It’s not often that a review appears here, but as this book seems unlikely to appear in a North American edition, or any other, in the foreseeable future, let’s have give it the exposure and analysis it deserves, for the sake of “The Future Generations” if nothing else.

While not entirely linear, Paperboy follows Christopher Fowler through his formative years, beginning with mid-1960 to less than a decade later when he moved into his own flat, at the insistence of his Mother. The years between then and the present are concertina-ed into a few pages mostly focusing on Mr. Fowler’s development as a writer of tales, a self-described “mid-lister” – entirely skipping over his efforts as pop-singer/song-writer, cinema promoter, James Bond stand-in, and artist’s model for a Batman villain – as well as interaction with the Father whose emotional turmoil caused those he loved so very much grief; emotional turmoil which was itself caused by the inevitable conflict between human nature’s need for expression and a societal repression of those same expressions.

Bill Fowler, the author’s father, is chief among those within the pages whom one can view incorrectly as ‘uncaring’ or even ‘destructive’ toward those around him. One must remember that Bill was part of the last group of people for whom instincts were something to be not just ignored, but repressed and eliminated. This was the only option provided by ‘Civilized Society’ as behaviour deemed acceptable. Trouble was something to be avoided, rather than viewed as a challenge to overcome or deal with. ‘Have a scotch, sit by the fire, and keep your mouth shut’ was the nearest thing to therapy available at that time (which would have been fine had the individual not been sitting by the fire alone). Were things particularly bad, you were declared ‘too far gone’ and then sent to Bedlam until you died, probably more of shame than any other malady.

During the 1960s, people ‘did the best they could’ to get though their day with whatever financial or occupational position they had; and mutual support was far more prevalent, likely due to understanding that if everyone helped each other get through a rough patch, things were better for everyone. Something which is important to remember is that ‘community’ was something more highly valued then than it is now. Dinner with relatives on holidays, constant contact with one’s neighbours, each day brought news and fellowship with people and was more therapeutic than any number of appointments with either a doctor or priest. This difference in society, and the way that individuals interacted, is best expressed by the author:

Everyone tries the best they can, some people don’t fit together, but generally it gets sorted out in the end – I’m always amazed by people who need a third party (therapists) to sort out their lives for them. It never really happened in England. Everyone just went to the pub or had a cup of tea to forget about their problems. There’s a very good support system here in the sense that people like to get involved – although I think it’s getting less as I get older (friends dropping off one by one).

It is altogether simple to read about Mr. Fowler’s paternal grandmother and dismiss her as “a crotchety, old, perfectionist, control freak” and entirely miss the fact that not only was she able to raise children through a depression, then a devastating war, and then the equally devastating post-war condition of at least a decade of rationing on all but a few items. To do this at all is considerable. To do so successfully requires the skills of an accountant who is both infinitely patient and in full command of ESP. Certainly, her approach to social interaction left a bit to be desired by her relatives, but no one can really understand what influences others’ behaviour patterns, even if they happen to have grown-up at the same time in the same street. That said, the extreme behaviour of individuals such as Mr. Fowler’s Grandmother is bound to both affect and effect those with whom she came in contact, and the spreading of hatred – hatred of others or selves – is forgiveable only after time and distance; usually accompanied with an appreciation of their gifts, however small or infrequent they might have been experienced.

Many of those under fifty have had similar experiences to Mr. Fowler’s as they grew-up, especially those of WASP origin: conversation and references to anyone ‘different’ were filled with euphemisms. I recall someone in a local restaurant suffering from severe autism being referred to as ‘in a bad way’; even after Prime Minister Trudeau declared that “the Government has no place in the bedrooms of the nation”, certain males were described as ‘a confirmed bachelor’; and mental health wasn’t at all discussed, beyond some occasionally being termed ‘withdrawn’ instead of ‘living with depression’, or a very shame-filled declaration that someone had “suffered a Nervous Breakdown”. This attitude toward any personal state, or mental health in general, thankfully improved over the most recent three decades as self-awareness, medication, therapeutic techniques, and realistic approaches to life and love’s many forms became better understood. Those of us who have benefited greatest from these advances can only guess at what life might be like had their individual character traits been either un-treated, not respected or blasted out of existence by ‘cultural re-programming’. The path taken through life by anyone of an artistic nature is difficult enough without adding ‘shame’, isolation, or intolerance to the matter.

As incomprehensible as it seems to us now, people hugging their children – never mind telling them that they were loved — was not something which was done. It’s no wonder then, than when concern for one’s offspring turned to worry, then to fretting, then frustration, that the logical conclusion would be violence as a manifestation of that original interest in the well-being of others. It’s this predicament that Mr. Fowler witnessed, not just in the behaviour of his father, but also the effect it had upon himself, his Mother, and his Brother. All of the family – Bill Fowler included – coped admirably using nothing more than their own mental resources.

The book is not filled with tear-stained examples of ‘this is why we don’t act like that any more’, however; as helpful as that illustrative material is when taken as such. When in the midst of it, no child will think to themselves ‘goodness, if only we had socialised mental health programmes, my parents would be so much better!’ Well, granted, the teen-agers of the 1990s probably did…

Right from the outset, the reader is immersed in wonderfully humour-filled descriptions of a life filled with Hancock’s Half-Hour (wherein the GLBT community was given the stereotypical voice of “I’m Julian and this is ‘my friend’ Sandy”), the importance of comic book heroes being true to their character forms, an improving sense of others his own age accepting and supporting others no matter who they happened to be, the sensuous frisson of fear delivered by the horror films of Hammer Productions, the increasingly racially desegregated populace, a number of musical influences, and the author’s joyful discover of libraries (the first of which surely formed the base for one appearing late-on in the “Bryant & May” series of mysteries). All of this contributes directly to the inevitable conclusion of selecting ‘writing’ as the last to which Mr. Fowler has chained himself to so successfully. We know it must end this way — his vast output as an author makes this abundantly clear – but the manner in which he arrived at his ultimate destination is none the less fascinating in the examination of it.

Yet, more than anything, one acquires an understanding of what it takes to create a writer from whole cloth. Simply to say ‘it’s hard work’ or ‘you just feel the need to write’ is hardly enough to put the matter into words, albeit entirely correct. Page 295 of Paperboy finds the following explanation of how the drive to be a writer – a really good writer – creates a yearning in someone in order to accomplish it; whatever the cost may be:

The author, as photographed by Mr. Martin Butterworth

Novels, I was told by one publisher who had rejected my work, were commodities sold like tins of biscuits, and the sweeter the taste, the more you could sell. But to me, the most important thing was that they had to contain fresh ingredients, not recycled ideas from other people. I realized now that my mother had been trying to tell me this for years; I had simply not been listening to her.¹

Still, I had delayed. I had been afraid to try, and risk failure. I remembered my father angrily snapping off the volume dial on his transistor radio while listening to Movie-Go-Round because an actor had said that performing required an act of courage. Courage, said Bill, was still working on the roads at sixty-five, spreading tar even though you knew it was giving you lung cancer, as his own father had done. Courage wasn’t mincing about on a stage or fiddling with a pen.

But in a way that Bill could never understand, it was. For years I was sure that if I failed as a writer, there would be nothing else left for me. If I could not achieve the one thing in life I tried hardest to do, it would be tough living with the loss of my dreams. How many people set out to change their worlds, only to find themselves in a state of perpetual downward revision and disappointment?

The events told in this book ring all the right bells to provide both an entertaining read, as well as a view of the life of a gifted writer. One reads about the encountering of an obstacle with a feeling of sorrow for the boy, and then a resultant triumphal cheer as the same obstacle is overcome. To not only be interested by an autobiography, but to care about its events and those experiencing them, is something altogether too rarely seen. While avoiding the easy choice of only including the happy sort of ‘and then I read…’ events, this memoir stands as both a microcosm of London in the last century both holy and profane, as well as a damned good way to have the reader appreciate just what ‘being a writer’ is all about.

It is unreservedly that Paperboy is set upon the shelf with both reverence and an intention to re-read it at some point soon. Equally unreservedly I shall state that this book was well-written, readable, and very enjoyable. You’ll do well to locate a copy in the library, or perhaps order a copy directly from an English book dealer.

Paperboy (A Memoir) by Christopher Fowler; PP 304, ISBN: 978−0−385615−5−70; published in 2009 by Doubleday, a imprint of Transworld Publishers, London, W5; a Random House Group Company.

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Tags: auto-biography, book, Christopher Fowler, London, memoir, Publishing, REVIEWS

Apropos of very little, here’s both proof that this blog continues to live as well as as the fact I still actually care about theatre (or possibly only about its etymology).

I was over at Christopher Fowler’s blog (which is right here), where he says he’s thinking of another Bryant & May mystery set in a theatre (read that entry right here). He raises the dodgy etymological origin of the phrase “Break a Leg” as being due to a poor practical joke played by the Duke of York upon Samuel Foote, the Manager of the Theatre Royal, Haymarket (then called the Little Theatre).

“Bollocks!” cried I, and commented in typical lengthy style (material reproduced below). Read this, read the post on his site, comment here, comment there,* whatever.

The tradition of the avoidance of the phrase “good luck” to actors is due to not wishing to tempt the Gods of Theatre to see you as usurping their power, owing to everything in the theatre being so tenuous at the best of times. The dance tradition is to write Merde! on someone’s make-up mirror (ballet being entirely a French art, at least in communication of technique).

The reason for the use of the phrase “break a leg” that one understood, however, was entirely due to the tall, narrow curtains at the sides of the stage being called ‘legs’ due to their trouser-like shape. In the time of Shakespeare the bit players would be chosen on the night from local performers who had pre-memorised those lines and shown-up prior to the show and stood waiting in the wings to be selected to ‘break’ or ‘pass between’ the side-curtains and act on stage.

That is, of course, only one possible answer to the whole messy question. It could be entirely wrong, just as it could be entirely correct.

Now if you want some serious eyebrow raising time, attempt to sort out the origin of the term for the actors’ waiting area: “the green room”. I’ve heard about four major versions of that one: the grass carpets, or ‘greens’ were stored there when un-used; the colour of the sulphur of the footlights made the actors make-up look odd, but when viewed in a room with green walls they were able to check the stage results before going out there; green was, at some time, the least expensive to purchase; it was the best colour of paint to cover stains; etc. No one knows this one.

* I was going to make a play on the famous poem about the Scarlet Pimpernel, but decided against it. There are things I leave out of this babble, you know. Some, anyway. [go back]

Tags: Bryant & May, Christopher Fowler, London, theatre, traditiooooon tradition

The final day of my stay in London began with a sky looking a tad grey. Having arisen around 8:30, the forecast on Breakfast was for a slight improvement, but not much. All in all, the weather’s been quite un-London-in-October, really and one cannot complain in the slightest.

After the usual trip down to Caffé Nero for breakfast and e-mail, I arrange to go on a walk along Southbank with Christopher Fowler, who’s been so very good to me over the past week, sharing both his love of people and what is probably the city with the most complicated historical and cultural structure of many World Capitals. There’s probably others who are more complicated in both those ways, but this is certainly the most fascinating of places I’ve ever been. Granted, people often say one ought to get out more.

We meet, and then take the tube to London Bridge Station. Only after emerging from the gloom does one realize that at some point we travelled under the Thames. Slightly disoriented, we head into a market where things have been sold and bought for literally hundreds of years. Mr. Fowler tells me of the re-discovery of Porter Ale’s recipe which was solely due to a barrel of the stuff which was found at the bottom of the river but hadn’t leaked a drop (being surrounded by water probably kept the wood swollen enough to maintain the seal, for a start). After some boffin did some chemical analysis of the beer inside, then discounted some bits due to things gathering mould and so on due to age, proper Porter Ale was once again in production after years of ‘best guess’ versions. Having enjoyed that form of beer myself for years, it’s fascinating to hear that it was very nearly lost altogether. How good that the old becomes new once more.

The walk along south bank of the Thames [image, right] is now completely accessible by wheelchair and scooter, much to some complaints regarding replacement of the old stairs with ‘new fangled ramps’ and slow inclines. Mr. Fowler points out the obvious advantage is that older citizens now may easily go for a wheel along the river of an afternoon, if they so wish, and indeed there’s many a person seen doing so as we walk. Additionally, a large number of nearby apartment developments have been designed specifically for ‘mature residents’. “Suddenly people are able to have the time to enjoy things like this,” he says, waving to the beautiful and spacious areas, “and then, because there’s some stairs in the way they can’t go there? Where’s the sense in that, I ask you!” Apparently many of the shop keepers along the river walk complained about the ‘modernization plan’ as well. How stupid are they, one wonders, to refuse to see the logic in having more people able to visit the shops previously on the other side of impenetrable staircases. It’s as if some people’s cash is preferred over others’! Logically, these days at least, anyone’s money is welcomed if not down-right yearned for by the average retailer.

Shortly after leaving the tube station, we stop in at Southwark Cathedral, a beautiful place of worship, and examined the mosaic in the entrance way as a memorial to a boating party who were lost in the river a few decades ago. While you can drown in as little as four inches of water or thereabouts, it the Thames seems so innocuous when you look upon it. “Everyone forgets how powerful it is”, he tells me. “Every year someone gets pissed and then decides to swim across to get home instead of heading to a bridge or bus line. Inevitably, they have to be fished out of the water when they get pushed down stream and are unable to get out of the claw of the currents’ grasp. Remember, that river has a tide! It’s terribly cold when you get toward the bottom as well! You’re never in control on the water; it controls you!”

I look again at the water, and wonder what else is at the bottom that has yet to offer up its secrets of the past. Probably most of the crap down there is a combination of every version of shopping trolleys made during the past millennium.

We pass the HMS Golden Hinde quickly, pausing only long enough for me to grab a quick photo of it. Shortly thereafter Mr. Fowler tells me of a wall which was discovered, in a bizarre turn of events, inside a wall. For some reason about a century or so ago, someone decided to build their new wall using an old one as a kind of shoring material, and encased the old one inside the new, where it remained until a building project was taking down the outer wall to reveal the one inside. The stained glass window in the original, inner wall is being refurbished and will be placed in roughly the same spot and at the same height as it was years ago before it was hidden away. And again, the old is re-discovered and made fresh again.

Does one see a pattern building here? There are no new bits of London, just old ones that have been hidden for a while awaiting re-emergence.

We pass the Globe Theatre shortly thereafter and nearly miss the thing. It’s so un-assuming and restrained in calling attention to its existence. Had it been New York City, there’s be some huge neon monstrosity on the roof flashing “World Famous Globe Theatre! Visit History! See Birthplace of Culture! Be Elizabethan for a Day!” Thank Christ this is England.

Right next to the Globe is a really old building and — here the memory gets dodgy — it’s the oldest building in Britain (or, possibly, London) which is still in private hands… or the oldest still owned by the same family… or something. Next to it is an alley,which is now closed, but what that detail in my notes means is something that’s disappeared. Answers on a postcard, please…

On we head to the west and the Tate Gallery of Modern Art, the great showroom of art which some decry as ‘tripe’ and others declare ‘the brilliance of cutting edge creativity’. I’m not sure where I stand, frankly; when something has an effect upon me, that qualifies as “good” right off the bat.

We strolled through the Generator Room (the building was a power station originally, after all) where a massive piece is viewed with multi-brightly coloured metal bunk-bed frames are set up in rows, some with books on them, and a couple with little radios playing odd sounds. On the rear wall are projected snippets of odd films, including one which was quite possibly from Fahrenheit 451°: a massive library-sized collection of books are blown-up, the camera showing the view from far above them, as they fly both up and apart in slow-motion. It’s a striking image, one which speaks of both the physical and spiritual destruction of society and its ability to provide a structure and collective existence.

Far too heavy, this. Time to bugger off and find something fun! [see image above, left] Read the rest of this entry »

Tags: Bryant & May, Christopher Fowler, England, Gordon's Wine Bar, London, Mandy Little, Mornington Crescent, Platform 9¾, Porter, Southbank, St. Pancras Station, Thames

Within the world of social networking, specifically on Twitter, this is the day you dedicate a status update to promoting those people you follow due to their supreme quality of information contained in their updates or are particularly entertaining. This is a blog and not Twitter, I know. But that’s what today’s post is about even so.

Damn it, this is my blog, so I’ll do what I please with it!

And you’ll pay attention to those I promote as well, as it shall improve your life!

It will, really!

Warren Ellis is a sick and twisted being; click “BAD SIGNAL” on the right to sign-up for irregular invasion of your in-box Christopher Fowler writes books which you will now buy many copies of Sheldon is a daily dose of the under-appreciated ‘silly’ variety The Rime of the Postmodern Mariner, Rhys Hughes’s blog, is also silly CBC Radio live feeds (choose from all three channels within the 5½ national time-zones) Earlier with Lee Rosevere has repeats of the 17-minute weekday show and more Tim Lebbon is a writer who makes you like books with dragons Simon Strantzas is a writer writing about writing Tentative Equinox (and the comments are often just as entertaining; here’s the RSS feed for them) Charlie Brooker writes words for the Guardian

Warren Ellis is a sick and twisted being CBC Vancouver provides programme information and new media thoughts Tim Lebbon often speaks of his dog Dave Kellet is the artist behind Sheldon Mari Adkins is an editor, writer, and cat obsessive Peter M. Wilson retired from the Vancouver Sun in 2007 and has tech thoughts Deb Pickman likes making theatre and the colour pink The Tyee is probably the new Vancouver Sun, only more socialist Charlie Brooker gets to tweet words the Guardian won’t print Darth Vader (not really, but it’s quite funnny) Eddie Izzard is a talented monologuist Theatre at UBC is a good source of arts news and theatre information

Now do all that, and fill your life with all the pointless wastes of your day that I use to avoid washing dishes and things.

See how helpful this blog is?

Tags: blogs, CBC Radio, CBC Vancouver, Charlie Brooker, Christopher Fowler, Darth Vader, Dave Kellett, Deb Pickman, Earlier, Eddie Izzard, Lee Rosevere, Marie Adkins, Peter M. Wilson, Rhys Hughes, Sheldon, Simon Strantzas, Tentative Equinox, The Tyee, Theatre at UBC, Tim Lebbon, tweets, Twitter, Warren Ellis, who can say no to a talking duck

Being in the UK and appreciating civilisation’s finest achievements, basically. After some business in the western Midlands from my arrival in the Sceptred Isle until the 13^th of this month, I shall be located in the capital of Right Thinking People (London) until the 24^th. At that point I’ll be boarding an æroplane and returning to my beloved wife here in damp, dark, dank Burnaby. Bleah…

Whilst in the New Jerusalem, however, things such as this, these, and this shall be visited, in between regular consulting of this information, occasional glances at this, and — inevitably — some important consultation of this so as to experience the area in all its forms and incarnations.

I hope to have several business meetings with people in London during the period, as this is an invaluable opportunity to [ahem] press the flesh, as well as meet people whose writing I love and/or intend to publish.

Also likely is some merry jape / caper-like activities. One hopes, at least.

If there is no other goal in mind, there is at least the locating of things such as those outlined in Christopher Fowler’s blog entry here.

I am taking a brand-new, tiny, little laptop with me [see photo, left] and — in conjunction with consulting the ‘free London Wi-Fi’ map above — shall be attempting to summarise events and/or experiences on a fairly steady basis. If nothing else, it will give me a reason to not follow some skin-head into the depths of Soho to locate “the fellah who can gets you any-fing you’se can imagine, and sum fings you can’t… if you receive my meanings, Guv?”

Release the hounds…!

Tags: Architecture, ASUS Eee PC 1000H, British Library, British Museum, British Museums and Libraries and Galleries, Christopher Fowler, London, More Pubs, Museum, National Gallery, pubs, Tate Modern