I remember the very first entry in this blog like it was only a year or so ago.  I was a little perturbed by the prospect of producing a pithy piece of prose on a weekly basis; nevertheless, I made a commitment to do so.  What initiated this faint flicker of uncertainty was the prospect of my ending up with one of the sorriest sites on the entire web.  I am speaking, of course, of The Ghost Blog.

Ghost Blogs haunt the internet as spectral shades of ideas unread and thoughts unwritten. 

Once they were young, fit and eager to launch themselves into the exciting world of free expression; to declaim upon the public platform; to swell the ranks of the citizen journalist.  And for a brief moment, they did.  It wasn’t that difficult, actually; a weekly appointment with their readership, anticipated by both and relished for a time; not all that demanding, was it?

Oh, occasionally, a holiday or some other issue might find the Blog forgotten for a day or so beyond the deadline but before long, they would be back in the saddle, giving voice to thoughts and concepts, the expression of which others might only dream.

But then, inevitably, would come the week when the idea would remain stubbornly unformed and thoughts a little sluggish.  A couple of days, the Blog would imagine, and the muse would visit once more, as she always had, and blow gently on the keys to breathe new life into asthmatic literary lungs.

Except that this time; this one time, she didn’t show.

And slowly, over the weeks, Blogs faltered, faded and died, leaving only the faintest echo of what they once were. Now they remain in dark, unblessed corners of the internet where only the unwary might stumble upon them and stir them into fitful life once again.  No, not life: a thing unlike life but like enough to be grasped by clutching tendrils of thought, desperate to be expressed.  A few feeble words; the odd phrase, may escape before the visitor moves quickly on and the darkness closes over the Blog, once more.

And so they wait.  What sense they have is devoted only to the urge to be noticed: to be read and (dare they even imagine it?), to be posted in!

This is my gift to my own poor, languishing Blog who has waited so long for me to return.  Do I only fancy that a vestige of sprit remains?  Is this a mere guilty token to help assuage my guilt at leaving my own Blog to die?  I don’t think so.  Although I have some valid reasons for abandoning it to the mercies of cyberspace, it would shame me beyond measure were I to attempt to use them to excuse my neglect.  The prospect of such a mortifying experience would render it impossible for me to contemplate allowing such a thing to happen again.

Given a fair wind and a kind hand, the Weblog – to give it its true and proper name- will recover in time; perhaps almost to a stage where this bleak episode may be forgotten.

My latest comedy thriller, "The Rothko Room" will no doubt be another self-published effort and in a bid to drum up some interest amongst my friends throughout the literary world, I have come up with a novel, yet risky idea.  What I have done is compiled a crossword puzzle. In "The Rothko Room", it is established that agents may receive information via crossword puzzles. 

The puzzle I've compiled is what's know as a "Pointer", meaning that it contains information regarding a location.  This particular puzzle is a "Treasure Island Pointer", meaning that is meant for a Cleaner - an assassin.  Read the excerpt below for a bit of context.

On successful completion of the puzzle, people will be directed to website, where they will find information that will enable them to view the first three chapters of the book and be entered into a draw.  The first TEN entries drawn from the list of successful code-breakers will receive a free copy of  "The Rothko Room" e-book - (expected publication date: August 2013: offer ends 31 December 2013.

I've sent the puzzle to the following host: http://crossword.info/arthur/Hebe (just click) with instructions the first ten who complete the puzzle successfully to claim their prize of a free e-book of "The Rothko Room".

If you'd like to have a go (and tell your friends to do the same), check it out. I don't even know if this is legal or if the host site will work properly but I thought it worth a try.


"‘Shepherd?’ It was Stainforth. He peered at Arthur over his glasses. ‘You had a look at the Telegraph crossword this morning?’
‘No. I don’t do it as often as I used to – now that I don’t have to. Why, what’s up?’
‘I think we might have a little Treasure Island going on.’
‘Really?’
Arthur folded the Guardian and picked up the Telegraph. Many years ago, before more sophisticated techniques had evolved, both M.I.6 and the Council would sometimes hide messages in the Times Crossword. There would be certain clues that would be of significance to those who knew what to look out for. Patterns and themes would indicate, for example, who the message might be aimed at or where meetings might take place. All Council Workers had been required to complete the Times Crossword each day.
But as soon as that venal Aussie had taken over, things had altered. Some of the writing became barely literate for a start and even Council employees weren’t paid enough to wade through that. So gradually, the Telegraph had taken over as message-board of choice. As far as he knew, though, the Intelligence Services had stopped messaging this way in the nineteen nineties. Now, according to Stainforth, there appeared to have been a posting.
‘Have a look Shepherd. Could be a co-incidence or I may even, God forbid – have got it wrong. See what you think.’
Arthur took out his pen and folded the paper back on itself. The clue offering the most words was: 25 & 6 Down: ‘Carriage-clock, gone a bit flat?’ (7, 9). Arthur wrote in: “RAILWAY TIMETABLE”. Next longest was: 1 Down: ‘He’s a hard skipper!’ (7, 5) Arthur froze, his pen poised over the page.
‘Well, I never,’ he said, as he filled in each square:
Stainforth was right: it could always be coincidence. There would have to be at least two other pertinent clues within this puzzle to be sure a signal was being sent. In addition, he would have to identify the person for whom the message was intended and that would come in the form of a coded answer. The answer that would signal that it was for him was “BARKING”. He settled down. 18 Across: ‘Slightly twisted shard of precious metal, maybe?’(6); and the real giveaway; 43 & 20 Across: ‘Dark cur! Back gold for a good return.’(5, 3). There could be no doubt, now. Something wasn’t quite right, though. Not only were the clues very easy, the answers were far too obvious. Even someone who wasn’t looking for them could spot the relationship, easily."

Well, faithful readers who keep coming back here even though I haven’t posted anything for weeks.  I must be doing something right; though God alone knows what.  It’s been so long since I was able to make any sense of the way the world operates that I think this may be what dementia feels like.  Either that or this is still the seventies and I’m on the mother of all acid trips.

Take the other day, for instance:  I thought I was reading a newspaper article that was telling me that, as a promotional wheeze, Waterstone’s are commissioning authors to write an extra chapter in their books.  This final denouement will be available only to readers who buy those books in the store.  Anyone buying the book elsewhere will discover that they have bought, in effect, an unfinished novel.

I know!  That’s what I thought too! 

It seems some bright spark at Waterstone’s had noticed that certain music outlets offer bonus tracks on downloads and CDs so why couldn’t the same thing apply to novels?  Naturally, this set me thinking, just as it’s done to you, of all those books that could have benefitted from that extra chapter. 

Then I recalled the paperback version of Anthony Burgess’s “A Clockwork Orange”, which had the last chapter of the original version omitted in order (I’ve always believed) to comply with the film’s rather bleak and less nuanced approach towards mindless violence.  Burgess wanted to say that the violence of Alex and his droogs was a result of social conditioning, whereas Kubrick wanted us to believe that violence is an innate and immutable part of the human condition.

Violence may or may not be an immutable part of the human condition but sure as sunrise, the desire to sell books at any cost most certainly is; even if that cost involves bolting on a bogus ending in order to appease the paymasters.

Surely a book is only finished when it’s finished?  If it isn’t finished, then it’s not finished and it needs more words in order to finish it; and then THAT is the book the author wishes the reader to read.  Either the book that Waterstone’s customers buy is going to be one that has a superfluous chapter, (and if so, what’s the point) and the one that the non-Waterstone’s customer buys is unfinished.  I really don’t understand promotion. 

Anyway, I’m off to buy a shirt from Marks & Spencer.  Apparently, as a promotion, they’re doing them with three sleeves instead of the two you get everywhere else.

Of course words are merely symbols; only a fool would assert otherwise.  Furthermore, the power of all symbols to inspire and affirm, offend and decry cannot be argued against.  However, words are, if you like, the scalpel to the scythe of those less subtle organisers of ideas – flags.

I’ve never really got flags. Perhaps I can’t see past the gaudy, often facile imagery they offer (is there an aesthetically pleasing national flag anywhere in the world?) and the shorthand, blunt idea they purvey; namely, “This is us; we are different from you; and frankly, we like it that way”.  But perhaps it’s more than that.

It denotes to me the most grievous of sins that can be perpetrated by the animal with the best-developed brain on the planet: lazy thinking.  Indeed, the kind of lazy thinking that asserts, in the phrase ascribed to Carl Shurtz “My country, right or wrong…” without going on to quote the second clause in the sentence: “…if right, to be kept right; and if wrong, to be set right."[170] 

This is where words get in the way of ideas.  Don't analyse; don't see beyond The Colours; just wrap yourself in the comforting symbol that stands for all those ideas you don't want to be bothered with; because the only one that matters to you is belligerence.

I get no glow of pride when seeing a Union Flag fluttering on a flagpole; in fact, the phrase that comes most readily to mind is Samuel Johnson’s oft-misused assertion that “patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel.”  Johnson has nothing against patriotism per se but is aggrieved to see it resorted to when an opponent has legitimately and effectively despatched all rational argument.

Rational argument and Protestant Loyalism.  I leave the two phrases hanging there, unremarked.

I heard a new word this morning: nomophobia.  It means the fear of going out without one’s mobile telephone.  As neologisms go, it’s pretty good and I have high hopes for it. Fortunately, it’s a condition from which I doubt I shall ever suffer: however what if I ever should panic when I happen to leave the house my mobile telephone?  Now that is something that really scares me: nomophobiaphobia, I suppose one might call it. 

It’s not that I object to people blathering away at one another on mobile telephones (actually, it is; but it’s not just that),  it’s that they should think me odd for a) not doing so myself;  b) believing that an incoming call ought not to be allowed to  trump a face-to-face conversation  (The incantation, “I’m sorry: I have to take this…” is felt my many to be a charm, in such cases, against any opprobrium that might be directed their way, should the abandoned interlocutor object),  and c) not turning the car around ten minutes into a journey so that someone can retrieve their telephone.

I have even had people ask me to turn the radio down in my car, so that they can take - and even make - a telephone call!  Can you credit it? 

I fear that the human race is hurtling towards a situation where the idea of being incommunicado is not only undesirable, it is practically immoral.  They may well come up with a word for it: nomophilia.  The condition will at first, merely looked upon with pity but will surely (probably following a campaign by the Daily Mail), become illegal at some point.

Part of the punishment may well be that, before the door clangs shut, the warder will toss in a Nokia, with the words,

“Suck on that, Sunshine!”

There isn’t exactly a dearth of matters over which to take issue with Lord McAlpine,  so it seems a pity that certain people went out on a limb in order to accuse him of something he did not do.
Some might suppose that the libel laws in the U.K. are far too stringent but most would agree that journalists ought to check their facts before going with a story.  The astonishing laxity of the BBC Newsnight journalists in this regard is breathtaking and it’s certainly right that someone should be held to account for libelling Lord McAlpine.  Except of course, Newsnight did not libel him; his name was not mentioned in the programme.  However, because of activity on Twitter in which his name appeared prominently, McAlpine’s lawyers were able to argue that the Newsnight programme left little doubt as to the target of its accusations .  This little bit of legal legerdemain appears to have netted Lord McAlpine £185,000 out of court!
Now, his legal team have their sights set on a number of those who tweeted Lord McAlpine’s name in connection with these allegations.  Those people should be very worried.
You might think that as a writer, I would be implacably in favour of freedom of speech.  Regular readers will know that this is not necessarily the case.  To be libelled (often on the whim of an editor) often results in an utter destruction of livelihood and reputation.  Even following a retraction and payment of some sort of compensation (provided you can get the cash together to challenge what is written about you) that livelihood and reputation may remain compromised for the rest of your life.
As Lord McAlpine put it: it was "terrifying" to find himself "a figure of public hatred".  If it’s any consolation, he was a figure of my hatred long before this incident but the point is well made.  The people who tweeted about him really should have known better.  I feel quite cross that he has been given this opportunity to feather his already rather downy nest at the expense of those who can probably ill afford it (the BBC included).
No-one wants to see the U.K. press emasculated and muzzled, but if the alternative is to live in a country where anyone can say whatever they like about others and (provided they are big enough), get away with it.  Those people who are fond of slagging others off online should draw a salutary lesson from the McAlpine affair and rein in their excesses unless they can find evidence to back up any assertions. 
As soon as they have it, of course: fire at will!

http://www.lawontheweb.co.uk/news/2012/11/366-lord-mcalpine-to-sue-twitter-users-for-false-paedophilia-accusations

Ever had a little cut on a little finger?  You think it won't matter but throughout the day you catch it over and over again and it's only then that you realise how much you actually use it.  Having not internet is a bit like that.  Even when you think you don't use it that much - I don't watch movies, I don't download bucketloads of stuff, I don't do a great deal of online shopping and I certainly don't read e-mails unless I have to - you still feel bereft when it isn't there.  The last couple of weeks have seen my broadband service stagger, cough, collapse and resurrect itself over and over again but at such irregular intervals that one is never sure when its going to be on.  Its particularly irritating at the moment because, against all reason, the Rothko Room is complete to my satisfaction and will be proof-read by my wife and daughter over the next week or two.
Then I'll want to publish it.  I have no intention of hawking it around agents and publishers because I know they'll hate it and I might just have a change from Lulu this time and go with CreateSpace.  And then I'll set about promoting it in various places.  I'm sure you realise where this is going....
How can self-publishers operate without a reliable internet connection?  The answer, I'm certain is, "They can't".  Without the web, the whole process is utterly impossible and so I am hoping that when the engineer turns up on Thursday, he or she will be able to sort me out.
No doubt I'll have to submit myself to the humiliation of trying to explain why my phone lines still use hardware dating back to the 1950s and why one of the cables runs down from a bedroom window and into my study and probably get charged as though by a wounded rhino for the privilege but what choice do I have?
Anyway, I begin my promo here by asking my loyal readers to comment on the covers I've been working on. Below is a selection in chronological order.  The cartoon drawings are to give it the sense that it is a dark comic spy caper but I much prefer the simple ones myself.  Any ideas how I can stress the comedy but keep the darkness?
Do let me know what you think.

Just a post to my legions of fans and followers.  Internet's gone tits up and I'm apologising to everyone for not being responsive.  I know I'm not that responsive in the first place so perhaps no-one's even noticed. In case anyone's wondering,   Anyway, as soon as I have found whoever's responsible and given them a going over, I'll be back in the saddle.  It's so rotten beign off the grid these days. 
I feel a blog coming on.... but not now. I've dragged myself down to my local library to do this and the screen is so big that everything I write can be viewed from Dieppe so our usual little intimacies will have to go by the board for the moment.  I have 

A very British furore has been entertaining people of the U.K. for the past few days.  Briefly, the matter concerns a Conservative Party Chief Whip who, (for the sake of overseas readers unacquainted with some of the more bizarre aspects of what we are pleased to call a modern parliamentary democracy) is one of those people whose actual job it is to persuade, cajole, bully and utterly terrify members of the party into voting for favourable motions.  They are called “Whips” for a very particular reason.

The Whip, Andrew Mitchell by name, found himself barred from riding his bike through the gates of Downing Street. (Gates, which incidentally, appeared one morning during John Major’s premiership in order to prevent people from walking down the street – a practice which had hitherto been uncontested for around two-hundred years).  Anyway, the police on duty asked Mr. Mitchell to wheel his bicycle through one of the smaller gates at the side of the main ones, a request to which he appears to have taken offence.

Apparently, he was of the opinion that exiting through a side gate was beneath him and he told the police this in no uncertain terms.  He harangued and swore at them for several minutes (an act for which any lesser mortal would have been banged up and no mistake).  He allegedly called them “morons” as well but the thing which has caused the most offence was his contention that the police were “plebs”.

Now, the word “pleb” is pure Public School, by which (again for non-British readers) we mean a private school.  No space here to explain what this all means but suffice it to say that practically the entire Cabinet consists of former public schoolboys; in other words, the sons and heirs of the "Ruling Classes".  Amongst the public school elite, a pleb is a member of the lower classes - someone who works for a living, (a fact which of itself renders them less useful to society).  It derives, of course, from the Latin, “Plebeian” – a member of the non-aristocratic classes, higher up the social scale than slaves but of no rank - and being Latin for the lower orders, it has the added attraction that the lower order British would not have come across this term, since Latin was taught only in public schools for many decades.  The idiots, you see, don't even know they're plebs!

Although in reasonably common usage amongst the ruling class, few would dare use such a word in public nowadays and this is Mitchell’s real offence.  Not that he used the word so much as that he used it within earshot of someone who would not have heard it used, much outside of Downton Abbey.

Mitchell made it clear that the term was at the very heart of his (and every public schoolboy’s) vocabulary

But for me, Mitchell's denial spoke volumes. At first he denied that he had called the police “fucking plebs” but later retracted this, admitting that he said “fuck” but not the word “pleb”. So, deliciously, “pleb” now wields more political power than the word “fuck”.  I’m reminded of the wonderful line in Armando Iannucci’s practically faultless political satire, “The Thick of It” where Malcolm Tucker, Downing Street fixer, responds to a repeated knock on his door with,

“For fuck’s sake, come the fuck in or fuck the fuck off!”  Had he added, “…you pleb!” it might have proved too much for the BBC censors.

This week I decided, against my better judgement, to indulge in a little holiday reading.  I say, “…against my better judgement…”, since I find reading always stops me doing better things.  Anyway, I began this bloody great thick book.  (You’ll notice, throughout this piece, that I give neither the title of the book nor the name of the author so as not to colour any judgements you might form on reading it yourselves but if you’ve read it already, you may well guess what I’m talking about).
The story (or plot, I’m never sure which) was interesting enough to hold my attention and has done so for what my Kindle assures me is 73% of its mass, which when considers that in the non-e world it runs to over 800 pages, is not bad going for me.
Oh, there are plot holes you could drive a bus through but I can live with those and some of the characterisations give new meaning to the word “clichéd” but again, that’s not something terminal in this instance.  And I’m more than impressed with the extraordinary level of research that has gone into it.  So I suppose, I am, for want of a better word, enjoying it.
My problem with it is that (and here’s where I expect a number of my readers will leave me forever) I believe that I write better than this.

Pause whilst the room clears.

So why is the author of this book feted and wealthy and I (not to put too fine a point on it), am not?  The reason would appear to be obvious.  What I think is “good” writing is not necessarily what publishers and the paying public think is “good” writing.
Although writing is, of course, far more than just wordsmithery; and whilst I wouldn’t exactly call myself a champion of what is often pleased to call itself “Literary Fiction” (finding much of it pretentious almost –rather appropriately - beyond words) I do like stories to be well-written – that is with combinations of words that are elegant, pleasing, surprising, nuanced and evocative.  The writing in this well-received work is none of these things.  In fact, it is cliché-ridden, turgid, repetitive, dull and uninspiring; oh, and it contains some of the most juvenile and squirmingly embarrassing sex-scenes that I’ve ever encountered as well as a couple of truly appalling typos; not to mention that schoolboy howler: “The Book of Revelations” all of which should have been expunged at the editing stage.
And yet, I’m keen to find out what happens.  Am I just a snob who has seldom given books like this a chance?  Probably.  Am I going to change the way I write?  Probably not.  Am I ever going to be a success?  Not a hope.