Stookie Bill.

(From my sketchbook.)

Dead Lions.

Oh My Giddy Aunt, really enjoyed this second book in the Slough House series of books, Nick Herron does a very subtle job oif embedding these characters, those who populate Slough House, and even those who torment them, in the readers conciousness so readily. I feel like I know them almost as much as I feel for them. Jackson Lamb and his...er,team feel like they are really out there somewhere. Dull, drab and dangerous to know. This one plays with the notion of "sleepers" and the notion that if you pretend to be a thing for too long you might find yourself becoming that thing. At times it felt like the most messed up episode of the Avengers, never written and even then I am just grasping for something to compare it too. When its not really like anything else, certainly not Le Carre. But then, what is?

The Distant Suns.

Well, this was a surprise. Discovering a science fiction yarn of an almost old fashioned disposition, about a perilous voyage across space in the hope of saving mankind, of finding a new home where we might start again. And bloody Nora, whos the pilot of this saviour ship? Its only bloody Jerry Corneilius. Just about the last person one would put in the Captain's Chair.Unless the destination was an orgy or a rock festival, or even an orgiastic rock festival. There is a great introduction to this edition of The Distant Suns, by Michael Moorcock, explaining the history of the piece. A job for hire intended for The illustrated weekly of India,intended as an educational foray into the not well explored field in India of Science fiction tropes. The then editor of the paper hoping to inspire its readers towards a broader understanding , if not outrightin India which accewptance of fictional science ( Interstellar flight, mercy missions beyond our solar system, new life on new worlds.) Alas, the story never saw the light of an Indian day, never reached its intended readership, due to social upheaval in India and a change of editorship, who cared little for past commissions by other editors. First printe in nineteen seventy five with this edition seeing print in nineteen eighty nine, with illustrations by Jim Cawthorn, this story did a bit of otherworldly traveling of its own. Michael Moorcock also states that he found the collaboration with Jim Cawthorn as a very happy one, which is always nice to know. Michael Moorcock has swept across so many regions of his multiverse over the years, with a map for navigation that has many unexplored regions ("Here be monsters" indeed.)It is nice to think of some of those regions as uncomplicated and satifyingly pulpy. The relative innocence of a space opera performed at this level is a pleasing discovery and comes very close to delivering an uncynical ending to a perilous journey. Although "close" in stellar cartography is a very loose term indeed.

Thirty Years Of Paul Mc Gann.

Oh My Giddy Aunt, can it really be thirty years? In what timey-whimey universe is that even possible? Well, as it turns out, this one actually.

Elizabeth

Lisa Hilton does a superb job of taking what could seem like an obscure thought experiment and turns it instead into an engaging view of a Princely preoccupation with the extensions of power, their continued control and utility. I have always loved this cover painting, this Momento Mori, the hub ris of power and its use and misuse. People throw the word Macchievellian around like its the hat of the day. Its the difference between how the world is and how we want it to be. You cant not play the game because sure as daybreak you will be played by others.

Black Dog.

What a lovely find.

"There were ten tongues within one head and one went out to fetch some bread, to feed the living and the dead." Was really enchanted by this little novella. Its the very definition of slim but perfectly formed.It is a follow up to some stuff found in the short story anthology Trigger Warninga, as the character Shadow Moon takes a meandering journey into the melancholy heart of the English countryside. In other words, Here Be Locals. the tight narration is accompanied by some fancifully rendered and hauntingly beautiful illustrations by Daniel Egneus. It all begins in a cosily lit English Olde Worlde Pub but it ends on a shadowy English hillside within some stealthily concealed catacobs, when this mound gives up its heartbreaking secrets. Not a paragrapgh is out of place, not a word is wasted, Black Dog is a short read but its memory will linger long after you have finished it.

City Of Death.

Absolute classic Doctor Who episode and a much loved novelization to boot. Couldn't resist this impromptu photo bomb. As one who watched these episodes on their original transmission I can attest to the slow movement of time between episodes. That story began in the pre-history dawn of a planet where life did not as yet exist. In a spectecular cyclic fashion we eventually find ourselves back there, in order for the calamitous Duggan to deliver the most important punch in human history. Along the way we experience an embarrassment of riches with a creative team on top of its game. Saturday nights were ever so special back then. Long weeks of strife and hardship rewarded with television designed to entertain and celebrate life. The seventies were a difficult time for many, particularly here in Northern Ireland, yet every now and then the stars moved to align and magic happened. Especially if Tom Baker was around.

Let The Tribe Increase.

Mark Wilson, lead singer of The Mob, way back in the day. Still remember the visceral quality their album "Let The Tribe Increase" had on me.

The Absolutist.

Oh John Boyne, what have you done? Was very engaged by this wonderful book by John Boyne and found myself being drawn to its emotional conclusion and I found myself hoping it was not going to end in a certain way. I have absolutely no doubt if I had been a soldier in the trenches in WW1 I would have been a white feather man. I would not have been able to help myself, with WW1 pretty much being my idea of Hell on Earth. Yet it was not just the horrors of war which rippled through John Boyne's book which caused me to engage so readily with it. I found myself ache with the knowledge that so many prejudices and cruelties which permeated society in those days would persist until my own lifetime. I felt the same pains the lead character did, even made the same "mistakes", leaning into a relationship that mostly only existed in my head. I remember the pain of that as a teen, when I discovered feelings I had were not only not reciprocated, they were utterly rejected, in a way that made me feel like I would be a pariah all my life. If who I was came as a shock to the other person it was no less painfull to me to imagine a future where this would be a common event, rejection and scorn, ugh.As I read the novel I found myself whispering "find a way, just find a way." I wont say if this played out the way I hoped but it played out indeed, in a most human way. And right there is the life trap so few of us can escape.

Salvador Dali Finger Puppet.

"I am Dali! You are not!"

Michealangelo's David. (Pobably.)

I sometimes help out at a local Hospice Shop which people donate all sorts of stuff too. Recently someone donated a statue of Michealangelo's David, in perfectly formed plaster. One of the lady volunteers thought she would "protect" David's modesty by making him a natty pair of pants. I think she honestly meant it in a respectful gesture as all "His doins" were hanging out, bless her.

talking with ghosts.

Came across this lovely piece of art whilst browsing for John Dee.Cannot speak for its provenance but it feels real to me.

Destination Daleks.

I wondered how they were going to do the second part, to finish the gripping wee Pete Mc Teague vignette on the recent Season #21 bluray boxed set. And here it is, the second part is a comic book and was given away with this month's Doctor Who Magazine.