Frank Sidebottom on Holiday.

Was reminded of a Frank Sidebottom strip I saw on the back of some wacky humour magazine back in the day. Frank Sidebottom always made me smile.(From my sketchbook.)

Tom,Tom, Club.

The Oxford Murders.

What an absolutely beautiful ( If that is the right way to descibe a book about murder and some truly disturbing ideas.) novel. I have to assume it is an accurately translated english version of this book, by Sonja Soto, as language and its use is so nuanced and things can get lost or changed in translation. Its a simple enough tale with complex undertones, its structure mathmatically precise, which given its subject matter, is a vital component. Yet, for all that precision, it is not a cold reading of events as its humanity pulses with a warm bloodedness. I think there was a film adaption but it works so well as a book it hardly seems neccessary. Almost like writing a song to capture the essence of a painting. Which I suppose has been done. That song might well sound sweet but much can be lost as art is so subjective. Of off literatures strengths and magicks is its fluidity of impression, something I did not think would apply to mathmatics. After reading this book I am not so sure of that. Step back from an equation and it takes on the glamour of written music. Cannot really say too much about the actual events and story without diluting the books many charms. The city comes alive as Oxfordians abound in eccenric precision. Its a rarefied atmosphere, where one could toss a rock into a crowd and be garunteed of boffing a boffin,. By their standards Pythagaros is but a bubble in the spirit level of mathmatics. Not a sentence I have ever used before.

King Of The City.

A sequel to Mother London, one of Michael Moorcock's most celebrated books. King Of The City moves forward from the events of that previous book into na relatively recognisable modernity. We see through the eyes of narrator Dennis Dover as we follow his nearest and dearest and also those he is not so keen or close to, but then thats life is it not? In particular we meet his beloved cousin Rosie Beck and his not so beloved frenemy John Barbican Beggs. Dennis becomes a progressive musician/photographer, Rosie becomes a fearless defender of the poor and the disenfranchised,while their mutual friend becomes a billionairre maker of the poor and the disenfranchised and possessor of a rapacious appetite for things other people made. We follow Dennis and his friends across a series of decades from the seventies to almost the present in a world almost the same as our own. We revisit the dog days of previous decades, bullet pointed by rabid dog days and days when you just wanted to crawl under the bed. Its a visionary tale, more than a commentary on our own worlds progress, or lack off it, over those very same years. Admittedly a lot of things we take for granted have not fully materialised but its never enough to date it. If you, as the reader, are prepared to give yourself over to the words generated by Michael Moorcock in his books you may well find an alchemical shift take place in the region of your brain that filters information from outside your skull. His detailed world building will sink into the foundations of your imaginations and like the Asgardian realms generated by crafty old Loki whole worlds will grow there. All his worlds, as fantastical as they might initially appear will contain enough familiar elements to draw you along. And although those worlds may not always be as pleasant as you may hope, they will always be as truthful as they need to be. As always his love of music, and his belief in its power to transform, is present for you to lean into. Its a big book. As Mother London was. The distance that comes with the passing of time makes this book so accessible. Easier to absorb given it feels within living memoery. Painfully plausible. " Myths and miracles, pards. What would we do without them?" The book joyfully asks us. The truth being; Michael Moorcock has the means to seed our imaginations but only we can make those seeds grow.

The tradional RadioTimes cover for the new season of Doctor Who. A tradition I hope will continue for many years to come.

Mantel Pieces.

A collection of essays, communications , articles and cultural collisions from The London Review Of Books. There are twenty pieces in total collected from three decades of living and writing.Twas my enjoyment of her Wolf Hall Trilogy, among other bits and pieces by her, that drew me in this collections direction. The subject matter within ranges all over the show, from book case shopping in Jedah to er, getting into bed with Madonna. Blimey. Some of the pieces are built on substance as mired in reality as a writer of her faerie otherness is presumably can get. She observes with precision, writes with precision and wields her imaginative prose with precision. I flipped to the chapter in which she writes about Christopher Marlowe, who has been on my mind off late. Probably because of seeing three versions of the Doctor Faustus myth. The echo of the man permeates this creation and I hoped she might bring some of the clarity she brought to the lives of the Tudor figures in Wolf Hall to peeling back the masks worn by this mysterious man. She tip toed through the fog of history to present a new vision of a man history painted as unredeemable, Thomas Cromwell. Affording that figure an all too human face. She seemed sure of where she wanted to go, if not always so sure how to get there. The identi-fit of history createsc a confusing portrait of Christopher Marlowe. He emerges on stage in a play populated by people made of smoke and mirrors. It is not entirely clear if we are even seeing his true face, they all resemble him but would the real one please step forward please. With positively trying to pin this slippery man down one runs the risk of queering the pitch, so to speak. Reading up on what is known about Christopher Marlowe I find myself approaching a portrait of the man, or a picture proporting to be the man, and finding it vivid and life-like. At least at first it appears so, but the cl;oser one gets the less defined it becomes, until at least one accepts it as more an im pression than a portrait. Hilary Mantel wisely offers us little more than a crimes scene sketch, enough to partially identify him, but not enough to file a charge. So it is, the mystery continues,fuddled with the many footprints of those who have gone before, tainting the crime scene, making answers as elusive but as compelling as ever.

PHANTASMAGORIA Irish Horror Special.

I will be taking part in a joint signing launch for the Phantasmagoria Irish Horror Special issue which is about to hit the shelves. Other writers and contributers will be joining forces to make this a memorable event. Why not come along,yourself. Friday 18th April, Good Friday. Hopefully it will be more than good. You are more than welcome.