illustration by Mitch Blunt
OK so here are my latest book reviews in The Big Issue magazine. Two harrowing but brilliant reads – Helen FitzGerald’s The Cry (Faber) and J. Robert Lennon’s Familiar (Serpent’s Tail).
While I’m here I want to give a shout out to the regular illustrator of the books column, Mitch Blunt. His work is consistently brilliant, and always really captures the mood of the books and topics in question. Check out more of his work here.
A bientot! Dx
Here’s a rather lovely review of Gone Again by Andrew Nette over at Pulp Curry. ‘Razor sharp,’ Andrew says, and he seems like a trustworthy sort. It’s a combo review with Liam McIlvanney’s Where the Dead Men Go, which is an excellent read. Cheers!
Here’s my review of Helen FitzGerald’s The Cry, easily one of my favourite novels this year. It’s fucking terrifying. It’s so terrifying I was describing it to another writer in the pub recently, just telling them what happens in it, and they refused to listen anymore, it was too much for them.
Reviewing this book also threw up some interesting issues about spoilers in reviews, but I’ve hopefully trodden the line carefully in the copy. Great book, anyhoo, do track it down.
Dx
a creepy Scottish doll
Aye so, one of the events I did over at the Melbourne Writers Festival was recorded for posterity by ABC, and I think they’ve just broadcast it over there. It was a session entitled Tartan Noir, with me and Liam McIlvanney chatting to Andrew Nette about all flavours of pish. Trainspotting, politics, violence, crime, all that guff.
Anyway, you can watch it in its entirety, if you can stomach it, here.
Enjoy! Dx
I’ve got a wee bit behind in shoving my journalism stuff up here, what with being on the other side of the world for a while, then picking up a shitty chest infection.
Anyway, while I was away, a few of my book reviews have emerged online, namely:
A review in The Big Issue of Jill Stark’s High Sobriety: My Year Without Booze (Scribe) along with a review of The Trip to Echo Spring: Why Writers Drink (Canongate) by Olivia Laing. Two very interesting takes on writers and their relationship with the demon drink.
And here’s my Big Issue reviews of Sounds Like London (Serpent’s Tail) by Lloyd Bradley alongside Niccolò Ammaniti’s Let the Games Begin (Canongate). Didn’t manage a themed-review column, but two fascinating books, one on the history of black music in London, the other a crazy Italian satirical novel.
And here’s my review of D W Wilson’s debut novel Ballistics (Bloomsbury) in The Independent on Sunday. I loved his story collection, Once You Break a Knuckle, but I didn’t feel Ballistics lived up to that. Sorry, DW!
Dx
Here’s a new short story. A bit of context is probably needed. While over in Melbourne recently I was invited to take part in Liner Notes, a cabaret evening where they take a ‘classic’ album, divvy up the tracks to writers, comedians, performance poets, musicians etc, and get each person to come up with a five-minute thing inspired by their track. This year it was L.A. Woman by the The Doors. I got the track ‘L.A. Woman’. Safe to say, I am not The Doors’ biggest fan.
So anyway, I wrote this and read it on the night, in front of a few hundred punters. Went well, especially the Michael Hutchence joke. And some people actually gasped when the main character set fire to some Doors memorabilia. Go figure. Mind, it was a Friday night, and drink had been taken by all involved.
So here you go, hope you like it. If nothing else, it’ll only take a few minutes of your time to read:
MOJO FALLING
by
Doug Johnstone
She stepped back and checked her handiwork.
He was just coming round. She had no idea how strong the pills were so she’d put three in his jack and coke, to be sure. After he’d passed out he was a dead weight, and she struggled to heave him out to the garage and into the chair. Somewhere along the way he’d pissed his leather trousers. Good, she hated those stupid trousers.
His arms and legs were tied to the chair, tape over his mouth. Blood trickled from his nose where she’d punched his jowly face. Couldn’t resist. His gut stretched Jim Morrison’s face across his T-shirt.
His eyes opened. When he saw her he gave a pathetic grunt.
She walked over to the worktop with the turntable, heels clacking on the concrete. Lifted up the album for him to see. His original pressing of L.A. Woman, signed by the whole band. Twelve hundred dollars in Record Collector. She wasn’t allowed to touch it. She took the record out the sleeve and put it on. His eyes widened. She put the needle on the vinyl and let it play for a bit, creating a moment in her mind. Jim was wanking on about his mojo rising.
She blinked heavily then picked up the hammer. Smashed it down on the record again and again, the skwerk of the needle sliding, the vinyl shattering, then the whole record player in splinters.
He whimpered. It looked like he’d pissed his pants some more.
‘I’ve always fucking hated The Doors,’ she said. ‘You never realised did you? I only pretended to like them at the start to make you like me. How pathetic is that? I hate everything about them – the shitty blues warbling, bullshit Sixties mythology, weak guitar riffs, cliched lyrics – all of it. And Morrison, he’s the worst. Died in a fucking bath, a bloated, deluded wanker. All that leather-trousered rock-god shit. You know what? He was a poor man’s Michael Hutchence at best. At least Hutch had a proper rock and roll death.’
She walked over and punched his face. He slumped in the chair. God, that felt good. It felt great that she’d never have to put up with his macho shit ever again.
She grabbed the metal bucket beside her, showed him the contents. It wasn’t all of his Doors memorabilia, that would take a whole room, but it was the most precious. A signed set list, an original ‘67 tour poster, a gold disc, one of Jim’s necklaces. He’d wasted thousands on this shit.
She lifted the can of petrol and poured it over everything.
He started bleating like an injured lamb.
‘Listen to yourself,’ she said. ‘You’re pathetic.’
She hit him again, this time in the eye. Broke the skin at his eyebrow. He flinched. The feeling of power surging through her was ecstatic.
‘I know about her,’ she said. ‘I read your emails.’
He looked like he was going to pass out.
‘How fucking dare you,’ she said. ‘Cheating on me? Really? You don’t deserve me.’
The worst thing was, this other woman was a Doors fan. They’d met at a fan club convention. And get this for irony, she was from fucking Los Angeles, his real life L.A. Woman.
She took a lighter out her pocket. According to the authenticity document, it used to belong to Jim Morrison. Rumour was he’d lit Janis Joplin’s bong with it. She clicked it till the flame appeared.
He was simpering like a puppy now.
She dropped the lighter in the bin and it went up with a whoosh that sucked air out of the garage. Smoke pummelled upwards, curling into the corners of the ceiling.
He tried to heave himself free, chair legs scuffing on the floor. He was like a trapped, panicky animal. The lizard king had lost his crown.
The smoke was already stinging her eyes. She opened the garage door then approached him. She shushed him and stroked his lank hair away from his face as he made strangled noises, his eye swollen and closed, snot bubbling from his nose. She raised the hammer above her head.
‘This is the end,’ she said. ‘My only friend, the end.’
She brought the hammer down hard on his skull, twice to make certain. Then she dropped the hammer on the floor with a clatter, turned and left, closing the garage door behind her.
How did this happen? It’s only a week until Scotland’s awesome crime writing festival Bloody Scotland gets going. It’s gonna be great. Check out the fantastic programme here, and if you feel so inclined, I’m appearing at an event with Gordon Brown and Gordon Ferris on the Saturday at 6.30pm, tickets and more info here. Also, I’m chairing this event right before, with Gillian Galbraith, Caro Ramsay and Aline Templeton, which is gonna be ace!
Other highlights for me are Louise Welsh, Denise Mina and William McIlvanney. I also wanted to go to the Fresh Blood event, but it’s on the same time as one of mine, ach!
Can’t wait!
Dx
So when my itinerary came through for Melbourne, I had a couple of events with fellow Scottish writer Liam McIlvanney. Liam is a Professor of Scottish Studies at the University of Otago in Dunedin, New Zealand, and he emailed to suggest that, since I was ‘in the area’ (i.e. the same hemisphere), would I like to pop over and do a couple of events at the university. They had a budget, he said. Yes, I said.
It was a fleeting visit, and in the end I only did one event, as it was mid-term break at the university. I wish I could’ve stayed longer and done more tourist shit, but Trish and the wee kids beckoned me homewards. Anyway, here’s what I did in New Zealand.
Tue 27 Aug: Travelling. I cleverly had my first hangover of the trip after the free bar escapades of the previous night, so felt like shite the whole time. Got into Christchurch around mid-afternoon (time difference to UK now 11 hours), then a cheeky wee 50-seater twin-prop down to Dunedin in the south of the South Island. Taxi to the Executive Residence, a university-run hotel in town. Already dark outside. Weird. Phoned home and spoke to the wife and kids (awwww), then wandered out in the dark and found a place that did great steak and beer. Ate steak and beer. Wandered around town some more. Went to bed.
Wed 28 Aug: Up early for the guided tour. Liam showed me round campus, including the view from his office window:
Home from home
Took a wander around town, it’s weird, ALL the street names are lifted straight from Edinburgh, and the river is called The Leith. In the central octagon (not square) of town, there’s a massive Robert Burns statue:
Liam and Robbie: two decent Scottish writers
Joke is, he’s facing the pub with his back to the church. Boom boom. The town was founded by his uncle or something, so fair play to em.
After a nice lunch (no blue cod on the menu, apparently a local speciality), off out to the Otago peninsula. Where we got views like this:
like an IMAX version of Scotland, right?
…and ended up here:
You can take the boy out of Porty, etc
A beautiful little village set in a gorgeous bay. After that we visited ‘The World’s Steepest Street’, which is apparently not only a real thing, but a tourist attraction:
Doesn’t look that steep, right? Wrong. Puggled.
Then it was time for the event, a lovely audience, very attentive, as I banged on about the drama in the domestic, all that crap, then played a few tunes on a beautiful guitar borrowed from the uni’s music department in front of a MAHOOSIVE pic of myself:
taken by Rogelio Guedea, a Mexican writer working at the uni
As you can see, it was some serious shit. No smiles to be had. I read the playground punch-up scene again, which is generating a lot of questions about moral ambiguity in protagonists. Maybe out of context from the rest of the book it seems overly harsh, but I like reading it anyway, so fuck it.
Like I say, loads of great questions during and after the event, then off to Albar, the town’s Scottish pub for a quick pint before dinner at The Scotia, yep, the town’s Scottish restaurant. Also in attendance were some academics and local crime writers and other assorted book people, and Liam’s wife Val. Liam had the Cullen Skink, just to show off. Someone else had the cranachan, which was really just a trifle in a cup and not cranachan at all. But otherwise the food was awesome. Bed after a great day.
Thu 29 Aug: Because of the cancelled student event, I basically had a day to fuck around like a tourist. Spent much of it in Dunedin’s botanic garden, which had a cool aviary and some colossal trees:
You can’t tell, but these are very big
Then went to Otago Museum, which was excellent, and where I met these little Maori dudes:
Like Dick and Dom, yeah?
And these gigantic extinct moas:
You looking at me, pal?
Then rounded off another great day with dinner and drinks at Liam and Val’s house, where I met their very cool four boys (four boys! Oof!).
Fri 30 – Sat 31 Aug: Travelling. Something like 48 hours, Dunedin to Christchurch to Melbourne to Doha to London to Edinburgh, with shitloads of waiting around and getting hassled by airport security. Worth it to get home, though.
So, as you can see, not exactly working like a dog while I was there, eh? But had an amazing time, and would love, love, love to go back and properly tour round New Zealand. It felt very laid back, very cool, like it really didn’t give a fuck about whether you liked it or not, and that’s the sign of a good country, isn’t it?
MASSIVE thanks to Liam McIlvanney who put the whole thing together, and everyone else at the university and beyond who made me feel so welcome. Great place, great times!
Doug x
Some of you who follow me on Twitter or are pals on Facebook will know some of this chat already, but I’ve been down under at the Melbourne Writers Festival recently. I had an absolutely AMAZING time, and met loads of fantastic writers, readers, helpers, punters, and I just wanted to write a quick summary of my time there.
So here’s a quick diary:
Tue 20 – Wed 21 Aug: Travelled. Edinburgh to London to Doha to Melbourne. Fucking knackered. Arrived late Wed night and was staying in the intimidatingly posh Sofitel Hotel on Collins Street. This was the view from my 39th floor window:
Melbourne by night
So I phoned home and spoke to the kids (awww), necked the complimentary bottle of wine, and fell asleep.
Thu 22 Aug: Wandered around central Melbourne in a jetlagged daze. Lovely city. Everyone kept apologising about the weather. It was warm. What’s the problem? Apparently not warm enough for winter. Popped down to Fed Square to get my bearings, as this was where most of the action of the festival was to be housed:
Fed Square. Happening.
Met fellow Scottish writer Liam McIlvanney in the street. He had just met Kirsty Gunn. This was to become a theme of the week.
In the evening, went out for a few beers with Liam and local writer Andrew Nette, who was chairing our Tartan Noir event at the weekend. They had a big argument about Peter Temple. I hadn’t read him. The beer was expensive.
Fri 23 Aug: Met my good pal Anna Burkey for lunch down some wee alleyway. Melbourne is full of these cool wee streets. Anna used to work for Edinburgh City of Literature, and now does a number of bookish things in Melbourne. Great to catch up, and she gave me a wee tour of central Melbourne, ending up in the amazing state library where she works. Spent the rest of the day wandering around Fitzroy, a bohemian enclave just north of the centre.
In the evening was my first event! About time. It was Liner Notes, up in a ramshackle ballroom in Northcote, a kind of cool but rundown neighbourhood north of the centre. Bonded with Ophira Eisenberg of The Moth fame as the two non-Aussies in the green room. Drank quite a lot of free beer. The evening was awesome – a mix of slam poetry, stand up comedy, music, readings, all sorts. The idea was to do something inspired by the album L.A. Woman by The Doors. I fucking hate The Doors, so wrote a nasty wee story about someone killing their boyfriend, a Doors obsessive. I got heckled by a drunk woman who couldn’t understand my accent. There was some banter. Afterwards, loads of people apologised for her. No worries, I’m used to heckling! All in all a great evening, and here’s what the house band looked like:
Mojo falling
Sat 24 Aug: Now they were starting to work me properly. Two events during the day, first This is Scotland with Kirsty Gunn and John Burnside, chaired by Liam McIlvanney. Liam’s opening gambit was to ask if we resented being there, more or less, being asked to represent Scottish writing. No, was the answer. I think just looking at how different all of us were as writers was evidence enough that no single person can speak for a nation’s literature. Incredibly well attended event, loads of ex-pats, but plenty of locals too. Signed a shitload of books after.
Time to grab a quick sushi lunch then onwards to Tartan Noir with Liam McIlvanney, chaired by Andrew Nette, during which we basically rehashed our pub chat, minus the Peter Temple argument, for the audience. I read a nasty bit of Gone Again for the first time, and someone actually gasped! Wow.
At night it was the festival launch party. Free booze and food. Nice. Took it easy, as had an event first thing in the morning. Great to meet more of the staff, especially general manager of the festival Shona Barrett, another ex-pat Scot. Then in the after party, hooked up with Aussie pal Emily Ballou, who lives in Scotland but was also over for the festival. I made my excuses at a reasonable time though, honest.
Sun 25 Aug: Up early for a City of Literature Forum. Chaired by festival director Lisa Dempster and also featuring Melbourne writer Matt Blackwood, it was a really interesting look at how to exploit Melbourne’s City of Lit status and get things done. I was really there as an outsider viewpoint, coming from another City of Lit. The audience were mostly professionals and writers in and around Melbourne, and were very switched on, considering it was 10am on a Sunday after a party. Good work!
Then hoofed it up to The Wheeler Centre to The Art of Crime Writing seminar with Aussie crime writer Angela Savage, chaired by Kate Larsen from Writers Victoria. This was a longer event, with the focus on the writing process, specifically crime writing, of course. Despite differences between mine and Angela’s books, there were a lot of eerie similarities to our histories and processes, and the audience of aspiring writers were really fantastically engaged with the whole thing. The buzz on Twitter afterwards was amazing, folk seemingly really inspired etc, so job done!
In the evening, went out for dinner and beers with Anna B again and some of her pals, to The Calton, a daft old pub with stuffed animals and walls like a bordello. Ate a humungous schnitzel. Good times.
Mon 26 Aug: Spent the day doing touristy shit, buying presents for the kids and the missus, wandering around some more, and hoofing it out to Victoria Street to eat this amazing Vietnamese meal (thanks to a tip off from Aussie-Scot writer pal Helen Fitzgerald):
Some fucking spicy prawn thing
In the evening, I had my last event, a cabaret evening called Scottish Stories. I decided to play tunes instead of read. Soundcheck was at 5pm. Mike Shuttleworth, the programme manager for the festival, very kindly leant me his lovely guitar. There was free whisky and beer. Then there was some British Council cocktail party thing. More free whisky and beer. Then the gig started at 7pm. More free booze. I didn’t play till around 9pm. By then my tongue had been loosened, it’s safe to say, and I blethered about all sorts of shit on stage, not least the crazy ‘hook turns’ Melbournian drivers do at crossroads. Don’t ask. Also performing that night were the inimitable Janice Galloway, John Burnside, and Aussie contributors Richard McKenzie and Anne E Stewart, who sent a shiver up my spine with her ghost story. Then more booze, you get the picture. But I had to get up stupidly early for my flight to New Zealand, so that was me, basically.
HUGE thanks to Lisa Dempster and all the staff at the Melbourne Writers Festival for a truly fantastic experience. Especially want to shout out to all the festival volunteers who were relentlessly cheery, friendly and helpful the whole time. I’d love to go back to the city again, such a cool vibe, such a friendly place. Love you, Melbourne!
Next blog: New Zealand diary
I am delighted to have a new short story in the latest issue of The Edinburgh Review. They’re having a launch party at Word Power on Friday coming, which sadly I can’t be at, but you should definitely go.
My story is called ‘There are Easier Ways to Kill Yourself’. It’s quite cheery for me, though.
Dx
Doug Johnstone 