It Always Gets Bloody When The Lawyers Get Involved

Global Gangland is now available to pre-order on Amazon.co.uk* despite the fact that the book is not finished yet. Although the last caption has been written (for those interest in trivial details it was for page 151 and read: The criminal wizard of Oz? – Lennie ‘Mr. Big’ McPherson was front-runner for title of kingpin of the Sydney crime scene and one of those the American Cosa Nostra formed an alliance with) the lawyers are now reading the book.

This is another reason why normal service has been suspended. Legal issues with Global Gangland are set to occupy a lot of time over the coming month. It always gets bloody when the lawyers get involved. Fights in which more than ribs are likely to be broken are fermenting.

*For those who want to gawp at the cover and consider pre-ordering the book from a big corporation rather than getting hold of a signed copy from me, please check out:

http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/1844421775/qid=1149103242/sr=8-9/ref=sr_8_xs_ap_i9_xgl/203-8066987-5781542

Normal Service Has Been Suspended

Although by its nature, this blog is fragmentary, I apologise for the current intermittent transmissions. Normal service has been suspended. There a several reasons for this, not least of which are those fabled ‘technical difficulties’ (if I was not a lo-tec idiot boy, there would probably be a picture of Test Card F or the MANDI-esque, re-mixed vision of Carole Hersee from Life On Mars displayed on this page).

In addition to technical difficulties, there is the little matter of having four badly cracked ribs, being dosed-up to the eyeballs of Dihydrocodeine tartrate and not feeling too grand on Diclofenac Sodium. Mild breathing difficulties, pain, nausea and headaches do not put me in the writing zone.

Four Badly Cracked Ribs and Some Mild Concussion

I do not like going to casualty. Being in A&E always reminds me of either the night Mr. C was slashed and had to hold one of his cheeks onto the bloody mess of his face or the worst time I ended up there after an argument with Anne-Marie. If NHS Direct had not advised me to go, there is no way I would have trundled off to spend an evening surrounded by drunk vagrants, screaming children and those who had clearly sustained injuries whilst out of their heads on too much booze or other substances.

In the end, tonight’s trip to A&E was not too traumatic experience. I was even able to make the waiting aspect bearable by reading the whole of Hour of the Geek despite two hours of constant shouting by a tramp and a barrage of interruptions from an amnesiac named Anthony.

It was also over relatively quickly. I had my chest shaved – given my generous rug this always happens when an ECG is involved – was x-rayed, prodded, poked and sent home as soon as it was established I have four badly cracked ribs and some mild concussion. I now owe the hospital £13.30 for drugs as I had no money on me, but unless I begin to cough blood or pass out through lack of breath, do not need to go back to casualty.

My Death Waits for me on a Polished Wooden Floor

I have had a vision of how I will die in what doubt will come to be seen in suspicious circumstances. I will not bow out whilst on journalistic duties with a bullet in my back in Belgrade. No. My death waits for me on a polished wooden floor.

In the months after I breathe my last, conspirologists will argue it is just not plausible that I died after getting out of bed in an unseemly rush, spectacularly slipping and cracking my head open. On some obscure part of the net, there will be those that claim that I would never be so careless as to die in some bizarre bedclothes wrapped around the ankle accident. They will even put forward endless proof that I never got out of bed at lightning speed in my life.

Others will mutter that it was odd that I died in a part of London that someone very close to the author had already considered ‘too genteel’ for him. At least one conspirologist will point out the accident happened just before a new official statement about the death of Prince Diana was due to be made. Those that try to suggest there was a sexual element to the death or a mystery foreign woman involved will be rightfully derided as the worst type of conspiracy fantasists.

This is the fate of anyone who has written the sort of books I have. You will die from a notably dumb domestic calamity. The conspirologists will take the irritating grit of discrepancy in the stories of those trying to spare your blushes and produce a black pearl of conspiracy. It will be believed, because in the end, no one can credit you are that stupid as to fall and kill yourself on the polished wooden floor of a bedroom.

Churros and Chocolate Sunday Mornings

My weekends lately have become a string of transcendent moments connected by a curve of happiness that keeps on heading upwards. The last three days have been no different. Not even an impressive accident, the disappointment of missing out on nettle tasting or the poor way they now display the Blue Whale at the Natural History Museum could take the shine off my weekend.

It would be boring to read why drinking thick Spanish hot chocolate and eating churros was such a peak experience for me. I am also not sure anyone would want to know why walking in the rain in South Kensington, exploring German kitchenware shops and me cooking a roast dinner on Sunday night currently fills me with such soppiness that I am more than a little irritating.

Anyone who does not understand what is soul-lifting about enjoying a cream tea in the kitchen garden at Kenwood House with a blue Bank Holiday sky above them obviously shares too much genetic material with Oscar the Grouch. However, I am not going to infuriate everyone by publicly parading all of my reasons to be cheerful. I know anything I write about them will sound entirely self-satisfied and reek of contentment.

After certain experiences, I find it hard to trust in happiness. I always expect any brief bursts of delight to be punctuated by a hard fist strike to the face. However, right now I am already looking forward to more churros and chocolate Sunday mornings, more strolling in the rain, more lazy Saturday nights watching Walk The Line and even more laughter and smiles.

Fictionalised Again

I am being fictionalised again. This time as 'Jonathon Hadleigh - the most alarmingly mysterious character you could ever hope to meet.' Whilst this strange person might have had some obscure relationship me once, it is not who I am these days. I hope that the time of people's partners thinking I am 'some bizarre Tyler Durden type alter-ego' is also well and truly over.

Whilst at one level featuring in what will probably be the defining work on English Hoodoo is flattering, it is also mildly disturbing. Glimpsing reflections of yourself in print is like having to watch yourself caught at the most unflattering angles on breakfast TV (again, something that belongs to my former life). As Jonathon Hadleigh is a literary ghost of a long dead past who will be haunting an exceptional book, I do not feel I can really object to his existence. Especially as I find it hard to argue with Stephen's claim that at one point I was: 'a mad fictional Constantine-like character who would turn up in a cloud of magic and then disappear into the night again.'

A Bit Like Jello Biafra Appearing Live On Stage at Cromer

I am quite lucky when it comes to that small group of people who seem to appreciate my work. Alongside the green crayon brigade and those who really do believe I’m a ‘Jewish Freemason wizard’ or a ‘Serbian Anti-Zionist’, there appears to be a handful of readers who not only say nice things about my books, but also want to send me stuff.

Over recent weeks this stuff has ranged from details of royal family nominee accounts to Easter eggs and MANDI-related DVDs. It is wonderfully odd and does occasionally make me feel a bit like Jello Biafra appearing live on stage at Cromer. Today the generosity reached a new pleasant shock level when a package arrived containing three Doctor Who toys. I owe a big thank you to whoever performed this act of anonymous kindness; I just wish that they had decided to give me a name and a way of thanking them more personally.

However, I am going to take steps to make it a lot harder for anyone to send me anything in future. This is not because I do not enjoy a pleasing postal surprise. I love them. I just do not want to be sent any dead fish or other green crayon specials alongside Dalek models and material that would get the sender sacked from a position of trust at Coutts & Co. I will probably have to close down the direct book ordering service and force anyone who wants to send me any sort package to go through my publisher, but as I remain fairly accessible at inside.knowledge@gmail.com* this should not pose too many problems to those not bent on malicious mischief.

*Dan, if you want to discuss those Loose Change videos, email me at this eddress. Same goes for Tomaru if you want sources for the Space Marine Corps or anyone else who has a book related question.

The C-Word

The day after last week’s rant about David Milliband’s links Sovereign Strategy, Blair announced that nuclear power was back on the agenda “with a vengeance.” For those are following Sovereign Strategy and its role in shaping energy policy in Britain, I feel I ought point out that Blair has been to several Sovereign Strategy events. I am not suggesting that there is anything unexpected about him doing this; I am just mentioning it here because aside from Robert Winnett, no one in the mainstream media seems to think this is significant.

The lack of media coverage of the corporate forces helping to drive Blair going nuclear is not in itself a conspiracy. The C-word is a strong one and I do not use it often because nine times out of ten, a combination of cock-up and cover-up is by far the most likely and rational explanation – even for events happening in the shadows.

In this case, I do not think the lack of reporting on the financial power being used to ensure Blair, Milliband and other decision makers take Britain along the route of a new nuclear programme is down to anything other than journalistic realities. These include plain old hack laziness as well as the widespread reduction in specialist reporting staff with sufficient editorial time and support to follow a complex story beyond the pressure of deadlines.

In the average 21st century newsroom environment, the type of research a good conspiracy theorist would need to do to expose links between Blair’s people, Sovereign strategy, the American nuclear companies it is working for and the US Department of Defence is just not viewed as financially viable. I know it is the last thing many conspirologists want to hear, but the reason the truth does not make the news is much of the time really is down to something banal as budgetary constraints.

The Mass Masturbatory Dream of the Hitler Youth

Anything I write about this weekend is bound to sound smug and a little poncey. I did no work of literary importance (some would argue, including me on days of despondency, I never do any work of literary importance). I did no research. I did not even attempt to catch up on a few strands of outstanding business. I did nothing other than have a good time. Judged purely on levels of enjoyment, it was incredibly effective weekend.

In fact, it has been another Saturday and Sunday where the only things that have been less than perfect have been a mildly disappointing choice of wine, having to buy the Independent on Sunday rather than the Observer and the fact it was raining too much today to go walking in Hampstead. I could also add to that the strength of the GBK dip accompanying last night’s chunky chips made me wake up feeling as if a garlic-flavoured rat had died in my mouth, but when you have to stretch to those levels to gripe, you know things are better than good.

Better than good this weekend included watching Doctor Who on Sunday morning whilst munching brioche, eating a Cherry Ripe in bed as it poured down outside and laughing at the car crash of international politics and tackiness that is Eurovision.

Even without getting squiffy or resorting to absinthe, the 51st Eurovision was mildly hallucinatory. It was also relatively in scary in places. Most disturbing was the Norwegian entry, which appeared to be the mass masturbatory dream of the Hitler Youth made corporeal. It also sounded like the sort of pop music that would arise from 50 years of pseudo-Aryan volk-culture in the wake of a Nazi victory in Europe. I voted for the Lithuanian entry on the grounds that being a New Wave pastiche novelty record 25 years too late showed at least showed an engaging sense of irony.

Amelie

After years of people telling me how much ‘I would love it’ and it was my ‘sort of film’, last night I saw Amelie (AKA Le Fabuleux destin d'Amélie Poulain for those who are French or overly poncey) for the first time. After it had been hyped to the gills for five years, finally viewing should have been something of a disappointment.

It was not. It was wow. Amelie instantly made it into my Top 10 all-time movies

J, Cheryl and everyone else were right. I love it. It is my sort of film. It is cinematic perfection. Whilst some of my reasons for not seeing it up until now are good, (I was living with a cultural fascist who felt that Timotie adverts were sexually corrosive at the time of its release in 2001), I so regret not seeing Amelie on the big screen.

I am only posting this entry up – despite the fact it may seem soppy – as a public acknowledgement of everyone else seeing the light years before this slowcoach and as a thank you to Surreal Girl who finally sat me down to watch it. If you have not seen Amelie and there is still part of your blackened, cynical heart that wants to laugh and experience joy, find a couple of hours and make it a priority to catch up on this treat.

Birthdays and Modernism at the V&A

It was Surreal Girl’s birthday today. This involved Tim Tams, reading Guy Browning, sheltering from the weather under trees in the park, the Modernism exhibition at the V&A, walking in South Kensington in the rain and pancakes at My Old Dutch on the Kings Road. Despite the fact we were meant to be celebrating her special day, all of these things in the best of company made it feel like a treat for me. Some might find birthdays and Modernism at the V&A an odd combination, but it works.

Surreal Girl’s review of Modernism 1914-1939 was: “Bitty.” She was spot on and a lot more succinct than I am able to be. There was distinct absence of narrative drive after it abandoned its early Searching for Utopia aspect. Combined with a lack of proper thematic historical context, it did suffer a little from ‘just a collection of objects and pictures ‘ syndrome.

A flaw that maybe only jaded old hacks like myself would be bothered about was its piss-poor coverage of Modernist typography and magazine design. A much bigger problem was that the exhibition failed to come up with a way to do Modernist architecture within the confines of a museum. A few photographs, drawings, models and the odd video do not convey the sense of an individual building or offer give you the feel of whether a housing estate actually worked or not for those who lived in it.

The exhibition also left a lot of questions unanswered. These ranged from the interesting such as Surreal Girl’s poser about the use of glass, to the most vital ones. What about Modernism’s collaboration with totalitarianism? What about its failure to engage with the reality of the working class?

However, Modernism 1914-1939 does have much to recommend it. There are wow moments – the Tatra T-87 saloon that made me understand the impact of Modernism on car design; the fitted kitchen from the Am Höhenblick housing estate and the Volksempfänger and other radios.

The biggest compliment I can pay the exhibition was that leaving it to search out the Great Bed of Ware, I experienced a real culture shock. Going from the 'ornament is excrement' of Modernism to the sensual overload of the rest of the V&A brought home the Year Zero aspects of Modernism like nothing else ever has or possibly could.

All the Young Droogs

Another day working in London. Another day remembering just how insane the Northern Line is during rush hour. Keeping my head down in the naughty corner of a publisher’s office. Feeling tired and grumpy with a sandpaper throat. Clouded by a dull headache that hung around like a cloud of LA pollution. Trying to caption more chapters of the book whilst on a diet of soda and aspirin. This is not the way to produce great art. It is not even the way to produce mediocre art.

Being off form means there are now a lot less obscure punk and Bowie references in the captions for Global Gangland than usual for a Southwell book. I just could not get into the flow. The only effort I was really pleased with was ‘All the young droogs’ for the bosozoku entry.

Behaving Like a Minor Character in Edge of Darkness

Before I launch into a tirade against David Milliband, I should explain the Edge of Darkness reference that will be drawn into it. Whilst I find it impossible to contemplate a universe without Edge of Darkness, (it was a factor in my becoming so interested in parapolitics), I am aware that some people had not only never watched this seminal drama, they have not even heard of it. Anyone falling into that category is a victim of a cultural tragedy equivalent to have never being exposed to Merrie Melodies.

Edge of Darkness is probably the best drama ever produced by the BBC. It is certainly the best conspiracy drama ever produced. I know most conspiracy researchers will be going into toxic shock and shouting: “The Manchurian Candidate,” very loudly at the screen when they read the previous sentence, but there is no contest. Despite the ambiguous trapping of fantasy that could be taken as nothing more than the delusions of a grieving father descending into madness, Edge of Darkness accurately depicts what a real political conspiracy is like. It delivers a better glimpse into how the world of shadows works than any other work of fiction in any other medium ever has. Trust me, it really is that good.

It is also the pinnacle of TV drama excellence. Edge of Darkness has it all. White-hot acting performances from ever cast member. Emotional depth with such a distilled essence of reality it shakes you to watch it. Characters you will never forget (especially the greatest fictional CIA Agent of all time - Darius Jedburgh). The most multi-layered, but resolutely non-poncey script around. Michael Kamen and Eric Clapton’s powerful score. The most disturbing use ever of a Willie Nelson song ever recorded. Humour so sharp it could cut diamonds, (it is impossible to not love anything with the line: “Have you seen Come dancing? Boy, nobody dances like the British. They deserve the Falklands.”) Everything about Edge of Darkness radiates the rare power of perfection.

Despite being made in 1985, the script has not aged. What it has to say about Westminster machinations, MI5 operations, the CIA, radical politics, environmental terrorism, the Knights of Malta, how petty local corruption forms part of bigger webs of deceit, US corporations and private enterprise and a host of other issues is just as relevant and truthful more than 20 years on. Though many believe the end of the cold war redefined all of the issues surrounding the nature of the nuclear state, watching Edge of Darkness pulls rug from under that cosy notion. It forces you to remember that plutonium has always been at the heart of nuclear power and plutonium has always meant political power.

Therefore, when I say David Milliband is behaving like a minor character in Edge of Darkness, this is not a good thing. As the current Secretary of State for Environment, Milliband is going to have a big role in deciding whether a new generation of nuclear power stations gets built. To discover at the weekend that he has been receiving money from Alan Donelly worries me incredibly. Donelly owns Sovereign Strategy, a lobbying company representing US nuclear company Fluor who have a multi-million dollar reason for wanting an expansion in nuclear power. Donelly is also behind the Transatlantic Nuclear Forum (an organisation any aspiring conspiracy theorist should keep an eye on).

I am not suggesting some grand plot where dark forces (one of the original titles floated for Edge of Darkness) have put Milliband into a position of power. I am just commenting when a MP does not declare gifts from the like of Donelly in Common’s register of member’s interests, I get suspicious. It gives the appearance that Milliband is too close to the pro-nuclear lobby to make impartial decisions. Less than a week in the job and he is already too tainted for anyone with any savvy to trust anything he says about one of the most important decisions this current Government will make in the next couple of years.

Of course, despite the revelations about his links to Sovereign Strategy his job is safe. Who needs the conspiracies of the nuclear state when you apathetic response of fourth estate and the arrogance of New Labour?

Life is Good

When the worst things that happen during your weekend is the risotto you make is so-so rather than gorgeous, the latest episode of Doctor Who is just OK rather than brilliant and you have to get out of bed at noon despite already having got milk and Sunday papers earlier, you know life is good.

I applogise for sounding smug, but this weekend was a lot better than good. It was sublime. It contained a visit to the fantastic Borough Market, walking over blue bridges, watching most of the FA Cup Final on my favourite sofa and a host of transcendent moments I am not going to detail here.

My throat aches, I feel a bit rough and I should write an entry on David Milliband who has been behaving like a minor character from Edge of Darkness, but right now, I’m too tired and too happy to do anything other than get some sleep.

Fighting off Dalek Invasions with Sonic Screwdrivers Disguised as Bits of Stick

I read Twist’s blog today. It sheer geekness makes me look normal. I am glad his review of Doctor Who episodes and comics is out there as it saves me from ever being tempted to perform a similar service. I have a few quibbles though. He still owes me a massive ‘You were right’ about Marvel’s overtaking DC in terms of creative quality. He does not make enough of the insane daring of Millar’s Civil War and he is not angry enough about the diet of horseshit we have all been fed with Infinite Crisis. However, if you crave otaku-like analysis from a man of scary talent levels, it is a bit of the web worth searching out.

In England at least, Doctor Who is no longer a pure geek thing. I know this may be hard to believe, but I some real life women watch the show these days. One of the things I have enjoyed most about this new season of the show is that it has been a shared experience. It is no longer a guilty solo pleasure. I have not only watched it with established fanboys like Matt, I have been able to sit on the sofa and enjoy it with the company most ungeeky of companions, glass of wine in one hand, cheese and biscuits in the other.

Most importantly, it is back as a playground game. Another generation fighting off Dalek invasions with sonic screwdrivers disguised as bits of stick. Doctor Who fed my imagination and the imagination of countless other children whilst stretching our minds to get around the paradoxes of time travel and scaring us to bits. Now it is doing it all again. It was genuinely thrilling to see kids running down the road last year shouting out: “Are you my mummy?” By itself, that fact guarantees in 30 years time Doctor Who – in some or the other – will still be around.

Who is in the language, (when even estate agents describe overpriced cramped boxes as TARDIS-like…) it is in the shared cultural continuity and the Doctor himself has become one of those archetypal English heroes who represent the noblest aspirations of the national psyche.

Whilst Doctor Who is as English as toasted muffins and tea on a cold autumn afternoon, it is also universal. This is not down to the concept being able to go anywhere in space, but because at its best it deals with human themes more ageless than any Timelord. None of the three men aged 30-plus who have talked to me about Who over the last couple of weeks have focussed on the geeky sci-fi stuff. They have all independently mentioned being blown away by the emotional content of the episode School Reunion and its killer line: “Some things are worth getting your heartbroken over.”

Years ago, in the era of rubber-suited monsters and Airfix kit special effects, Doctor Who took my young mind on journeys across time and space. In the CGI present, it takes my cynical old heart on a sentiment roller coaster. If that makes me a geek, so be it. Although despite today’s aberration, I am not going to start writing English Dreaming, English Otaku.

Dialogue with my Readers

It is becoming clear that a small band of people regularly read this blog. It is not just writing in the dark. I really do appreciate all comments and feedback. As an author, I love dialogue with my readers. Of course, it is more fun writing thank you notes to those who send me Doctor Who Easter eggs and the like, but I do value and try to react all comments. I even respond to those who write me emails accusing me of being a ‘Jewish Freemason wizard’ or a ‘Nigger loving cock-sucker’. When someone tells me I am the ‘Obvious spawn of a mulatto’ I know I am doing something right.

However, if you want to send me lucid, constructive criticism echoing all the points I have often made to my publisher, want to ask detailed questions on my sources or try confirm whether what you think you have spotted between the lines of my books was intended or not, please just email me rather than leave comments on the blog. The best address: Inside.knowledge@gmail.com.

If you have reasons for wanting to remain anonymous, create a dummy hotmail account like an animal rights terrorist or someone accusing me of being a ‘piece of Serbian anti-Zionist filth’ would.

Practice for the Returning to the Real World

Today for the first time in 15 months I had to catch a commuter train into London. For the first time in 15 months I had to brave to the Circle and Northern lines at rush hour. For the first time in nine years I had to sit in the corner at a publishers and do eight hours of on-screen editing work whilst really annoying women with obvious eating disorders bitched and talked about designer label fashion in grating transatlantic or old family silver accents. I have to repeat the whole experience again next week.

As Surreal Girl said at lunch: ‘It’s probably good practice for returning to the real world.’ Though I will try to engineer it that any ‘real world’ I inhabit will be as free as possible of the sound of Chelsea inflection females bitching about people they know who ‘could never wear Zara Rhodes’.

I also suspect that any future ‘real world’ will not feature the sight of Chris Eubank parking an impossibly big truck on a busy London street and then offering to sign autographs for bewildered passers-by on a regular basis. This is a shame. It was second only to an hour in Hanover Square for putting a smile on my face.

I Woke Up Smiling

I usually hear the intended bleak menace when Brett Anderson sings the line: ‘Every Monday morning comes…’ Not today. This morning I had an amazing Monday wake-up. As today’s copy of the Metro, (complete with complimentary bag of chocolate money), proclaimed: ‘At last, a reason to love Mondays’. I could not have put it better myself.

Pouring London rain, thwarted walking to work plans, Circle Line delays – nothing could stop me beaming. Even today’s latest professional author difficulties have failed to phase me. I woke up smiling and I still am.

Like Bosozoku Doing Roulette-zuku

Tim’s farewell meal. Four books/scripts sold (AI vs. AI, Parasite. The Knowledge and The Prequel). Two book pitches to punt to Piers (1947 and 1977). Much coincidence. Much amusement. It has been a long time since I have walked into a bar with someone and been asked if we are part of the band.

In the TAZ equivalent of Caritas, the first karaoke song was bizarrely Ashes To Ashes, followed by Stuck In The Middle With You, Paint It Black, and finally You Really Got Me. Not sure what Lorne would have made of our auras, but even if it was for one night only, we were on literary fire, riding the synchronicity spiral like bosozoku doing roulette-zuku.

Now, after something like 60 hours awake, I am ready for a deep sleep.

Pure G.K. Chesterton

The reason for Tim being online yesterday is revealed. Once again, the scoundrel is fleeing the country. In 72 hours time he will be in Barcelona before heading out to ‘all points East’. In effect, I think this means he will be living in Budapest or Kiev for the foreseeable future. If the economies of Hungary or Ukraine collapse in the coming months, no doubt he will be a factor behind it.

Luckily, he is deigning me with his presence tonight. Of course this might be less to do with the desire for a proper natter with me before going to ground in Eastern Europe than with needing to lie low or get the hell out of Hook. With my reputation for knee-jerk irony, you can believe I am writing with tongue firmly wedged into cheek, but this is Tim Dedopulos we are talking about. He might make me fiction in his books, yet the man is pure G.K. Chesterton.

This is Nothing

I have now had no sleep for 48 hours. The BBC coverage of the local elections results has not been the best through the night companion given the BNP results. The phrase ‘Far-right surge’ has to be one of the most chilling things you can hear delivered in a Radio 4 accent.

However rough the withdrawal feels, there is nothing to be done other than bite the bullet, breathe in, breathe out. I just have to think of this as nothing difficult. Part of the trick is perspective. After all, if I cannot hack a few days mental and physical discomfort, how will I ever survive 36 psychedelic hours in a Fang temple in Africa?

Another part of the trick is to be empowered by the all the things that inspired me to tackle this now. Draw strength from happy memories; bask in the glow of an already established better future echoing back across time.

I have grocery shopping to do. A session of physiotherapy to enjoy. A meal with a scoundrel to attend. A trip to Dulwich to look forward to. This discomfort is nothing. A mere black iron prison illusion. Bite the bullet, breathe in, breathe out. This is nothing and I am already smiling about how silly it was to so worked up over it.

This is Bone

I knew it was too good to be true. I thought it was unlikely I was going to get away without a bit of cold turkey torment. Three days in and it is hitting hard. Forgive the squaddie speak, but this is bone.

I cannot sleep. I have a constant headache. I am having some pretty uncomfortable spikes of pain. Worst of all, I am emotionally raw and vulnerable. My feelings are drawn tight like the skin of a drum. There is a black dog growl in the air. I constantly feel as if a storm of tears is about to break. I am haunted by all the cruel words spat out and designed to undercut my confidence. They have become viral memes of malice infecting every attempt to be positive. This is so bone.

Geek Corner

I have just listened to Twist do his Geek Corner show on Newstalk 1290. I was shocked. My former co-author is a total bloody meejah hor and shill. Not only was he plugging all the local comic book shops and licking the corporate body of Nintendo, he managed to get in an advert for some strange product called Bruise Plaster ($8.99, available from a store opposite the Brunswick Hotel for anyone who missed the snake oil selling act).

However, I would still recommend his show to anyone with an ounce of geek in them. Where else will you hear sci-fi and superhero news given out in sentences beginning: ‘If you have a life and go out with girls…’ or ‘You will pee for peanuts …’

Down by the Brook with Oranges

Tim Dedopulos has left comments on a couple of my blog entries for April. This is a bugger. It means he was online – a rare occurrence these days – and I missed a chance to talk to him as I was down by the brook with oranges.

For those who do not know of him, Tim Dedopulos is a much-published author, genius, scoundrel and madman. He is also a thief. He has stolen my name and used it to his advantage on several occasions. Aside from his grandest larceny of my identity (which I cannot talk about here for legal reasons), he has twisted my surname by applying it to some of his fiction books most ignoble characters – including slave trading and mad scientist Southwells. I am told that even when he is not directly taking my name in vain, I am still recognisable under the disguise of Japanese malcontent in one of his White Wolf novels.

Given this, much of what Tim says about me must be treated as dubious. When he calls me a ‘bloody good writer’ I am touched, but would urge everyone to not take it seriously. Tim is being over generous in the extreme. As he helped me to get my first book published, he really should know better.

A Bit Major Tom

I think I am starting to feel a bit Major Tom. I could not sleep at all last night. This by itself might explain this morning’s crankiness and lethargy. It also might be behind today’s filthy, evil lager style headache even though I have not had anything alcoholic to drink since Saturday night. However, I suspect some of the other things echoing in my skull are the first glimpses of withdrawal problems. Of course, it might just be me being more of a moody idiot than usual.

An Agent of the Free

Today started out as one of those days where everyone seems to call, write, email, gmail talk and everything else all at the same time. By 9am I had exchanged emails with Jason in New York and Antoine in France, gmail talked with Kate in Sydney, spoken to Lesley in London, received a letter from Mr. York in Dorset and had a dozen book orders come in from Cumbria, Bristol, France, Switzerland and Canada.

One of the book orders was for Secrets & Lies for someone’s friend. They wanted the inscription: ‘The only non-fiction book you need to read.’ I was a bit unsure about writing that. Even though there is some important material in S&L and it is the best thing I have written, I would never recommend it as someone’s sole non-fiction reading – despite it being somewhat funnier than the Encyclopaedia Britannica.

The person ordering the book from Switzerland wanted it inscribed: ‘Jonas, you are now an agent of the free.’ This provided today’s most amusing synchronicity given one of the songs on heavy rotation at the moment is the Editor’s cover of Orange Crush.

Anyone wanting grim news and a direct-from-the-trenches-report about my drug hell will be sadly disappointed to learn that so far, it is all quiet on that front. I ache more from today’s physiotherapy than I do from withdrawal. I do not trust it staying easy, but right now I am backlash free.

Uphill Speed Record

I make no Zen-like claims for the art of bicycle maintenance, but today it certainly qualified as good displacement activity. Tightening brake cables, pumping tyres, repairing gears and greasing the chain kept my mind away from potential problems this week might see for a couple of hours.

Even better was getting back onto the bike. When I was having bits of me cut out a few months back, one of the things I could not envisage doing again was hurtling down hills, bones rattling and wind screaming in my face. Due to that, heading out tonight to ride the roads with my little ‘Anarchy’ jacket on, James Brown in the ears and twilight dancing around me felt quite emotional. There was some pain, some discomfort, but I still beat my uphill speed record.

Cold Turkey

I am officially off of medication for nerve damage. This is a good thing. Potentially.

It will certainly be a good thing in the long-term, not least because my super sluggish metabolism should start to get back to normal and I might begin to need sleep in a normal fashion again. It also means I might be able to pass the medical to get behind the wheel of a car.

However, in the short term, losing the last few milligrams per day might be something of a rough trip. After prolonged exposure to any drug that impacts on the way brain receives information from the nerves, you have to expect the final cold turkey to be somewhat nasty.

The unpleasantness could range from me just being more of cranky, sullen so-and-so than usual to some bone-deep sweats, paranoia and concentration problems for a few days. As Alex Turner sings: ‘Bring on the backlash…’

Strange New Universe

For the couple of few weeks it has felt as if I am an inhabitant of a strange new universe where the weird and bizarre are as much established principles as gravity and electromagnetism. Even by my relaxed standards of what passes for normal, things have been odd.

I have had periods in my life where I felt as if I was living in a Hong Kong cinema script with all the bad humour, craziness and unlikelihood of God of Gamblers, but this is not one of those times. For a start, it makes me happy.

The weekend was typical of the new universe – moments of weirdness, often bizarre but unashamedly blissful. As this blog is the only place I am cryptic these days, I am not going to go into any detail of what happened. All anyone needs to know is that it gave me some fabulous memories to sustain me through the coming week, I learnt a valuable lesson and had the best fun possible with my clothes on.

Trying To Explain The Specials

I was trying to explain why I cared about The Specials to Surreal Girl the other day. Looking back, they were probably my first exposure English Hoodoo music; Two Tone was a united black and white protest voice against the greying onslaught and polarisation of Thatcherism blighting England. Listening to Ghost Town on Top Of The Pops planted hints that would take years for me to start consciously thinking about.

Talking about The Specials made me really understand just how important they were. At a point in time where it was not just Christian cults, but also the National Front who used to wait outside the school gates preying on the impressionable and handing out leaflets, The Specials mattered. Two Tone mattered. The whole ‘ska revival’ mattered.

With children dancing to Ghost Town at their first school disco, their pop heroes of the moment praising Prince Buster and Neville Staples as important in the band as Terry Hall, the NF were fighting for children’s souls against impossible coolness odds. There is no way you are going to fall for any racist spiel - however seductive - when you are singing along to A Message To You, Rudy.