The History That Never Happened

Rewrites to the first 50,000 are now done. I expect I’ll have to do some major rewriting to this half again when the lawyers eventually get at the text, but so far there has been no significant butchering of the book. The anti-poverty and libertarian messages are intact. Charlie Richardson’s view of Margaret Thatcher and the comic book origins of Arkan are intact. Joseph ‘Joe Bananas’ Bonanno’s link to the Tonton Macoutes is intact. Despite the organized crime subject matter, it is clearly a Southwell text. However, I just hope that if I do another book, it doesn’t have any mention of the Kennedy family. I need a new leitmotif.

The editors have also so far not challenged my use of personal touches. Walking down the Lisburn Road is still there. Drinking in The Speaker with my favourite Scotland Yard contact is still there. The Norwegian biker threat involving the shotgun if I mentioned Finland as part of Scandinavia is still there. I don’t want to write bland, characterless reference books and I’m glad Carlton appear to be giving me the chance to write with a degree of personality, humour and heart.

I also finished reviewing the publicity material for the London Book Fair. I’m not sure I’d describe myself the way the publisher does: ‘Political insider… has worked with the security services’, but there’s nothing I could really argue about. It is strange to think that after all these years I am now being so open about my contacts with MI5 when at the time I’d come home from anti-terrorist meetings and Cobra sub-committees and not even breath a word of it to Anne-Marie.

As the work was all done at a reasonable hour and today the health was not too bad, I got to read two books – Jamie’s Italy and Andrew Robert’s What Might Have Been. How can you not love a cookbook that in its introduction talks about the working class, tax avoidance, the olive oil economy and also has a mild go at Southend-on-Sea? It’s a glorious romp through Italian food culture and recipes are good, inspiring and resoundingly non-poncey. I have to admit I was wrong and that I’m now a Jamie Oliver convert (even if I’m still a bit suspicious of the accent).

I was not too impressed by What Might Have Been, but it has given me an idea on how to do a mass-market counterfactual making use of the parallel dimension material that could just be sold to a publisher. I think it would have to be called The History That Never Happened. I know that sounds very Doctor Who, but trust me, I really do think I've got a unique spin on doing counterfactuals. Given my state of play, I do not think it is something I’ll get the chance to undertake, but it might be worth passing on to Tim.

Some Sort of Victory

I know I will have to put last week’s posts up at some point. They are written, but I do not think I am ready to publish full details about what happened the Regent Palace Hotel on the 15th just yet.

I sent off the last 50,000 words to Amie today. I know I now have a couple of months of rewrites and legal battles to try and get through, but writing 100,000 words in less than three months given the circumstances, but it feels like some sort of victory. The butchering process the text and I now face may make it seem lot less triumphant over the coming weeks, but right now, having done it and done it to deadline, is something I am proud about. I’ll be even prouder if I can keep some of the libertarian and anti-poverty elements in the book.

As usual, the acknowledgements were the last thing done. It was extremely odd doing them for this time around. No F family, no Morgans. I still love my ‘sisters’ dearly and have a lot of time for BM, but it would have been strange to mention them and not Anne-Marie. The same was true with Dr. F – even though would have probably have enjoyed all the Taiwanese perspectives in the book. Not mentioning Anne-Marie in the acknowledgements or dedication felt as if the hole in my heart was making it into the print. She still gets a mention in the book, but it feels so dislocating to not have her where she has always belonged. Still, it is not as if she will miss it and I’m sure Alex will dedicate his first SF opus to her when it gets published. She deserves all of the book dedications she is bound to get in the future.

If the dedications and acknowledgements get printed as planned, the book is jointly dedicated to Stephen and Mr. Burzotta. Quite what Mr. Burzotta will make of the dedication is open to question. He may not be too happy and I may not be eating at one of my favourite restaurants anymore.

In the inspiration section I am pleased I got to mention of the Raúl Gibb Guerrero as ‘the very spirit of journalistic bravery’. Incongruously, Zef Nano sits alongside the Max Plank Institute of Foreign and International Criminal Law in terms of receiving ‘Professional Thanks’. Amongst other strange bedfellows are the Mala del Brenta, Voždovac and 14K interviewees teamed with mentions for those from Interpol, the Nathanson Centre and the Yard who helped with the research.

J.J. Connolly and Matthew Vaughn get a mention as well, two people who could not have featured in my time with Anne-Marie. Layer Cake is one of those movies AM would have once screamed about. It such a shame there was never a chance to be with her again when she was not so angry and insecure. Alex is a lucky man. Even though I understand why she was the way she was with me, it is an emblematical tragedy that I never got to have a time with her when she and I could have seen Layer Cake at the NFT and stayed for the Q&A with Vaughn and Daniel Craig without any friction.

Thanks Mum

Today was the day for ringing people to let them know I was still around. I wish I had not spoken to my mother. AM had sent some photos to 56. According to my mother: “It looks like she is getting rid of all the pictures she had of you.” On top of this, which as you can imagine made me feel even better than usual, she added: “From the card it looks like she has been going on some nice walks at Hadleigh Castle. Must be with her new boyfriend.” Thanks Mum.

Today I Stink

There are side effects to the drugs they don’t tell you about. Today I stink. Seeping through my skin is the stench of a 1,000-year-old man rotting from the inside. Logically I know it’s just what happens when as body attempts to process the stuff that has been pumped into me, but it is an unpleasant experience. You cannot escape you own stench; your nose and brain under constant assault from an olfactory warning of how badly wrong things are.

Someone Held My Hands and Kissed Them

The fact that Nick Griffin was cleared of the race hate charges today has me think about an incident that happened in the hospital. A male Indian doctor was examining me. He noticed the purple and black discolouration I got from where the National Front protestor had punched me. He asked how I’d got the bruising. I explained. He then, unexpectedly grasped my hands in his, raised them to his lips and said: “My dear boy.” He then looked incredibly embarrassed by his unprofessional behaviour and went on with the exam. I cried later that night. Soft sobs so as not to disturb my comrades in pain of alert the nurses. I was so touched by that blast tenderness. It has been so long since someone held my hands and kissed them, so long since I have been dear to anyone.

I am glad Griffin was cleared. He should have an absolute right to say what he thinks and every time he says it, I’m prepared to get another beating by standing up and calling him and his colleagues pathetic, racist wastes of a functioning spinal column. We have to stand up for each other. We have to hold each other.

Two Good Things

There were two good things in the day today.

First, I had a 10-minute chat with Surreal Girl in Oz via MSN. It’s easy to be immune to the marvel of the Net, but having a conversation with one of your friends who is thousands of miles away qualifies as a little wonder in my neck of the woods.

Second, I sent Amie an email explaining why I did not want to start the book with a 14,000-word essay on money laundering, environmental crime and arms smuggling. Within minutes she had replied with saying: ‘I’ve done two books with you. I trust your judgement, so I’m happy to proceed as you suggest.’ Then she was straight onto asking about the operation and whether I could travel up to London for the second picture meeting. No fuss, instant backing and support from my editor. Her email probably qualifies as the nicest thing anyone has said to me all year, as I don’t think any of my friends could honestly say they trust my judgement at the moment.

Horrorshow Vellocet

I have used the word droogs in the book. Some resilient, teenage part of me finds this very cool. The phrase it was used in was: ‘By the 1970s, a thriving subculture existed which can only be described as resembling the droogs from Clockwork Orange on motorbikes.’ Unfortunately, droog is the only bit of Nadsat in the book. There’s no horrorshow Vellocet, Luscious Glory, Millicent or Prestoopnik although the English equivalents get good outings except maybe Luscious Glory. The book is short on Luscious Glory.