According to this piece on author Christopher Fowler’s blog, the collective area in London referred to as Bloomsbury, Holborn, and St. Giles is being “re-branded” in an initiative started by the Business Improvement District; a public/private partnership with Camden Council. Knowing how ‘wonderful’ the PPP arrangement can be from first-hand experience (as well as knowing how nefarious their committee-determined plans can be), one is hardly surprised to hear the new name is “InMidTown”, or simply “MidTown”. Presumably, becuase it’s in the middle of London, right between “The City of London”, where the Financial District is, and the West End where the theatres are. Let’s ignore the fat that they’re cramming words together that ought to have spaces between them but don’t because it’s ‘teh neu sexie’, and press on to more basic questions.

While not in the habit of quoting US Presidents, especially the late Pres. Johnson, one can’t help but recall the grammatically unique statement “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” Merely because an area has been referred to using the same name for a century or more doesn’t qualify it immediately for a newly christened label purely to ‘refresh its marketability’. “Rome” seems to do well, as does “Paris” and even “Swansea”. Granted, “New Amsterdam” and “Constantinople” got a new lick of paint at one point, but given that “New York City” was more in keeping with its then-recent influx of English-born settlers, this made sense*. Bloomsbury, Holborn, and St Giles, however, all work perfectly well, and aid in locating where the tube station will deposit one on the street; on some of the A-Z maps it’s actually easier to find a district by seeking the tube station named for it.

Frankly, how anyone can find it difficult to learn the District Names is beyond me. I’ve only visited London (or ‘Londinium’, for those of you born of the Roman occupation era… no names here) two times, and both of about a week’s length with over 18 months betwixt them. In that time I’ve not only learned how to navigate my way through a fair chunk of the central areas, I even learned their names; and in some cases the derivation thereof, which went a fair way to aid in the matter.

I’ve nothing against change; far from it. However if it’s change purely for the sake of, or to assist in selling the same old wine in the same old skin with a brand-new name… well, one wonders just how good the seller thinks the wine is. If it’s all that great, then why was the name change needed? If a dog food company is erroneously thought to be using horse-meat in its product, then they eventually (and quietly) change their name to disassociate themselves from the scandal. In this case, I can’t think of a sexier place to live than Bloomsbury, with its literary heritage and air of artisan-driven business success. Granted, some might consider the fact that all of the Bloomsbury Group was sleeping with just about everyone else in the Bloomsbury Group might be a bit of a down-side to the image, but played right it could be quite the asset in this brave new world of ours. “Romance! Intrigue! Passion! All these can be yours, plus a new Post Code! (10% of purchase as deposit required)”.

It all seems so un-necessary, really. One wonders if the local Councils just need some bucking-up and reassurance that “we love you, really!” and be encouraged to “be proud of who you are!”

BAH! Ridiculous. All those who are opposed to my thoughts are encouraged to bring forth brandy for mne to drink whilst you explain your reasons for doing so.

* Why “Istanbul” was seen as being required for the “Welcome to…” signs is nobody’s business but the Turks’.

Tags: Bloomsbury, Bloomsbury Group, borough, Camden, Holborn, InMidTown, London, MidTown, name change, St Giles

By the sea, by the sea,
by the beautiful sea!

But first, we have to get there. Off to St. Pancras International Station – with easily the most uncomfortable public seating in the known world – to locate the Chiltern Railways run headed the right direction, and an hour later I’m in Brighton! Hooray!

While I’m getting there the old-fashioned way, you can get there in a matter of four minutes (plus another 60 seconds to find a comfortable seat before the train gets started and some time to catch your breath at the other end).

So… now that you’ve arrived – and so have I – let’s go to the World HorrorCon, shall we?

The international event in Brighton went quite well. It was fascinating to have the opportunity to see a clash of cultures in microcosm with the self-driven positive promotion of the American attendees – wearing their emotions very much on the surface of the moment – with the members of England’s delegation who tended to be of a more restrained and humble demeanour – and very much leant to the ‘it’s a pleasing moment’ when expressing their incredible joy. While expected, the contrast was considerably more distinct than anticipated. During the closing ceremonies, the event was described as ‘the best ever’, ‘very very very good’, the “red shirt” helpers running around doing the little things required to ensure events ran smoothly ‘worked really incredibly hard doing a huge amount of difficult work’, the artists who were displayed in an exhibition were “the finest artists working in the world today’ and the display was ‘the best exhibition ever’, and people attending were thanked for ‘travelling incredible distances’ to ensure that this was ‘truly a proper World event of incredible proportions and diversity’.

Hyperbole injection, anyone?

Following the Stoker Awards ceremony, at least one UK person was heard to describe the affair as ‘clearly an attempt to out-do Hollywood’ with its use of video-taped message from the Chair of the AHA – an attempted high-production affair which was plagued by badly synced sound and an already reverb-laden recording being played on a sound system in a reverb-laden room, at too low a volume to hear properly anyway, with incredibly slow pacing, albeit with rather attractive costuming and a fine example of a rack… and the set dressing had some nice torture devices as well – as well as a few grumbles about ‘and there was all this clapping you had to do, as if you bloody cared about all these people you’ve never heard of; WOO! WOO-HOOOO! all the bloody time… and then you had to stand-up… PFAH! I don’t think I’ll go to another fucking awards thing ever again!’

I, on the other hand, have often noticed and enjoyed the dignified restraint of the UK-held events where ‘excellence’ is recognized, yet completely understand the outbursts of enthusiasm during American-held ones. This may explain better than any other way what sort of people Canadians are. Flexible, easy-going, adaptable. We see both sides, respect and understand the differences, and celebrate the diversity of human behaviour.

Either that or we simply are obsequious bastards who need to be loved by everyone.

The afternoon of leaving Brighton, I toured the Pavilion [exterior image, right; sadly, no pictures are allowed inside], which was INCREDIBLE. Both Crazy Legs and Christopher Fowler were quite right to say/command that “one must visit it”. The overt-sensuality and explosion of Chinoisery of the Banquet and Music Halls were perfectly off-set by the less temperate elegance of the Salon and Music Gallery. Much of the building seems to be open to viewing, but there are no doubt treasures that remain out of sight.

The gardens could be improved, but there was no mention of them ever being a remarkable thing to the eye during either its use by the Prince of Wales/Regent/King George the IV or Queen Victoria. Given the beauty within its walls, it might not have been seen as necessary to have outdoor works of visual splendour. ‘Splendour’ certainly is not in short supply there, that’s for sure.

NEXT POST: more about the World HorrorCon itself, as well as its events.

Tags: authors, books, Brighton, convention, hotel, London, rail, Royal Pavilion, World HorrorCon

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 trip to the UK provided a number of things which challenged me to view as things over which I had no control, and therefore had to accept their results without judgement. For instance, the trial resulting from the auto-mobile accident concluded with the jury returning a verdict of ‘not guilty’ for the individual charged. Knowing neither the exact wording of the charge nor any evidence or argumentative points raised when I was not actually in the court room, one can do nothing but accept that the conclusion was the just and universally acceptable one in the view of those in the best position to make that judgement. So goes life.

A second lesson in this was the Federal Election whilst in the Mother Country. The Canadian people participated in the typical democratic franchise method and returned the Conservative Party of Canada to the Lower House of Parliament to a minority government with a larger block of seats than was theirs previously. I was surprised, and yet, there it was. Again, better to accept than comprehend the ‘why?’ of the matter. We had a Provincial Election on Tuesday, complete with a referendum which, if passed, would have changed the process to a Single Transferable Vote method similar to that of Ireland or New Zealand. Again, results were not as I had both anticipated and hoped would be the case. Ah-well.

The third lesson from last autumn’s trip about how to accept that which one cannot change involved the publishing company Humdrumming, Ltd. At the time of the trip I was the titular Acting President and C.E.O. of the company, even though not being a resident of Her Majesty’s ‘green and pleasant land’ of England (which is odd, given the company was specifically registered in England and Wales). Less than a month following my return to the outer colonies, I was no longer in any way connected with the company for which I had pushed myself to the outer limits of success during almost the entire previous three years without a single cent of remuneration.

While I was entirely dedicated to the blossoming of the firm, and approached it as a corporate entity in both policy and procedure. Books should be got to both paying customers and people reviewing books promptly and without delay, and dealers who had taken delivery of books would either promptly pay or be hounded until they did so. My 100% assignment of waking hours to this effort was increasingly not shared by others, with the eventual result that the company was in a position of insolvency and the decision was to declare this officially to the world, effectively ‘lock the shop doors’ until things had got sorted out, and then see where things stood. Because I tried for the foregoing six months to ensure that state was avoided, yet was foiled in that attempt; and to declare such a state is tantamount to shoving a big sign out on the roof saying “Person in Charge Has No Clue; Apply Within as Replacement if Interested”, if not at least saying you’ve lost track of where you are and are so lost you can’t keep going and sort things at the same time. In the world of Big Corporate Business, ‘re-organization’ is another way of saying “the person in charge is out the door”, as in the case of President Obama telling the C.E.O. of GM to step down a few moths ago.

Any of those matters were enough to justify my resignation from the firm, and all of them together left me no choice but to leave, swallowing a good three-to-five thousand dollars of non-compensated expenses in the process.

So… whither the Colonial now?

Back to the fray, it seems. Yes, why leave well enough alone when one can continue the inane concept that it’s possible to make money at this publishing game. More tomorrow that’s more official…!

Tags: atomic fez, Federal Election, Humdrumming, London, Publishing