The Doctor Crossing His own Timeline.

(From my sketch book.) Someone might well recognise the news paper headline in front of the newsagent. It is lifted from the Doctor Who story The Web Of Fear, the Yeti in the Underground (How often does one get to say that?)story. The Doctor was only popping for some jelly babies and then he would be off. Jelly babies and the Blinovitch Limitation Effect do not mix. Like Dolly Mixtures and The Doppler I suppose...

UNIVERSE.

Absolutely compelling television show by Brian Cox. Carl Sagan's Cosmos was a formative watch for me. Think that this show is very probably having the same effect on some other wide eyed viewer dreaming(Blimey, what on Earth, or off it, does "dreming" mean?)of the stars.

Hansel and Gretel.

(From my sketchbook) Loosely based on an old Disney vinyl album knocking about in the Steptoe And Son tribute I call home.

Alien 3 (The Unproduced First Draft Screenplay By William Gibson.)

Can you begin a review of a book on what you thought this book was going to be about, rather what you thought the original idea for a third movie would have looked like? Course you can; here goes; "William Gibson's never before adapted screenplay for the direct sequel to Aliens, revealing the fate of Ripley, Newt, the synthetic Bishop and Corporal Hicks." Well, there you go, for good or ill this was what William Gibson had in mind, for a brief time, coming off the back of the celebrated Alien. William Gibson, the " founder" or "father" of cyberpunk must have seemed like a cunning choice at the time for this project, as he was riding a wave of growing fame and respect for his genre busting contributions to the writing field. I had come to think of him as the Doctor Frankenstein of a new science in that he used the decaying parts of science fiction tropes in order to construct  a new body from old. It is a hugely different take on the place in the Alien franchise and history line we are so familiar with. Some characters come to the fore while others disapear altogether. This script, this unused script, was created in an era where there was less confidence in the notion of evolving story arcs across expensively produced movies. Marvel movies were a long way off at this point and continuing arcs were reserved for television and soap operas. The idea that a movie genre, especially a quite adult toned blend of horror and science fiction would put bums on seats was not something beyond the realm of dedicated fan fiction and their notions of shared universes. The tiresome and repetitive wearing quality of such a world striding series of movies would perhaps indicate that strong stand alone movies would have been the wise way to go. In most viewers eyes the Alien movies series has more in common with Halloween than The Avengers. William Gibson's star was shining bright at this time, which is remarkable given the aesthetics his work remains cloaked in. Some might describe it as cyber-marmite while others might quite rightly see his genre shattering turn as a healthy extension to an ailing franchise. Its all the product of a cinema world that never was, a" what if" I suppose. It is well worth experiencing even should you be a mere Alien dilettante. Which even the most louche of us remains...

Old Fashioned Christmas.

An Olde Worlde Distributers annual, from way back in the day when nearly every Christmas stocking would have had an annual in it. Like the traditional Christmasses of yore these also seem to have gone before. In a 24 hour frantic and manic confusion of social media I cannot help but wonder where would a beautiful old annual like this fit? How about under the tree...

Odd couple In Whitby.

I had actually set this up without realising it. I looked up from my drawing desk and thought "Ah, that is so nice." Thought I would share and hope you feel the same.

Early December Book Haul.

Just some bits and pieces from Hospice Book trawl. One never knows what one will find in a random search.

(Thus proving, there are no ends to this lovely man's talent.)

Dandelion Dreams.

                                                                (From my sketchbook.)

Brighton Beach Dander, Doctor Pre visit To Leisure Hive.

                                                                (From my sketch book.)

Englands Dreaming.

                                                               Oh boy, found a copy at last.

Doctor Who Annual 1977.

                                            "Are you coming or going? Or going or coming?"

                                                    The Doctor; The Sontaran Experiment.
 Bought with my own savings way back in 1976. No mean feat for a boy with no savings. It was put over by the very friendly newsagent Vincey Mullholland who owned the newsagent at the bottom of Etna Drive. A kindly move as he knew my family had not a pot to piss in, as they used to say in these parts. He was patient enough to wait till I had saved enough to pay it off and I cannot tell you how excited I was to hand over the last ten pence.

            I have to admit though, I was bewildered by the contents. The art work was absolutely incredible in places. I mean just check out the back cover illustration of The Doctor. But the stories were surreal. As though someone had worked out the lore of Who by looking at pictures and made some bonkers yarns out of them. Still felt like a slice of heaven to me though. 

Doctor Who Annual 2015.

 I have a habit of doodling stock and pasting the finished stuff into books I own. Well, I figure no one else is going to want them when I am done with them. Here is one I did of The Doctor being menaced by The Veil in the confession dial. It is off course from a different year the annual was gifted to me but I had it to hand at the time. It is a moment from the classic episode Heaven Sent. The one that really showcased what a towering talent Peter Capaldi is. When the dust settled on his era it would be hard to argue with the notion we were lucky to have him as The Doctor for the glorious time he spent in the role. I remember being so wrong footed and held in awe by that story the night it was transmitted. 

            Just pure magic.

Steve Dillon.

                                                           (Steve montage from my art book.)

Its just over five years since we lost this wonderful man Steve Dillon. One of the greats in British comic history and just one the all time great people I met over the years. A funny friend to many and a hugely respected artist who left the world a huge body of much loved work. Some part of every comic book shop in the world will forever remain part of Steve. 

Time's Up! (Isn't always...)

                                                            A tale of two Radio Times...

We Will Always Have Paris.

"Thats the thing about Paris, its a bouquet, its a degree of panache and I am not talking about Cyrano                                                                             Bergerac's hat!"

Beautiful Bessie.

 This bright violet friend of the Doctor is so much missed. True, she will forever be inextricably linked with the Pertwee era but it certainly eased the transition from Mr Pertwee to Mr Baker at the sight of The Doctor and Sarah Jane holding onto their hats as they raced to confront Professor Kettlewell's giant Robot. The badge ad is from the back of an old Lion and Thunder. Oh how easily pleased we were in those days to see our hero in any other format. Back then my brain almost exploded at the sight of a set of Doctor Who jigsaws in a local shop. Alas my poor ma and da could not afford to buy me any...oh the trauma...He even cruelly suggested home made jigsaws which would basically involve him cutting up magazine pictures for me to reassemble...

            Bessie was such a Whoish optic and I miss her so. Can see The Doctor (Peter Capaldi) taking Missy for a drive and a picnic, to best aid her change her mischievous ways.

            Toot!Toot!

76 Totter's Lane.

                                 Happy Birthday Doctor and thank you for lifetimes of adventure. The Tardis stands amidst all the ,rather spooky looking, junk in I.M.Foreman's yard. Enter Barbara and Ian, stepping through the creaking gateway and then we are off. Off on a journey that has pretty much continued to this day. And long may it continue to do so...

Forty.

 Oh Blimey, look what Big Finish just posted. FORTY! Oh to be a timelord. can four decades really have passed since we first saw The Doctor and his crew found them selves hurtling towards the biggest bang in history!? Where do the years go.....

Haunted Staircase.

                                                             No More Days To Halloween.
                                                           its all behind us for another year.

                                                                       

Haunted Bookshelf 2021

 

Whats That Ticking Sound?

                                                                Tick, Tick, BOOM!

Hell In A Basket.

                                                  "We'll Tear Your Sole Apart, er,probably

                           or at the very least make your feet feel like you are wearing new shoes...

 

Funk To Funky.

                                                                (From My Sketchbook.)

The Haunting Of Hill House.

 "No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream. Hill House, not sane, stood by itself against its hills, holding darkness within, it had stood for eighty years and might stand for eighty more. Within, walls continued upright, bricks met neatly, floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut; silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone."

             It is one of the most celebrated openings in a modern novel, regardless of genre, and serves as the perfect opener to the remarkable piece of work that follows. it is a tight piece of writing, it suggests so much more than it signposts, with every t crossed, every sentence neatly dotted by its end and whatever moves through the text, moves alone. But then that is the very nature of reading is it not? We enter and leave alone.

             In the book a loose team of researchers stay at Hill House, a house with a bad reputation in a district that has never quite mastered the notion of welcome. They are a fantastic four of very different mindsets and personalities. Led by Doctor John Montague, an imminent investigator of the paranormal, the other three are; Theodora, a clever and complicated bohemian figure and artists model and inspiration, Luke Sanderson, a cocky heir to the house and all its secrets and Eleanor Vance,  a sadly mentally unbalanced youngish woman, really the last person who should stay at the insane house on the hill, the brutalist and yet painfully old world house built by Hugh Craine.

              All four were strangers to each other until they met at Hill House, yet each in their time had individually brushed up against the paranormal. Yet their individual experiences do not prepare them for what follows in that house. Such is the gossamer weave spun by Shirley Jackson as she spins a web about her protagonists we are sometimes not sure if what they see is what is there. It is one of the most lingering aspects of the novel, the ghosts that linger in the imagination long after you put the book down. She implies that her cast of misfits are blessed, or more accurately cursed with extrasensory gifts, in a house where to see less would be a blessing. Eleanor may in fact possess latent telekinetic abilities, a "gift" that has not served her well.  With that terrible house amplifying everything which lurks beneath the surface poor Eleanor would have been safer in a den of vipers. But this was a woman on the run, fleeing a life of grinding ennui, nowhere to go and no time to get there. All she wished to find was a safe place to rest her head, a small haven to call her own. For a short time her pretend family feels real, the rooms of Hill House a place to call her own. This is the cruelist trick played by that spiteful house, an ogres den pretending to be a fairy castle, with homeless Eleanor a priness in search of a kingdom. A child woman burdened with a lifetime of unfulfilled expectations. 

               And all the while that mad house abides.

               I think this about the third time I have sat down with Shirley Jackson's best remembered work. Each time I have found so much more than the previous. Her touch is light but jarring, Like a hand resting on your own in a room you thought you were alone in.

             

Andy Capp.

                                                                   (From my sketchbook)

                                                     Andy Capp and the long suffering Flo.

                                                               World's worst role model.

                                                                          Probably.
 

And In This Corner; The Black Pearl.

                                         "Best start believing in ghost stories, cause you're in one."

Brighton Or Bust

                                           Its an old one from my sketch book but I

                                                 always feel in a Meglos state of 

                                                       mind this time of year.
 

The War Doctor Begins.

You might well have heard an alarming "thunking" noise at some point resounding around the Whoniverse. That was the collective sound made by jaws dropping at the first episode of this outstanding production from Big Finish.

              Jonathan Carley does an astonishing job of bringing this character back to life. This goes way beyond an actor doing an impersonation of another actor. Yes, it does sound incredibly like the late Sir John, but there is nuance here, a sense of living through the lines. In many ways the best of Big Finish feel like that. John Culshaw never just sounds like an impersonator, he too breathes lives into characters believed lost. From the opening lines he just does something remarkable. All three stories show growth, in character and narrative complexity as the Time War begins to distort the notion of who the good guys are. It opens on gloomy Karn, with the Sisterhood under pressure from their allies The Time Lords. This iteration of The Doctor rejects and rails against his very own name. He is at odds with everything, this incarnation born in violence and fire. The fires of The Sisterhood. Its a very arcane beginning, all mysticism and elixirs and such, before it spills out into a wider universe of apocalyptic events.

             One episode even feels like one of the classic wartime dramas of my youth, a movie like The Heroes Of Telemark or The Guns Of Navarone. These are stories which can spring from character driven intimacy to the fields of war in an instant. Hats off to all involved, oe more accurately "helmets on" cause its gonna be a bumpy ride.

 

1983.

 how about this for an early Christmas present for the Doctor Who fan in your life? Its just an embarrassment of riches for any Whovian. Filled with pictures that will make the heart sing for joy. Doctor Who may no longer believe in Christmas but by jingo Christmas still believes in Doctor Who.

Ndsaki.

 Was saddened to hear of the recent passing of the mountain gorilla Ndsaki. This beautiful animal was rescued from almost certin death, found as a baby clinging to the dead body of her mother, murdered by poachers. Raised in a sanctuary, she eventually took her last breath in the arms of her keeper and friend Andre Bauma. His kindness, the dignity he extended, the good grace of a gentle embrace and how welcome that must have felt is truly obvious from the solace Ndsaki found in her keepers arms. 

             Ndsaki might be familiar to some who like their wildlife photography from a quite famous and wonderfully endearing photo-bombing incident when she and another mountain gorilla dandered into the back ground of a selfie being taken by one of the keeps at the Virunga National Park in the Congo.

             Well, she had it, she flaunted it, and the world is going to miss her. Blessings to the men and women who have made it their business to care and protect all animals who may be in danger or distress.

              

The Killings At Kingfisher Hill.

 As the author recognised by the Agatha Christie Estate Sophie Hannah has over the past few years delivered a very enjoyable quartet of books that never stray too far away from the formula that has insured there are more Hecule Poirot books in circulation throughout the world than actual population figures for some countries. This one assuredly continues that pleasing and winning streak by putting before Poirot that which fans of the books enjoy; a varied cast of suspicious characters, some questionably accurate narration of events not seen, twists and turns, dead ends and red herrings galore. 

             Poirot and his companion and side kick Detective Catchpole find themselves undercover at a wealthy estate and confronted by two confessions to the same murder. Someone is lying and everyone else is hiding their own motivations as events unfold and the mysteries deepen. One death is followed by another as a hideously entitled bunch of wealthy people endeavour to fog the pathway out of this confusing state. Witnesses to events provide the most unreliable accounts and suspects dither as more blood soaks the floor boards of Kingfisher Hill.

             This has proved to be a successful and enjoyable series by Sophie Hannah, already a respected author with her own work before the Agatha Christie Estate charged her with carrying the torch for Mrs Christie's most prolific creation. I had thought the series might best be served by a rotation of different writers as the Ian Fleming Estate do with Mr Bond, yet Sophie Hannah has proved herself to be an astute choice. Agatha Christie made murder seem easy which off course it is not. but she was not afraid to play with the format itself as she realised, probably, that death is never enough. Which the massive sales of her books acting as testament to this spirit of invention. Only religous texts have generated more in terms of sales.

             What does that tell us about ourselves as a species?

Halloweens Comin' On.

                                                                  ..And look Who is Back.

                                                                    

The Black Locomotive.

Oh My Word! What a read. It has been a while since i was reading a book that made me want to cheer for sheer joy as I was making my way through it. (Scratchman by Tom Baker being one of the most recent.) but The Black Locomotive did just that! A wonderful read, beautifully illustrated , with sublime artwork that seamlessly accompanies the text. It was as if JG Ballard had written a Quatermass story.

             "A strange anamoly is uncovered in the new top secret Crossrail extension being built under Buckingham Palace. It is an archealogical puzzle, one that may transform our understanding of history- and the origins of London itself. " so says the blurb on the book itself. Actually, so striking is the cover design, anyone handling this book has a pretty good idea they are already handling something special. (Oh-er, Vicar!) The haunting cover design, the pop art spine, the many intriguing interior illustrations and even the diversity of fonts used during the telling of the tale, it all adds up to an almost meta-experience.

             I am not much of a one for cookery shows. No matter how interesting the cooking is, or how the cooks explain their culinary concoctions. There are just too many peripherals for my liking, too broad assumptions of the bourgeois nature of modern kitchens fore me to ever be comfortable watching a show the whole way through. Who has a kitchen stuffed with such a breadth of ingredients from all corners of the earth, or Tescos or Aldi, whatever? you know, its probably some sort of inverted snobbery on my part, an innate sense of thrift from someone who grew up in a house without a pot to piss in, if you will forgive my vulgarity.  I cannot help it, a degree of feigned worldliness I do not actually possess. But when it comes to writing, or a writer's abilities, that intrigue me suddenly the great kitchen of creation opens its doors and I want to explore the ingredients that made it such a classic dish. Rian Highes lays those ingredients all before you. 

            And everyone is invited to the feast.

       

(An image, a piece of art, Rian Hughs created for The Doctor Who story of the same name.)

 

Towards Zero.

Oh, I enjoyed this one, found myself whizzing through this Agatha Christie, losing track of my day off and actually forgetting about all the things I had planned to do, as I wondered through this tight Christie narrative wondering what waited for the reader as we moved towards zero point and beyond. It is beautifully foreshadowed by this piece of dialogue by the character Mr Treeves; " I like a good detective story" he said" But, you know, they begin in the wrong place! They begin with the murder. But the murder is the end! the story beginning long before that.   Years before sometimes With all the causes and events that bring certain people to a certain place on a certain time on a certain day..all conveying towards a given spot...and then when the time comes..over the top! Zero hour. Yes, all of them converging towards zero..."

              He repeated "Towards zero,"

              It is Agatha Christie exploring how she constructs a narrative, as she would every now and again. Exploring ways of reaching towards that point and bringing her readers along with her.  And proving enormously successful at it, as the decades past have proven, as her ouvre remains constantly in print.  She really was the mistress of suspense, able to make that journey towards zero point so compelling.  Again and again, taking her readers on a mystery walk.  Doing it again with this book, with past events the prelude to murder. As events wind their way down the thorny path to the present. 

             And what a wonderful coincidence played itself out before my eyes. A lovely wee bit of serendipity.(Lovely word that.) I put the telly on to discover an adaption of Towards Zero was being broadcast. i had no idea it was actually on, just a nice bit of timing.on my part. They had taken some liberties with this adaption, probably in order to make it more palatable for a mainstream audience. It is transformed into a Ms Marple story, which is a bit odd, as there is no Poirot or Marple in the original text.  Poirot gets a mention, his genius referenced by a character. a further delight for me with this adaption was the character of Mr Treeves being played by none other than the lovely Tom baker! On form too, wonderfully capturing the world weary and tired essence of the character, a man who has stared too long into dark places, who it is said; "knows more of back stairs history than any man in England. Sadly, for him, he knows too much.

             Geraldine Mc Ewan plays Ms Marple, in wingless twittering bird fashion. Each actress, as one would expect, brings much of her own thing to the role. 

             I love them all but I do have a favourite.

             But that is between me and dear Jane.

 

Growing up Gay With Olly.

 If you only have time for one television programme this week, or any week really, why not give this a go; Growing Up Gay With Olly Alexander. It is a genuinely powerful glimpse into the mind of a very special young man, one who seems the very epitome of the modern Renaissance man. A deep thinker, a great, great singer, dancer and actor. He is all these things and yet remains very humbly a gentle human being. If the word gentleman has any real meaning these days then he is surely it. 

             He articulates very movingly, and honestly, the pains he experienced growing up gay in a straight world. Argue the semantics all you want, break it down, dress it up, "problematically unpack" or whatever. He is trying to articulate a painful truth that runs through the very center of the rock of modernity. An over rich vein of awkwardness and painful loneliness that all too many off us experience. Perhaps less so for future generations as the world seems genuinely attempting to usher in a long over due era of kindness rather than willful ignorance. Now, unfortunately, too many of us were forced to walk the lonelier path where we made our mistakes, where we fell and hurt ourselves without anyone to pick us up. 

            To many looking in from the outside, Olly Alexander's story must surely be one of fame and success as he seems to succeed at anything he puts his art and his heart into, yet he has the courage to admit that such rewards cannot act as battle armour against the many blows life throws his way. I believe, that gay or straight, one does not get immunity to these random attacks, that everyone has a story to tell, and tonight was Olly's turn to articulate his experiences. And the method he chooses is painful honesty, finding the words that rip of the scar tissue to reveal the wounds beneath. This was not some narcissistic whine, this was staking vunerabilty on the line. He stumbles as he tries to speak, you can see the fresh pain as old wounds are re-opened. even as he talks to his own mother. it is painful stuff but he had the decency and the courage to let us see. Not even for his own sake but for the sake of others who might encounter the same pains and self doubt without any network of support. He goes out into the world, speaks at schools, performs and sings and tries to encourage the efforts of allies everywhere he goes.

            Everybody needs a friend like Olly Alexander. and Olly could use a few good friends.

            And there is no reason why one should exclude the other.

We Are Walter.

I have visited this before but one of the most disturbing moments in a movie , for this timid writer anyway, of recent years was the closing moments of the android Walter's introduction in the Alien Covenant short which was released on line just before the movie itself. Essentially an explanation for why there were two Michael Fassbenders in this movie( although this writer would require no such explanation, excuse nor plot motivation to have two Michael Fassbenders in a movie. I would insist on it contracturaly! Oh the mind boogles...) Anyway, there we are in the new Alien prequel continuity, with a previous model of android having gone bonkers, the next human voyage to the stars in search of a new home requires an updated model to look after the crew while they sleep out the lengthy trip. Enter; Walter. 

           In a pre publicity move a few very clever wee prequels to the events in Alien Covenant were released. One of them involved the creation of the artificial man and well crafted it was too. Walter in birthed in a sterile workshop of creation and not a filthy one as used by victor Frankenstein but the possibility for birthing monsters is always there. Biblically it plays with the notion of creating Cain before Adam.

            But that is not what I found particularly disturbing about this short film. in the run up to the release of the movie Alien Covenant there was a lot of speculation about where this tale would take the alien franchise. A lot of people, for good or ill, had been wrong footed by Prometheus, it was not the direction fans of the series had perhaps hoped it would go. And Covenant seemed set to wander off in another direction fans of the series  had not considered; A.I. and its place in our race to the stars.

            Again, it was not so much this that I found chilling about the Walter Bio. After we get a glimpse of Walter's actual construction, and it is that, we get to see him being made, after he is birthed and clothed we get to see him sitting in the company of some truly disturbing individuals. 

             It was a though a subliminal had been found, paused and then lingered upon.

             Who were these people? were they even people? Why was the newly built Walter sitting in their company and what was their intention. I had no idea how any of this fitted into the larger picture. I just found their stillness, the smiles that never reached their eyes truly disturbing. Was Walter the second born of a new race. Were these calm but menacing individuals more of the same?

             One of the great tropes of history has been the prevalence of the charismatic leader. The great orator, who bellows out his beliefs, who shouts his way into the history books. Who commands a podium leading his followers to war and atrocity. it has happened so many times. It is happening now, in different parts of this world we share, and sadly quite close to home, yet we are always on the look out for them. We recognise the skill set, we roll our eyes and we prepare ourselves "Oh Here We Go Again", and tragically all too often we do not see the quiet monsters, who come bearing gentle smiles and sage advice. Nodding in gracious and self effacing acknowledgement and understanding at our all too obvious flaws and our need to believe in the better angels of our nature, these benign beings who have come to protect us from ourselves. Just watch that short film and see what I mean. They smile, they nod, they know they are on the right path, and will ensure we follow.

            Now let the atrocity exhibition begin.

            Chilling.

            And not a face hugger in sight.

             

 

Reality and Other Stories.

 Was intrigued enough by a comment I read on this collection of short stories by John Lancaster to want to read it and I am glad I did. It is an anthology of "modern" ghost stories or rather eight tales sunk in modernity playing with themes of the rum and uncanny. it is quite a modern collection in that all eight tales are rooted in modernity even though  the stories owe quite a bit to much older traditions of story telling. And though the twists in these tales involve curios such as haunted kindle devices (One of the stronger if not strongest stories.) you can feel the influences brought to bear from older voices such as MR James or Henry James. These are great sources too, why shy away?

              An enjoyable collection where no story outstays its welcome. A quick read to be sure and nothing speaks of modernity more than brevity. Its the sign of the times rather than a sign of the times.

Tom In The Tardis.

 

The Hollow lands.

 Jhenek Carnalion, following the events of An Alien Heat, finds himself back at the End Times, seperated from his great love Amelia Underwood by some millions of years. its a tragedy of sorts, which is how this series was initially described to me; "The last human love story", the one before the lights go out and the door is pulled closed behind us for the final time, all passion spent. it all sounds terribly sad does it not? And yet this series, for me, has not proven to be so. For me it has proven to be a story which wears its big human heart on its sleeve, although that sleeve is woven from the most exotic spider hair, an intricately constructed affectation not found in nature. It is perhaps a weave of a sleeve only possible when using instruments of spontaneous creation, powered into being by the power of will and an infinite resource of improbable energy to draw on. Imagine a world conjured into being by a race of virtually immortal decadent beings, who live for hedonism. Actually I would bet money, good old fashioned gold-pressed latinum, that any guess you might make would be far wide of the mark, for there are not many with the breadth of imagination of Michael Moorcock. Given all the irrefutable visual proof of widespread moribund mediums as Facebook or Twitter, perhaps no bad thing. At best most would envision a Miltonesque Madonna video, at worst; part Catholic nightmare, part appalling rap music video,ugh, freefall into a tar pit of narcissism.  Not so much Desperately seeking sensation as the endless pursuit of joy and all its frivolous rewards. 

               Given the unbriddled lust of these future sophisticates the End Times are surprisingly beautiful and even complexly wistful.  Michael Moorcock vividly conjures into being a world hovering on the brink of a predicted final collapse that long ago shed the restrictions of morality. When you can do anything, anything goes.

               There are few introductions here, everything is mostly set up from the first book. It hits the ground in much the same way sand in a timer will rush through to the next part of the timer, in that I knew there was a sequel to An Alien Heat and it had a joyful inevitability about it. Like Michael Moorcock was waiting in the wings going "wait til you see what happens next..." And here it is.

               

Miss Hogg And The Bronte Murders.

Austin Lee is described in the brief author bio as a "maverick clergyman" and that desciption alone made me want to read further. The notion of a maverick clegyman has the ring of "wild dog of wholesale book retailing" about it, in that it may not conjure up any tropes of an all action outsider hell bent on shaping the world rather than being shaped by it, but in real world terms it is intriguing. He sounded like a colourful character, actually at odds with the church he was part off, The Church of England. He even speculated about the make up of your average Church of England congregation as "contains a galaxy of the meanest, most malicious, back biting, narrow minded and bigotted members of the community", a speculation that could have been regarded in the wider social media of this century as "Doing a Ratner.! The bio also mentions  that he died in 1956, a batchelor, not having married, which does sound like a mannered code of some kind, that which cannot be spoken off in front of the vicar, or the priest, or the Rabbi, or whatever. He sounds like a rather decent human being, a man of principle, who was not afraid of standing up for that which he believed in, something sadly missing in many modern religious figures, regardless of whether you agree with them or no...He once made this observation about the average congregation attending a mass as"..contains a galaxy of the meanest, most malicious, back biting, narrow minded and bigoted members of the community", marvellous, sounds like the cast of Midsummer Murders. mind you, that mildly self destructive observation could perhaps be described, by those of a certain generation, as "Doing a Ratner.". Look it up, really.

           His funeral service was held in the chapel of Trinity College, Cambridge.

           No code intended. 

           Really enjoyed this book. And there is so much more to recommend it than it just having been written by an interesting author. There are some mysterious murders in beautiful and historic locations, a retired school mistress turned private detective, some very pleasant and not too knowing literary allusions, The Brontes, Wordsworth, as well as the environs of oxford and Cambridge (fans of Morse, Lewis and even Doctor Who take note; SHADA!). Style and  tone-wise I was reminded of the recent Edmund Crispin novel I read; The Moving Toyshop. Its just as much fun too. And I don't mean that in a "Bourgeois have a giggle at a brutal murder way". Its just pleasantly engaging with quite likeable characters who are easy to imagine. 

            You might subtitle it; To Live and Die In Bronte...

            BOOM!BOOM! As dear Basil Brush used to say.

( P.S. Not many people may be aware that Basil was also a very successful recording artist. Here is a copy of his album cover sleeve. I went looking for it in my vinyl record collection and found it sitting between a copy of David Bowie's LOW and Lou Reed's TRANSFORMER. which is off course where it belongs.)