Breaking news, everyone! I'm delighted to say that the first three Jack books will shortly be available as e-books from Severn House. They're part of the Severn Select list and will be listed on Amazon soon.
By the way, have a look at http://www.hogwartsprofessor.com/
as a follow up to the Harry Potter and Mystery Fiction podcast - I just like being mentioned in the same sentence as JK Rowling!
Friday, June 29, 2012
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Harry Potter, Agatha Christie...and me
Sometimes you just find yourself doing something completely different! I was absolutely delighted when I was asked to be the expert speaker (!) on a podcast broadcast by the massive Harry Potter fansite, Mugglenet, about the links between Harry and classic detective fiction, as exemplified by the works of Agatha Christie, Dorothy L Sayers and the like. It was co-hosted by two very big names in the Potter fan world, Keith Hawks, who runs Mugglenet and John Granger, who’s written a great series of books about the literary and philosophical influences in the Potter books. John (bless him!) is also that rare and discerning creature, a lover of Jack and his adventures. So, get your literary magnifying glasses out, pick up your deerstalker and magic wand and join us all for what turned out to be a fascinating literary discussion!I had a great time and the podcast comes over really well. Here it is
http://www.mugglenet.com/app/news/show/5795
and you can also listen on itunes. Go on to the “Podcast” section of itunes and put Harry Potter or Mugglenet Academia into the search bar.
Saturday, June 16, 2012
Supersize Viands
I watched a fascinating programme in the week about why we’ve all become fat. At his point, I’m tempted to say, along with Winnie The Poo, “How long does getting thin take?”
Apparently it’s all the fault of sugar and corn syrup not, as was once thought, fat. I mean, I don’t suppose fat makes you thin, but you know what I mean. According to The Prog, an American dietician visited Britain in the 1950’s, watched us all whaling into the fish and chips (there were black and white grainy pictures of happy Brits doing just that) drew back in fastidious horror and promptly went home and started a crusade against fat. Not that, as far as I could see, the fish and chip lovers were fat, but hey, why let the facts get in the way of a good theory? That prompted a whole range of low-fat foods which, of course, tasted naff. They tasted better, everyone worked out, if they were sweeter...
Mind you, reading the menus of days gone by, it’s astonishing that we’re not all built like greyhounds in comparison. Here’s the Victorians at breakfast in an excerpt from “The Servants’ Guide and Family Manual”.
“A fine damask tablecloth is laid over a baize or cloth cover; a plate. two small knives and two small forks are placed for each person, the serviette is folded mitre shape and stands on the plate, small glass cream-jugs and sugar basins for the use of two persons are placed the length of the table.”
In case you should get carried away and start whipping out the teapot, The Servants’ Guide and Family Manual carries a stern warning.
“Urn or teapot stands worked in beads or Berlin wool (I wonder what that was?) are bad style on a breakfast table.”
So no beading at breakfast. “The stands should be of silver, electro-plate or china”
Yes, but where’s the grub? We still haven’t got to the nub or crux of the matter, as The Servants’ Guide continues, “The sideboard is covered with a cloth, rows of knives, forks and tablespoons, one or two dozen(!) plates are placed upon it, also the cold viands...”
Thank heavens for that! Grub’s up, everyone.
The “Cold viands” are “tongue, ham, game-pies, potted meat and the like; the hot viands” (I’m going to try and bring the word “viands” into ordinary conversation and see if anyone has a clue what I’m on about) “should be placed on a side table.” The H.V.’s are: “eggs and bacon, dressed fish, kidneys, cutlets, boiled chicken, savoury omelettes and roast partridges. These things are served in silver dishes with hot water or a spirit lamp underneath.”
After a blow-out of that size, it’s quite a relief to see that lunch is described as, “an inconsequential meal” and as “a slight repast”. Still, there’s always dinner to look forward to...
Supersize viands, anyone?
Apparently it’s all the fault of sugar and corn syrup not, as was once thought, fat. I mean, I don’t suppose fat makes you thin, but you know what I mean. According to The Prog, an American dietician visited Britain in the 1950’s, watched us all whaling into the fish and chips (there were black and white grainy pictures of happy Brits doing just that) drew back in fastidious horror and promptly went home and started a crusade against fat. Not that, as far as I could see, the fish and chip lovers were fat, but hey, why let the facts get in the way of a good theory? That prompted a whole range of low-fat foods which, of course, tasted naff. They tasted better, everyone worked out, if they were sweeter...
Mind you, reading the menus of days gone by, it’s astonishing that we’re not all built like greyhounds in comparison. Here’s the Victorians at breakfast in an excerpt from “The Servants’ Guide and Family Manual”.
“A fine damask tablecloth is laid over a baize or cloth cover; a plate. two small knives and two small forks are placed for each person, the serviette is folded mitre shape and stands on the plate, small glass cream-jugs and sugar basins for the use of two persons are placed the length of the table.”
In case you should get carried away and start whipping out the teapot, The Servants’ Guide and Family Manual carries a stern warning.
“Urn or teapot stands worked in beads or Berlin wool (I wonder what that was?) are bad style on a breakfast table.”
So no beading at breakfast. “The stands should be of silver, electro-plate or china”
Yes, but where’s the grub? We still haven’t got to the nub or crux of the matter, as The Servants’ Guide continues, “The sideboard is covered with a cloth, rows of knives, forks and tablespoons, one or two dozen(!) plates are placed upon it, also the cold viands...”
Thank heavens for that! Grub’s up, everyone.
The “Cold viands” are “tongue, ham, game-pies, potted meat and the like; the hot viands” (I’m going to try and bring the word “viands” into ordinary conversation and see if anyone has a clue what I’m on about) “should be placed on a side table.” The H.V.’s are: “eggs and bacon, dressed fish, kidneys, cutlets, boiled chicken, savoury omelettes and roast partridges. These things are served in silver dishes with hot water or a spirit lamp underneath.”
After a blow-out of that size, it’s quite a relief to see that lunch is described as, “an inconsequential meal” and as “a slight repast”. Still, there’s always dinner to look forward to...
Supersize viands, anyone?
Saturday, June 9, 2012
Jolly Jubilee
So where were you for the Jubilee, then? If you made it to London, congratulations. The cameras lingered so lovingly over so many wet people at the water pageant, it was difficult at times to see who was on the river and who was in it. I think my favourite moment of all was when the choir passed by on the final boat, all singing their hearts out lustily. I’ve never seen any group look so drenched.
All in all, I was quite glad to be home and watching it on the telly, but it did mean enduring the BBC’s mind-numbing commentary where the biggest collection of Z list celebrities in the world fell over themselves to tell us a) it was raining b) it was the Jubilee. Errr... we’d sort of gathered that.
The concert was, as all these things are, odd, none odder perhaps than Grace Jones hula-hooping through her song (don’t ask me what she sang: I was waiting for the hoop to drop.) All came good though, with Rolf Harris leading the crowd in most of Two Little Boys and whoever thought of having Madness on the roof was inspired.
I don’t know how the commentary on this Jubilee matched up with the previous one, because we were there ten years ago, and it still ranks as one of my happiest memories. London became a big party town. Cars and buses were banned from the centre and pedestrians rambled happily everywhere. Perhaps the abiding memory is of being part of the gigantic crowd in the Mall. We made it up to Queen Victoria’s statue where big screens helpfully had the words of songs such as Rule Britannia and Land of Hope and Glory displayed. The crowd were amazing. No pushing or shoving, just thousands and thousands of happy people all there to cheer and wave. Wonderful.
All in all, I was quite glad to be home and watching it on the telly, but it did mean enduring the BBC’s mind-numbing commentary where the biggest collection of Z list celebrities in the world fell over themselves to tell us a) it was raining b) it was the Jubilee. Errr... we’d sort of gathered that.
The concert was, as all these things are, odd, none odder perhaps than Grace Jones hula-hooping through her song (don’t ask me what she sang: I was waiting for the hoop to drop.) All came good though, with Rolf Harris leading the crowd in most of Two Little Boys and whoever thought of having Madness on the roof was inspired.
I don’t know how the commentary on this Jubilee matched up with the previous one, because we were there ten years ago, and it still ranks as one of my happiest memories. London became a big party town. Cars and buses were banned from the centre and pedestrians rambled happily everywhere. Perhaps the abiding memory is of being part of the gigantic crowd in the Mall. We made it up to Queen Victoria’s statue where big screens helpfully had the words of songs such as Rule Britannia and Land of Hope and Glory displayed. The crowd were amazing. No pushing or shoving, just thousands and thousands of happy people all there to cheer and wave. Wonderful.
Sunday, June 3, 2012
Crimefest
Here’s a merry crew at Crimefest. Reading from left to right, there’s Kate Ellis, John Curran, Yours Truly and Jane Finnis, brilliant writers one and all. We, in keeping with the occasion were shouting out names of poisons instead of the customary “Cheese”. I think this is the cyanide photo, so to speak.
I was on a panel with both John and Kate. I thought it had gone well but, I must admit, I had no idea of how well until I was nabbed in the hallway by a small Korean lady. When I say small, I mean really small. At four foot something, she came up to about chest height, grabbed my elbow, which was about as far as she could reach, and fastened me with the sort of glare the Ancient Mariner was wont to bestow on his interlocutors.
“You amazing!” she barked, fixing me with a steely glare. “You extraordinary!”
Well, you know, it’s always nice when someone gets to the heart of the matter like that: it showed, I thought, remarkable perception, but people don’t usually get it straight off the bat. I was amazed at her perspicacity.
Fortunately, Rebecca Jenkins was with me. It’s useful to have a witness in cases like this to attest to the unsullied truth of the tale. Becca’s face showed nothing but smiling agreement, although I could’ve sworn I heard a cracking sound as one of her ribs went with suppressed laughter. Becca, who is of average height, bowed slightly, smiling as I say. The Korean lady stepped back and bowed in return. It was so obviously expected good manners, I bowed as well, the Korean lady bowed, Becca bowed back, etc, etc, so the rest of the conversation, if you can call it that, had the three of us beaming and bobbing at each other like mechanical toys.
The Korean lady broke off and hurled herself at me again. “You write magnificent!” she declaimed. “You have great gift! You write extraordinary!”
Well, this was even better. “Have you read any of my books?” I asked hopefully.
The Korean lady looked mildly affronted. “No! I not read.”
Ah well, you can’t have everything.
“You write! You have extraordinary eyes! I see soul in your eyes! You write with soul.”
There was quite a lot more about my soul, with which she seemed to have more than a passing acquaintance (it was “great” and “extraordinary” – there’s that word again) and, summing up, a totally bonza soul and just like mother makes. Oh, and it’s in my eyes. That point was more than adequately covered.
“Do you,” I asked, hoping to steer the talk away from my soul, “write?”
“I write masterpiece!”
There’s nothing like self belief, is there? We heard quite a bit more about the masterpiece before, with a final compliment about my extraordinary eyes and soul, she hurtled off as if she was worried about being caught discussing souls in public.
“Well,” said Becca, which seemed to sum the whole thing up.
She then, as we wended our way to the dinner, said the whole thing reminded her of when, as the Archbishop’s secretary, she opened the door to a rigid-looking man on the doorstep.
“Hello!” he said. “I am from Liverpool. I am God.”
“Oh dear,” said Rebecca, a little lost for words. “How very complicated for you.”
That sort of incident seemed to sum up Crimefest. Weird, wacky, lots of good friends, some brilliant conversations (not all about my soul, thank goodness) and a host of new memories to bring back.
It was terrific to listen to the great Frederick Forsyth, prince of thriller writers, recount his early life and a genuine privilege to hear PD James who, at 92, is still as sharp and articulate as ever. Great to finally put some faces to names, such as Carol Giles and so pleasant catching up with John Curran, Lesley Horton, Len (L.C.) Tyler, Sally Spedding, Jennifer Palmer, Kate Ellis (who betrayed her Manchester origins by wondering if she needed a cardi to go outside in eighty-degree heat) and old mates such as Jane Finnis. Add to that Edwin Buckhalter, Severn House publisher and all-round nice bloke, a cracking hotel and an excellent programme, Crimefest was a blast.
Here’s a merry crew at Crimefest. Reading from left to right, there’s Kate Ellis, John Curran, Yours Truly and Jane Finnis, brilliant writers one and all. We, in keeping with the occasion were shouting out names of poisons instead of the customary “Cheese”. I think this is the cyanide photo, so to speak.
I was on a panel with both John and Kate. I thought it had gone well but, I must admit, I had no idea of how well until I was nabbed in the hallway by a small Korean lady. When I say small, I mean really small. At four foot something, she came up to about chest height, grabbed my elbow, which was about as far as she could reach, and fastened me with the sort of glare the Ancient Mariner was wont to bestow on his interlocutors.
“You amazing!” she barked, fixing me with a steely glare. “You extraordinary!”
Well, you know, it’s always nice when someone gets to the heart of the matter like that: it showed, I thought, remarkable perception, but people don’t usually get it straight off the bat. I was amazed at her perspicacity.
Fortunately, Rebecca Jenkins was with me. It’s useful to have a witness in cases like this to attest to the unsullied truth of the tale. Becca’s face showed nothing but smiling agreement, although I could’ve sworn I heard a cracking sound as one of her ribs went with suppressed laughter. Becca, who is of average height, bowed slightly, smiling as I say. The Korean lady stepped back and bowed in return. It was so obviously expected good manners, I bowed as well, the Korean lady bowed, Becca bowed back, etc, etc, so the rest of the conversation, if you can call it that, had the three of us beaming and bobbing at each other like mechanical toys.
The Korean lady broke off and hurled herself at me again. “You write magnificent!” she declaimed. “You have great gift! You write extraordinary!”
Well, this was even better. “Have you read any of my books?” I asked hopefully.
The Korean lady looked mildly affronted. “No! I not read.”
Ah well, you can’t have everything.
“You write! You have extraordinary eyes! I see soul in your eyes! You write with soul.”
There was quite a lot more about my soul, with which she seemed to have more than a passing acquaintance (it was “great” and “extraordinary” – there’s that word again) and, summing up, a totally bonza soul and just like mother makes. Oh, and it’s in my eyes. That point was more than adequately covered.
“Do you,” I asked, hoping to steer the talk away from my soul, “write?”
“I write masterpiece!”
There’s nothing like self belief, is there? We heard quite a bit more about the masterpiece before, with a final compliment about my extraordinary eyes and soul, she hurtled off as if she was worried about being caught discussing souls in public.
“Well,” said Becca, which seemed to sum the whole thing up.
She then, as we wended our way to the dinner, said the whole thing reminded her of when, as the Archbishop’s secretary, she opened the door to a rigid-looking man on the doorstep.
“Hello!” he said. “I am from Liverpool. I am God.”
“Oh dear,” said Rebecca, a little lost for words. “How very complicated for you.”
That sort of incident seemed to sum up Crimefest. Weird, wacky, lots of good friends, some brilliant conversations (not all about my soul, thank goodness) and a host of new memories to bring back.
It was terrific to listen to the great Frederick Forsyth, prince of thriller writers, recount his early life and a genuine privilege to hear PD James who, at 92, is still as sharp and articulate as ever. Great to finally put some faces to names, such as Carol Giles and so pleasant catching up with John Curran, Lesley Horton, Len (L.C.) Tyler, Sally Spedding, Jennifer Palmer, Kate Ellis (who betrayed her Manchester origins by wondering if she needed a cardi to go outside in eighty-degree heat) and old mates such as Jane Finnis. Add to that Edwin Buckhalter, Severn House publisher and all-round nice bloke, a cracking hotel and an excellent programme, Crimefest was a blast.
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