Tag Archives: mtmcguire

17 Aug 2025 · 5:04 pm

The best of times

The best of times …

Yeh I know, steady on! Two blogs in a row. It had to happen sometime I guess. I mean, for starters, you have to learn the name of the trolley, right?
Yeh. I’m sure you are all agog.
That wasn’t the reason it was one of the best weeks ever though. More on that story … later.

The Trolley is named!

Oh yes he is. Literally tens of people from my enormous crowd of superfans—sorry that’s a lie, there are about 100 and usually only 45 are ever active at any given time—voted to name the trolley. Indeed this time, it broke all records as a princely 47 people voted. Initially, precisely no respondants to the off piste option picked K’Barthan names, until I changed it from ‘Wait! I have a better idea’ to ‘Hang on the character name I choose isn’t listed’ or some such. Then one did.
The vote came down to Humbert, Psycho Dave or Trev with Gladys a short distance behind these three but the winner was … drum roll please… PSYCHO DAVE.
So Psycho Dave and I went to the Foreward Festival yesterday. It was quiet but good fun and I did make back the price of the pitch and the petrol, so that’s grand.

Fiddler on the roof

As I may have mentioned, Gareth Davies, who is the ludicrously talented geezer who voices all the K’Barthan audiobooks, is in Fiddler on the Roof which is touring all over the UK until mid January 2026. I am not a big musical theatre person on the whole, I dunno why because I do enjoy opera, but I wanted to go support Gareth doing his thing so I grabbed a matinee ticket for Wednesday and my mate Jill and I made a day of it and went to Norwich. Jill and I trained it the entire way which takes an hour and involves the most ridiculously enormous flights of stairs to cross any railway, anywhere, that I think I’ve seen.
Jill and I are a bit crook. She has two shit knees and I have one so we are, kind of, the halt and the lame. The allocated time to change trains is 6 minutes but you have to get out go into the car park and follow a winding route between two big metal fences go over the footbridge and then follow a similarly circuitous winding route round the carpark and back into the station the other side. It was touch and go as I’m not great on stairs but I do have one functioning knee while Jill doesn’t.Flight of everyone stairs

The stairs of doom

By managing to position ourselves in the carriage opposite the exit we were able to avoid walking any distance along the platform, which, due to our dot and carry one status, would have rendered the change impossible.
Having contended with this, we wandered round Norwich shopping, grabbed salads from M&S which we ate sitting in a church yard and then off we went.
Now, Fiddler on the roof is about pogroms, so I was worried it would be incredibly depressing. I remembered watching it as a kid on film and pretty much wanting to top myself afterwards. This production is very well reviewed so I hoped it wouldn’t have quite the same effect but, holy shit, I was not prepared for how excellent it was. I was blown away.
One of the cleverest touches was that they made the fiddler a character and put him on stage, which was genius. For all those long and rather lovely rambling instrumental bits. As someone who was, at one point, not too shabby at the violin, I was gobsmacked as he played all sorts of mad up and down stuff in 5th position, while in character, moving about the stage and at one notable point while lying on a table pretending to be drunk. The clarinettest also appeared on stage and kind of duelled with him at some points.
The singing was epic, the dancing and the choreography clever and original.
All I remembered from seeing it on telly as a nipper was the song ‘If I Were a Rich Man’ but I’d not realised how witty the script is or how many gorgeous melodies are involved. In one song, ‘They Grow Up So Fast,’ I found myself getting a bit teary.
It stands or falls on the main character, Tevye, who is on stage throughout pretty much. The second act is where it all starts to go a bit horribly wrong, but at the end, what was in many respects an incredibly sad outcome somehow became uplifting as you imagined everyone going on to make a new life in countries where they were able to do other jobs than peasant labour. I came out feeling uplifted rather than flat and if you feel like giving it a go would hugely recommend it.
Afterwards we met Gareth for a drink and did this selfie, obvs. He’s second understudy for Tevye but the first only joined the cast recently and hasn’t rehearsed it yet. We discovered that the guy who plays Tevye had the day off the next day and Gareth was doing it. I was a bit gutted to miss that but was still chuffed to see he had plenty of bits to say and sing anyway in the part of Avram. So yeh, that was grand.

All in all a bloody good day. It was lovely to meet Gareth who was, surprisingly, exactly the way I expected him to be. And at least the reason I couldn’t make Thursday’s show was a good one.

One of the best days ever.

The next day, we went on a family trip to Duxford. McOther was a star during the whole looking after parents thing. Both the McOther’s were, but especially the husband-shaped one. So I decided he deserved a treat. I’ve always had to borrow the money from him to buy him anything nice for his birthday or Christmas, and since I’ve inherited half the price of the house and I’ve never had money before—and probably won’t again at this rate—I decided to buy him a really ritzy present.
A flight in a WW2 plane.
Having seen on TV that you could buy spitfire flights at Biggin Hill I had a look to see how much they cost. It was quite a lot for 20 minutes but would be worth it, I decided.

However, ever cautious (polite speak for a bit miserly) I decided to google flights and see how much they cost. Also, if Duxford did them, it was only 40 minutes down the A11 so it seemed a much better plan to go there.
When I started investigating prices, I discovered that Duxford was half the price of the others and that, for the same price the others charged, they would actually involve another aeroplane and do a fake dog fight—or formation flight, depending on the stomach strength of the passenger. The opposing aeroplane was the main fighter of Germany, an ME109 or at least the nearest thing there is left, a Spanish one, but it had seen action in the Battle of Britain.
Originally, I decided I wouldn’t tell McOther but then I realised he’s on beta blockers and that I might need to. I dropped a few hints and he told me he wouldn’t, under any circumstances, do a skydive. So then I thought I’d better check if he was on for a Spitfire flight, there being no option to fly in a Mosquito or a ME109.

Further thought about his hectic schedule—he is retired but the board positions he took which he hoped would be straightforward and just keep the cash coming in are actually not, and he’s been doing far to much real work for his liking—I had to ask him what day he could go and ended up having to tell him.
So we went to Duxford and enjoyed a pootle round the museum with free entry. Then we went to Duxford Flying Experiences to check in. McOther went for his briefing and McMini and I were escorted to a garden, with a small air conditioned summerhouse. It was right on the apron and the double bubble spitfire was parked about 3 metres from the fence one side, with the world’s only double hurricane 3 metres or so from the fence the other. Just behind the hurricane was the Bouchon/ME109.
Woah. History nerd 101.
We sat in the warm sun, ate free cake and strawberries and watched the planes. It was busy and to my joy my favourite plane ever, the Catalina PBY5A flying boat, was doing shareholder flights; loads of them. So I got a specialtastic little present from the fates; to see my favourite plane up close too. It’s the only one flying in Europe, I believe, so extra cool points. It’s also the ship in the next non-K’Barthan thing I’m writing.

There was one other family doing a flight that day and they were lovely, which made the experience all the better. They were booked at 2.00 so we got to see what was involved, which was good. Afterwards the pilot came out and had a chat with us. We were also introduced to the guy flying the ME109. They were both very amusing, with very dry pilot senses of humour.
Then it was McOther’s go. They strapped him in. I took loads of video and photos and off they went. They provided us with two videos, one of McOther’s face throughout the flight and one from the tail of the plane. We were also shown a tracking site for planes so we were able to trace the journey in real time. It looked like a tangle of coloured wool.

One of the most amusing things was the reaction of the pilots when they returned. The one flying the spitfire got out and I asked him how it had gone.
‘He was amazing!’ he said. ‘He let me do everything.’
McOther confirmed that yes, there had been realistic rolls, some time spent upside down etc. We took pictures of the planes, pictures of ourselves by the planes, and also the hurricane because … well … you have to.
The chap flying the ME109 also appeared to have enjoyed himself enormously. Although he possibly had a bit of an itch left to scratch because, as we left the musum at six o’clock to go home, someone was throwing the ME109 round the sky in spectacular loops, turns and barrel rolls. He also had very amusing ME109 socks with yellow bits.

All in all it was a fabulous day, not just because McOther enjoyed his present, but also because as massive history nerds, merely sitting in our special garden on the apron watching the planes all afternoon was absolutely brilliant for Mc(not so)Mini and I. So we all had a fantastic time. One of the best days ever.

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19 May 2024 · 6:43 pm

Stones …

I had a deep post planned for today all about, you know, being nice to one another and stuff but unfortunately, life had other plans.

Today has been a very quiet day because last night Cardinal Chunder visited me again. Not only did he visit me but possessed me to wreak horrible havoc on my surroundings. I pebble-dashed the bathroom rug, myself, my feet and the other bathroom rug, the lavatory… oh god it was awful. But I managed to clear it all up before I went to bed and the rugs have both been through the wash today. So that’s nice. Gulp.

Picture of air freshener canister eyebombed

Yeh, sorry that’s enough of that. But like I said, it meant today was a bit of a wipe out. I wanted to write that post, indeed I typed up some, but then by about 3 o’clock I was nodding off so I decided to repair to the sun lounger round the corner and have a little zizz.

It was quite a big sleep as it turned out but I do feel a lot better. You know how it is, sometimes it’s best to just give in to nature. However, it means I am faced with the challenge of writing a diverting and interesting blog post in half an hour.

Preferably without mentioning The Cardinal. Or at least, not again.

Come on a tangent with me.

I have a fascination with stones. I have a fascination with many natural things because I like to know how the world works. As a result, I have been in the habit of picking up stones where ever I go. Interesting stones obviously, or pretty ones, and I can tell you where and when I picked most of them up and they remind me of days out, holidays etc.

Recently I have been trying to learn how to polish them. I know that it is perfectly possible to use a tumbler but that would be easy. Also running an tumbler involves having a jar of stones spinning round for two or three weeks at a stretch. That’s a lot of noise in the house and involves having something electrical, always on and unsupervised in the garage for days on end. McOther has conniptions at the thought of any piece of Unsupervised Equipment and I have to confess, that despite being the louche laid back one in the marriage, in this case I do rather agree with him. As the Woman Things Happen To it is rather red rag to a bull. The chaos fairies really don’t need any provocation.

Yeh, the tumbler was right out, so I decided to polish them by hand. I looked it up and basically you select the right kind of stone and then you scrub it smooth with increasingly fine grits of sandpaper until it ends up  looking shiny.

How hard can that be? I thought.

Mmm always a bad start.

It’s probably less hard if you have a blind clue what stones will actually polish and which ones will best. So far my efforts to are proving to be … interesting. Yes that is in terms of a euphemism for being a bit shit. Part of this is because I have arthritic fingers and part of it is because I’m still learning and as a pupil of this particular art I appear to be extra specially dense. It could be that my wish to polish pretty overrides my good sense in selecting something actually polishable. Even so, I persist in my efforts.

Another factor hampering my efforts is the fact that the stones need to be polished wet, which is difficult at the beginning of the process because the really scrubby sand paper I need to start them off with is only designed to be used dry so tends to dissolve. I’ve no idea why you can’t get wet/dry below 300 grit but it seems that here in the UK it’s not possible. Other smoother papers higher up the polishing ladder are wet/dry and that makes things a lot easier.

Also a drawback with polishing wet is that everything already looks smooth and shiny and it’s difficult to tell how much scritching I need to do sometimes. They’re all beach pebbles so they all look smooth anyway.

I have learned that the best stones to polish are the softer non-porous ones. There is a lot of slag glass on the Suffolk coast which comes from the furnaces that ran at the steel works up north. We have been finding this for years, and it is called ‘pure green’ or sometimes ‘pure blue’ depending (surprise, surprise) on its colour in our house.

The aim with this exercise has been, mostly, to get the stones to look, dry, as vibrant and colourful as they are when wet.

Over the last couple of months I have successfully managed to get a banded flint, a conglomerate of fossilised … things … a piece ofdifferent green I found on the ground in Alsace and some flints to the point where they look about as shiny as a polished stone age axe head. But the best one so far is a great chunk of pure blue which has polished up a lovely dark colour and is even shiny. The slag glass is definitely the best because it starts a pale dusty colour and once polished is much more vivid. But all of them have gone from dusty and dry to the colour they were when they were wet, which is what I was aiming for. They’re not shiny … indeed they’re not even a nod to shiny but it’s the best that I can do.

A partial success then.

Woot.

So I give you … polished stones.

The three along the left hand side are some pure blue in various stages; as found, after 300 grit and after polishing.

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4 Nov 2023 · 12:13 pm

This week I have been mostly …

Running around like a blue-arsed fly.

No change there then.

Even so, I am going to write a blog post because I am beginning to understand that writing reasonably regular blogs is actually part of my self-care regimen. Yes. This is where I vent, and if I don’t, I start venting to actual Real Humans. The joy of a blog is that, if you don’t want to read this, you can just not read it, but Real Live Humans I Encounter are not so lucky. I need to not be that person with the verbal diarrhoea who buttonholes some poor schmuck and everyone else avoids like the plague.

So here I am, ranting virtually so that I do not end up Being That Person. Although there’s not so much to rant about this week. I’m more excited than ranty, as you’ll see if you do decide to read on.

Here are some exciting updates for you. Mmm. Some of life feels a bit like this …

Car on crane

Yikes!

Yes, as if I am hanging vertiginously from a piece of string thirty feet above a car park … well … you know … metaphorically.

Holidays!

Picture of Algarve Almond Tart.

Om nom nom

McMini gets at 2 week half term in the Christmas Term and as a result it means we can go to Portugal to get some sun and um … cake.

Which we did.

This time, there was not 100% sun but there was enough and I managed to score on all the food quests eating each of my favourite Portuguese delicacies at least once. Like this lovely cake which is called Almond Tart in the Algarve and for which I have failed, dismally, to find a recipe. Clearly it’s called something else as the swiss roll full of very eggy custard pictured is not what comes up when I search for Algarve Portuguese Almond Tart online.

Portuguese is a really hard language to pronounce although as a friend recently pointed out, if you try and speak Spanish with a Russian accent you can make a brave attempt. I can’t speak Spanish at all but I do make an effort with phrases like, ‘I would like x, y or z thing please,’ ‘This is very good,’ and, ‘Thank you,’ because I think it’s only polite.

The victims of my efforts patiently correct my pronunciation and then I have another go and fuck it up again. Mwahaharhgh. So if you’ve read any of my books and want to know what Tithian sounds like; Portuguese. I think The Pan of Hamgee may meet some Portuguese people and be completely bowled over by this at some point. There are the hints of an after story but I’m letting it foment a bit.

Other massive, massive news. I have a new book coming out. Fuck knows how but yes, it seems to be happening.

Eyebomb, Therefore I Am approaching publication.

Eyebomb, Therefore I Am

Lordy me but what have I done? I’ve been tinkering with the idea of producing an eyebombing photobook for some years now. Well … not exactly, it’s more that people have been asking and I’ve been telling them to sod off because a) printing photo books costs more than anyone is willing to pay, b)I’m a bit shit at DTP and c) because I couldn’t afford InDesign.

But then I discovered Affinity, indeed God Bless Affinity Suite and all who sail in her. I paid £150 to actually own the software, you know, like in the old days, without any of that subscription bollocks.

So now, like a chump, I’ve given in.

Yes. I learned it. I learned fucking DTP to do this, I must be chuffing crazy. Well no, we know that. But long and the short of this is, I have made the book and—God help me—I have put the kickstarter on preview, provisionally going live on 18th November.

Picture of books about eyebombing displayed artfullyYes. I’m doing a kickstarter at the same time as there is a craptonne of Mum stuff going down. I am clearing out our house, clearing out my childhood home because there is no cash, and chasing up the company who are supposed to be doing Mum’s continuing care application who do nothing unless I prompt them. I must be a fucking masochist.

OK, so that launch date may extend because I haven’t finished the video yet, and the funding tiers are still a bit Meh and I only have about 8 hours between than and now to do all these things … but I’m closer than before. I have a script and a plan for the vid and it seems to be OK… gulp.

Probably.

So if you are one of the people who enjoys the eyebombing stuff I post, feel free to have a look.

Eyebomb, Therefore I Am

If you are not one of those people, but still want to help, and I fully appreciate that you may not, but … you know … if you do … feel free to pop over to the Kickstarter page and share it to your social media platform of choice.

Also, if you do Kickstarter and you think the book might be your bag, you can follow the campaign and then if you want to buy a copy, it’ll will automatically notify you when it goes live.  I’ve tried to throw in digital stuff for those who don’t wish to pay postage and also I’ve done post cards and everyone who buys one of the physical tiers gets a mystery bonus.

I have dedicated the book to my lovely friends Jon and Nancy, because Jon died in February, which was, frankly, a bit of a shitter for all of us but especially for Nance so I thought this might make her smile.

That’s about it … here’s the kickstarter link if you’re interested:

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1 Oct 2022 · 12:01 pm

Enjoy yourself …

It sounded as if the Dalek operator inside was laughing as I did this.

OK, it’s a bit of a long one this week because woah! Norcon! What a gas! And I want to give you the low down. Yes, you will remember—if you wade through my outpourings regularly—that last week, through the wonders of modern technology, I was talking to you, in my absence, from Norcon where I was flogging books. Now I’m going to tell you all about it. Oh yes I am.

Why? Because it was brilliant! That’s why, one week on, I still haven’t quite returned to earth.

During the summer, I did St Albans Comicon with some author friends and we had great fun even though it was hot enough to cook meringues by just leaving them outside, and even hotter inside.

This time it was not hot, or at least not inside. I dunno about outside because I didn’t go out there during the day. Hang on, I’ve gone off on a tangent there. Right, yes, back on track now, the same three of us were sharing two tables, plus another lovely East Anglian author who we met at St Albans Comicon: Mark (Book of Souls Saga) Ashby. So half a table each, which worked out just peachy. A few feet round the corner was A E Warren (Tomorrow’s Ancestors Series) another East Anglian author who is a member of the author zoom group of which we are all part.

Norcon bills itself as the most friendly convention and it certainly lived up to its name. The atmosphere was very relaxed which was lucky because we had to get up at insane o’clock in the morning to get there and I am not at my best before seven a.m. Not even after coffee. Julia Blake (Erinsmore, The Forest, Black Ice and many more) and I were sharing a car; her car on day one, my car—which had arrived back from lengthy and convoluted (not to mention expensive) repairs the Friday before—on day two. Because the loading doors closed at 8.30 and we weren’t sure where we were going we decided to leave at six a.m.

As you know people, I have a light dash of IBS. What this means it that certain THINGS have to happen before I leave the house. Thank the heavens above, my body was in a cooperative mood that morning and I was ready for pick up at six. But to achieve that, I still had to be up by FIVE am. Gads! We decided that we would do cosplay too so we were all going to be dressed to match the characters or genre of our books.

Having scratched my head about the number of books I should bring, I decided in the end that I should assume I’d sell double what I sold in one day at St Albans over the two days … but then I got cold feet and in an act of hopeless optimism, I packed all the books into two huge boxes.

‘Blimey! How many books have you brought with you?’ Julia asked me as I heaved them all into her car.

‘Yes!’ I replied.

Us and our stalls

There was a small hiccup was that a large part of the A11 is down to one lane and Google chose to direct us the quickest way which involved Julia navigating her brand new car down single track roads. But something else happened to Google, or maybe I touched the screen of my phone with an unwitting fingertip, but it took us to someone’s house on Church Street, in a small village about ten miles short of our expected destination; the Norfolk Showground.

Oookaaaay …

Luckily, we got there unscathed, although I felt horrendously guilty for putting my friend through the crap in her BRAND NEW CAR (yeek!) or at least, for letting my phone do it.

Paul McGahn, Nigel Planer and Chris Barrie sitting at sci fi convention signing tables

Paul McGann, Nigel Planer and Chris Barrie with members of Norcon Crew

We set out our stalls and I discovered that we were opposite the signing tables — I hadn’t realised this but the others had cunningly planned it because that way we might have a captive audience of people queuing for signings to pitch our books to. The three opposite us were Paul McGann, who was the radio and film Dr Who, Nigel Planer who is the voice of the first 24 (I think it’s 24) Terry Pratchett audiobooks but, more importantly, was Neil in a comedy show called The Young Ones which my friend Kirsty and I watched pretty much on loop as teenagers. Then there was Chris Barrie, who is Rimmer in Red Dwarf. Julian Glover was down at the end somewhere and there were two more folks, stars from StarTrek the New Generation and another from StarWars, I think, in between, but the three opposite us were the ones I genuinely admire; being, as I am, a monster fan of Dr Who, Red Dwarf and The Young Ones.

Chris Barrie sitting at a table

Chris (Arnold Rimmer) Barrie

The stars were sitting with a Norcon team member each and in most cases they were chatting away and it all seemed very relaxed. Meanwhile we were doing the same thing our side.

As I was banging on about something in the voice of Dr Evil to my neighbouring author—Rachel Churcher (Battleground Series)—and primping and reprimping the books on my stall, I was aware of someone tall in a dark jacket reading the blurbs I’d pinned to the front of the table cloth and taking a picture of me. I looked up and the only person in a dark jacket in our neck of the woods was Nigel Planer, who was wandering back to his table.

‘Did he just …?’ I asked Rachel.

‘Take a photo of you? Yes,’ she replied.

‘Woah. That’s cool.’

So we had a quick squee moment and told the others and then got on with selling our books, photographing each other looking excited and holding books or arsing about, flaunting our costumes—or in my case, trying to prove my books were amusing by Being Funny at people—and generally Being Authors … er hem … probably.

During the gaps in traffic we looked at people’s costumes and took photos which the organised ones shared to instagram and Facebook but I just whatsapped them to the McOthers at home, or we watched the martial arts bunch behind us doing light sabre training with legions of pint-sized Jedi and Sith or photographed passing Daleks, because who’s going to pass up an opportunity to do that?

Meanwhile the signing tables were busy but in the gaps, Mr Planer appeared to be doing exactly the same thing as we were (sensible chap) wandering about with his phone taking pictures and clearly living his best life and enjoying at all. He kept stopping to look at my stall, and me, presumably trying to work out who on God’s green earth I was supposed to be. He was wearing an affable smile or an expression of intelligent enquiry (or both) for most of the time, but above all when he wandered past us, he appeared to be genuinely intrigued by the books I was selling. Which was a bit of a thing. And which threw me completely.

As the day wore on, all the others noticed and they kept teasing me that if Nigel Planer was looking at my stuff, I should go over and sell a book to him. I was just wondering if I could swing that and deciding that no, I very much could not, when I looked up and there he was, standing in front of the stall, like an actual … um … customer.

Shit.

‘Hello,’ I said, although, to be honest, it might have come out as a bit of a squeak.

I think he asked if my books were humorous sci fi to which I said yes and then, before I could stop myself, I sort of blew it. My brain went into overdrive.

You can’t sell him a book! Some of it told me. You have to give him the book.

I know but what if he insists on paying? The rest of me asked it. I can’t take his money. It’s really bad form.

Use a short. Then he’ll only have to pay £3 if he insists and you can accept his money without looking like a charlatan taking advantage.

And so it was that before I could stop myself, while the larger part of my brain was still attempting to compute, I grabbed the nearest short, Close Enough and I blurted.

‘Can I give you a book? Seriously, I would be honoured to, if you wanted one.’

Noooo! What was I doing? Where was the calm sensible, let’s chat about the books, let’s allow the customer to ask me the questions and choose the one they want selling policy that I try, and fail, to pursue with everyone who approaches my stall? Nowhere, that’s where. There’d been some kind of brain coup and sensible, mature Mary was now gagged and tied up in the corner. Gibbering fan girl was firmly at the wheel.

Worse, that was the wrong book! I’d picked a short, which he would be least likely to enjoy, because it would drop him in the middle of everything with minimal world building. But it would have to be a short because they were the cheapest. Except that if it does have to be a short Nothing To See Here is the one to throw them in with. And I didn’t even fucking ask him which one he wanted, poor sod! And if I was going to do that why, in heaven, didn’t I just sell him Escape From B-Movie Hell at cost, since that’s the one which eases the uninitiated into my style gently and I could have charged him a fiver for that without looking like I was grovelling but it would still not be rudely expensive.

Head desk.

On the other hand, he’d seen and heard me selling books all day so he probably had some idea what he was in for. And I didn’t dribble or start quoting vast tracts of The Young Ones at him and my Traffic Warden Clemency Begging Gland didn’t pump two gallons of spit into his face while I was talking to him either, so that was a bonus. Also, it wasn’t nearly as embarrassing as the time I met Dudley Moore (I die a little inside every time I remember that) which, I suppose, was a small win. I guess I was just a bit … starstruck though.

Rolls eyes.

Encore de head desk.

And the others chimed in and I think Julia gave him a book because … share the love!

He did insist on paying and I took his three quid. I also devalued his copy by signing it for him.

Nigel, thank you for being Neil (and Nigel) all the best … I wrote, drew him a picture of a snurd and signed it. In sharpie. God in heaven.

Then he told us he’d written a book which he’s crowd funded on Unbound and that it’s humorous sci fi, a time travel story. So we chatted about that and he had a flyer so I asked if I could keep it and Rachel (Battleground Series) asked for one, too, and he went back and got one for her, as well. Then, clutching mine and Julia(Black Ice, Erinsmore, The Forest and many more …)’s books, our hapless victim returned to his station. He left us bobbing up and down like overexcited pontipines.

Hmm, maybe not so hapless, then, since I’ve bought his book; the deluxe hardback version, signed by the author with my name printed in the back so I think he might have had the last laugh. Then again, he was so friendly and generally affable that how could I not? And it’s comedic sci fi and this is me so that I’ll buy the book is pretty much a given really.

I also apologised to him for being a bit starstruck on twitter and sent him a picture of Extra Special Deadpool man (I’ll come to that) and told him I’d bought the book. He dutifully liked the picture said he hoped I enjoy it.

Back to Norcon.

A bit later on, I was suffering with raging guilt over 1, taking money off actual Nigel Planer for my crappy book and, 2, giving him a book he’d probably loathe so I thought I’d better go and buy a photo. Then Amy (AE Warren; Tomorrow’s Ancestors Series) said I should try and get a selfie except there was a sign over each person saying what they’d do and how much for and Mr P’s said no selfies. Amy reckoned he was quite louche about that though and assured me that she’d seen him doing selfies with other people.

So I took my courage in both hands, waited for a quiet moment and went over to him.

‘Since you’ve been kind enough to buy my book, the least I should do is return the compliment. How much would you charge me for a selfie?’ I asked him, pretending that I was either terribly myopic or too stupid to have read the sign. Well, I wear spectacles and he’d already spoken to my by this time so I reckoned I could swing it.

‘I’m not really supposed to do them but I doubt anyone will find out if we go over there,’ he said cheerfully, waving his hand in the general direction of my book stall opposite.

‘Oh! Thank you, very much,’ I said.

He wandered over and positioned himself in front of the banner but also a bit to the side, you know, so people looking at the photo could read it. I trotted over in his wake.

‘There we are!’ he said as I stood beside him. ‘You can just pretend you are taking a photograph of something over there,’ he told me, pointing in the general direction of Chris Barrie. There was definitely a slightly gleeful vibe coming from him at this point, as if he was feeling the joy of doing some small piece of rebellion that’s Naughty and that he Wasn’t Meant To. That, of course, is something I can always get on board with. I was just about to start a light hearted sort of, ‘Oh look at that over there!’ in a suitably wooden comedy voice and hold up my phone when, bless her, up popped Rachel.

‘Shall I take the photo?’ she asked.

Brilliant. So I handed her the phone and he put his arm round me and we grinned at the camera. Rachel wisely took two photos, both of which are fabulous; like, really decent shots both of him and me, which might be natural for him but trust me, for me, it’s something approaching a miracle.

Woah.

What was lovely was that it came over as totally genuine interest in another professional, which from one so stratospherically elevated from us made all four of us feel good. Mwahahahargh! I guess that’s the power of fame but it’s amazing how such a simple kindness from someone who has that power can make another person’s day. If I ever make it off the bottom, I hope that I, too, will show the same generosity of spirit and encouragement to the people coming up behind me.

Where could I go from there? Well, on the Sunday, things did feel a bit flat at first but then I looked at the costumes and on the up side, I did get a belly laugh out of Chris Barrie by asking him, in the voice of the Toaster from Red Dwarf whether he wanted some toast. And obviously, I went and shook hands with Paul McGann as well because … you know. He’s The Doctor. And Terry Malloy, who played Davros quite a lot in Dr Who (one of my favourite villains) at a time when I avidly watched the programme every Saturday night.

Another delight was watching the Dalek operators. There was an impressive selection of Daleks; from the 1960s and 70s ones I remembered as a kid, to the copper-coloured David Tennant era ones. They were fenced off in an area close to us. The fellow in charge had brought his parents, who were in their 80s and absolutely sweet and would sit in deck chairs each day happily watching the action, or wander the hall, hand-in-hand, looking at all the other exhibits.

And then we heard the martial arts folks giggling and saying that ‘he’ was here so we asked them who ‘he’ was and they said,

‘Oh you’ll know.’

Sure enough, when this gentleman turned up I suspect we did. Yes. Dead pool. With a euphonium. Mwahahahargh!

Awesome.

He followed the people in particularly excellent costumes about playing their themes or the theme from their film. I asked him if his instrument was heavy and he told me that yes, it’s hard on the core strength. Apparently he has to wear a back brace to help with that.

I particularly like the way he’s wearing the trumpet like a side arm. I didn’t see him play it but I should imagine it would be too difficult to get to when the euphonium is in position and you’d need some extra arms to hold the euphonium while you used your main set of arms to play the trumpet.

On a final note, it was one of the safest spaces I’ve seen for a while. There’s a whole other level to cosplay. Nobody cares if you’re 20 stones and want to dress as Wonder Woman, nobody cares if you’re a he, a she, a they or a ze. Nobody cares if you’re a biological bloke but you feel more comfortable, and more yourself, in a dress. I should imagine there are a lot of folks who might be on the end of some serious prejudice in Real Life, who can come to a con and be who they really are. Not only be who they are but be applauded for it. I’d imagine that’s pretty freeing. I loved how open and accepting it was.

Yeh.

It was golden. All of it.

How many books did I sell?

Hardly any. In fact, sales were pretty dismal. I sold exactly half the number of books I sold at St Albans in one day, over two days at Norcon.

But fuck me! I sold one of them to Nigel Planer! Mwahahahrgh!

Will he read it? Who knows, but that’s not the point. He bought one. And I hope I haven’t got him into trouble posting the selfie. Sorry, Nigel, if I have and you’re reading this*.

* Well, you never know right?

And I managed to get a guffaw out of Chris Barrie. In fact lots of people actually laughed at my crap jokes, which made my day. Both days; because the principal aim when I do these things is to meet people, be funny at them so they think my books must be funny too and buy one, oh and have a gas, because then the books sell themselves. And anyway, without laughter what do you have? Well … no fun, that’s for certain.

I came home feeling the same way I used to after a really good gig in my very, very brief flirtation with stand-up. To be honest, I was so high I still haven’t quite come down.

Not a commercial success then, but will I go back next year? You bet your arse I will.

And finally … last chance to grab 12 hours of audiophonic joy for 99p (or 99c)

Yes. If you like cheap audio books, Few Are Chosen is on sale until Monday. After that the price goes up again.

As always, I’m cutting my own throat here.

It’s 99c on Apple, Kobo and my own website. For anyone in the States, it’s also 99c on Barnes & Noble and Chirp (which is USA and Canada).

If you want to grab it while it’s mega cheap you can find store links and a bit more info here

Oh and one more thing …

Here’s a little bit of Nigel Planer in action as Neil …

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28 Aug 2022 · 3:29 pm

Self Care, Hospital Care, Dementia Care

After last week’s rant, two things occurred to me; first that I probably needed to post this week as well, just so you know I’m alright and second; reading it back, I got the impression I might be sensible to do a little self care.

Self care is underrated.

The friend I go walking with one day a week was not around this week and as a result, I decided that, with nothing much else on, socially, this was the perfect time for a bit of self care. For this week only, I decided, Real Life could just do one. Obviously, I still went to Mum’s but the traffic was kind to me and she was in good form. I was also going to go to my metal detecting club meet on the Thursday but had a reprise of the lovely vertigo I’ve been enjoying on and off for a while. The rest of the week, I holed up at home and relaxed.

Self care measures included: writing, reading, going for walks alone, putting aside every single bit of admin and listening to music. We are also all building the same model ME 109 although we’re at different stages. I’ve made half the cockpit, McOther is painting his and McMini has pretty much finished his because he’s so patient … not. Mwahahahrgh. It’s been great fun though.

On the music front, taking McMini’s lead, I’ve recently signed up for Spotify since this seems to be the most straightforward way to listen to my vinyl records in the car. It’s what he uses it for too. Yes there are three people in our house and each one has a separate record player of their own. Jeepers we are such massive spuds. I also use it to listen to stuff that’s too obscure to source anywhere else – although Discogs is pretty good for getting hold of pretty much anything in that respect. So it was that I set about getting my library organised by searching out all those obscure things I don’t have, have lost or couldn’t track down.

About a million years ago I was sitting in a curry house and the background music was a Rolling Stones cover played on the Sitar. I thought it was brilliant and asked the waiter what it was. He was so excited that I’d shown an interest that he went and got the record sleeve, plus two more staff, from out back. They then explained, enthusiastically, that it was a guy called Anander Shanker (it turns out he’s Ravi’s nephew). A lot of his stuff is on Spotify.

What’s it like? Well, if the French electronica group Air added sitar to their stuff … something along those lines. There are also cover-versions; Shanker’s version of Jumping Jack Flash is genius and Come On Baby, Light My Fire is certainly a lot different from the Doors’ version. Next stop the original that Verve’s Bittersweet Symphony is based on by the Gary Oldham Orchestra. I had forgotten the name and I had to ask McMini for that one. He spoke about how he loved the bell at the beginning and it was lovely to see him discovering music with the same joyous enthusiasm that I had at his age. He is totally open to anything so as well as punk and thrash metal, he listens to military bands, bag pipes, Anander Shanker (of course) classical music, ancient ska, Finnish folk songs, electronica … all sorts.

After I’d added the original Gary Oldham song, or Snurds, in flight as I like to call it because if I play it, that’s what I see if I shut my eyes (The Pan of Hamgee whisking Ruth off from her palatial prison the night before the installation, for example). Spotify suggested all sorts of other similar things, and I liked the ones I … well … liked so I could find them again. This is where Spotify is good. I have about 9gb of my own music on my phone. It’s also on my iPad somewhere but Apple refuses to believe I’m not a pirate and has hidden it, only allowing me to play the handful of things I’ve purchased from iTunes over the years. The 9gb of music just sits there, invisibly, taking up space.

Now this is no longer a problem and Apple can ‘do one’ along with Real Life. I can listen on Spotify and the artist gets a tiny royalty for each listen in a way that they wouldn’t if I was listening to stuff I’ve bought on vinyl and transferred to my phone. Also, since most of the vinyl I have is no longer available new the artists get something, albeit a risibly tiny something for listens to the stuff I’ve purchased second-hand. I don’t like Spotify, but I do like that I can use it to fund my favourite artists simply by listening to them.

It strikes me that ‘responsible’ use of Spotify is all good, because it’s giving artists an income, however pissy that income may be, for listens they would not normally be paid for. It’s a pity Spotify don’t pay up front for a ‘new copy’ after every X number of listens, the way  some libraries do for ebooks. Either that or pay more per listen, the way libraries do.

I also discovered a craptonne of early Ska and some of the songs by the Petshop Boys which I haven’t listened to for ages because I don’t have them. Indeed I spent the entire journey to Mum’s this week listening to Paninero on repeat conjuring up an image of The Pan of Hamgee being chased which played on loop in my head. He’s wearing a 1920s flapper dress, beads and the most ridiculous blonde wig and he keeps appearing and then disappearing as he runs over a row of peaked roofs with what looks like the entire world chasing after him.

Yes, the sausagewright mentioned in Too Good To Be True has been found. Kidnapped, locked up and forced to make Goojan sausage she is pining for the fjords! She has agreed to make four sausages and then Marcella, the pirate has sworn she’ll let her go but now her captors are demanding more. She has been on a go slow, so they kidnap her brother — Burton Coggles — a quiet, dapper, retired gentleman who volunteers at the local library.

A suitable K’Barthan street scene … it’s really Arras Grand Place.

Unfortunately, no-one in Marcella’s gang, least of all her, realises that the thoroughly anonymous Mr Coggles has a secret alter ego as half of K’Barth’s most famous comedy duo, drag queens Phlange and Knutt. Bitingly satirical and very quick witted, they are not exactly popular with the authorities but are loved by K’Barthans and the authorities recognise that they serve a purpose, in poking fun at those in power in a way that let’s the locals let of steam without them doing anything to clutter up the place or disturb the economy like having strikes, riots, revolutions etc.

Phlange and Knutt being an act, and imaginary aliases rather than real beings, the Grongles don’t know who the people behind the act really are, and the artists, themselves, ensure it stays that way. And yes, they are based extremely heavily on two of my favourite comedy artists Hinge and Bracket. I can’t quite work out if Burton Coggles’ alter ego is Dame Evangeline Phlange, or Doctor Ariadne Knutt. Or indeed, whether it’s Dame Ariadne Phlange and Doctor Evangeline Knutt. Only time will tell.

The mystery to solve then will be a) where is Marcella getting the sausage/keeping the sausagewright? b) What’s happened to Phlange (or is it Knutt?) of Phlange and Knutt? and c) how will The Pan spring Phlange/Knutt and his sister from their prison, on the top floor of a warehouse. d) Why is he springing them? Because Marcella is working with a Grongle Captain and Colonel to become a pliant, malleable (for the Grongles) Boss of Ning Dang Po. Clearly, neither Big Merv nor The Pan (who is one of the first people she’d kill) wants that. But neither do any of the other ganglords it turns out.

More scenes from Ning Dang Po … 😉

Obvs at some point, The Pan is going to be pretending he’s Phlange — to act as a diversion and draw off the pursuit? That must be the bit I keep seeing with the roofs. Yes, the fight among the helium canisters will still take place. Obviously the Grongles will disapprove of Phlange but be even more pissed off with Marcella for disappearing her because the average K’Barthan in the street is convinced the Grongles have mislaid Phlange and there are riots and all sorts of other untidy shenanigans which interfere with the Grongolian owned parts of the K’Barthan economy.

The Grongles don’t like Phlange and Knutt but they dislike rioting and disorder even more. Hence the Grongle Captain will attempt to whack Marcella the Pirate and I think she will whack him and get a laser pistol as a result. At which point, she will meet his superior, oh no, not the Colonel Kay but General Vernon, who will evaluate her, decide she falls short and throw her off a roof in front of a petrified (but hidden) Pan of Hamgee. Lord Vernon, newly ‘elected’ party leader will be lauded for fixing all the trouble so quickly and be elected leader of the house in the K’Barthan parliament … although he might possibly get elected because his predecessor has presided over this and he uses it to his advantage, I’m not sure.

So, writing? Yes. I have made a lot of time for that. As you can see, I do now have some idea of where this one’s going and more to the point, where it’s come from. There’s a fair bit of primping and squishing about on things I’ve already done so they fit in the right places, which I’m still doing. Then I have to work out what scenes are missing up to the point in the narrative I’ve reached and then I can get going on the nitty-gritty. Will it come out the way I’ve just described? Of course not but those are the basic threads, how they are eventually plaited together is up to the characters involved, I’m as in the dark as you until it’s written.

Other self care activities. It was McOther’s birthday and he does a lot of wine tasting. Everyone turns up with a nice bottle, covers it up and then they all try it and try to work out what wine it is. It’s fiendishly difficult but fun and the trick is more about knowing what’s in another person’s cellar than actually tasting the wine. I think I mentioned this a few weeks ago, and that I have been knitting some bottle covers to replace the dodgy socks McOther and friends tend to use to cover up the labels. Anyway, I managed to complete five; one for a friend who was attending and four for his nibs for his birthday.

To my delight, both recipients appeared to be genuinely pleased with them. Alongside, I gave McOther the usual lame presents; peanut butter cups and wine gums because he’s a little bit addicted to both but he was clearly chuffed with the bottle sleeves, as was the interested friend, who was one of a group who came to dinner to celebrate with us, so I’m chalking that one up as a win. I suspect I will need to knit more of them.

On Saturday morning, in a nod to the admin, I sorted out my car insurance for the next year but then … a slight disaster struck. Mum.

Bruv has been staying over the weekend. At the moment the mortgage is on hold because he wanted to evaluate whether or not we should be moving Mum earlier. I genuinely think she’ll be ready to move in the next year or so (as in we’ll be able to move her without her really realising what’s going on) and so do the carers but I’m not sure it’s time yet. Obviously because Bruv has a bigger family and stays longer she presents a very much worse picture for him than she does for me, but she’s definitely getting there.

Long and short, she fell on Friday night — her bad knee gave way and the next morning, when she tried to stand, it was so painful she nearly threw up. She ended up going to hospital, where she is currently staying. They couldn’t see if there was a break or not from the X-ray because she’s so arthritic but the orthopaedic surgeon wanted to have an MRI or CT scan or whatever it is they do in order to try and find out for sure one way or the other.

Serendipitously, a geriatric specialist was there too asking her all the dementia questions, none of which she could answer except her name and that of the monarch apparently. If she got an official dementia diagnosis in passing, that would be the icing on the cake. It’s nice leaving this to bruv and wife although I’m not sure how long before I have to go down there. I’ll visit on Wednesday, anyway.

As I write we are waiting to see if she’s seen by a physiotherapist this morning—if she isn’t it’ll be Wednesday before she is—and also whether she gets the scans etc and they are able to find out more. Then it’ll be a cast or a boot and she’ll need to start trying to walk on it. They’re also looking at her knees. Not that they can do anything about any of it now because she’s far too demented to undergo an anaesthetic.

We’ve hummed and haad about finding her a place in a home short-term for rehabilitation but her care team can do that, themselves, and I suspect she would do better at home. Also unless we can get her into a forever nursing home and hope that she likes it so much she wants to stay, it’s probably not worth doing that. What tends to happen is they send patients to the nearest place with spaces and that might be fifty miles from her village and her friends so it wouldn’t be any use.

So we wait …

It seems like a decent ward, and Mum is in good hands. Meanwhile, I learn that a week of self care is probably essential from time-to-time because I’m OK and without it, I think I’d be doing a lot more pointless worrying.

On a completely different note …

If you are looking to administer some self care yourself by reading for example … or listening, here’s something that might help; a free book.

Yes, Small Beginnings, K’Barthan Extras, Hamgeean Misfit: No 1 is free to download in ebook format from all the major retailers and you can also get the audiobook for free from my web store.

If you think that sounds interesting and would like to take a look, just go here.

 

 

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24 Jul 2021 · 11:53 am

Yikes …

An eventful one this week. It’s the summer holidays so pretty much anything except admin and Mum stuff has gone out of the window because all three of us are off. Instead we are Doing Things. Well … a bit.

This week McMini gamely came to Mum’s with me and we had a lovely lunch. Duck confit salad (om-nom-nom) and she was in great form. The lovely gardener was there too, one of his first days back after a long illness and a really tough time. He joined us and ate his packed lunch while we ate ours.

However, on the journey down we saw something that shook us a bit. A few miles out from the Dartford Bridge there’s a junction to Southend, I think it’s number 30, I’m not sure. The penultimate one in the stack, anyway – the other side of the Bridge they start at one. There was quite a bit of traffic and I was in the outside/fast lane, in a long, long queue of cars going at a steady 70 past a bunch of other cars and lorries going slower.

As we passed the Southend junction, a purple Mazda 2 came flying across three lanes of traffic and tucked into the fast lane in front of a grey Jaguar. There are four lanes there. The Jag was about to overtake a car that was going quite slowly in lane three and it looked as if there were about fifteen feet between the Jag and the car it was overtaking when the Mazda barged through this very small gap at speed.

What the actual f***?

The Jag driver was irritated, and as soon as both of them were past the car in lane 3 he undertook the Mazda and pulled a similar stunt, cutting in a few feet in front of the other driver in a there!-see-how-you-like-it gesture. The young man in the Mazda (I’m afraid it’s always a young man) then completely lost his biscuits. He tried to return the compliment but didn’t have enough grunt to undertake in the room available. He pulled in behind the Jag and drove up close on to the Jaguar’s back bumper, hanging out a bit, as if that was going to help him get past.

Just to go off on a tangent slightly, you do this because a) if they get past they may suddenly swerve in front of you and stop dead, causing you to run into them b) they might do the same thing but with a view to boxing you in, giving themselves time to either reverse their car into yours and smash it, or to get out of their car and smash you before you have time to reverse and escape. Or c) when they get alongside you they might try to side-swipe you or run you off the road. Amazing as it may seem, I have seen all of these things attempted on the UK road network. There are some very angry young men out there and sometimes, just noticing that a woman is driving a car they consider unsuitable for females – or simply being overtaken by a female (even as part of a long stream of other traffic) – is enough to set them off.

After a quarter of a mile or so, the Mazda driver suddenly broke left, swerved through three lanes of traffic, gunned it up lane one, the slow lane, in a few empty yards between lorries and then piled across three more lanes, but he still failed to pull in ahead of the guy in the Jag. By this point I had started to leave a gap so that if they hit each other or stopped in the fast lane to have a pagga, I had time to stop. They continued with the argy bargy but a giant flabby Range Rover drifted into my lane so I couldn’t see much of their antics, only that the Mazda had swerved back across the other three lanes into lane one again, presumably having another go at getting past. Meanwhile the Jag was doing what any self respecting motorist does when presented with an insane nutter, you keep them behind you.

An Arnold's Produce van.
Some traffic yesterday. Not on the M25 clearly, coz I couldn’t stop.

Since the Jag driver was now fleeing for their life, both cars were doing well above the speed limit and the knob in the Mazda was repeatedly weaving through three lanes of traffic, using gaps that were not a great deal longer than his car, then gunning it up lane one and trying to get back across to the fast lane in front of the Jag. I wondered if I should dial 101 (or is it 111?) to call the officially-less-urgent-than-999 police contact line and report them. They kept this up until we got to the speed limited section before the bridge. Once again, I saw the Mazda pile over from lane three to lane one, narrowly missing the back bumpers and front noses of other cars as he went. I slowed down to 50mph along with everyone else, and watched as he used lane one to undertook a lorry in lane two. Lane three had a lorry in it as well and the jag, in the fast lane, passed that. They were about 600 yards ahead of me at this point because by now I was firmly convinced they were going to have (or cause) an accident and I wanted time to stop. Once they disappeared behind their respective lorries they were masked from view.

However, a moment after the Mazda 2 disappeared, the traffic stopped. Dead. I didn’t get time to look much. I was concentrating, first on slowing, then on letting some of the traffic merge in front of me but not so much that I stopped completely and pissed off everyone behind me. We had ended up with three lorries at a standstill in lanes one, two and three and the only lane still open was fast lane; the one I was in.

It took about 30 seconds to file through. There, in lane three, was a metallic silver-green people mover. I’m not sure what it was, cause I was driving so I couldn’t really look that hard. I think it might have been an old Renault Espace, or the model below because, though it was a people mover, it was one of the smaller ones. It was facing in completely the wrong direction and its left front wing had collided with something resulting in a big crumple and the presence of a lot of other bits of metallic silver-green people mover all over the road.

The A14 in lockdown, because that’s all I have! Mwahahahrgh.

Total kudos to the drivers of those three lorries. They had stopped, in a line, to temporarily block the three lanes so the poor woman driving the green thing could walk across to the safety of the hard shoulder. A lorry was parked on the hard shoulder a couple of hundred yards further on, although I wasn’t sure if that had been involved or was just there, and another woman in a bright blue Suzuki Jeep (or at least a 4×4) had stopped and was giving the poor woman a hug. She was probably late fifties or early sixties, and clearly shaken. I couldn’t help wondering if the Mazda 2 had clipped her, spinning her car round 180 degrees, or if his sudden appearance, overtaking her on the wrong side, or cutting across her path had given her a start, shocking her into an instinctive swerve before she had time to check the space around her. The good thing is that the whole area of road is on CCTV and the dart charge cameras photograph the numberplate of every car that goes over there, so if the idiots in the Jag and the Mazda are required for questioning, I suspect the police will have no trouble finding them.

What is it about men in their twenties or thirties who drive hot hatches that makes them such utter and complete wankmuppets? I have not seen a lady driving like this, indeed, I have never seen anyone but young males, either alone or in a very small, hot hatch full of enormously tall men, driving like this.

After a quick debate with McMini I rang 999 and was relieved to discover that I was the first person who had called and was not, therefore, wasting their time. It’s really difficult to know whether to phone the police in situations like this or to just assume someone else will. I explained about the Mazda and the Jag, and I explained that while I hadn’t witnessed them cause an accident I was not surprised that there had been one. I explained where the lady was and that her car would need recovered and possibly someone would have to come and pick the debris off the road.

As the old adage says, I guess if idiots could fly, this place would be an airport.

Triffid!

On the up side, a cause for smugness. McBicycle was not happy and needed fixed. Yesterday, I fixed it. I realised after lockdown and my knee op, that it had got salt water on it at some point and a lot of the gubbins to move the big cogs at the front gears had seized net result, 9 gears rather than 28. Indeed, it wouldn’t change gear at all. I put WD40 on it, which is not what you’re supposed to do, but I decided I should un-seize it before I washed it, and since I was going to wash the WD40 off, I hoped it would be OK. So having squirted the offending bit with WD40 on Thursday afternoon, I spent yesterday removing the chain and cleaning it with bicycle de-greaser, plus the deralier (I think that’s how it’s spelt) cogs which were all totally filthy, and cleaning the gear mechanisms too, before putting it all back together and putting bicycle lubricant all over it. Yes, there is such a thing. Mine is called ‘Wet Ride’. Snortle, yeh, don’t even go there.

The result is a bicycle which will change through all it’s gears, and a lot more smoothly than before, to boot. I love fixing things so it was a very enjoyable afternoon all round.

Last but not least, my triffid flowered again.

On a completely different note …

In case no-one knew – and we’re talking my organisational skills here, so that is a very real possibility – I have reduced the cost of Small Beginnings, the first K’Barthan Extra, to zero. That’s right, you can pick up a copy for NO PEE. Mwahahahrgh. You can also pick up a copy of the audiobook for free from my store as well, if you’re into that kind of thing. This is the one I’m talking about:

Small Beginnings, K’Barthan Extras, Hamgeean Misfit: No 1

Small Beginnings …

Destiny called and everyone else was out.

When your very existence is treason, employment opportunities are thin on the ground. But when one of the biggest crime lords in the city makes The Pan of Hamgee a job offer he can’t refuse, it’s hard to tell what the dumbest move is; accepting the offer or saying, no to Big Merv. Neither will do much for The Pan’s life expectancy.

This is free to download from all the major ebook retailers for August and also in audio from my store – but I can’t make it free from the book vendors in audio so if you’re after that one, it has to be just from my store.

If you’re interested in the ebook, click here.
If you’d like to give the audiobook a go, click here.

If you aren’t interested but you want to help, feel free to copy and paste either of these links into the social media thingy of your choice and share away:

Audiobook: https://payhip.com/b/ubYs
Ebook – free from all the main vendors: https://www.hamgee.co.uk/infosb.html

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1 May 2021 · 5:23 pm

Unicorn farts and other sundry ephemora

This is going to be a short one because it’s twenty past five, which means I have approximately forty minutes to write my usual fifteen hundred word blog post. Hmm. Isn’t going to happen.

Looking at my notes to write about this week they read as follows:

  • Auto correct and bloody Duke
  • Metal detecting and throwing a six

That is all. Okay… off we go then.

Metal Detecting and throwing a six

Saxon ... thing.
A Saxon … thing.

Quite pertinent as I write this, that one. Yesterday, to my absolute delight, I was invited along to a friend’s permission to do some detecting. It was an old club permission so I’ve been going there for a while. The land owner is thoroughly good egg and it’s a lovely spot.

The last time I was there I found a crushed silver thimble from the 1600s I think, and a hammered coin. I love finding stuff from that era because it was such a stormy time in our past. Anything less civil than our Civil War is hard to imagine. You know I’m fairly obsessed because I’ve told you the story about a house called Woodbines which my family lived in, in Kingston, although I’m not sure it’s on this blog. You can read it on the blog on my official author’s site, which I no longer post to, down the end of this link here. Excuse the lack of pictures. I believe that if you’re using a picture to illustrate something under discussion, on a personal blog, it’s supposed to be fair use. However, I still got hit by copyright trolls. I don’t want to risk a huge bill, but also I don’t want to inadvertently pirate photos. I thought it was clear cut but it seems not. Hence, I’ve removed the three pictures I, personally, haven’t taken from all my blogs and two of them were on that post.

Where was I? Oh yeh, so I love Civil War era artefacts mainly because that era was so uncivil and it makes me feel close to a very turbulent part of our history.

The thimble wasn’t my first bit of treasure, there was a bit of Anglo Saxon strap end previously to that from another permission. Both were interesting and have to go through the process by din’t of being silver, rather than particularly brilliant in any respect. That said, a museum somewhere might want the thimble because it’s a bit rarer, coming as it does from an era in history when they were being melted down to make coins to fund the war effort. The modern day ‘evangelists’ yelling ‘Jesus needs your money’ on telly are clearly nothing new since the Puritans really believed they were doing God’s work. Humourless and uptight, they were eventually kicked out of the UK and a lot of them became the founding fathers of America. I’m wandering off on one though.

So we started detecting. The setting is one of the many studs in this neck of the woods and our main purpose is to get any big or spiky bits of iron out of the ground after a piece injured one of the horses a few years ago. This week there was a gorgeous little foal who was too shy to be photographed. I nearly managed it though. After a while I felt I should try and actually find some iron, it wasn’t going very well, I was digging what I thought were big crap signals and discovering, after digging a very deep hole, that the thing that had caused the bing was not iron. Eventually, I got what, in theory, should be a decent bing and sure enough, down in the hole, I found a random silver bit of something. I checked the hole but a bit was all there was. I thought it was either arts and crafts or Saxon. To be honest there wasn’t going to be any middle ground.

Now, having consulted smarter people I am pretty sure it’s Saxon, so that’ll be off to the treasure process then. On the up side, it’s so good it’s likely to come from a grave so there may be more of it. Even better, we should be back on the site this week so I will be able to have a look. But the thing I find most amazing is that when I pulled it out of the ground, mine were the first hands to touch it since someone living six to eight hundred years after the death of Christ pinned it, grieving, to the tunic of a recently dead loved one.

Where is the throwing a six bit to this? Well, I have this theory. I’ve never found gold or anything like that with my detector and I’ve always assumed that my main problem there is the walking over it bit. Because I think, to walk over something really valuable like a hoard or a piece of valuable gold, you have have a certain kind of luck. I remember as a kid playing Ludo with my family. You had to throw a six to start and then you threw the dice to go round the board and back into your ‘home’. The person who got all four of their counters home first was the winner. I remember sitting there, round after round, trying to throw a six to get out and failing dismally. Often I’d not succeed to get anyone out onto the board until my brother’s first counter was already ‘home’. Then Mum, who had similar dice throwing skills, and I would make our way round the board throwing a one each time.

I was always last.

The luck that follows me is not the kind of luck that wins me many premium bonds … or board games. When the Unicorn farts, I am usually up-wind or indoors or … I dunno … facing the wrong way. Except for people; there’s the McOthers, many of my friends and a lot of the colleagues I’ve stumbled upon through my working and writing life. Work stuff would clearly be things like Gareth popping up and wanting to narrate my books … well it could only have been a cloud of sparkly unicorn gas that wafted that piece of good fortune my way! Bloody hell! And nothing gives a person a bigger lift than when someone with a generous dollop of talent in their own field seems to think your stuff is good, I mean he is an actor but I think that’s genuine! Mwahahargh. Also Katherine Jackson, who taught me so much about editing, while editing my books and really had no business dying like that. I still miss her. Then there’s the lovely folks who do my covers, who I blundered upon because they were the people my employers used. And the lovely folks I’ve met and become cyber buddies with in my authoring efforts. But that’s not the luck I’m talking about. The luck I mean is the throwing a six and winning at board games kind of luck.

Am I content with that? Well yes, I think for the most part I am. If I can only choose one, I’ll take the one I have. But reverting to the silver thing – actually I’m pretty sure it’s a silver gilt thing – it’s clearly a tiny fragment of something special. What, exactly, I do not know but, as I mentioned before, most likely it’s grave goods. A brooch pinned to the clothes of a very loved, cherished and high-status dead person before burial so they would be looking at their best in the next life. The rest of it is probably still there somewhere … if I can find it.

If …

Part of me thinks – possibly a little churlishly – that were I the kind of person who could throw a six on a regular basis, I’d have found the whole thing. Another part of me realises that even this tiny fragment is like throwing a double five, a whole one would be the find of a life-time. It’s not that they’re rare, although they are, I believe, but one that good, whole, would be a hen’s teeth job. On the other hand, it definitely ties in with my ability to find interesting things. The ideal, of course, being something interesting enough to be fabulous (to me) but not so interesting it’s worth stacks and I have to sell it! And then another part of me is thinking that I’ll be back there next Thursday. I was chatting to the ex finds liaison officer for this area on line. He told me that in his time, someone had found a fragments of a similar things, returned to the site and found more … Mmm. I’ll keep you posted.

Autocorrect and bloody Duke

A brief one here. Anyone who knows me, personally, will know that when it comes to communication, using my phone, if I’m not speaking, is the bane of my life as it is one long battle with auto correct/auto complete. Auto whatever it is is like wearing a gag, although if I turn auto correct off it seems to be even worse. Part of the problem is that I use the swift keyboard – the Google one.

What is wrong with that thing? It seems to be possessed by some dyslexic demon with an exotic name fetish. Case in point, here in the UK, on the whole, Duke is a surname, a title or something you call your dog. I do not know anyone called Duke as a first name and I think, in the entire two years, so far, that I’ve owned this phone that I’ve typed the word ‘Duke’ on purpose, twice. Yet, whenever I type the word ‘done’ Duke is what it gives me. Not only does it give me Duke but if I change it to done and continue I will find, when I hit send, that it’s quietly changed ‘done’ back to Duke again. Every. single. fucking. time.

Someone or sometime. Bog-standard words. Often used you’d have thought. Summertime. Not so common. Uh-uh-uh, says Auto correct. Every time I type either of those words it defaults to summertime. This is with actual real auto correct switched off. This is just the stupid slidey keyboard getting it wrong. Then there’s or. What is so fucking difficult about understanding it when my finger is sliding from the o to the r key? I’ve no clue but what I get for ‘or’ is out or put. And once again that’s every. fucking. time.

I read somewhere that these things work by looking at what the normals type, averaging it out and offering suggestions. Lord above I haven’t a fucking hope then have I? I mean, look at the words I use. OK so it’s learned the word, K’Barthan. That said it seems to unlearn it and have to be taught afresh from time to time. I’ve no idea why that is. But if it can learn that when I type in K’ I’m going to be saying K’Barthan because that’s what I type every time I write K’ then why the fuck can’t it learn, by the same logic, that every time I type in Mc I’m going to type McGuire? Why is it able to understand that I spell ‘realise’ without an ess rather than a zed but at the same time, be pathologically unable to grasp that if, every time I type done and it offers me Duke I cancel it and type done again until it accepts it, I must actually mean done. Why, when I type in the letters d-o-n-e and not Duke, does it default to Duke, a word I never type, comprising completely different fucking letters?

Also, new factor here. Random capitalisation. If I am in the middle of a sentence, or sometimes in the middle of a word it will suddenly give me a capital letter so I get stuff like,

Hello, how are You doiNg today?

Mental. It’s not as if I’m typing the name of some obscure chemical that is only written by out in full every six million years. These are bog-standard words that everyone uses. Seriously though, who, in God’s name, are the people it’s taking averages from to work out how english … well … you know … works? What in the name of holy fuck are they saying to produce the shit-show that is my phone’s text suggestions? I can only assume it’s mostly folks in Asia where English is used a lot but isn’t anyone’s first language, or that my vocabulary is simply too wide for the parameters of the algorithm to operate. (Really, though? Sounds doubtful.)

At a complete loss, I tried speaking to it. But it can’t understand my fucking accent! My fucking ENGLISH accent for fuck’s sake! The other day I was speaking a sentence which involved the phrase, ‘power of attorney’. My phone decided I’d said, ‘parrot Ernie.’ Give me fucking strength!

As a result, I find myself typing each word tiny letter by tiny letter and the phone, which should be something I can use to quickly reply to stuff, turns into a time sink.

Bah! Swift key? There’s a fucking oxymoron if ever I heard it.

Bookish things …

Yeh, those. So, this month, was officially the worst in about three years for sales.

Last April, I made £408.74 in book sales. This April, I made, er hem, about £65 if I count the sale on my website. Then again it’s up on April 2019 when I made £56.68. Mmm.

Something appears to have happened to Amazon, maybe it’s because I dicked with my series pages – as in changed the name from ‘K’Barthan Trilogy Series’ to K’Barthan Series. Actually no, thinking about that it wasn’t this month. But needless to say, the K’Barthan Trilogy, while disappearing completely from my dashboard, is still alive and well on Amazon. I now have a two book series called the K’Barthan Trilogy (it contains books three and four) which appears nowhere on my dashboard and is therefore undeletable, but alas, all over Amazon. I will sort it out but at the moment I just don’t have the strength of will to deal with emailing KDP customer service repeatedly until they stop giving me boiler plate answers to some other vaguely related question, finally read my actual query and give me a bastard answer.

On the up side, I discovered something weird about myself. Because I’ve made about forty quid on Amazon this month, instead of a hundred and fifty, my wide sales are a much bigger percentage. For the first time they are over a third; 34%. For some bizarre reason, this makes me feel fantastic. Audiobooks, I still appear to be unable to give the bloody things away off Amazon/Audible – except for the odd library purchase or sale on Google Play. Ebooks though, there’s a weeny hint of movement from non-Amazon vendors. This may be because I’ve been actively advertising to people in countries where Amazon companies are not the number one supplier.

It’s not that I don’t like Amazon as a customer, it’s alright, except it’s getting harder and harder to find out how to pay for anything I buy without joining Prime – talk about black pathways. But while I don’t want to penalise Amazon users, I have no wish to be beholden for my income to a company with such rancid corporate ethics, so ideally, I’d like to see a lot of my income derived elsewhere.

Sales last month with unfeasibly high percentage wide because Amazon was low. This month because there’s only been one day, and Amazon sales continue to flatline, I’ve sold a book on Kobo and am 100% wide for a while! Yay!

Yes, here I am a hundred dollars plus down on my monthly earnings and I’m not nearly as pissed off as I should be – and year-on-year looking at 2018 and 2019 they were about the same – but the distribution of sales over the different platforms is making me happier than money? Well yes. But also it’s because the action on other platforms seems to be increasing a teeny bit. Even better, as my Amazon sales continue to flatline, I have sold my first book of the month, on the first day, from Kobo. Yes, for a while I have a 100% wide sales chart. This also makes me unaccountably happy. There is zero logic in this. I am doing badly and I should be worried but strangely I care more about increasing my sales elsewhere (which is really hard) than on Amazon. I appreciate it sounds a bit touched in the head. But Amazon is difficult to deal with and has the corporate ethics of a morally louche confidence trickster. All its rules are enforced by AI but it’s the cheapest crappest AI possible – NOT like the algorithm at all – which means they are totally inconsistent and their measures ridiculously draconian, often with no appeal or recourse.

Amazon’s customers love the experience but they mostly do prime. The books I’m interested in are usually like my own, outside Kindle Select so I know I wouldn’t maximise the benefits of Prime. Also I don’t understand people who pay £7 a month for netflix, £7 a month for prime, £7 a month for Spotify and so on ad infinitum. All those invisible direct debits chipping away at my income … the thought gives me hives. I need to know the cash is going out. Then again, I am eclectic and have a wide range of interests. Therefore, just as auto correct throws up its hands and has a melt down trying to predict what I will say, so a subscription algorithm probably isn’t going to deliver me with what I require once it is tweaked for commercial gain. Since Amazon’s algorithms are now driven by advertising payments rather than entirely by the desires of the customer, it’s unlikely I’d find what I wanted there. And since Spotify has announced that it, too, will be shifting to that model, I’d suspect theirs will become the same.

I appreciate that the Normals like Prime and Amazon’s customer service is excellent for those who fit their ideal customer criteria (I don’t). But to deal with as a distributor, Amazon is extremely high maintenance. Clearly, they are important and I will always have my books there, but ideally, I want the lion’s share of my income and interaction to be with entities where things are smoother, pleasanter and better run. And where my royalties will not inexplicably go tumbling from over £300 a month to £40. Not to mention that the other sites, and my own, all pay me higher royalties than Amazon for book sales. That’s just business logic innit?

And now, some free stuff and a lot of Things On The End …

Small Beginnings …

Small Beginnings: Ebook version

This month, I have mostly been doing some marketing. I have two things that might be useful. First, Small Beginnings is now free pretty much everywhere except Amazon. I’m hoping it will go free at Amazon eventually.

Normally if I reduce books in price to zero pence elsewhere Amazon makes it free on their own but they don’t seem to have noticed this time. Anyway, if you’d like to bag yourself a free copy of Small Beginnings, or you know someone who might, you can find a page with links to download it. NB, in this particular case, avoid my online shop as I haven’t sorted out a discount code yet and Amazon, because … ditto. Yeh, still steeling myself to contact KDP help (shudders) with the web address of my book on every single Amazon site, followed by the web address of it shown as free on every single country Amazon serves on Kobo, Google Play and iBooks.

Kobo are featuring it in their free section this week, too. For that information link click here.

Unlucky Dip: Audiobook version

OK so you do actually get this as part of my mailing list sign up protocol but if you aren’t, and you have a boring half hour job to do and would like something to listen to to lighten your spirits while you do it, you can’t really go wrong with this. It’s all that is joyous and wonderful about Gareth doing his thing – albeit on a bit of writing that is, if I’m honest, not my best work. Never mind. That is free in two places this month, from iBooks and from Kobo. For links to that, click here.

Merchandise …

Finally, do you remember that K’Barthan merchandise I was talking about? Two developments on that one.

Thing one … If you would like to vote and haven’t yet, the quiz is still open for you to choose your favourite K’Barthan invective. because I have to send it to my mailing list in two week’s time as well! You can still vote for your favourite invective here.

Well I finally have a sort of shop, although it’s Zazzle so no-one will be able to afford anything – I’m working on other suppliers who are less expansive (and pay more royalties) – and also I haven’t finished adding products. But if you’re interested to see how it’s going and you want a gander, you can see that here.

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