Here's something you won't have read on this blog before - a TV preview. A review of a TV show that hasn't yet aired. The Crimson Petal And The White debuts on UK TV this Wednesday at 9pm, and though I haven't seen it, I can review it with confidence.
"For all its excellent cast (including the always watchable Chris O'Dowd, Richard E. Grant and - yay! - Scully), sparkling script, grubby period detail, kinky costume drama romping and acres of naked flesh and naughtiness... it's not a patch on the novel."
I say that without any fear of retraction because - having just finished reading the 830 pages of source material - no adaptation could ever do it justice. I've been a fan of Michel Faber for some time, and have read just about everything he's written - from his debut novel, Under The Skin, through to his most recent, The Fire Gospel, plus his excellent short story collection The Farenheit Twins and Whitby-based novella The Hundred And Ninety Nine Steps. Yet I've been holding off on tackling his most acclaimed text for two reasons... firstly the genre, a postmodern take on Dickensian Victoriana... and secondly the size. 830 small-type pages... I knew this was one I couldn't finish in a week.
But the news of its forthcoming BBC adaptation finally forced me to take action. And though it did take me the best part of a month, I relished every grubby period detail and wickedly complex character. The book tells the tale of Sugar, a teenage prostitute on the streets of 1860s London, and her gradual ascent and escape thanks to cunning, caring, and her relationship with a slimy rake businessman. It's earthy, bawdy, hilarious and horrifying, creating vivid mental images (which can only be flattened by the TV screen) and constantly switching the reader's affections, allegiances and sympathies between a wide cast of streetwalkers, society types and sociopaths. (From a writer's perspective, I found it both educational and inspirational.) It embraces the genre it subverts - by the throat - but does so through such a warm, welcoming narrative that I didn't ever want it to end.
"So there you have it: the thoughts (somewhat pruned of repetition) of William Rackham as he sits on his bench in St James's Park. If you are bored beyond endurance, I can offer my promise that there will be fucking in the very near future, not to mention madness, abduction, and violent death."
So I wasn't here yesterday. Or the day before. Or Sunday. (Not that you'd have noticed.) Instead, we were in Robin Hood's Bay, between Whitby and Scarborough on the North East coast.
I've visited Robin Hood's Bay a number of times but I do think you can only truly appreciate a place if you actually stay there. Although I've walked down the steep harbour road and admired the higgledgy-piggedly streets of row-upon-row of tiny cottages and grander houses built almost on top of each other, I've never really explored the village as much as we did on this visit.
Strolling these twisty-turny passageways you're never quite sure what you're going to find next. Another row of quirky abodes or a sudden dramatic view of the sea or harbour below. It's sad that the majority of these houses exist solely as holiday homes now, that very few locals appear to live here anymore, but it's still very easy to close your eyes and imagine yourself back in a time when this was a thriving community full of crusty old fishermen and their long-worrying wives, of smugglers and even pirates...
Robin Hood's Bay is a place steeped in legend, from its name which carries a story of Sherwood's most famous son taking a holiday on the coast to defeat French pirates... to rumours of underground smuggling tunnels that still connect these houses as the narrow pathways do above ground.
There's another thriving community at home here too - birds. Loud, fearless and territorial seagulls (we watched one chasing away a kestrel that may have been hunting chicks), sweet-songed chaffinches, and swarms of cheeky sparrows, a bird which is apparently becoming rarer in the towns and cities of the UK - perhaps because they've all moved out to the seaside.
It's a place that fires the imagination, there are stories around every corner, and those locals that do remain enjoy teasing the tourists... from the local shop that may delight in the name of Bob Killer's (ah, but is he Bob The Killer... or does he Kill Bobs?)...
...to the mysterious clifftop house with a spooky top-hatted face peering from the window one day...
...and even spookier faces the following day...
Robin Hood's Bay is a storyteller's delight. I'm certainly feeling inspired...
I'm not actually here today. Where I am is a story for another day. In my absence, here are some much cooler things to read...
Ed is another engaging comic from Sean Azzopardi who's rapidly becoming one of my favourite creators. It involves the life and loves of the titular Ed, a comic book artist and part-time slacker who's just as confused about life as the rest of us. It's a gentle read that hits a number of observational "ah yes!" moments along the way. Azzopardi has chosen a slightly more European / cartoony art style (for the Ed character at least) than other work I've seen from him, but it works well and carries a lot of emotion. I always come away from reading Sean's books with a warm, bittersweet feeling. You want to give his characters a big hug (and I never want to give anyone a hug), even when they fumble their way to a happy ending.
My old pal and longtime collaborator Nige Lowrey has put out another Odds And Ends collection of illustration, cartoons, caricatures and one new strip. Every time Nige puts out a book like this, I find myself scratching my head and asking why he's not in professional employment as a comic book artist - especially when there are far less talented artists earning big bucks... but that's just the way of the world. I firmly believe that Nige's big break could still be just round the corner... in the meantime, this gorgeous collection will just have to tide us over. I know he was selling copies at a recent con but I don't know how many he has left. If you want one, pop over to his blog and ask the question...
My newest small press discovery is Robert Wells. You may know him from his Comics On The Ration blog which I've mentioned here before as I'm an occasional contributor (when I have the time)... but until recently I had no idea just what an accomplished writer and artist Rob is. Curiously, we both started in the small press scene in the early 90s, yet I had no idea what Rob was up to, so I've had great fun catching up with some of his older work (you can read the majority of it online here). I especially recommend Gig Guide which reads like a companion piece to my own Top Ten of Bad Gig Behaviour.
The good news is that after a few years away from the scene, Rob has started writing and drawing his own strips again... and hopefully we'll be working together on something for a future PJANG / my new top secret comic project too. Pop along to Rob's new blog for weekly strips like the Jack Bauer piss-take above and news about what else Rob's getting up to. Add it to your blog list!
It was one of the best gig I've been too in a long, long time. Elbow came home to the Manchester Evening News arena... and blew the roof off.
I wouldn't have thought it possible. Not that Elbow aren't a great band, one of my favourites on the contemporary scene, but much of their music, especially on the current album Build A Rocket Boys has a sparse and intimate quality you wouldn't expect to fill an arena. Many of their songs feature minimal instrumentation and allow Guy Garvey's voice to carry the majority of the melody. And yet, Elbow didn't just fill the MEN... that cup runneth over.
Now officially crowned The Nicest Man In Rock, Guy Garvey continues to write heartwarming lyrical stories of home, friendship, family and love. He emphasized these qualities in his introductions, paying special attention to the hometown crowd... so that by the time the band played Station Approach (a song about returning home to Manchester's Piccadilly Station after too long away) even this proud Yorkshireman was feeling fit to call himself an honorary Manc. His lyrics continue to throw up those trademark sweetly sarcastic endearments ("I miss your stupid face, I miss your bad advice") that somehow contain more honesty and better illustrate the truth of love and romance than any number of "I'll climb any mountain" platitudes. He even confessed that the singalong chant title of new song With Love may well have been unconsciously inspired by the "In One!" call of referee Tony Green from the TV darts quiz show Bullseye.
If anyone doubt Elbow's position as one of the UK's most acclaimed rock bands, look no further than their current showstopper, Open Arms. Tears are welling even as I type the title...
After releasing one of the biggest albums of the 80s, Huey and the gang came back with one of the cheesiest. It bombed. Still, you've got to love a video as bad as this.
Haillie Jade has just realised her dad is nuts. Took her long enough. But just how nuts...?
Cuz when I speak, it's tongue in cheek I'd yank my fuckin teeth before 'd ever bite my tongue I'd slice my gums, get struck by fuckin' lightning twice at once And die and come back as Vanilla Ice's son
In which Steven Tyler gets his daughter Liv, and one of her sexy model friends, to dance around in and out of their school uniforms to sell his records. Which must be kind of the LA rockstar equivalent of sending your kid up the chimney. Crazy.
Axl doesn't just think you're crazy, he thinks you're fucking crazy. It amuses me how many people on youtube dedicate this to their ex-girlfriend... and to Charlie Sheen.
This reminds me of being a teenager in love. I can't even remember who the girl was, but I was ridiculously smitten and certain that if I got her on her own and played her this song she'd reveal her mutual desire. Did it ever happen? What do you think...?
The Osmonds got so pissed off about the exhaust fumes from their neighbour's car that they abandoned their traditional boy band shtick and went all heavy rawk... with pleasingly mental results.
Apparently Westlife covered this in 2003. Thankfully I can neither confirm nor deny that rumour.
You know how Meat Loaf would do anything for love but not that...?
Stephin Merrit has similar issues.
I treated you like radium. I treated you like God. You were my glass menagerie, did you not find that odd? I dwelt within and went without and broke my virgin flesh. I performed acts of devotion as if you were Ganesh, but now I'm crazy for you but not that crazy.
Sometimes a lyricist writes straight from my heart...
I'm not the kind of man Who tends to socialize I seem to lean on Old familiar ways And I ain't no fool for love songs That whisper in my ears Still crazy after all these years
Strictly speaking, this is probably the best song on the list. It should by all rights be Number One. But there's two songs in my collection that, while not quite so classic, mean just a little more to me...
I've been listening to the Kiss Greatest Hits CD recently. It was suprisingly amazing. I know, you won't believe me.
This was their first big UK hit, though in the States I guess it was considered their comeback. We missed out on the ridiculous furore first time round. I was 15 when I first heard this. No further explanation is necessary.
1. Robbie Robertson - Somewhere Down The Crazy River
And then, one year later, I heard this. Until then I thought Robbie Robertson was just J. Jonah Jameson's stressed out city editor. I'd never heard anything by The Band... and I'd never heard anything quite like this. Legend has it that producer Daniel Lanois created this track by secretly recording Robbie talking about growing up in Arkansas. (I'm not sure I believe that.) It's spoken word, gravelly voiced magic that paints wonderfully vivid pictures and sounds more like an excerpt from a movie soundtrack than a chart hit. And yet somehow it ended up getting played on the radio and made it to number 15 in the charts. There's no way anything like that would happen today and our charts are much worse for it. This remains one of the most atmospheric singles I've ever bought - it's right up there with Ghost Town.
So. Those were my craziest songs... what was I crazy to leave out?
Every time I think I'm getting on top of my finances, paying off my debts, that I might actually have a little spare change to fritter away on comics or mindless ephemera at the end of the month, my car comes along and knees me in the goolies. And it doesn't even have a knee.
I bought this car a little over three years ago. Aware that it'd probably be the last time I could afford such a purchase for a long, long time (knowing I was about to buy a house and take on all the associated gubbins), I asked for recommendations as to the most cost-effective vehicle I could buy. My main criteria was I wanted a vehicle that wouldn't always be in the garage requiring hefty repair bills - I've had enough Fords to know how they yearn for the company of greasy floors and grubby overalls... and don't even start me on the Seat that stole my life savings. (And it called itself a "Friend"!)
Toyota was the consensus. Toyota is reliable. You won't go wrong with a Toyota. And indeed, a few minor teething problems aside, the Toyota did me right. Until the warranty expired...
The first service I took it for post-warranty cost me £600. And that wasn't even at a main dealer. I was still wincing from that a few months later when the gearbox packed in. Another £500. Last summer it needed a new exhaust which caused me no end of trouble thanks to the useless muppets at KweekFeet. A month ago I took it in for a puncture repair and ended up needing another two new tyres on top. And now the catalytic converter is cracked. £420, including fitting and VAT. (At least the damned thing wasn't affected by the big Toyota Recall of last summer... though if it had been, I would have been able to claim it back.) And don't even start me on the price of petrol...
The worst of it is, the car seems to know. It knows when I have spare cash. Last year when my parents were kind enough to give me some cash to help with the new house... less than a week later the gear box exploded. I got some money for Christmas... and the tyres needed changing. My birthday cash... three days later, it's all gone... and then some.
I know it's crazy to anthropomorphosize a hunk of inaminate metal, but it's not like a car that hates its owner is entirely without precedent. Take Christine. Or The Car. Or even Chugga-Boom. I'm telling you though, if the bloody thing doesn't start treating me a little better, I'm trading it in... for an Audi.
(That was a joke, obviously. I cannot afford an Audi. Even if I could, I can't afford for right-thinking people everywhere to consider me an utter, utter c*** every time I sit behind the wheel. Apologies to those of you who are offended by vile four letter words. I promise not to write 'Audi' again unless I absolutely have to.)
Driving to work yesterday morning, I stopped to admire the Sunrise Over Slawit. It's a sight I only get to enjoy on certain weeks of the year - by next week, when the clocks go forward and the sun rises an hour earlier, I'll be too late to catch it. Luckily I had my camera with me this time. This is the old Wireless Station on the appropriately named Pole Moor. The lines in the sky are jet trails, I hadn't noticed them when taking the picture, I certainly wasn't trying to line the first one up with the pole...
Turning 39, I've been thinking a lot about getting older. Is it wrong to be looking forward to retirement at my age? I'm so fed up of the working grind and feeling uninspired by how I spend the majority of my waking day, I long for a time when I'll be able to get up when I like, go out and enjoy a sunny morning like this, spend more of my time writing and doing the things I enjoy. I suppose that's only natural, but I don't want to start wishing my life away either...
In the Grauniad magazine this weekend they had an article featuring photographs and interviews with people who had lived beyond their 100th birthday. It made sad and sobering reading. Although some remained positive, many spoke of simply waiting - even wishing - to die. They appeared to have little pleasure in their lives, had long since lost most of their friends and even family (one man, aged 108, told of how his only son died at the age of 64), and couldn't even rely on their own bodies any more. So much for living to a ripe old age.
Is it better to burn out or fade away? A former colleague of mine died last year, still a young man. I hadn't spoken to him in years but we'd exchanged brief communications on Facebook. I'm reminded of this every time I visit that site now, because his profile is still active. Either his family haven't been able to delete his account (it's hard enough when you're alive - imagine trying to do it for someone who's died) or they've decided to leave it open in his memory. The internet grants us all immortality, whether we want it or not. If you're reading this post in the year 2085, I hope I'm not still around to read your comments...
I don't want to die tomorrow, but I have no desire to live forever - or past my usefulness either. (Some might argue I'm already living on borrowed time in that regard.) I just wish I had more time to enjoy the prime of my life...
We should all be allowed to retire at 40. 20 years of the working grind is enough for anybody. Maybe then I'd get to lie in the sun more like our Wispa...
(Because what the internet really needs is more pictures of cute cats. If you're reading this in 2085, I doubt that has changed.)
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