Regressing into Childhood...

Those people who know me in real life will be aware that I have had problems with nasty neighbours. These have culminated in my deciding to move house to be rid of them. This may strike people as quite an extreme solution but believe me, compared to weeping continually or murdering someone it becomes the only sensible option. Anyway, while I grapple with what wording to use to successfully sell my beloved home to someone else without actually lying, the last thing I want is to have to wrestle with difficult literature. No, what I want for the moment is to sit hunched in a corner and try to comfort myself by rocking backwards and forwards and reading nothing but children’s books.

A Hat Full of Sky by Terry Pratchet

This is the sequel to “The Wee Free Men” and is the second book about Tiffany Aching (an 11 year old witch from the chalk downs who once saw off the Queen of the fairies by hitting her with a skillet) and the Nac Mac Feegle (a clan of violent, drunken, woad-covered pictsies). Depending on who you believe the Nac Mac Feegle either left Fairyland of their own accord, rebelling against its Queen, or were thrown out for being “pished”.

In this novel, Tiffany leaves home to study witchcraft in the mountains. Whilst there her habit of casually stepping out of her body (which she taught herself to do because she didn’t have a mirror) has disastrous consequences when her empty body is taken over by an evil entity known as a hiver. The Nac Mac Feegle are soon on their way to rescue their favourite “hag”, but they are at their best with problems that can solved by nutting somebody…

One of the things I liked about the book was that since the majority of being a Discworld witch doesn’t involve magic, you can effectively Be Your Own Granny Weatherwax. Now that sounds like the crapest spin-off self-help since the Tao of Poo. Don’t look to me to create it; I’m already being my own lifecoach, feeling the fear and doing it anyway AND fighting the seven signs of aging. You’ll have to shift for yourself!

Across The Nightingale Floor

In some ways I have always wanted to be Japanese and enjoy practicing swordsmanship in the falling cherry blossom with killer cheekbones and epicanthic folds. I could really rock that ethnicity... So I expected to really enjoy “Across the Nightingale Floor”, a children's fantasy novel set somewhere a bit like medieval Japan.

A young man, Tomaso, sees his village destroyed and his mother and step-father murdered by the local warlord. He is then adopted by a rival aristocratic family (who rename him Takeo) and gradually finds out that his birth father was part of a tribe of magic ninjas. Takeo then has to practice his ninja-skills for an attempt on the life of the man who killed his family. Things don't quite go according to plan and although Takeo escapes with his life and the bad guy is dead by the end, so is Takeo's patron is killed, leaving him in the hands of “The Tribe” of magic ninjas.

I just didn't like this book as much as I expected to. Maybe it's because I have been dealing with some very stressful events recently, or maybe it's because I only seemed to have time to read it in 5 minute snatches. Also, am I the only person here who thinks that ninjas are exciting enough without having magic powers? There are two sequels to this novel, but I'm afraid I won't be bothering to read them. What with there being so many amazing books in the world there just isn't time to read the ones I think will only rate 50%.

King of Shadows by Susan Cooper

Nathan Field is part of a company of child actors putting on a production of A Midsummer Night's Dream in the reconstructed Globe theatre. One night he goes to bed with flu... and wakes up in 1599, about to perform the Dream with Shakespeare himself!

One of the things I like about this book it that Nat's crush on Shakespearereminds me of the way men lez up in Shakespeare plays. I have to confess that I find it very exciting when two good-looking actors put their arms round one another's shoulders and call each other “noble cuz”. Another reason to love this book is because it has my sister's favourite ending: He woke up and it was all a dream... or WAS it?

Top Books

People often say to me* “Hey, Bookclubof1, I’m sick of misery memoirs and patronising chicklit. I’ve had it with hacks like Dan Brown/James Patterson/Stephen King/Barbara Cartland. I wanna read something that’ll blow my tiny mind! What do you recommend?” And I go round my bookshelves and take down the following...

Slaugherhouse 5 by Kurt Vonnegut

Catch 22 by Joseph Keller

Crash by J. G. Ballard

Vurt by Jeff Noon

Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami

The Tooth Fairy by Graham Joyce

Ghostworld by Daniel Clowes

Slaughtermatic by Steve Aylett

Whereupon, my friends eye my choices with surprise and fear before scuttling back to the bestseller lists.

Sigh.

*Actually they don’t, but I can dream...

Abuse of language #1: Toilet

The word “toilet” is problematic to class-sensitive Brits at the best of times and anyone who wants to get on in this country would be well advised to avoid it altogether. What really makes me twitch, though is to hear it misused in the phrase, “to do a toilet”. This phrase just shrieks of Jeremy Kyle. If your child says it, you should break them of the habit by allowing them to soil themselves unless they can produce a grammatically correct request. If anyone over 10 uses it, you’re allowed to punch them.

Toilet can be used to mean having a wash and brush up, but it still isn’t a verb! And I hate to see it used as a mealy-mouthed euphemism for bodily functions. For example, I recently encountered a horrific article on the internet about the difficulties of getting pet cats to “toilet” in an acceptable location. As anyone with a dictionary knows, cats can make their toilet pretty much anywhere; it’s where they shit that’s the problem.

In summary

Wrong:

“Mummy, I need to do a toilet!”

“How to train your cat Where to Toilet”

Correct:

“Mummy, I need to wee/poo!”

“How to Train Your Cat to Shit in a Litter Tray”

Agent Zigzag by Ben Macintyre

Not to be confused with the far superior “Agent Z and the Penguin From Mars”, Agent Zigzag is the true story of Eddie Chapman. Chapman was a criminal specialising in blowing up safes before the second world war and was languishing in Jersey prison when the island fell to the Nazis. In a bid to return to the UK mainland (or maybe just to earn some money, his motives are often pretty unclear) Chapman volunteered to spy for the Germans.

He was then left in jail in France while his request filtered through German bureaucracy. After being interviewed by the German secret service he was sprung and trained for sabotage mission to blow up the DeHavilland factory that made the Mosquito. Chapman parachuted into Britain and immediately defected. He was then used to feed inaccurate information to the Germans. MI5 faked the sabotage of the DeHavilland factory to keep his cover intact and Chapman was sent back to the Nazis via neutral Portugal.

Almost as soon as he arrived, Chapman sent a couple of bombs disguised as lumps of coal back home for the secret service to investigate, by suggesting that he smuggle them aboard the British merchant ship that brought him. The Germans then spent some time interviewing Chapman, to try to ensure that he had not been "turned" by the British. Nazi interrogation seemed to comprise mostly of taking Chapman out to expensive bars and restaurants and getting him drunk. If this is accurate, then MI5 are more than welcome to take a crack at me; I like a decent Sauvignon Blanc, Pims, Kier Royale and a cocktail of my own devising made from vodka, Archers and blue flavour Panda Pop.

After a lot of booze, Chapman was sent to Norway where he trained other German spies (passing their details on the the British). As the tide of the war turned against Germany, he was parachuted back into the UK with a mission to find out about secret U boat detection technology (there was no such thing; military intelligence just knew where subs would be due to intercepting their transmissions one the Enigma code had been cracked),radar and to feed back data to help target V1/V2 missiles.

When the war ended, Chapman was dropped by secret service. He wasn't “one of us” and didn't fit in with the public school types runnng the show. And it didn't help that he'd taken up with his criminal friends again. He lived the rest of his life as a crook. There was a film loosely based on Eddie Chapman's lifestory called "Triple Cross". I haven't seen it but I don't have high hopes for it; it's got Christopher Plumber in it.

Whatever a book blurb may say, real life is never more incredible than fiction. If I were to rewrite the story, I would have Chapman tortured by the Gestapo, stuff would really get blown up, rather than just faked and I would probably have killed off one of the nicer minor characters (Major Reed, Zigzag’s first handler or Dagmar, his Norwegian girlfriend) for extra pathos. It might be mean, but it makes a better story.

The Course of Honour by Lindsey Davis

Before Lindsey Davis hit her stride with the Falco books, she had a go at historical romance in the form of this account of the love affair between Flavius Vespasianus (who would go on to become the Emperor Vepasian) and Antonia Caenis, an ex-slave from the royal palace. The book is very good in parts. For example, I particularly enjoyed the bits about Roman politics and palace intrigues and the demented, murderous antics of Caligula and Nero. Unfortunately, the bits about their actual relationship however, can strike me as a bit, “He was a victorious Roman general. She was a humble slavegirl. THEIR LOVE WOULD ROCK AN EMPIRE!” I would have preferred to find out more about the Year of Four Caesars and the civil war, which were dealt with very breifly.

If romance is not your thing (and to be honest, it isn't really mine, either) consider reading I, Claudius instead, of even The 12 Caesars by Suetonius. “The 12 Caesars” is particularly good fun; it's like finding a copy of Heat magazine which is 2000 years old.

Bad Science by Ben Goldacre

Bad Science is effectively the book of the blog by the lovely Ben Goldacre*. Throughout the book Ben deconstructs sloppy journalism and abuses of scientific language, roughly in order of how angry Ben gets about them. So we start with relatively harmless bollocks like detoxing and face cream, moving on to Homeopathy and Nutritionism. Then we look at the ethics of pharmaceutical companies and finally media heath scares and hoaxes like MMR. On the way there are some excellent explanations of the placebo effect, and of probability and statistics, which strike many people as counter-intuitive. And some amusing ranting at Ben's favourite awful poo lady**.

There is also a bonus chapter available from the internet, which deals with a particularly unpleasant man who has been trying to flog vitamin pills to Africa as a cure for AIDS. This was left out of earlier editions of the book, due to the filthy villain attempting to sue our Ben.

I particularly liked the final chapter in which he complains bitterly about the quality of science journalism. Ben points out that there must be loads of people with degrees in science subjects who have gone on to work in unrelated fields (yes! Yes! Here I am, Ben!) and yet whenever we get any science on in the media it has to be dumbed down so the lowest common denominator crapwits who couldn't differentiate e^x with respect to x can understand it. Where's my science, eh, world? Is it in the same place as all the trousers that actually come up to your waist have gone?

To the roll call of “cargo cult science” (things that like to use sciencey-sounding language but completely lack the rigour of the genuine article) I would like to add psychology and economics. In fact I think it would greatly benefit the world if economics were renamed “guesswork”.


*I think I have a bit of an intellectual crush on him. I'm not interested in the contents of his trousers, but I do love him a bit. If he ever wants a platonic groupie, he knows where I am!

**Amoungst other hilarious claims, Gillian believes that "foul-smelling stools" are a sign of ill health. This especially amused me; McKeith literally thinks her shit don't smell.

Back to the Golden Age...

What, in these difficult times, could be more cost-effective than reading second hand books?* This month I have been using second hand books to return to the “Golden Age” of science fiction, the 40s and 50s, when stories were relentlessly optimistic and everyone was looking forward to a shiny new world of spaceships, robot slaves and scantily-clad alien princesses. Unfortunately, I’ve been reading Kurt Vonnegut and Ray Bradbury, who rather bucked the trend for mindless optimism.

The Sirens of Titan by Kurt Vonnegut

I bought my copy of The Sirens of Titan from a shelf of second hand books in Lillypool cafe in the Mendips for 10p. What a bargain! You don’t half get a lot of satire for your money.

Winston Niles Rumfoord is an aristocratic space adventurer who, together with his dog, Kazak, was sucked into a chrono-synclastic infundibulum in between earth and Mars. This means that he now exists as a waveform, rather than a person (appearing in human form only where the orbit of a planet intersects an antinode of his wave) and has knowledge of past and future. At first it appears that he has used this knowledge to toy with the lives of other people, including his wife and the rather reprehensible millionaire playboy Malachi Constant. Rumfoord engineers a war between Mars (whose population he builds from kidnapped Earthlings) and uses the resulting soul-searching to found The Church of God the Utterly Indifferent with the strap line “Take care of each other and the Almighty will take care of himself”.

When the action moves to Titan, we learn that the master manipulator is himself a puppet of aliens from the planet Tralfamadore: A Tralfamadorean robot called Salo has crashed there while taking a message from one side of the universe to another and his spacecraft requires a spare part. The whole evolution of life and intelligence on Earth was engineered by his home world just in order to provide him with a specially-shaped piece of metal to continue his journey. After being goaded by Rumfoord, Salo peeks at the message he’s being carrying to find that it is... a single dot.

Although funny and wittily told, this has to be one of the blackest comedies I’ve ever read: no one has any free will, millions die for a faked-up religion and the ultimate reason for human existence turns out to be completely feeble! A fine book, but if you only read one Vonnegut book in your life, make it "Slaughterhouse Five".

The Illustrated Man by Ray Bradbury

The Illustrated Man is a collection of short stories. Bradbury seems to me to write at the intersection of SF, fantasy and horror, but these stories are pretty much traditional science fiction. What makes Ray different from many of his contemporaries (and therefore more readable to the Bookclub of One) is that he has a realistically low opinion of human nature. This means he is unable to subscribe to a gleaming, hi-tec utopia; he knows what we'd really do with technology.

Two of my favourite stories were "The Velt" and "Zero Hour". In "The Velt" a couple use a sort of virtual reality theatre to educate and entertain their children and are subsequently murdered by the selfish, empathy-free brats they have spawned. In "Zero Hour" all the children in a small town become obsessed with a make-believe game called "invasion", which turns out not to be make-believe at all. The kids are being used as a fifth column for aliens and they've sold out humanity in return for being allowed to stay up an extra hour. I think I like these stories because I find children spooky and unfinished. You might think yours are cute, but when I look at them, I see those twins from The Shining or the little girl from F.E.A.R.

The absolute stand-out story for me, though, was The Concrete Mixer. A Martian invasion fleet arrives on Earth to a rapturous welcome. While the Martians thought they were conquerors, the Earth men see new consumers and new markets. The invaders are soon addicted to a life of booze, cars, pointless sex, indolence and useless spending. Their culture is plundered to make crappy Hollywood films which Earth sells back to them, their bodies are poisoned and their spirits are crushed. O God, I'm living in that particuar distopia right now!

*Other than going to the library. Or stealing books. Or reading over other people’s shoulders on public transport. Or downloading free ebooks and giving yourself a headache trying to read them. Or just shamelessly standing there in Waterstones, reading the whole thing in spite of the tutting (particularly effective for graphic novels, that method, as they are both pricey and quick to read). Now that I think about it, there are quite a few better sources of cheap books than the second hand market, but let’s celebrate it anyway. We’ll cover stealing another time.