The following books and heir contents have received short-list nominations for the 2008 British Fantasy Awards, with winners to be announced at the convention in September of this year in Nottingham, UK.

	Best Anthology: The 2ND Humdrumming Book of Horror Stories, Ian Alexander Martin, Editor
The August Derlith Fantasy Award for Best Novel: Rain Dogs, Gary McMahon
	Best Novella: The Reach of Children, Tim Lebbon
Best Artist: Lee Thompson, cover artist for The Land at the End of the Working Day, by Peter Crowther
	Best Short Fiction: “The Tobacconist’s Concession”, John Travis, appeared in The 2ND Humdrumming Book of Horror Stories Best Short Fiction: “Pinholes in Black Muslin”, Simon Strantzas, appeared in The 2ND Humdrumming Book of Horror Stories

So, get out there! Vote early & vote often via the BFS site: CLICK THIS BIT HERE ! If you are a member of the British Fantasy Society or if you attended FantasyCon ’08 last September, then you are able to cast a vote to determine the winners in each category.

Early this morning, in a scene evoking the announcement of the Oscar® Nomination, the new publishing house Atomic Fez Publishing was announced by its proprietor, Ian Alexander Martin.

As the sky above him filled with flocks of doves and Canada Geese, Mr. Martin publicly confirmed the existence of Atomic Fez, admitting it was “one of the worst-kept secrets in the Small Press Community of late”. No doubt responding to the frequent rumours of his return to the publishing game, he was last heard from following the demise late last year of the UK-based firm Humdrumming, Ltd., which had been under his control since early spring of that year after founding publisher Guy Adams handed him the reins due to his growing number of professional writing commitments.

His new venture, Mr. Martin announced, would be “a Small Press House with Large Press notions of inclusivity.” Pointing out the people are rarely only “readers of only one variety of fiction, and Atomic Fez proposes to make available as many sorts of books as time and the company ledgers permits.” When asked to explain what he was babbling about, he suddenly resembled a sidewalk proselytiser, declaring that he felt that “too often things about books are made QUITE IMPORTANT and VERY SERIOUS INDEED, casting aside anything which might be seen as ‘enjoyable’”, explaining that “the principle driving force behind certain titles being selected is simple: Books Are Fun Again!”

As well as providing books in the traditional format — described by Mr. Martin as “the ‘dead tree’ variety of books using ink, paper, and bits of glue” — Atomic Fez will be also be endeavouring to tap into the latest of modern technology making available all its titles in the ‘electronic book’ format. Explaining this bi-formatted, pincer-movement approach to publishing, he explained that “the concept that either form [of publishing format] is a ‘bad’ way of getting a story into the hands of a reader is anathema to a logical mind. If you hate e-books, we have paper ones for you. If you hate paper ones, we have ‘e-books ‘to tempt you instead. Either way, we want your money. In the future,” he continued, “it is hoped that both forms [of book] can happily exist side-by-side as they have individual strengths for differing sorts of readers. After all, both forms are equally damaged when dropped in a tub full of hot water.”

Sources close to the company — requesting anonymity due to threatened punishment using hi-fidelity recordings of Mrs. Elva Miller and / or Sebastian Cabot — stated that the first title to be released by the Publisher would be a brand-new novel by the noted Welsh writer Rhys Hughes, which would likely be released early in Q3 to coincide with the British Fantasy Society’s FantasyCon 2009 in mid-September. The book’s contents are being edited now, with final text to be established and at the printers by the start of July. While the source was unable to provide an exact price, they did allow that “something reasonable around the twenty-five dollar mark is what we’re looking at.”

Further titles are entirely unconfirmed and the nature of their contents isn’t know, but Mr. Martin is ‘planning something’ for World HorrorCon in South England’s Brighton, and information has leaked out regarding works from three more British authors being launched at that event in March 2010; with possibly more titles expected in the autumn of the same year, this time including writers from the Dominion of Canada.

Law Enforcement Organisations did not respond to requests for comment, saying they were “very busy getting organised to deal with the crowds expected to take to the streets with hazardous materials.”

Yes, more about the trip to England… Now we’re into day three — Huzzah! — and on to Day Four by the end of this, I might add (mostly due to the fact it all blurs together without enough to differentiate betwixt things).

So…

We’re at Monday now, and Steve and Hilary [aka: “The Most Beautiful Woman in the World, according to Steve; and he’s not entirely wrong] have gone off to Italy to visit with her daughter who’s visiting there herself. I’m given the run of the place while they’re gone. Bwahahaahahaha!

The local constabulary has already met me on Saturday afternoon, so they’re wise to me already. Bit of a problem, that.

The Monday passed with me looking for news on the rider of the motorcycle at the Police Station, but they couldn’t tell me anything due to “confidentiality concerns”. I certainly understood, but I hadn’t thought “is he dead?” would be a huge problem to get an answer for. At this point I didn’t even know his name, for Heaven’s sake! I could have asked him on Saturday afternoon, I suppose, but I thought that his lying on the roof of a car at the time signalled something of it being an inopportune moment to bother with paperwork concerns.

I then hied me t’ward some lunch along Ely Street at a place I had spotted the day prior with some claim about the finest Fish & Chips in Her Majesty’s Realm (they didn’t go that far, but it was certainly the best example I could find without any motor-vehicle and a GPS unit). Through the door, and then all the way down a very long hallway, hang a right, pull at the door… pull at the door… pull… at… the door…

Read the notice on the door…

…and discover that Monday is the one day in the week they’re closed. Ah.

So, around the corner to the Gatwick’s back area where the pub is and have a large piece of fish and a pint… Another? Well, why not…?

Just before the visit to Warwickshire’s Finest, I stopped in at a fine book shop near the station and bought many grand volumes, including the first three Michael [Marshall] Smith thrillers, the second two in hard-cover, and a few many others all for something just under £20 if I recall correctly. Granted, they’re still in someone’s storage in England due to the finances all buggered from the accident, but… someday I’ll enjoy reading them!

So I had something to read over my nice pub lunch.

Then off to Twelfth Night, which is reviewed here: iamiam.ca/musing/archives/2007/434/rscs-12th-night

The next day dawned brightly (I really had wonderful weather for much of my stay in the UK — odd for September there), and I showered.

A word, briefly, about the location I am in. It does not lack for a grand history, you see. See above there for that ærial photo, and click to make it big. Steve’s place is marked sort-of generally, as is Shakespeare’s birth-place. Normally, I would be concerned about ‘security issues’ and not be so specific, but you’ll learn in a minute that this place is nigh-on impossible to gain ingress to — or egress from — unless you’re supposed to.

The location at which I slept was something around 80 meters from the place that the Bard of Avon was brought into the world! Did this have any noticeable effect on me? Sadly, no. But the digital broadcast of Doctor Who was a wonderful thing… doubt that’s got anything to do with it, but one takes it where one can. Series 3, “The Master Returns” episode “The Sound of Drums”, by the way.

So the building is maintained by the Shakespeare Memorial Trust, as it’s all a part of the historical centre of town, and who knows how old this place is? Well, Steve does, and he probably told me, but I was probably either jet-lagged, full of absorbed history to the ears, drunk, or all three at that point. “Old” is probably description enough. Tough to remember that, being from an area where it’s rare to have what Jennifer & I have: a house bought by her Father, when it was brand-new: 1954. And they’ve always lived there. No one else has ever lived on this property, in any building. Ever.

So, there’s some context, eh…? Man used to a new-ish house being normal, in a building that’s probably older than the country he’s left for the first time about three days ago.

Let’s return to me now…

oops!

Let’s return to me just after the shower.

I’m happily catching-up on e-mail and talking to our printers about the tour I’ll do in a few days at their plant, and suddenly I hear what I swear is someone coming into the flat.

That can’t be… Steve and Hilary are in Italy. It’s an echo from the street being weird.

Those are feet on the stairs, I’m sure, though…

And those are voices in the hall-way near the kitchen…! Auugh!

I now leap into the hall and defend the place as only I know how: facing the two brigands, I gently enquire “Can I help you?” (being Canadian, and stereo-typically polite).

It turns out that when I had my shower, I got a bit of water on the floor, which quickly disappeared so I didn’t see it on the floor when I got out. It then leaked… somewhere through the floor… into the storeroom of the shop below… which is where they were from. They knew that Steve was away for a few days — he works there, you see, and Steve rents the flat from the store’s owners — so the two people standing before me thought that something had gone amiss in the plumbing or something as they hadn’t heard about me being there while Steve and Hilary were away.

All fine and dandy now, I’ll be more careful in future, hail well and farewell, and they let themselves out.

An hour or so passes.

I am conversing with Guy Adams via MSN’s Messenger thing, and he is advocating that I go to Baguette Barge to get some sort of late-lunch. I claim I don’t have time for that as I’m going to be talking to Jennifer via Skype in awhile, so I’m going to grab something at Subway a few doors away. He is agast that — having finally arrived in the Cradle of of Literature as God Intended [England], I’m going to eat some North American tripe like a subway sandwich…?! I finally give in and say ‘yes, fine, I’ll go to Baguette Barge, leave me be’ and so off I go down the stairs…

And then I’m back to tell Guy I can’t go to Baguette Barge. ‘Why not?’ he reasonably enquires of me. I can’t get the door open, I explain.

“Ha ha ha, how nice to hear the old Goons’ joke”, etc.

“No no, I really can’t get the door open.”

“What…? What do you mean?”

Well, I explain that I really can’t open the dor, nor can I re-lease the lock. One thing leads to another (including me e-mailing him a photo of the lock due to me not making sense of what I’m seeing and what I know makes sense to do but can’t accomplish) and afterwards it turns out that the Yale company’s Night Latch model [see illustration, left] has been double-locked using both the catch on the inside [to the right of that knob] and then the key outside, thereby making it impossible for me to leave the flat. The key has locked the inside switch into place, making it impossible to un-lock the door without standing on the outside using the key. Right now, all we know is that I’m unable to open this door and leave the flat.

Thinking like a New World Man, I do not panic as all residences have two exits in case of fire… right?

“Ah,” says an ancient voice in my mind, “but when was this place built, Boy?

I… um… err… a… a long time ago…?

“Yes… well done. So, how many exits were built?”

Um… ‘however many they damned well felt like building that day’…?

“Yes…!”

So… I then try using the “James Bond Polar Route” [photo, left; click to enlarge] by going out the kitchen onto the patio, then jumping across the gap onto the edge of the roof of the shop next-door, then around the corner of the Shakespeare Birthplace Trust Library using some scaffolding handily standing there ‘In Case of Trapped Canadian’, down its ladder, along a path, over a wall just past Steve’s shop’s warehouse/parking area, then down a waste-ground space between the two buildings… and arrived at a locked gate with pigeon spikes on the top of it.

Damn.

So, I return via the way I came — resisting the temptation to wave through the windows at the people who are blithely doing research in the Shakespeare Birthplace Trust Library oblivious to the Canadian walking to and fro outside, and who is going every so slowly insane — and re-examine the while situation once more calmly.

I see no way out of this, short of hurling myself out a window onto the paving stones of Henley Street some dozen or more feet below.

I reject this as being potentially a cause of the injuries I escaped during the auto-accident on Saturday prior.

I then discuss the photo of the lock with Guy; is there something I’m missing there? Is there some sort of secondary release that will permit me to throw the catch on the inside and release me from this historical cage of a comfortable flat? At this point we didn’t have the faintest idea how the thing wouldn’t permit me to leave, as we forgot about the use of a key activating a sort of secondary securing system that over-rides the inside button/catch/switch/thing. No matter how much I attempted to gently lever the catch into an ‘up’ — or ‘freedom!’ — position, I soon realised it was fruitless and that a call would have to be made to the shop downstairs and ask them to come next door with their keys, thereby letting me once again breathe that sweet air of God’s Own Country [England] whilst standing upon the street like a True Citizen. I wasn’t happy about having to distinguish myself like this again, but I had no other choice.

After waiting for the polite laughter at the other end of the line to subside (and I couldn’t blame them, really; hell, I was laughing at the ridiculous situation myself), they came and let me out of my kennel, and I knew full-well that I would never be able to return to Stratford without causing the story to make the rounds again, but at least now I had something to talk to Jennifer about other that the accident. I go next door and get a subway, cursing the fact that I am now consuming the same food I can get by walking down to the bottom of the hill at home in the Tundra of Canada.

I return to the flat and wait for the top of the pre-arranged hour to speak to my wife, and wait for her to come on-line.

And wait.

I text-chat to Guy and re-assure him that all is well and I am now eating a foot-long Vegetarian [he mis-understands what I mean] on Honey-Oat with a Snapple™ and a foil bag of chips [he mis-understands again]. He shames me.

“By the by, when are you speaking to your delightful wife?” he enquires of me.

Theoretically a half-hour ago at 5:00 pm, I reply, so that I can talk to her at 8:00 am before she goes to work at 9:00.

“You mean ‘talk to her at 9:00 am’, right?”

No no, she’s left the house by about 9:15, so that wouldn’t be long enough to chat.

“But that’s almost an hour ago.”

No, it’s just after 8:00… right…?

“No, I think you’re still subtracting nine hours as though you’re going to talk to me, but you’re not in Spain yet; it’s only eight hours from GMT to your area.”

…ah. That would explain why it’s now 5:45 and she’s still not there.

I check e-mail, to discover that she’s e-mailed me a couple of times to ask what she’s done wrong on her end and I’m not there…? Now she has to go to work, so perhaps we can connect in a few days…?

I beat my head against the desk at the utter futility of my attempts to accomplish things.

Leaving the flat, I walk down the block — dashing quickly past the shop downstairs so that no-one rushes onto the pavement to point and laugh at me, something I expect to have happen at any moment — and enter the co-op where I already today purchased postage and had noted the chocolate and wine selection without doing anything about it. Now is the time to do this, I realize.

I return to the flat with three large bars of Cadbury’s Milk Chocolate, two bottles of French Red Wine, and a six-pack of German Lager.

I don’t think I paid more than £10 for the lot. It’s this transaction than made me realise that this country has been built for me. I profess my love for the land and decide to never leave.

I eat something at the Garrick Pub again for dinner, then return to the flat to drink wine and eat chocolate while watching the above-mentioned episode of Doctor Who via digital broadcast on the large-ish flat-screen and decide that, in fact, the best thing is to never leave this flat and shall have Steve and Hilary adopt me as their Cuban House-Boy.

I sleep, thereby ending “UK Day IV”.

It is good.

Tune in next time; when you’ll hear the Silly Canadian Man ask the pertinent question:

If one’s heading along the M5 to the exit marked ‘Rugby’, isn’t arriving in Birmingham signalling that one’s going the wrong way…?

If you’re confused, then head either here or here and learn something today.

Oh, and don’t set fire to this fellah. He’s not happy about being burned with faggots.

• www.humdrumming.co.uk/whitenoise/blog/2007/10/29/price-insanity/

I’ve passed excited, then terrified, and am now at the point of “can’t we just get this fucking over with so I can relax and drink wine in Spain?”

I’m sure as the æroplane’s tyres leave the tarmac I shall be filled with my typical thought:

WHAT AM I DOING? THIS IS ALL WRONG!! THIS THING SHOULDN’T BE ABLE TO DO THIS! WHY IS THE HUGE, HEAVY OBJECT RISING FROM THE GROUND?!? WE BELONG DOWN THERE, NOT UP HERE DEFYING ALL THE GOD-GIVEN PHYSICAL LAWS!!

Later on I’ll turn to wondering if the mechanics of the ‘plane will fail, a bomb will be ignited, some wack-o will attack the pilot(s), or a crate of serpents will be opened in the hold. The flight’s 9½ hours… there’s a lot that can be worried about during 9½ hours… and I’m an over-achiever, so…

Am I nervous? Not really, just one possessing a logical mind. I sit in a seat, look out the window, the plane leaves the ground, I realize I am now 300 feet up, humans aren’t built for that, I comprehend things are wrong, and logically panic. Fairly straight-forward.

Granted, once the plane’s up, I’m fine; it’s the time before the ground becomes so far away it looks like a satellite map that I’m a bit uncomfortable. Landing and taking off are, after all, 95% of all the times anything can — and usually does — go wrong on a flight. Let’s face it, trans-Atlantic mid-air collisions are not ten to the penny. Badly placing an A330 in the middle of some built-up area of Norwich, however, is a bit more statistically likely.

Am I used to long travel? Hell no. I’m able to recall every single time I’ve travelled by plane with crystal clarity. They number only four total occasions (in round trip terms), the most recent when I met Jennifer in California nine years ago [image from the trip, left]; the first being when I was four or so and we flew about as far as London to Paris.

Yes, really.

The advice I’ve heard about dealing with jet-lag, etc is much like what Cotts advised me to do:

There is a fairly simple answer to making the flight better for yourself and unsurprisingly it is ‘Cure All’! I implemented such a plan when flying back from the US a couple of weeks ago. Don’t be afraid to ask for more than one drink when they come round in the beginning of the flight, I found that 2 large Gin and Tonics and and airline sized bottle of wine did the trick. After that, you will eat your somewhat tasteless meal and be asleep before you know it. Job done.

A fine plan, except that I’ll be flying on an airline where they demand payment for their tiny servings, but according to him, the better price is had paying in Dollars than Sterling. No idea why, but apparently the price is better.

Anyway, the procedure I’m intending to follow doesn’t involve the cure-all. Eat lightly or snack/graze, drink much liquid (juice, water, etc) but no liquor, stay awake or nap lightly, arrive and eat the local meal at the correct hour, then sleep at the same schedule as the locals.

Ta-da; instant native adjustment. I’m told.

However, I have a nine-hour-plus flight that leaves at almost 9:00pm local time, arrive in the early afternoon at Gatwick on the Saturday, then drive up the motorway to Stratford (getting out of Greater London as fast as possible to avoid the gits who drive the area blind-folded… and may actually do so). So maybe the cure is good to put me to sleep, then wake-up on the plane at 8:00am GMT, and then adjust from there?

It seems that plans are well under-way for welcoming committees to line the streets of Shakespeare’s Stratford upon my arrival. According to our man on the ground there, the locals have been constructing a triumphal arch in the main street, the hotel is altering its menu to include a salmon course to be followed by maple syrup marinated caribou steaks then dessert of raspberry pie with Canadian cheddar on top. All accompanied with a flight of Okanagan wine, naturally.

The local shops will have “Grade, Eh?” sales as well, with prices of “whatever you can carry out is free” for anyone carrying a valid Canadian passport. Looking forward to getting my own Jester’s cap with jingling bells.

Then, on to FantasyCon, which is September the 21st through the 23rd inclusive, at the Britannia Nottingham Hotel (formally Holiday Inn Nottingham City Centre part of the Intercontinental Group), #1 St James Street, Nottingham [image, below left], and we’re staying there as well as the events being held in the convention rooms due to it being, according to the promotional bumpf:

…the city’s premier hotel. Adjacent to Nottingham Castle, it has a superb city centre location and is the perfect base for exploring all the sights of Nottingham.

The hotel is situated near to Nottingham Castle, Trent Bridge Cricket Ground, Victoria Shopping Centre and the Nottingham City business district, proving an ideal location for both business and pleasure. Nottingham is also renowned for its vibrant and popular nightlife.

Night life which includes being dragged up an alley and getting the boots, apparently. The city has the distinction as being ‘one of England’s Hard Cities’. Never saw having six types of shit out of one’s body as either “popular” or “vibrant”, but I suppose it takes all sorts…

Somewhere in the hotel will be the “Dealers’ Room” for the British Fantasy Society’s “FantasyCon”, or failing that we’ll be in the hotel’s pub. Friday we’re out for curry around 10:30 with a gang of famous authors (well, “industry fame”, not popular variety) but we’ll be easy to spot either earlier that evening or the next day. I’m sure asking at the desk during the event will cause them to roll their eyes and beg you to drag us from the building so that their rooms will be in fewer pieces.

And let’s look at those rooms…

All bedrooms are maintained to a high standard, and are decorated in a bright, and contemporary style. All beds now feature a luxury duvet and cotton bedcovers.

If that’s the way my room’s decorated, there’s no way I won’t wake up quickly in the morning. ‘Strooth! Turn on the light and I’ll be alert, that’s for sure! Hangovers will be especially painful, I expect.

Speaking of which, I’m told that last year, the hotel’s pub (Calahan’s [image, below left]) ran out of beer on the first evening. Literally ran dry of beer. The amount they had on hand they expected was to last the entire week-end. But it was tapped-out after one evening. The pub didn’t re-open until they had received a new delivery from the brewers the next day. This was deemed to be “far too late in the day” and it ought to have re-opened far earlier than 11:00 to quell the complaints.

That’s 11:00 in the morning.

No, that’s not hyperbole.

“It’s quite disturbing how much these people can drink”, as The Velvet Prince says.

I intend to blog from there as access and brain-clarity permit. Here’s hoping.

So I was bumbling around avoiding writing the book and decided to check how the data-bases were starting to have their information flow through to their particular retailers about Humdrumming’s books. All seemed well enough. Guy’s new book Dogs of Waugh (Deatbeat II) seems to have hit most places — what a shame I listed myself as editor as it’s not really a credit per se, oh well — and the price and cover are right. Steve’s books seem to be all there, yes. As are Charles’… yes… James Cooper… all of the authors named Gary (or Garry)… Mark Morris’ hard-back edition of Toady… good…“Hang on… Why did my name have a link with it…?”

And suddenly I realize that seemingly the entire Amazon system has my book listed as being something to order today. Which is not something I would advise as I am — at best — 33% done, if that much.

Here’s some links to see the joyous listings for yourselves.

Also, WHSmith, Blackwell, Amazon France and Amazon Germany. No idea how well it’ll sell on the continent, but you never know.

Now, I suppose I should write that thing, eh? Hmm…?

Preliminary version; basically a place-holder.

Today saw the beginning of this book to the left. Yes, the fingers have begun banging away creating genius! Genius, I tell you! Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha! None can touch me now!

That’s a preliminary image, by the way ((designed by me completely, and I now notice there’s some dust I missed on the flag from the scan of the slide)). Presentable, but not anything I’d call “print-ready”. Adams comes up with the ideas around Humdrumming: he slaps things into a PhotoShop file, shoves them around a bit, then hurls it in my general direction with the simple order “MAKE THAT PRETTY, YOU PATHETIC WORM!” So I do ((if nothing else to avoid giving Debs a second reason to fist me in September. I’ve never been to England before, I’ve never had a woman’s hand up my anus before… yes, it’ll be ‘first-times’ for me the whole length and breadth of that green and pleasant land…))

So far, it seems quite fun. I’ve already used the word ‘fuck’ once; taken the Lord’s name in vain twice, using “G*d-damned” ((with the asterisk for the sake of some sign of respect)), plus shrieking “Jesus Christ!” at a fictitious American; a bit of stage direction commentary making me look like a bit of a mathematical failure; slagged Dan Brown and his multi-billion copy selling book; and claimed that I’m a marketing genius because I’m writing a book aimed at everyone but Canadians and therefore am about to sell trillions due to the gigantic market! A good start, I reckon.

So far I’ve bashed my way through the preliminary material of the book, namely the Acknowledgements, and much of the Prologue. Yes, it is a bit odd to try and write an introductory note about a book that’s not there yet, but I figure it’s a good way to structure myself for what is to come. If I explain what the book is about to a potential reader, I have something to go back to when I start have that feeling of being lost up my own convoluted thinking process. Additionally, if I thank everyone involved now, I can remember that I want to sit down and talk to my Father ((a trained Geographer, I might add)) about the Trans-Continental Railway’s influence on the economic, sociological, and geographical development of the Dominion of Canada.

Canadian National Station [1988–07, 7-#19], un-filtered version Originally uploaded by I am I.A.M..

I’m expecting to re-write or revise much of that once at the end, but for the moment it serves as a good ‘to do’ list if nothing else.

Granted, the proof of the pudding is in the eating, so we’ll see what happens after this. I’m told that a fine technique is, should one suddenly hit a time when you’re not sure what to write next, you merely have a swim — fully clothed — in the pool which is just outside the door.

Sadly, this may work for Adams the Spanish, but I’ve got to make do with standing in the bath whilst the shower’s on. Not quite the same, I suspect.

The other technique I’ve heard to be quite successful is to drink. A lot. Booze, you see.

James Joyce stood by that technique (well, he mostly wobbled). Edgar Allan Poe used it as well (and died poverty stricken, having never owned blankets in his home, save for his own coat).

Hmm… maybe I ought to re-think this approach…