Title of Book: The History of Organized Crime – The True Story and Secrets of Global Gangland
Author: David Southwell
Format: 280 x 230mm in hardback
Extent: 224 pages
Text: 100,000 words
Illustrations: More than 200 colour and black and white illustrations
Publication Date: October 2nd 2006
Price: £17.99
ISBN-10: 1 84442 177 5
Today it all seemed somewhat more believable that I had worked for weeks to produce a book when I saw the above words on an advert for the first time.
I spent the afternoon captioning up some of the advance promotional material. I still hate the bullet hole constellation in brown they are using for the cover, (it would work much better in black or white), but I have to admit to being a little impressed by the cool as fuck way they have used a Black Panthers shot to open the Gangland America chapter.
It is the first time I have had a true Harold Evans’ Pictures On A Page moment in one of my books. If you have ever worked as an editor, designer or sub on a newspaper, you will know why that makes so pleased.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Monday, April 24, 2006
Artefact of the Abyss
Stephen sent me a lovely email today offering to shout me a bottle of champagne next time I am in Dulwich and the book is actually at the printers. His view that: ‘I thought you were mad to attempt it when you took it on in such terrible circumstances... it’s a testament to you that you managed to pull this thing together without destroying yourself in the process’ is pretty much how I feel about it in retrospect. I am not sure how I managed to do it, but I know that without the support of Stephen and a handful of others I never would have got the rough beast to Bethlehem.
Both Stephen and Surreal Girl advised against doing the book and they were right to do so. Ninety-eight times out of a hundred, I would have listened to them. This makes Global Gangland the rarest of exceptions in that not only did I ignore their good advice, but despite doing so, it actually turned out OK. (I really hope using that phrase is not tempting fate).
I am still a long way from actually wanting to have a launch for the book, (if there is one, I am thinking Murder One in Charring Cross Road), but I will feel the need for champagne and a little celebration when it hits the streets. It might not be the most important book in the annals of crime writing, it might not be my career-defining work, but I am starting to realise for me it is a big personal achievement.
If nothing else, Global Gangland is an artefact of the Abyss. It will always remind me that even when the world turns to ash there is a point in refusing to give in, that hope can be found in trying to create in the face of destruction. More than anything, Global Gangland is my Green Lantern book. Even in blackest night, it should let me know what I can potentially do with will, imagination and good friends backing me up.
Both Stephen and Surreal Girl advised against doing the book and they were right to do so. Ninety-eight times out of a hundred, I would have listened to them. This makes Global Gangland the rarest of exceptions in that not only did I ignore their good advice, but despite doing so, it actually turned out OK. (I really hope using that phrase is not tempting fate).
I am still a long way from actually wanting to have a launch for the book, (if there is one, I am thinking Murder One in Charring Cross Road), but I will feel the need for champagne and a little celebration when it hits the streets. It might not be the most important book in the annals of crime writing, it might not be my career-defining work, but I am starting to realise for me it is a big personal achievement.
If nothing else, Global Gangland is an artefact of the Abyss. It will always remind me that even when the world turns to ash there is a point in refusing to give in, that hope can be found in trying to create in the face of destruction. More than anything, Global Gangland is my Green Lantern book. Even in blackest night, it should let me know what I can potentially do with will, imagination and good friends backing me up.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Guest Starring Superman and The Avengers
After spending most of the day traipsing, I came home to write the blurb material for Global Gangland. Walking a dozen miles in the damp is not the best way to get into an inspired mode for writing cover copy and may explain why it is not my best work. I was just too tired to be either massively enthused or sparkling.
My attitude may have been less serious than was needed as well. I really wanted to be able to include the line: ‘Guest starring Superman and The Avengers’. However, whilst it is true and would make a boyhood dream come true, it is not what the publisher wants. It would also probably prompt legal action by DC and Marvel. In the end I did try to stay more relevant and fulfil Amie’s brief of making it ‘focussed on the history angle but still intriguing’.
Whilst doing the blurb I decided it is time to change the author bio. When people are making entries on about you on Wiki using your own old jokes it becomes very tired, very quickly. Therefore, I have suggested they change the back flap to: ‘With two serious death threats from criminal gangs and a warning from the Wo Shing Wo Triad to remove his hands received during the writing of this book, David Southwell has seriously considered disappearing off of the map, buying a small place in Newfoundland and retiring to write comic books and his movie script about the life of Bill Hicks.’ All of which is true, if not something that will fascinate potential book buyers or be translatable into Wiki.
My attitude may have been less serious than was needed as well. I really wanted to be able to include the line: ‘Guest starring Superman and The Avengers’. However, whilst it is true and would make a boyhood dream come true, it is not what the publisher wants. It would also probably prompt legal action by DC and Marvel. In the end I did try to stay more relevant and fulfil Amie’s brief of making it ‘focussed on the history angle but still intriguing’.
Whilst doing the blurb I decided it is time to change the author bio. When people are making entries on about you on Wiki using your own old jokes it becomes very tired, very quickly. Therefore, I have suggested they change the back flap to: ‘With two serious death threats from criminal gangs and a warning from the Wo Shing Wo Triad to remove his hands received during the writing of this book, David Southwell has seriously considered disappearing off of the map, buying a small place in Newfoundland and retiring to write comic books and his movie script about the life of Bill Hicks.’ All of which is true, if not something that will fascinate potential book buyers or be translatable into Wiki.
Like a Spine of Memory Through Time
St. George Ogun Day, so I walked the mysteries in the landscape. I started in the woods and then went along the Downs. I visited places where Neolithic flints can be found and Cunning Murrel hid bottles of iron. I passed the long rotted away point where a Roman jetty stood.
I followed the Thames like a spine of memory through time, climbing over the obstacles of industry and property in my way. I tracked its course for as long as I could before tiredness started to override mad pursuit. I walked in the cool grey and drizzle, divining by iPod and naked for signs.
Eventually I turned around and started to make my way back, trying to assimilate the unfamiliar corners my mind had flowed into, trying to make sense of the new perspectives I had glimpsed. I think the only banal revelation from the drift I can express at the moment is that I do not walk enough.
I followed the Thames like a spine of memory through time, climbing over the obstacles of industry and property in my way. I tracked its course for as long as I could before tiredness started to override mad pursuit. I walked in the cool grey and drizzle, divining by iPod and naked for signs.
Eventually I turned around and started to make my way back, trying to assimilate the unfamiliar corners my mind had flowed into, trying to make sense of the new perspectives I had glimpsed. I think the only banal revelation from the drift I can express at the moment is that I do not walk enough.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
Visiting The History That Never Happened
A decade ago, Mr. Adams and I took take a day out to brainstorm some literary projects. As was the case in those days, things ended up at the pub and nothing came of it. One or two pints of Guinness can lubricate creativity, but the amount we used to drink in The Grand must have made even holding a pen difficult.
However, some of ideas that we came up with around that period of excess were not too shabby. Camalot ’77, Weird War Redux and The Dracula Prequel/Young Van Helsing (years before that abortion of a movie was a glimmer in some fool’s eye) were all things we could have pursued and possibly made work if I had been less of an idiot.
In a parallel dimension, Mr.Adams, Mr. York and I produced a couple Discontinuity Guide style cult TV guides, (including one on Buffy The Vampire Slayer which we would have seen before anyone else in the UK thanks to Twist) before Mr. Adams and I moved onto books on conspiracy theories and Forteana. We would have also produced a couple of reasonable mini-series for the DC Vertigo imprint before Mr. Adams went onto to knock out serious novels.
This left me writting about men and women in spandex and plaguing Gary Russell for a gig right from the start of Big Finnish. I would have also secretly worked on my ‘proper books’ and flattering myself, believe after 10 years I might be on the verge of producing something at least as quarter as good as The Time Traveller’s Wife or Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell. My personal life would have been very different too. However, that is another timeline in another place.
Ten years on, we spent today trying again to brainstorm literary ideas and it felt like visiting the history that never happened. I was forced to think about what ifs and might have beens, especially as I was back in Leigh. This might have been a painful and terrible thing to endure, but the new universe I find myself in has a way of regulating any strangeness I feel and dismissing it with a memory that makes me smile.
We started with good intentions – an early start and Earl Grey. However, it was just too sunny and predictably, we were soon sitting outside one of the pubs in Old Leigh. Not surprising the talk turned to counterfactuals, history, decay and things lost. By the time we walked back up the hill to watch Doctor Who, The History That Never Happened had become a much stronger pitch and London ring canal travel book felt as if it could work. I had also become Lobster Boy having not planned to spend several hours in the sun and having forgotten that the whitest man on the planet goes red very quickly.
Watching Doctor Who with Mr. Adams was a joy. Two life long fan boys drinking in one of the best Who stories for years complete with Jamie McCrimmon in-jokes, classic base under siege/Robert Holmes historical format and revelations that the Doctor loves both punk rock and The Muppet Movie. It was the first time I have ever watched a new episode of Doctor Who with a fellow fan, and like most things in life, it was an experience all the better for being shared.
After our 45 minutes of TV heaven, it was down to the Bombay Spice for a curry and more brainstorming. Good food and the obligatory free drinks later, we also had two comic book ideas that have a glimmer of potential (though the possibility of playing in the Marvel and DC universes is incredibly remote).
The evening ended with a manly hug, an iPod fuelled walk home buzzing with sentences that may one day be written home and a text from Surreal Girl. This means that despite waking to imminent sunburn pain, I am going to bed without a regret for both the history that never happened and some of that which did.
However, some of ideas that we came up with around that period of excess were not too shabby. Camalot ’77, Weird War Redux and The Dracula Prequel/Young Van Helsing (years before that abortion of a movie was a glimmer in some fool’s eye) were all things we could have pursued and possibly made work if I had been less of an idiot.
In a parallel dimension, Mr.Adams, Mr. York and I produced a couple Discontinuity Guide style cult TV guides, (including one on Buffy The Vampire Slayer which we would have seen before anyone else in the UK thanks to Twist) before Mr. Adams and I moved onto books on conspiracy theories and Forteana. We would have also produced a couple of reasonable mini-series for the DC Vertigo imprint before Mr. Adams went onto to knock out serious novels.
This left me writting about men and women in spandex and plaguing Gary Russell for a gig right from the start of Big Finnish. I would have also secretly worked on my ‘proper books’ and flattering myself, believe after 10 years I might be on the verge of producing something at least as quarter as good as The Time Traveller’s Wife or Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell. My personal life would have been very different too. However, that is another timeline in another place.
Ten years on, we spent today trying again to brainstorm literary ideas and it felt like visiting the history that never happened. I was forced to think about what ifs and might have beens, especially as I was back in Leigh. This might have been a painful and terrible thing to endure, but the new universe I find myself in has a way of regulating any strangeness I feel and dismissing it with a memory that makes me smile.
We started with good intentions – an early start and Earl Grey. However, it was just too sunny and predictably, we were soon sitting outside one of the pubs in Old Leigh. Not surprising the talk turned to counterfactuals, history, decay and things lost. By the time we walked back up the hill to watch Doctor Who, The History That Never Happened had become a much stronger pitch and London ring canal travel book felt as if it could work. I had also become Lobster Boy having not planned to spend several hours in the sun and having forgotten that the whitest man on the planet goes red very quickly.
Watching Doctor Who with Mr. Adams was a joy. Two life long fan boys drinking in one of the best Who stories for years complete with Jamie McCrimmon in-jokes, classic base under siege/Robert Holmes historical format and revelations that the Doctor loves both punk rock and The Muppet Movie. It was the first time I have ever watched a new episode of Doctor Who with a fellow fan, and like most things in life, it was an experience all the better for being shared.
After our 45 minutes of TV heaven, it was down to the Bombay Spice for a curry and more brainstorming. Good food and the obligatory free drinks later, we also had two comic book ideas that have a glimmer of potential (though the possibility of playing in the Marvel and DC universes is incredibly remote).
The evening ended with a manly hug, an iPod fuelled walk home buzzing with sentences that may one day be written home and a text from Surreal Girl. This means that despite waking to imminent sunburn pain, I am going to bed without a regret for both the history that never happened and some of that which did.
Gwyneth Paltrow Syndrome
The acknowledgements issue for Global Gangland looks like it has been resolved. Hopefully the name of an innocent has been changed.
As always, my acknowledgements suffer from Gwyneth Paltrow syndrome. They are too long, too sentimental and feature the sort of desperation to thank people clearly born out of the fear I feel I may never get another book published. This does not take away from the fact there are a number of people it is important to attempt to show some heartfelt thanks to for supporting me during writing Global Gangland. I could not have gotten through the book without Surreal Girl, Stephen, Tim and Mr. York. When you are in book hell, even something as simple as kind words can have a special magic.
This time round there is an even more distinctly odd mix of usual and unusual suspects in the acknowledgements than I have produced before. Noel Fielding and Julian Barratt rub shoulders with Frank Serpico; Zef Nano meets Gary Russell and Dave Courtney stands alongside Japan’s National Institute of Police Science. It is also probably the first and last time the acknowledgements of a Carlton book will quote the line: ‘Always remember that one day all this drug monkey business will be legal.’
Given all this, quite what Mr. Burzotta will make of his dedication I am not sure. Possibly I will no longer be able to enjoy special spaghetti in Queens Road.
As always, my acknowledgements suffer from Gwyneth Paltrow syndrome. They are too long, too sentimental and feature the sort of desperation to thank people clearly born out of the fear I feel I may never get another book published. This does not take away from the fact there are a number of people it is important to attempt to show some heartfelt thanks to for supporting me during writing Global Gangland. I could not have gotten through the book without Surreal Girl, Stephen, Tim and Mr. York. When you are in book hell, even something as simple as kind words can have a special magic.
This time round there is an even more distinctly odd mix of usual and unusual suspects in the acknowledgements than I have produced before. Noel Fielding and Julian Barratt rub shoulders with Frank Serpico; Zef Nano meets Gary Russell and Dave Courtney stands alongside Japan’s National Institute of Police Science. It is also probably the first and last time the acknowledgements of a Carlton book will quote the line: ‘Always remember that one day all this drug monkey business will be legal.’
Given all this, quite what Mr. Burzotta will make of his dedication I am not sure. Possibly I will no longer be able to enjoy special spaghetti in Queens Road.
Friday, April 21, 2006
Bastard Badger
In the early hours of this morning, I spent a good few minutes watching the badger that has been defecating on the drive during the last couple of weeks. Despite the fact that I have been clearing up after this beast, watching him run up and down the garden like a shaving brush on amphetamines made be feel well disposed to the thing. This lasted until 8:14am. At that time he officially became bastard badger. This was due to discovering he had managed to cover ever inch of the garden with rubbish.
Given that I do not want to spend every morning sweeping away badger crap and black bagging the dropped spoils of the two-tone menace, I decided to experiment with Surreal Girl’s suggestion that pepper can act as a badger deterrent. If it does not work, there is an escalatory position. However, I am not over keen on going down the route of having to urinate in the garden to scare the bloody thing away.
Given that I do not want to spend every morning sweeping away badger crap and black bagging the dropped spoils of the two-tone menace, I decided to experiment with Surreal Girl’s suggestion that pepper can act as a badger deterrent. If it does not work, there is an escalatory position. However, I am not over keen on going down the route of having to urinate in the garden to scare the bloody thing away.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
A Tough Crowd for the Stand-up Routine
Today I gave a talk to the Women’s Institute. In abstract, I like the WI. They sing Jerusalem, they slow clap Tony Blair and they make cakes. In reality, I was a bit scared. I imagined they were going to be a tough crowd for the stand-up routine entitled The Lies We Believe, The Things We Are Not Told. I do not think I was exactly what they were hoping for or used to in a speaker, especially as I was an emergency replacement for someone whose slide presentation was entitled Mediterranean Flower Gardens.
Lacking slides, I did the most gentle preamble possible on how things are spun and why. Then I moved onto a short how and why the media fails us riff before taking them through a few old favourites. These included the Daily Mail giving support for the Nazi regime, the CIA sinking the MV Magdeburg in the Thames, mercury in children’s vaccines and the Lakenheath nuclear bomber crash.
I expected a slow handclap finish. What I got was an incredibly enthusiastic Q&A session and strong, genuine applause. By the end of it, I had sold 13 books. I also received one of best bits of feedback ever. A rather stern, matronly figure came up to me as I was leaving and said: “I shall never buy the Daily Mail again.”
One less Daily Mail reader. I consider that some kind of victory for the ropey Southwell stand-up routine.
Lacking slides, I did the most gentle preamble possible on how things are spun and why. Then I moved onto a short how and why the media fails us riff before taking them through a few old favourites. These included the Daily Mail giving support for the Nazi regime, the CIA sinking the MV Magdeburg in the Thames, mercury in children’s vaccines and the Lakenheath nuclear bomber crash.
I expected a slow handclap finish. What I got was an incredibly enthusiastic Q&A session and strong, genuine applause. By the end of it, I had sold 13 books. I also received one of best bits of feedback ever. A rather stern, matronly figure came up to me as I was leaving and said: “I shall never buy the Daily Mail again.”
One less Daily Mail reader. I consider that some kind of victory for the ropey Southwell stand-up routine.
Running Away To Berlin With Brian Eno
I have had a lot of comments on my intention to not write a book like Secrets & Lies/Conspiracy Theories/Global Gangland again. An awful lot. Please do not be too annoyed if I did not allow your comment to go up. It is just that I am not too keen on anonymous comments and after the umpteenth ‘I love your books’, I was beginning to feel distinctly uncomfortable with the praise.
Given the level of interest, I probably should try to clarify some aspects of the last entry to this blog. Firstly, I am unfortunately not running away to Berlin with Brian Eno. If Brian cared to ask me to flee the country with him, I would of course consider it. However, Mr. Strategies of Randomness has not been that random.
I am also not doing Bowie levels of cocaine. I do not think anyone is doing Bowie levels of cocaine anymore. Those who know me well, know how I feel about cocaine. Aside from one specific circumstance, in my mind there is never a good reason for taking the most pointless and damaging drug around. I am not being puritanical. My belief that long-term, overuse of coke tends to make even the best people toxic-fuckwits does not get in the way of my libertarian approach to drug policy. I am not even playing the ethical coke card (because if you are going to use coke, it should at least be Fair Trade coke). I am just saying none of how I feel about anything is ever cocaine related.
Some of why I may not write a book like Secrets & Lies/Conspiracy Theories/Global Gangland again is drug related. However, the drug is ibogaine, not cocaine. One of the upshots of my chat with Mr. C the other night was that if I am ever going to write The Wonder Drug, it has to be soon. (Another upshot was that I really do have to sort out the agent situation, but that is a rant for another day). If I could find a publisher for the book, it would be different to anything I have done before. Whilst it would feature Nazi scientists, African religions, CIA skulduggery, Philip K. Dick and many other regulars from my usual patrols of the underground, nothing I have ever written has culminated with me having to travel to Africa to undertake a 36-hour psychedelic trip.
Other projects I am considering at the moment also feature usual Southwell leif-motives and are aligned to my work in parapolitics. If you have read my books, can you imagine me doing a Bill Hicks script without conspiracy theories? A Sapphire & Steel pitch without some variant of VALIS? I am not disavowing my research and lifelong interests, I am merely seriously minded to stop producing books along the direct lines of Secrets & Lies/Conspiracy Theories/Global Gangland. I love Bowie, but even I would have become sick of him if he had made a career out of repeating the Ziggy Stardust & The Spiders From Mars sound every album. I may even have got bored if he had stayed forever in Berlin with Mr. Eno and every record sounded like Low.
I am not giving up writing. I made that mistake once before. I take responsibility for that choice, but never again. Not writing diminishes me. Words are an important part of my life. Death threats from gangsters will not stop me writing. Warnings from the CIA will not stop me writing. Scotland Yard threatening me with prosecution for perverting the course of justice will not stop me writing. Whatever else I may do in the future, I will write. Probably just not Secrets & Lies 2.
Given the level of interest, I probably should try to clarify some aspects of the last entry to this blog. Firstly, I am unfortunately not running away to Berlin with Brian Eno. If Brian cared to ask me to flee the country with him, I would of course consider it. However, Mr. Strategies of Randomness has not been that random.
I am also not doing Bowie levels of cocaine. I do not think anyone is doing Bowie levels of cocaine anymore. Those who know me well, know how I feel about cocaine. Aside from one specific circumstance, in my mind there is never a good reason for taking the most pointless and damaging drug around. I am not being puritanical. My belief that long-term, overuse of coke tends to make even the best people toxic-fuckwits does not get in the way of my libertarian approach to drug policy. I am not even playing the ethical coke card (because if you are going to use coke, it should at least be Fair Trade coke). I am just saying none of how I feel about anything is ever cocaine related.
Some of why I may not write a book like Secrets & Lies/Conspiracy Theories/Global Gangland again is drug related. However, the drug is ibogaine, not cocaine. One of the upshots of my chat with Mr. C the other night was that if I am ever going to write The Wonder Drug, it has to be soon. (Another upshot was that I really do have to sort out the agent situation, but that is a rant for another day). If I could find a publisher for the book, it would be different to anything I have done before. Whilst it would feature Nazi scientists, African religions, CIA skulduggery, Philip K. Dick and many other regulars from my usual patrols of the underground, nothing I have ever written has culminated with me having to travel to Africa to undertake a 36-hour psychedelic trip.
Other projects I am considering at the moment also feature usual Southwell leif-motives and are aligned to my work in parapolitics. If you have read my books, can you imagine me doing a Bill Hicks script without conspiracy theories? A Sapphire & Steel pitch without some variant of VALIS? I am not disavowing my research and lifelong interests, I am merely seriously minded to stop producing books along the direct lines of Secrets & Lies/Conspiracy Theories/Global Gangland. I love Bowie, but even I would have become sick of him if he had made a career out of repeating the Ziggy Stardust & The Spiders From Mars sound every album. I may even have got bored if he had stayed forever in Berlin with Mr. Eno and every record sounded like Low.
I am not giving up writing. I made that mistake once before. I take responsibility for that choice, but never again. Not writing diminishes me. Words are an important part of my life. Death threats from gangsters will not stop me writing. Warnings from the CIA will not stop me writing. Scotland Yard threatening me with prosecution for perverting the course of justice will not stop me writing. Whatever else I may do in the future, I will write. Probably just not Secrets & Lies 2.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
David Bowie Reinvention Riff
I had a curry with Mr. C last night. It was the first time I had seen him in five months. We talked all the usual author things – re-writes, good editors, lousy art directors and terrible covers. We talked all the usual weird stuff, but in a much more muted way than ever before. He noticed my spirits were raised and I believe he might have even understood what I was getting at in my David Bowie reinvention riff. However, there was a bit of boggling when I said I am seriously minded to give up writing anything like Secrets & Lies/Conspiracy Theories/Global Gangland ever again.
Throwing Electroboy Shapes
This strange new universe is a happier place. This explains why I found myself throwing Electroboy shapes to the Ruined By Justice mix of Franz Ferdinand’s Fallen at one point today (a scary and embarrassing sight which no one will ever see). It also accounts for having got through the rewrites without screaming. Yes, there have been quite a few ‘Grrs’, but no massive swear-fests.
Swearing would have been justified. Some of the copy editor’s queries have been ridiculous. I am also heartily sick of reading her oft-repeated comment ‘According to my source’. I am sorry, but looking something up on Wiki does not make you an instant expert on the Qing Dynasty or James Jesus Angleton. Wiki does not qualify as a ‘source’ in the way I and any other journalist would like the word to be used. I am also sick of typing the following three responses:
There is no definitive year. It would be wrong to name one. Due to the shadowy nature of much crime, sometimes the historical paper trail is not as good as we would wish.
Although this is a history book, too many dates per entry are going to be difficult for the reader to take in and disrupt the narrative flow.
Trust me, aside from him being dead and not being in a position to sue, this is just fair comment and reportage that no-one is ever going to take action over.
Aside from any rewrites the lawyers may require, the main text of the book is now finished. I have managed to update it to take account of the capture of Provenzano and the Bandidos shooting in Ontario. If nothing else, this gives it a nice cutting edge feel despite Global Gangland’s mainly historical bent. I am also pleased to say that the book still has a lot of my touches in it. It does have a strong anti-poverty message. It is broadly libertarian. There are obscure comic book references. It is the only organized crime book mentioning the Tonton Macoute. It still includes Charlie Richardson’s amazing anti-Thatcher quote. Also, like every other decent book I have written, it features appearances by the CIA, Robert F. Kennedy and the Black Panthers.
Swearing would have been justified. Some of the copy editor’s queries have been ridiculous. I am also heartily sick of reading her oft-repeated comment ‘According to my source’. I am sorry, but looking something up on Wiki does not make you an instant expert on the Qing Dynasty or James Jesus Angleton. Wiki does not qualify as a ‘source’ in the way I and any other journalist would like the word to be used. I am also sick of typing the following three responses:
There is no definitive year. It would be wrong to name one. Due to the shadowy nature of much crime, sometimes the historical paper trail is not as good as we would wish.
Although this is a history book, too many dates per entry are going to be difficult for the reader to take in and disrupt the narrative flow.
Trust me, aside from him being dead and not being in a position to sue, this is just fair comment and reportage that no-one is ever going to take action over.
Aside from any rewrites the lawyers may require, the main text of the book is now finished. I have managed to update it to take account of the capture of Provenzano and the Bandidos shooting in Ontario. If nothing else, this gives it a nice cutting edge feel despite Global Gangland’s mainly historical bent. I am also pleased to say that the book still has a lot of my touches in it. It does have a strong anti-poverty message. It is broadly libertarian. There are obscure comic book references. It is the only organized crime book mentioning the Tonton Macoute. It still includes Charlie Richardson’s amazing anti-Thatcher quote. Also, like every other decent book I have written, it features appearances by the CIA, Robert F. Kennedy and the Black Panthers.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Far Too Plinky-Plink
It is impossible to write about crime to a soundtrack of sixties pseudo-jazz. It is far too plinky-plink. There is a lot you can do to a background of Michel Legrand and Lalo Schifrin, but writing about the Mafia is not one of them. (The sweeping, piano descents in Legrand’s The Crowning Touch are unsettling enough, but you cannot listen to the same three minutes of music for hours and hours unless you also take the type of drugs no one can write good material on).
Therefore, I was pleased today when the postman brought more free stuff from Amazon. Amongst other things, the package contained two new soundtrack CDs for rewriting the last 50,000 words. The problem is I’m not sure Delia Derbyshire pieces such as Greek Concrete and Gothic Submarines are going to be much better than plinky-plonk for tackling the Triads.
This means the rewrites all rest on Requiem For A Dream. I never saw the film the soundtrack is taken from, but Clint Mansell’s score is amazing. It is like a party in a swank hotel given by the Kronos Quartet being raided by a bunch of Czech stormtroopers cloned from genetic material donated by Trent Reznor with added bits of conga. If I cannot write about the 14K and Kostya Mogila to something as insane as that, I really am in trouble.
Therefore, I was pleased today when the postman brought more free stuff from Amazon. Amongst other things, the package contained two new soundtrack CDs for rewriting the last 50,000 words. The problem is I’m not sure Delia Derbyshire pieces such as Greek Concrete and Gothic Submarines are going to be much better than plinky-plonk for tackling the Triads.
This means the rewrites all rest on Requiem For A Dream. I never saw the film the soundtrack is taken from, but Clint Mansell’s score is amazing. It is like a party in a swank hotel given by the Kronos Quartet being raided by a bunch of Czech stormtroopers cloned from genetic material donated by Trent Reznor with added bits of conga. If I cannot write about the 14K and Kostya Mogila to something as insane as that, I really am in trouble.
Friday, April 14, 2006
New Favourite Sofa
I have a new favourite sofa. Once, my favourite sofa was the one in Storm’s writing room. It was wide, comfy and falling asleep on it meant the company of cats and plenty of reading material would soften waking up with a hangover. The sofa that previously held the fondest position in my heart was the fabled Most Comfy Sofa In The West. Located in London, Ontario, I doubt there has ever been a better sofa for drinking coffee and reading comics on. It has always been in the back of my mind as a mythic place of refuge, somewhere I could retreat to if my world fell apart and I had to get the hell out of Dodge.
However, the other two have been firmly supplanted from the ‘favourite sofa’ title by a green affair in Little Venice. I have discovered it has amazing powers to bestow a good few hours sleep and also prevent hangovers. Aside from other special reasons for it being my new favourite sofa in the world, it allows me to wake up to a fantastic view, the sound of geese and the prospect of a smile that makes the world a better place. If those are not reasons for sofa love, I do not know what are.
However, the other two have been firmly supplanted from the ‘favourite sofa’ title by a green affair in Little Venice. I have discovered it has amazing powers to bestow a good few hours sleep and also prevent hangovers. Aside from other special reasons for it being my new favourite sofa in the world, it allows me to wake up to a fantastic view, the sound of geese and the prospect of a smile that makes the world a better place. If those are not reasons for sofa love, I do not know what are.
Odd, Wonderful and Surprising
The Artic Monkeys sing: ‘Anticipation has a habit to set you up for disappointment in evening entertainment…’ Which was why I tried to not anticipate having a great time last night. But I did have a great time.
The play – My Name Is Rachel Corrie – was good (though to explain why would probably involve another diversion into how I can be anti-Israeli government policy without being anti-Zionist or anti-Semitic). It was not exactly comfort theatre and it brought up a lot old fear and nightmares.
However, it was not to drown flashbacks that a retreat to the Wolf Parlour at the Coal Hole was made. It was wine to fight the weirdness. Two hours and two bottles of Merlot later, the weirdness was submerged beneath the task in hand – trying to break into Embankment Gardens with the rest of another bottle of red and two stolen glasses.
I could never have anticipated anything as odd, wonderful and surprising as last night. Never. Even if I could, the reality would not have been in any way a disappointment.
The play – My Name Is Rachel Corrie – was good (though to explain why would probably involve another diversion into how I can be anti-Israeli government policy without being anti-Zionist or anti-Semitic). It was not exactly comfort theatre and it brought up a lot old fear and nightmares.
However, it was not to drown flashbacks that a retreat to the Wolf Parlour at the Coal Hole was made. It was wine to fight the weirdness. Two hours and two bottles of Merlot later, the weirdness was submerged beneath the task in hand – trying to break into Embankment Gardens with the rest of another bottle of red and two stolen glasses.
I could never have anticipated anything as odd, wonderful and surprising as last night. Never. Even if I could, the reality would not have been in any way a disappointment.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Like A Nervous Teenager
As I am no longer an ‘international man of mystery’ in my private life, I suspect that this blog is only place where being cryptic is going to be one of my more annoying personality traits. Given this, I apologise in advance if some of my future entries seem a little enigmatic. I am not really going to be able to explain why I am both excited and terrified by tomorrow night. As a reader you are just going to have to trust me when I say I bizarrely feel like a nervous teenager.
Steady stream of great emails from Stephen during the day. He is back from his American Odyssey with a piece of writing that reads like a loved-up Hunter S. Thompson re-imagined as the ultimate English magician abroad. Timothy Leary’s dining table, grits, champagne excess and hoodoo to touch the spirit soar are all featured. It will be a crying shame if he does not publish some version of this. It is beautiful, funny, insightful and intoxicating.
Steady stream of great emails from Stephen during the day. He is back from his American Odyssey with a piece of writing that reads like a loved-up Hunter S. Thompson re-imagined as the ultimate English magician abroad. Timothy Leary’s dining table, grits, champagne excess and hoodoo to touch the spirit soar are all featured. It will be a crying shame if he does not publish some version of this. It is beautiful, funny, insightful and intoxicating.
Friday, April 07, 2006
I am Smiling
I think it was Tony Benn who said that the best diaries have immediacy and intimacy (though those might be sentiments of Alan Clarke, which makes this the only time I have never been able to differentiate between them). However, when those two elements are applied to this journal, I often just mean end up sounding like a total grump. So, for the record., right now, I am smiling. My Nanna is 97 tomorrow. Arsenal are in the semi-finals. Surreal Girl has sent me texts from Malta reporting on feral cats and hotel hygiene. I am still in pleasant shock from Monday night. Yes, I am smiling.
Medical Pinball
Another day where it feels like I am trapped behind the glass of a game of medical pinball. Dr. Tan thinks my recent increase in pain may be due to some blood that has got into one of my lungs. To check his theory, I had to go to hospital for x-rays to see if there were any suspicious shadows on my right lung. As Michael Caine once said: “Shadows? On my lungs?… Oh God in heaven help me!” (Alfie, 1966, for those who are classic English movie deficient).
After a couple of empty hours in x-ray, I managed to escape back home. I hope to find out on Tuesday whether I have shadows and therefore need to have a needle inserted into me to drain blood or I am just going to be subjected to more guesses and tests. My frustration levels are not good today. I am so sick of being sick.
After a couple of empty hours in x-ray, I managed to escape back home. I hope to find out on Tuesday whether I have shadows and therefore need to have a needle inserted into me to drain blood or I am just going to be subjected to more guesses and tests. My frustration levels are not good today. I am so sick of being sick.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
I am a Bear of Little Brains
I am in a daze. A pleasant, slightly woozy and spirit-raising feeling totally related to a potential, amazing slice of happiness that I am almost half-convinced I must have dreamt discovering last night. There is also a huge surge of relief flooding through my system now the turmoil and weirdness of late is out in the open.
Aside walking in the woods and recovering from last night’s shock, (only a jolt of total astonishment because I am a bear of little brains) today has mainly been spent catching up on emails. From Croatian rappers to irate picture editors, from authors I have not seen in months to former members of the KGB and Doctor Who fans, I am now up to date on my electronic correspondence. I have even managed to glue in some arrangements for coming up to town on Thursday. Tomorrow I tackle the post office backlog; there are books to Eire, Croatia and Switzerland to get out. This is a conscious deck clearing exercise as I know that in a few days time I will be locked down in the horrible job of rewrites for the last 50,000 words of Organized Crime.
Aside walking in the woods and recovering from last night’s shock, (only a jolt of total astonishment because I am a bear of little brains) today has mainly been spent catching up on emails. From Croatian rappers to irate picture editors, from authors I have not seen in months to former members of the KGB and Doctor Who fans, I am now up to date on my electronic correspondence. I have even managed to glue in some arrangements for coming up to town on Thursday. Tomorrow I tackle the post office backlog; there are books to Eire, Croatia and Switzerland to get out. This is a conscious deck clearing exercise as I know that in a few days time I will be locked down in the horrible job of rewrites for the last 50,000 words of Organized Crime.
Monday, April 03, 2006
Blog Crisis Point
I am having something of a blog crisis point. I know from comments that this blog now has a few readers. This is a good thing. As a writer I live to communicate. However, knowing that you are not typing in a vacuum has implications. Audience brings responsibility. Audience stops writing being a form of self-indulgent masturbation.
Some readers want more politics. Some strange people want more angst. One emailer even said: ‘Can you go back to slashing your wrists in public rather than film reviews.’ I am aware that some readers are people who know me personally and use English Dreaming, English Rain as a check on how I am doing. That fact has become the heart of my blogger crisis.
This blog has never been about anything other than being a fragmentary reflection of some of what is happening in my life and my head. If as a reader you don’t like the bizarre veering between angst, politics and my enduring love of geek culture, there are a million other online journals to follow. You are responsible for what you read; I am responsible for what I write.
My only guiding rules when starting this blog was to be totally honest and to do no harm to those I care about. The crisis has arisen because there is now so much self-censorship happening to ensure that second rule is fulfilled, when I write, I no longer feel I am being totally honest. When I am studiously avoiding making entries on certain days because I feel I cannot say exactly what is preoccupying my thoughts and feelings most at the time, something is wrong. It may be time for this to stop.
Some readers want more politics. Some strange people want more angst. One emailer even said: ‘Can you go back to slashing your wrists in public rather than film reviews.’ I am aware that some readers are people who know me personally and use English Dreaming, English Rain as a check on how I am doing. That fact has become the heart of my blogger crisis.
This blog has never been about anything other than being a fragmentary reflection of some of what is happening in my life and my head. If as a reader you don’t like the bizarre veering between angst, politics and my enduring love of geek culture, there are a million other online journals to follow. You are responsible for what you read; I am responsible for what I write.
My only guiding rules when starting this blog was to be totally honest and to do no harm to those I care about. The crisis has arisen because there is now so much self-censorship happening to ensure that second rule is fulfilled, when I write, I no longer feel I am being totally honest. When I am studiously avoiding making entries on certain days because I feel I cannot say exactly what is preoccupying my thoughts and feelings most at the time, something is wrong. It may be time for this to stop.
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