this strange little tale of a man being hanged from a bridge in Alabama.

What an odd and gripping tale it is.

The line that made me stop used the line “He unclosed his eyes”. What a remarkable twist of language. Every word in his stories is crafted and that is what makes them all so touching.

I shall now read the novel for which he is most famous; The Devil’s Dictionary.

The greatest discovery in literature that I have made in the past year has been this author.

A Greek American; he writes like only a Greek American can do. And not having read any other Greek American literature he therefore assumes uniqueness.

TheVirgin Suicides was Sophia Coppola’s first movie and is a more than passable attempt to bring this book to life, but it fall down in the third act.

The book, on the other hand, is flawless. I cannot recall any other book written in first person plural (like a modern day Greek chorus) and that adds to its amazing style.

Charting the fictional (I assume) suicides of five teenage sisters - that’s not a spoiler by the way - it captures the lust, love and awe inspired in a mid American suburb for these angelic specimens. It barries along at a hundred miles an hour but is written sparingly. How is this possible?

It’s funny, sexy, poignant, provocative, beautiful and unputdownable.

Eugenides’ follow up, Middlesex, which is about modern day hermaphroditism, is also a masterpiece.

Read both of them.

Please.

This is a very challenging book to read, particularly considering my father’s current state of health.

As a practicing Catholic it strikes right into the centre of my faith. But it is an extremely articulately argued polemic on the existance (not, in Dawkins’ case) of a god (or gods).

I have to say I am finding it very stimulating reading and is making me consider many facets of my belief. But, strangely, I don’t find it either disconcerting or negative.

Perhaps the most interesting aspect of it so far (I’m half way through) is the extreme prejudice faced by atheists in the USA and the power of the mainly Christian (fundamentalist?) mainstream.

I find that quite disgusting I have to say.

It’s not exactly Mills and Boon, but there is no question it is a book that any intelligent human being should read. If you think it’s a lot of shit, you can tell Mr Dawkins on his own website/blog.

It’s very active!

On balance, although he is very persuasive, I find his arguments distancing and actually slightly rhetorical in a way. He’s almost so convincing that he makes you want to fight back.

Smugness is not an emotion he is unfamiliar with.

One should read this book.

Wow, what a day I had yesterday. The 7.45 train to Glasgow with my pal Doug was hitch free, three meetings later (inc lunch) I got onto the 2.45 back to Embra but it was cancelled.

“Nae bother”I thought “It’s only 15 minutes till the next one.” And sure enough, it was.

Only the “next one” was only going as far as Polmont. Reason being that (allegedly) a train had hit a cow on the tracks between Polmont and Linlithgow. Now, I say allegedly because Scotrail is not known for its economic use of truthfulness.

An announcement goes out along the lines of…

“Sorry about this but we’ve laid on a bus from Polmont to Linlithgow and you’ll get back on the train there.”

“Fine” I thought, “15 minute delay, not the end of the world”

So I phoned my pal, Will, to tell him I’d see him at 4.15, not 4pm as arranged.

The train arrives at Polmont and that’s where it all started to go wrong because, as Scotrail had promised, there was a bus laid on.

A BUS.

That is… ONE BUS.

Now, I was very good at arithmetic at school, so I know that a six carriage train divided by a 58 seat bus (coach actually) = something like 10. So A BUS isn’t that useful.

But perhaps I was wrong because, after half an hour a NOTHER bus turned up and took a NOTHER 58 people to Linlithgow.

At that pointScotrail must have passed the problem onto one of their arithmetically minded people because a NOTHER bus turned up and i got onto it.

Strangely, the bus driver decided that the best route to Linlithgow was the shortest one in miles that is, (ie through the town as opposed to along the motorway then double back thereby avoiding THE BUSIEST TOWN CENTRE WITH THE LONGEST HIGH STREET IN SCOTLAND).  So instead of the journey taking 10 minutes it took 25.

No bother, I was now in Linlithgow. at 4.25.

But the pain was not over. Oh no!

“The next train will leave at 4.52″ Why they should need to wait half a NOTHER hour for a train to leave for is beyond my scope of comprehension. Needless to say at 4.52 they announced a further delay until they loaded a NOTHER trainful of passengers onto our already, by now bulging, train.

Ten minutes later we were off. “The train will arrive in Edinbutrgh at 5.15″ they said.

My arse, it was 5.21. But what’s 6 minutes out of 2 and a half hours.?

I’ll tell you what it is. It’s a NOTHER 4% delay.

Anyway, on the plus side it gave me a chance to start this amazing book which I will review fully later.

And I saw this church sign in Polmont, which made me smile.

Kitchen Confidential by Anthony Bourdain.

This is fun.

I’m debating whether or not to let Amy read it as she is considering a career in catering.  She might change her mind if she reads this.