Christmas Blessings To You.

God Bless Us, Every One. X

Lord Halifax Ghost Book.

Some Ghost stories for Christmas.The distinction being these are real accounts. Aren't they all? Especially the made up ones. You can never have too many ghosts.

Capitol Of Hell; Pandemonium.

Pandemonium by John Martin.

Ghost Stories Of Edith Wharton.

Cannot believe I have lived so long and read so muc (a Although I am quite thinly read compared to others.) and not read Edith Wharton and realised what simply gorgeous writer she was. I loved these stories, i luxuriated in the pacing, feeling the stories unfold like a bloom opening to reveal a glorious interior. The kind that makes you believe things are supposed to reveal themselves to us in this sublime way. I think I may have been put off trying her work by exposure to Ephram Fromm which i tried when i was too callow and young to appreciate what was going on. Then I discovered a late night tale of the marcabre I once saw was adaptedfrom one of her tales. a story about an undead spirit having a relationship with a man who knew his lover to be dead, transposed to a wind swept english coast line. A place so draped in the dark melancholy of repressed lives you could imagine such a thing taking place. For although the story was presented as a ghost story there was nothing which hapened in it which could not take place in the real world. The stories were vby turns tragic and compelling and almost always haunting. The spectre of class and social mobility are competing demons throughout these stories. A studied complexity that may or may not still exist. Wealth and position act as barriers to change but its a false economy, change is inevitable, like Thanos or Homer Simpson.

Season Of Samhain.

Just about one off my favourite pictures for this year. Created by my pal Paul, to show his grandchildren that long before the notion of carving pumpkins for Halloween we grew up using the good old turnip. Spooky, and practical as you can eat what you carve away, the noble turnip could be carved in much the same way as the Dutch Pumpkin. It was the staple of Irish halloweens, a raggedy home made costume and a sparkler. Ah, the fun we had. X

Orson Welles Macbeth.

Just watched this version of William Shakespeare's Macbeth. I know I entitled this Orson Welles Macbeth but that was just to distinguish from other versions. A couple of which I have seen and found in each version something to savour. My mind goes to Roman Polanski's version with Jon Finch in the lead. That is a very impressive version, as you would expect. I know Joel Coen has done a version with Denzil Washington in the lead. I have seen a couple of goose bump inducing clips from this; The Tragedy Of Macbeth. Shall endeavour to see it. I once saw a version in The Opera House Belfast. With Pete Posthelwaite as the Scottish King. He was astonishing, as you might have expected, as were the rest of the cast. A performer like that in the central lead ups everyones game, in the best possible way. They were wearing Samurai and Shogun inspired outfits which were very visually striking. I think I would have preferred a more Celtic influenced theme as the clans were more than capable of impressing. Theres an earthy quality that suits the unearthy themes. Chinese magic transmits an altogether diiferent aesthetic. Still, thats not a grumble. With a cast like that I would have accepted them in boiler suits. A couple of nights later I saw mr Posthelwaite enjoying a Guiness at the bar in The Crown. I thought about approaching him but I thought he probably gets that all the time and might enjoy just chilling before an evening performance.

Guy De Maupassant.

How about this for an anthology, thirty one stories by the French writer Guy De Mauppassant, all rich in the dark hues that Gallic writers bring to the table. Period and historical stories lean into each other in the way an author confident with the sound of their own voices is capable of rendering for the reader. Despite the age between then and now a thick vein of modernity runs through them, a grounding in a harsh reality,even where the tale teller sways into regions of the macabre, venuring into morbid dark territories. We read about the most immoral and cruel of drabs who commit acts of brutality and sadism in order to achieve the outcomes they desire and mostly escape the consequences of those actions. One story in particular; Coco, almost made me push the book away as it detailed the slow cruel demise of an elderly horse, a story that felt nothing less than wicked. its attention to detail a mirror to the poor animals suffering. It was so painful to read I found myself questioning the sanity, and the morality, of the writer. And then I told myself that this was perhaps the point. That Guy De Maupassant was not letting the reader, as coconspirator, get off the hook so lightly. I am sure in his time he actually met some sadistic rural brutes who treated animals and people badly. Mind you, I know little to nothing about the life of the writer in order to make such an observation with any authority. But I did sense a troubled spirit, steering the pen, writing these stories while cloaked in a knowing melancholy.I could not help but suspect that he must have had some very dark moments in his life but then again, who has not. That said, the pain and suffering and the anguish squeezed between the lines felt authentic and lived. At times, almost like an actual record of lived unpleasant experiences. Once I read the introduction by Ramsey Cambell I discovered the was likely the case. Indeed, at some low point Guy De Maupassant had tried to end his suffering by cutting his own throat. Almost two years following that action, he met his true end, in much the same personal extremis that the American writer Edgar Allen Poe ended his days. Actually, the ghost of Poe's influence permeated this collection. Not every story is supernatural yet they nearly all open a window to the outre, the unlovely macabre of our days. I did enjoy his brevity, his ability to conjure much in a few paragraphs. From the aristocracy to peasant, poor Guy De Maupassant strove in print to prove his worst suspicions regarding human nature to be true. In the end we are all become Horla.

Peter Cushing Cosplay.

Met Teddy The Cosplaying Dog doing a bit of his thing as Peter Cushing in his Dr Who And The Daleks costume. As usual his partner Martin had done a great job designing precision cosplay. He really nailed the Cushing cheekbones, I feel. Makes me want to stick on the VHS of the movie for some sixties sci-fi chills and thrills.

December Light.

The morning after the most recent storm.i was struck by the beauty of the early morning light at play through some of the windows in my house. Was not expecting this, one rarely does going about the random activities that make up a day.

Biblical Dore.

Over the years Gustav Dore has sort of become God's Own illustrater, at least the one who best interprets the history of the Christian Deity. Imagine actually meeting an angel and he/she/it not looking like a drawing by Gustav Dore. It would be the visual equivalent of Vaughan William's Lark Ascending played on a comb. I am sure there are some virtuoso comb blowers but....well, you know what I mean. Probably.

"These are Not The Droids You're Looking For."

Obi-Wan was wrong,you know. These were exactly the droids I was looking for. Mind you, he was trying to trick a stormtrooper with a Jedi mind trick.And while we are at it, how come Artoo could not speak English. There was absolutely no reason why not. Threepio could speak six million yet Artoo could only speak in binary bleeps and bloops, which Threepio, and possibly Luke, had no problem translating. Which shows the little fellow could actually hold a conversation with the best of them. Pure droidism prevented him from widening his friend base by talking to anyone. Just thought I would mention it.

Hamlet in Russian.

This was a real surprise. I did not know this even existed. I am very fond of the version with Lawrence Olivier. Some people might find it a bit creaky but I am okay with that. I am entirely creaky myself. The locations in this Russian version are stunning, as are the more "theatrical" aspects. The ghost appearences, the play within the play. Not too self aware but brimming with respect for the text. Its energetic without that odd running on the spot energy some stage productions have. Despit the shift into the Russian tongue which definately change the inflection and tone of certain words. You ever hear a Dalek scream Exterminate in German? I have.

In a Glass Darkly.

Oxford world Classics have a lovely edition of this fine story collection which I can highly recommend for those curious about Sheridan Le Fanu and eager to find out why he is so highly regarded by not only readers of ghost stories but also those others who wrote them. M R James rated him very highly, describing him as a master in the field and by heavens that is one man who knew what he was talking about. Even the stories which have no supernatural element stir the blood and stoke the imagination. It was Carmilla which first caught my young attention but it was Schalkin The Painter which brought me back again and again.

Since reading this collection I have determined to find out more about the author, to perhaps have a go at writing apiece about his life and work. With a collection like this its a course of work research which will prove rewarding in all sorts of ways, I suspect. And perhaps it will go some way in not constructing sentences as Yoda might.

76 Totters Lane.

Where it all began sixty one years ago.The television show which has enriched the imaginations of generations, some of them not even born yet. Happy Birthday Doctor Who and many, many happy returns. Oh, yes please to that.

Bad Company.

Magdalena.

Was in the Oxfam Shop in Ann St when I saw this in a browser. Theres an odd sensation that goes with seeing your work in a second hand scenario. Like finding one of your children in an orphanage oe something. Anyway I pointed it out to my brother. "Look, a signed copy", i directed his gaze to the sticker on the cover. "Ugh, cheeky bastard, who would do that?" he frowned. "Er...I did." I explained. You can pick your enemies but not your family.

Orbiter.

I can barely believe this amazing graphic novel by Warren Ellis and Colleen Doran is two decades old and counting. It felt pretty damn modern twenty years ago and sadly feels even more so. I say sadly given the subject matter the graphic novel addresses. A world where the human race has dropped out of love with the notion of mankind traveling through space, a world where people no longer look to the skies, where poverty of the spirit, of the imagination actually leads to poverty of an even more real world kind. We may all well be standing in the gutter but we no longer raise our eyes to the heavens. And something equally melancholy struck me as I thought about the world that Warren envisioned and Colleen Doran brought to dreary life. A comparison to the state of the comics industry as it is today rather than the space programme, where so many amazing new developments have taken place, from the work of Chinese scientists, the Indian Space Programme, the stirling efforts of a disparate British set of communities and the singular efforts of Elon Musk. Its all happening, while all the while the attention of the huge mainstream have to a degree fallen out of love with the comics scene. Or at best their attention has been distracted by a rise of intrest in other art forms and medias.It is not that long ago that the comics industry was in robust and spunky form. With a successful and big selling mainstream for the larger companies to a vibrant indie culture. There was the crossover to cinema with the rise in popularity of big budget movies based on superhero comics, there were creators who became "celebrities" in their own right, yet so much has changed in such a short time. Sales just are not what they were,some one suggested to me recently that the current comics scene is merely existing in the crumbling ruins of its own past,complete with statues of former giants with their heads knocked off. (I thought of Lancaster Merrin in the Iraqicy desert, with the wind picking up and the snarling of feral dogs, as the statue of the demon Pazuzu reminds him of a final confrontation to come.. I think he was thinkking more of statues in a neat and tidy museum display.Well hey, I was brought up a Catholic, I lean towards catastrophe.) This bleak vision, in tune with modernity, seemed a bit overcooked to me as just as in Orbiter, I believe it is possible to revive the ailing industry, we just have to remind the wider world of the possibilities the medium has to offer, to enrich the imagination, and thereby the lives, of millions of people. For instance, that brilliant mind of Warren Ellis is so capable of imaginative leaps that could kickstart a stalled genre, be it science fiction, horror, psuedo history and superheroes.You can read the introduction of Orbiter, to understand what inspired and drove him to tell this tale.Its an intellectual and emotional heartstopper. Orbiter,eh. Bravo Warren and Colleen. Your story continues to have legs.

The Company One Keeps.

Doctor Who 73 Yards.

The novelization of this season's most experimental and intriging stories is sitting on the table before me as I ponder its usefulness as a source of explanations for the more baffling moments in the episode. I think Russell T Davis has leaned as far in that direction as he wished to take, or give, the reader. I think what we saw, what we think we understand the story to be about, is as much as he ever intended to share with the viewer. Scott Handcock, who adapted his script for the episode, was not handed some secret blueprint to this Whoish head scratcher. It was a wise decision as to do so would have been to serve that story poorly, very much a case of taking the Who out of Who, so to speak. Not so much tmey-whimey as wavy Davy.Ruby is put front and center in the story of a life not lived, possibly caused by The Doctor disrupting a magical matrix held together by strings and possibility (String theory anyone?)Following this things proceed in a melacholy chain of events, stealing any chance the friends and family loving Ruby has of ever finding such contentment. Instead she plods hopelessly through a world that rejects her at every turn, inexplicitly closing the doors of earned intimacy and companionship. And yet in this story Russell finds a way to shape her life to purpose, building her character up in such a way that only she is capable of thwarting the will of a dangerous and twisted individual hellbent on seeing mushroom clouds bloom. Its a sad tale and a brave move to present this story midway through a season that is still only introducing Ruby herself and the current iteration of our beloved Doctor. Will the series ever be so bold again? Only Russell knows. And hes not telling.

Doctor Who Rogue.

Kate Heron and Briony Redman adapt their own script for the television episode Rogue.You know the episode, its the one with the kiss. The lovely big kiss between The Doctor and Rogue. Which had a few people clutching their pearls. Well you know what they say; Pearly dew drops drop...or something like that. Actually thats just some lyrics from a Cocteau Twins song from back in the day. And waht a jolly nice job they do of that adaption. There is a welcome lightness of touch at play here, which may have come from them not feeling it necessary to improve on material which some one else created. It was their baby, it was their kiss too. There, when all is said and done is the moment most people will remember this story for, when our lonely alien finds a brief moment of happiness with a fellow traveler. The story where The Doctor kissed the other leading man of this episode. Or rather, the story where The Doctor is kissed by Rogue. Its Rogue who really goes for it but The Doctor really returns to sender, so to speak. Its not the first time we have seen someone fall under The Doctor's spell and iniated a physical gesture to best demonstrate the affections. He is a bit passive and reactive to these things, is our dear old pal. The lonely can be like that. They are screaming inside for affection but lock themselves off from the possibilty of getting what they want. Kate and Briony do not make too much off this.Which means their script should age well. Never feeling like a clumsy artifect from a point scoring age. Off all the eras and locations it is so strange to think of The Doctor finding love. Georgian Englad being an era of great extremes. There was a lot of beauty but so much brutality and injustice as the people of that era were groping against all the odds to find some reason and decency, where a human being might be sold to another. The foundations for the social mores of the era being built atop much human misery. Historically it were ever so. I like to believe The Doctor forgives us our cruelties, knowing that in time we will do better. Otherwise how could he justify dancing beneath the chandiliers and having a merry old time when we know that just outside the walls of this guilded cage human misery and cruelty abounds. Er, maybe I am overthinking the limitations of a one hour television story. Sometimes a knees up is just a knees up. And oh boy,this was a knees up all right.Well, apart from a few of the guests being murdered.Ruby looked like an angel. As did ncutti. This Tardis team were well walloped with the handsome stick. Although, both were upstaged in these sticks by the uncannilly handsome Jonathan Groff who plays Rogue.I am used to seeing him in much more serious fare and I do believe I saw a twinkle in his eye as he performed in this story. As though he could not quite believe he was being given a chance to play with someone else's toys. Indira Varma brought a touch of class to her character The Duchess. As the leader of these cosplaying bird like aliens. Despite the complexity of her alien make up she plays it with a knowing humour, by turns murderously petty and greedy for experience. She shrugs and twitches to transform and wears it well. The episode is grafted in beatifully crafted detail. A very endearing story with some equally endearing character moments. Talk about loving the alien.

Sapphire and Steel.

Just rewatched the final series of Sapphire And Steel and oh my giddy aunt what a weird and uncanny turn it was. I had forgot just how strange this wonderful series could be.Set in a very drab yet ordinary transport cafe and garage. our heroes, including a very impressive turn by David Collings as Silver, find themselves facing off against a group of entities called The Transient Beings. In this story there are the by now usual creeping eeriness dogging their steps building to an unnerving and seemingly inescapable trap. I do not know if this was intended as a cliffhanger to the series or if the creators wanted to shock us by having a shocking ending intended for the two main characters. Since it was never resolved I can only imagine they are still there,stuck, with a birds eye view of eternity.

Where's Homelander?

The Artist, The Philosopher And The Warrior.

Something of a League Of Extraordinary Gentlemen, off sorts. Hit the town in the company of this trio and you would have had a night not to forget, or more accurately a night you may not want to remember. Ugh, should not relegate the notion of meeting such cultural and political figures in such a purile way, my brain gets a bit lazy.Leonardo, Machavelli and Cesare Borgia. What a fateful collision of Renaissance energy this three generated. The book is a gripping historical, reaching back to the 15th century to explore the lives of three main movers of that period. Three men who's lives and influence shaped an era, well, added to its shared cultural zeitgeist in meaningful ways. Each bringing something different to the table. although this confluence of persona, the collision's of philosophy, art and politics impacted the body polotic in ways that reveberate to this day. Not just in Italy but anywhere the possibility of cultural progression was an outcome to be reckoned with. Roads less traveled were taken, meetings took place, with the visionary scientific mind brushing up against the real world political one, with a purveyor of brutal realism at both their elbows. as impossible as it all now sounds the historical text renders it all humanely plausible. Before starting it , the book, I thought I knew something about the era. But I quite quickly learned what I did know I had learned from two episodes of Doctor Who; The Masque Of Mandragora and The City Of Death. Sounds like one big episode does it not? The Fourth Doctor had travelled back in time to the study and the workshop of Leonardo , although the great artist is off somewhere while The Doctor talks to himself (i.e.; to us.) before an amazingly brutal gaurd shows up to harrass and detain him. Before that though, the wonderfully detailed set, with half built contraptions, with fluttering sketches and hand drawn charts were the stuff of genius workshops. Its a BBC designer's idea of what a Rennaisance man's workshop would have looked like. They were so good at this sort of thing, back in the day, and did not require Disney money to tickle the imagination. What I knew about Macchievelli I knew from his book The Prince. His how to be a bastard rotter thesise. I have come to think of that book as a sort of job application that Macchievelli wrote in the hope of re-emerging from a period of forced retirement. A job application, for a job, which in time he got although not until after he was dead. Consider; he was gone but his book lived on, never out of print. Its been used by cruel regime after cruel regime throughout the ages. From the court of Henry V111 to the boiler room of current Labour. Cruel necessity masquerading as virtue, just heart breaking. At the end of the day you may dress it up as you like, with a wry wink and a knowing sigh, but its a philosophy about dominating others, using humanity as it is rather than as we would like it to be. As for Cesare Borgia, well, what can one say about the fruit of the Borgia Tree, a bloodline that drenched the era in ambition and selfish purpose. Even The Doctor could but roll his eyes. We are led up to a military campaign in the Autumn of 1502, when the three men's lives became entangled in a shared and shaped destiny, caught up in the machinations of statecraft and religion. Paul Strahern has performed a Herculean task of research, mapping the life paths that led them to intersect in this period of history, much of which is mirrored in the state craft of modernity. Although the author never makes that claim, he never projects back in time the hubris of today, allowing the reader to think and see the past as it was, never causing the reader to unsee that which does not measure up to modernitys social mores.making history a hot meal to be enjoyed in the vibrating now.

The Zygon Invasion.

The premis is that there are a couple of million shape-shifting aliens living amongst us, peacefully co-existing, their true forms locked out of sight. Only now the fragile alliance holding the peace is tottering, drunk, and about to collapse. Almost certainly plunging the world into a war it had believed itself to have avoided BBC books have done a lovely job as presenting this novelization as carrying on the look and feel of Taget books of old. And why not, those books sold millions back in the day. Right down to the energy thrown off by book cover designs that mirror those by Chris Acheleous back in the seventies, giving them a cosmic epic quality. Peter Harness adapts the script from this fondly recalled two-parter from Peter Capaldi's second season as The Doctor. Its a story now best remembered for the "war speech", or perhaps more accurately his "anti-war-speech"which was powerfully deivered by Peter Capaldi and stands as one of his tenures defining moments. The set must have felt electrified the day he delivered that speech. Actors love moments like that, it demonstrates their super powers as performers and love to lean into them.Its not all apocalyptic covert alien invasions, theres some cracking humour here such as Capaldi's iteration revealed his first name is actually Basil. The Doctor's sense of humour warmed throughout Capaldi's time. His reflexive stabs at humour came across cold and even alien, which off course he is. I think it took a while for the actor to look in the mirror and see The Doctor looking back. Well, thats how Peter Capaldi put it in an interview. An interview with a Time-lord. He did get there and that journey enriched his time, to the point where when the Doctor fell we felt the pain off it. His final season proving his performance was mesmerising and haunting. I enjoyed Peter Harness fleshing out of his own script. Actually wish he had a broader template to show us what he can do. As Peter Capaldi demonstrated so admirably in Twice Upon A Time. But thats a story for another day. .

The Mummy's Shroud.

Just watched this amazing mummy yarn on Bluray. Blimey,what a treat. I had vague memories of having watched this as a boy. I remembed poor Michael Ripper being wrapped in a curtain and thrown out a window to land in a horse trough. I remembered The Master as played by Roger Delgado lurking in the mummy's tomb spitting curses. ( I said I remembered it, I did not say I remembered it with any precision.) And I remembered Andre Morell ( My favorite on screen Professor Bernard Quatermass.) having his head crushed by a heroic mummified slave. I also remembered that ancient Egypt looked very similar to the planet Exxilon from Doctor Who and Death To The Daleks. As an adult I am able to reason those scenes were probably filmed in the same quarry. Archeologists beware, they could be nearer than is safe to one of the great wonders of the universe. Its a fast paced well acted pulp horror loaded with mummy movie tropes with a quite powerful soundtrack which lends the film an epic quality the production budjet alas could not. Its all ancient curses and archeologists who pry where they are not wanted. With the finacier of the tomb robbing British expedition discovering too late that money cannot buy everything. Michael Ripper really puts in the stand out performance in this film as the down trodden factotum of the sleazy and dishonorable expedition leader. Andre Morrell and his team, who get knocked off brutally one by one, had all the best intentions in the world trying to rediscover the splendour of Ancient Egyypt , but the fact the expedition is bank rolled by dirty money dooms them almost as much as the ancient curse.Theres some very nice character acting from the assembled cast, in major and minor roles, bringing their best game to proceedings. Although some of the ancient Egyptians do look as though they would be more comfortable behind the counter of the mens wear department in Grace Brothers. Heartily recommend this pulpy horror tale from a lost age.

On The Beach.

You know, that really long tracking shot which opened The Leisure Hive showing a snoozing Doctor on the pebbly off season Brighton Beach, with Romanna and K9 playfully, yet thoughtfully, dandering along in a melancholy mood, always made me imagine that the travelers were allowing them selves a breather from some epic experience. Who really knows, I just found the sight of them all wind tossled and Edwardian finery touching. Gave me goose bumps watching it. The last time I had seen them they had been seeing off the Nimon in a splendid tale of inter-galactic shananigans. Something had changed....

The Quatermass Memoirs.

Old Bernard Quatermass had some amazing memories and stories to tell, which is exactly what this audio recording does. The three stories which had different lives on television and on the big screen. Andrew Kerr narrates the three tales although he played Bernard Quatermass in only one of them; Quatermass And The Pit which is one of Hammer Films very best hours. The different actors who played the role brought different qualities to their stories but each embodied a fierce intelligence. One not afraid to face the unthinkable, facing off against entities which were at times hard to put into words. Yet here we get to share that struggle as Andrew Kerr speculates on the horrors seen and overcome. All the victories achieved by Quatermass and his friends were close to not suceeding but the fact that he means "We Still Get To Hear Birds Sing In The Trees". Doubly interesting is we get to hear Nigel Kneale bookend the tales with the cutural events surrounding the writer and it is truly sobering to consider that so many of the things which threatened humanity are still unfolding about us.The more things change the more they stay the same, even as the the hands on the Doomsday Clock hover trembling just before midnight.Any one of the chapters in Quatermass Memoirs could have stretched to an epic length so its the brevity of the audio which is its only drawback, which is truly no bad thing. Its also quite poignant that the young reporter who has tracked Quatermass down in his retreat from a world that was becoming increasingly difficult for him tells the aging professor that life in the bigger cities is getting harder and harder with social order beginning to break down. Nether is aware that something truly apocalyptic is drawing close to Earth and the great scientists darkest adventure lies just ahead as his stories conclude.

Smith.

"He was called Smith and he was twelve years old, so far Smallpox, gaol fever and the hangman's rope had'nt been quick enough to get him, but they might anyday" so began this Leon Garfield book and I thought "Blimey, they certainly credited kids with more intelligence back in the day", at least they did so when it came to historical novels and adventure tales. "But Mal," I hear you say "They also make them go up chimneys to clean them" affecting Sharon eyes rolling heaven ward at my credulity. Hmmm, I think,"good point." perhaps I am a Victorian Waifaphobe. Damn, you think you get to my age and you know yourself. This was a beautifully wrapped little Puffin paper back from the 1970s. The cover artist was Anthony Maitland. Take away the book title and the author's name and you would assume you had lifted a book of tales by Sheridan Lefanu.And this would not be too far away from an appropriate description of what the tone of the book felt like. Although I dont think Lefanu wrote anything which crackled along at the pace this book did. With breatless twists and anxiety inducing turns, poor Smith was driven along at a scary pace, first finding safety from his would be killers, then losing it and finding himself friendless, only one step ahead of murder,betrayal and the wicked ambitions of others. And all written in an entirely plausable fashion, there is nothing in the text which could not have taken place in the real world. From the filthy labyrinth of the warren like streets of Olde Londone Town to the even filthier environs of Newgate. Brutality and cruelty are commonplace in this location, in this era. The poor are crushed by the indifferent forces of societal oppression by virtue of their poverty. Leon Garfield creates a gallimorphery of finely observed Dickensian characters. Newgate prison and those who occupy its walls are rendered so realistically I itched with sympathy. With the spectre of Tyburn looming large over the lives of Smith and his murdered-for "dockiment". It is this story maguffin Smith pickpocketed moments before its owner waws stabbed to death, resulting in Smith now becoming the object of the killers base intentions. I have to stress the quality and artistry of Anthony Maitlands line drawings which come married to the text. The artist and writers collab makes for an impressive team producing a small but perfectly formed body of Victorrianna. And to think this book was aimed at younger readers. Adults rarely had it so good.

Devil In The Fog.

Just had to try another Leon Garfield. I enjoyed SMITH so much. Once again I found myself gripped from the start; "It is the story of fourteen year old George Trent, eldest son of a family of strolling players. They seem a family with a golden future; actors of genius who represent happiness is only marred by the twice yearly visits of the stranger in black, with his cold uncanny stare and the feeling he conveys of some devilish and unwholesome bargain eating away at his soul."Oh my giddy aunt , Leon Garfield did it to me again as he majestically drew me in, the paperback cover as enticing as the one before, fog shrouded and mysterious, the stuff of Sheridan Lefanu or Wilkie Collins. It is another dark tale of devious plots and uncanny characters, with a young protagonist thrust into a tale where no one is who they seem and thus there is no one to trust or turn too for support. One more Anthony Maitland provides a series of interior illustrations that do much to drive the narrative forward. As though you have entered a haunted house you thought was empty only to find it stuffed to the gills with antiques and Victorrianna. This is a formidable creative team and I wish I had discovered them when I was twelve years old, or so. As I was in the last century.They could have shared shelf space with my beloved Doctor Who novelizations. Devil In The Fog confronts class divisions with a blunt clarity you rarely find in the media anymore. Tackling subtlely notions regarding nature versus nurture in a mature and even quite moving fashion. I found myself caring and drawn to the plight of George Treet and his bohemian family. An adventurous family of actors and performers who share close and loving bonds in a world which will shatter such notions in a heartbeat. This was a family who had experienced the highs and lows of a life performing in venues which were physically dangerous places to be should their act fail to entertain. They had honed their many talents in open air performences and before tavern audiences, basically anywhere they could set up stage. Yet they are out of their depth when confronted with the moral ambiguitiews of their so called betters.Cruel plans are revealed and put into practice, the innocent flounder while the criminal flourish. Ah, t'was ever the way. A superb tale full of engaging and interesting characters wrapped up in a foggy curtain that allows us glimpses of a world long passed.

Ghost Busted.

Rembrandt's Eyes.

Well, I finally tracked a copy of this wonderful book down.I first heard ab out it years ago, at Garth Ennis' stage weekend on Rathlin Island. That sturdy rock in the middle of a night dark sea.I was talking to Dave Gibbons about his Doctor Who comics. Stories so good they transcendthe medium they originally appeared in, adapted as audios and even television. Stories which I felt were so good they felt like ones I had experienced on the small screen as opposed to black and white comic strips in Doctor Who weekly. At some point we moved on to other things and he mentioned this verey book. Describing how Rembrandt narrated his own life through a lifetime of self portraits. Recording not only the world he lived in as well as how he looked in that world.He talked about Rembrandt a bit, some of his ups and downs and really brought the man and his work to life. I determined to pick up a copy as soon aas we got back to Belfast. Only when I did track it to a Belfast bookstore I realised it cost as much as a weeks grub for me so I settled for a nice Thames and Hudson collection. Still, I hoped someday to find a copy I could afford and now I have. Mine to read at leisure and how to see the world through Rembrandt's eyes.Which might also be as interesting as seeing it through Dave Gibbons eyes.

The Entropy Exhibition.

For almost the entire time I have owned this book (Since it shifted from the book collection of Mark McKeown to my own.)I have been looking at the spine and seeing the title "The Atrocity Exhibition" by JG Ballard. Its a trick of the eye and memory, signifying a short attention span. This book is a series of essays detailing , as the sub-title explains, the early history of Michael Moorcock and the British "new wave" in science fiction, presenting a critical study of the legendary NEW WORLDS magazine, especially covering the period that Michael Moorcock was the editor, chief contributer and captain of the good ship science fiction anthology, a craft that saled through unchated waters, surving collisions with literary ice-bergs and worse. The Entropy Exhibition is a collection of thoughts and insights which proves to be as dense as you might expect given its detailing of many taboo breaking literary conventions. It was literally game changing, proving an inspirational decade long editorship. Sex, horror, spiritualism, religion and titalation were boldy experimented with along with a dollop of zeitgeist affecting creativity. This period of Michael Moorcock's editorship with an eye for the era in which NEW WORLDS was birthed and took its first foundling journey into the imaginations of a world that had forgotten it was dreaming. It is interesting to speculate in this era of modern progressive experimentation,such as it is, about the genre busting changes in the traditional precepts science fiction and science fantasy found itself, floating in the horse latitudes of modernity. The radical and almost altogether meta qualities of the sailors on the seas of this particular fate were as ground breaking as they were unsettling, with writing contributions from Michael Moorcock, JG Ballard, Brian Aldiss and many others.They proved themselves the artists possessed with the right tools; Their intellects.T'was a brave NEW WORLD with such creatures in it. Off course, what was new then is old now. Modern science fiction seems less obssessed with the predictive qualities of this speculative genre mix. looking back was always so much easier than looking forward. Have we all become the watchers at as opposed to the dancers of that imagined destination. One can only imagine how the old gaurd of science fiction writers must have felt when these new barbarians were at the gates of their lovely gleaming retro-futuristic city, like pike carrying soldiers of the witches army in The Wizard Of Oz, stamping up and down on regimented duty, barring the way.And really imagine the shock of how these new barbarians were so much better looking. Oh the sins we forgive those possessed with sartorial elegance. The unstable DNA of the genre was changed forever by an agressive and radical form of re-invention, with such speed and chaotic abandonment of imagined rules and seismic burstsof creativity that still affords a giddiness to those attempting to cross a constantly changing and evolving seas. Here be monsters, if we are lucky.

Bee Bee Cee.

Picked up this chunky hardcover on a recent book haul. Its not so much the content but the cover which sold it to me. I literally judged a book by its cover. Still, at least its an interesting subject to learn more about. The BBC has been around all my life and for all its faults it has produced some of the finest television ever transmitted. Modernity and the whims of would be futurists have not been kind to it and the license fee continues to prove a divisive subject and its difficult to accept but most of its problems are mainly off its own making. Still, as a product which can be said to represent the best of life in the west, it remains like an old maiden aunt who has not washed her cardigan for years. Presenting us all with the problem; "Are You Gonna Tell Her Or Am I?"

Roobarb and Custard.

(From my sketch book.) Felt like some Roobarb and Custard,so here is some Roobarb and Custard.And yes, the moment you see them is the moment you hear the theme from their show. In your head. Now. A wee gift from me.

Delaneys.

I have heard the old Delaneys building has been sold for redevelopment. If you are like me, off a certain age and temprement, you may well pass this building and continually see it as it was rather than as it is. I remember one loud and sweaty night many years ago when I was out for the night, drunkenly dancing to Two Tribes by Frankie Goes To Hollywood. Oh the craic was good and I thought the whole world was Gay which off course it wasn't, not then anyway. It is now but not back then.

My Telephone Never Rings.

Magic Roundabout.

(From my sketchbook.) Dougal is listening to an old record. Probably the Bonzo Dog Doo Dah Band. Hes a bit partial, is Dougal.

The Devil's Storybook.

Came across this lovely wee bookin a hospice Shop. The Devil's Storybook, written and drawn by Natalie Babbitt, consists of ten little parables straight out of the Adversary's ink well. Wry little yarns with titles like The Harp Of Heaven or The Power Of Speech, each one accompanied by a single illustration which elevates each rum little tale. Part Edward Gorey part Charles Adams, this is a Halloween Orange and Black celebration of a Devil more inclined to miscief than mayhem. And one of the stories has a goat in it called Walpurgis. Eat your soul out, Black Philip.Originally published in the seventies by Sunburst, I was lucky to find a copy. Although the words luck and The Devil rarely go together in a sentence.