Phantasmagoria.

I have a piece published in the latest issue of Phantasmagoria magazine; Anarchy In The Diodatta; The Summer Without A Holiday. Its a short thought piece on Mary Woolstonecraft Shelley and in particular the writing of Frankenstein. Mary Shelley has occupied my imagination for quite some time. Reading about her life and learning about the age she lived through filled me with an overwhelming respect and admiration foe her. That wonderful mind and her haunted years. The way she lived and what we discovered about her after she died. I imagine God had a bit of catching up with her after she exited this mortal plain.

Casablanca.

A lovely collection, one that ably demonstrates the breadth of Michael Moorcock's abilities as a writer and gifted imaginator. I would be tempted to replace the word breadth with girth in this instance. The girth and heft of his abilities demonstrates his boundless imaginnings which he has wielded for decades. Sometimes leaving us running to catch up but mostly taking us on a wild ride with him. Contained within this collection are six short stories, an array of articles on different subjects and a novella. The novella , by the way, Gold Diggers of 77 (Ten claims that won our hearts.) is a revision of Michael Moorcoc's adaption of The Great Rock And Roll Swindle which recalls lots of familiar and not so familiar scoundrels from the underbelly of Albion and its musical dreams. We revisit familiar situations and characters we thought we knew and were more than familiar with only to discover they might make even less sense when viewed through a logical prism. Well, why not, as Talking Heads once suggested; Stop Making Sense. Hmm, not just short stories then.a nice collection of essays as well. They cover some fascinating subjects, from Mervyn Peake (A friend of Michael Moorcock so on that basis alone he can talk with some extra authority.) to the lives and times of that sprawling organism which is London. From the New Jerusalem to the subject of pornography he brigs a heady well earned, well lived wisdom to his observations. From walking the walk to talking the talk, he covers the waterfront. A mix of essays like this in a book are a real gift to any hungry mind. One of the last such collections I picked up was just such a book by Christopher Hitchens. And what a fountain of insights that proved to be. Actually the word insights there does not do justice to the precision of thought Christopher Hitchens brought to the game. Forensically Humane would just about cover it. Now what a night in a pub that would be ; in the company of Christopher Hitchens and Michael Moorcock. Imagine the discource. Although lets face it. In such company I would be their waiter. The presience of some of Michael Moorcock's politics is Sybil like. Its as though he saw our present predicaments as clearly as that which was going on around him at the time of writing. So culturaly, in a modern context, on point it has a supernatural edge to it. Circumnavigating the troulbled waters and clashing rocks of identity politics before that sub section of the body politic was even an issue. The liquid quality of his multiverversal determinism way ahead of its time. He also seemed to recognise the physical impact of these changes upon the cultures his recurring characters straddled. When you find yourself on the barricades be as scrupulos in your choice of allies as you are of your enemies. It always ends in tears its just sometimes those are tears of joy.

Oor Wullie, Your Wullie, A'Bodies Wullie.

On the lam from the law once again. He may be able to outrun the law but he never gets away from his ma and da. Good old Oor Wullie, never out of trouble but always in our hearts.

The Russian Intelligence.

It was only after finishing this book by Michael moorcock I realised with absolute certainty that the film Carry On Spying is a prequel to the film No Time To Die. And I use the word absolute with precision here in that I am not sure at all.In this book we follow Jerry Cornell, yes I know, who is an agent of British Intelligence, a living legend who is total undeserving of his reputation. A coward and a bounder, and a rat of the highest order, stumbling from one retreat from danger to another, all the while looking like the great hero he is not. That said he does resemble James Bond more than Ross Abott's Basildon Bond. Bond's motivations being as murky as Jerry Cornell's. To the wider world he might appear, sauve, selfless, heroic and honorable, but he is anything but, to great comic effect as in avoiding danger he generally races towards it. This is a story that delves into the lost world of British comics, where enemy agents are possibly sending confidential and highly dangerous secrets to their paymasters. It is a plot that felt oddly familiar to me, heavens who why. I think it reminded me of a Johny Quick story I read in an old DC 100 page special. An American comic, to be sure, but the bonkers plot did seem like one I had seen used before. As if that matters, as nothing in spy world could ever resemble the events in The Russian Intelligence. Or possibly never. Never say never, another Spy once said. I recalled a fantastic book by Pat Mills, a serial killer series "Read 'Em And Weep", set around the world of British comics and the huge cultural net they threw across the UK. I imagine they had a similar effect in America but no matter where you go there you are. So to speak. "The 1970s- A dangerous time time for kids. An even more dangerous for adults." the blurb advised. And it was a real hoot of a book. What else could it be from the brilliant brain of Pat Mills. I will seek out the first book in the series and hope to discover it is at least as funny as this one.

Cat On A Hot Tin Spoof.

Oh Lord, look like I am channeling Eric Morcombe.

The Wreck Of The Medusa.

Another painting I really admire. The Wreck of The Medusa by Theodore Gericault.

The Celestial Toymaker.

(From My Sketchbook.)

Blood Merredian

This extraordinary book knocked me sideways. If a book were to ever convince the reader it was birthed by the light of a blackstar it would be this one. The prose of Cormac Mc Carthy, if the wordsw dripping off the page into ones mind can be said to resemble mere prose, displays the inadequacy of description. If every book you ever read spoke in this way directly to the core of our being we would resemble something less than a man. More a rabid dog chasing its own tail in a pit of tarantulas. What a squirming nests of horrors this story resembles, brilliant but awful. And The Judge is truly one of the most terrifying figures given birth to in any medium. The towering unforgiving hairless monstrosity resembles nothing a woman grew in her belly. Striding the savage corners of a world without reason smiling like a child. A mad and bad creation who draws light and life from his every scene. A figure more likely to have stepped in sideways from another reality than grown from human seed, except perhaps the source of inspiration.

The Chinese Agent.

So this is the book which proceeded The Russian Intelligence!i have now read both and realise that this is not a bad way to discover these books. They work as a two hander but can very reasonably be enjoyed as seperate entities as Michael moorcock loads both with enough info to allow the reader that freedom. We are dealing with a world where nothing is what it seems and almost all narration is unreliable. A world of spies and counter espionage. If you are not being lied to chances are you are not speaking to another spy. A mistake is made at the start of this book, the kind of mistake you would expect to occur in a Hitchcock film. Or a Morcombe and Wise film.Its a mistake where solutions lead to a series of further mistakes and a journey into the impoverished underworld of inner London. Its a world of cruel povertry where people sell themselves, a world of corrugated fences and crumbling Victorianna.Its the flipside of Bondian glamour, more John Cooper Clarke than Ian Fleming.There is a lengthy chase scene which feels like a mixture of Bedknobs And Broomsticks and a Harry Palmer story. Its also very funny, with the most self serving and cowardly British Secret Agent being constantly misunderstood as a brilliant and ruthless killing machine. Both books have proved to be witty and engaging and just long enough, or perhaps short enough, for neither to outstay their welcome. Somewhere in between Chinese Agents and Russian Intelligences is a British secret service that probably bought all their clobber from Grace Brothers. Some spy networks do 'Ave 'Em.

Mary Woolstonecroft Shelley

I found a wrecked copy of her book Frankenstein in a recycling bag and rescued this frontage print from being pulped. Look at that face just lovely. gently formed features that suggest a benign creator. And those eyes brimming with a worldly wisdom beyond the years she lived and the heartaches which assailed her. The storms that hammered the Villa Diodatta were summer squalls compared to the storms in this woman's heart

The Maltese Falcon.

Hes a right bastard, is that Sam Spade, but great company, all the nsame.Not that Dashiell Hammett ever tells us what his characters are thinking. He certainly lets us know what they are doing and saying but all the rest is noirish guesswork on our part, and that always takes us to some dark places. Perhaps this is one of the reasons this story has been around us for so long. You are talking lifetimes and yet this book remains a classic, considered by many to be the best of its kind, or certainly among the best. Like so many good things it starts off as one thing and so after the bodies begin to fall it turns into something else. From a straight forward enough search for a missing person it morphs into a quest for lost templar treasure. The story is so steeped in tropes you might consider Dashiell Hammett the most shameless of plagarists, until you consider it was this book which gave birth to many of those familiar rifts., as we know and understand them. Sam Spade may not be an entirely bad man but is certainly not an entirely good one. Who better then to send on a search for something which attracts bad people the way rotten meat attracts flies. As compelling a central character Sam Spade is, The Maltese Falcon throws up some right humdingres. Most famouslythe bow tie wearing sardonically grinning Mr Cairo, immortalised in the movie adaption of this book by Peter Lorre. It has been years since I last saw the film with Hunphrey Bogart as Sam Spade but reading this original book shows me the respect its adaptors had for the original material. Powerful characters in labrynthine situations with blistering word play by Dashiell Hammett. Not just in the form of cheeky wordplay by the characters but in its lyrical turns of phrase; " Spade put the cigarette in his mouth, set it on fireand laughed smoke out."I mean, how cool is that?