Blood and Porridge – Page 2 – Ian Smith's blog on WordPress

December 25, 2024December 25, 2024

Christmas in Khao Lak

It’s been years since I last spent Christmas in a place where, around December 25^th, it’s actually cold. For most of the past decade, I’ve experienced the festive season in a country close to the equator, such as Sri Lanka or Singapore, where the temperature outside has been over 30 degrees.

For that reason, on Christmas Day, I customarily post a few photos whereby Christmas trees and decorations, bearing wintry images of snow, ice and reindeer, appear against a backdrop of tropical beaches and palm trees. And I write a few lines where I marvel, “Isn’t this weird?”

Well, my partner and I have just spent two weeks in southern Thailand, in the town of Khao Lak, and here yet again is a picture of something Christmassy juxtaposed with something far removed from the snowy north of the world. This time the photo is of a Khao Lak restaurant that had a Christmas tree standing beside two Thai spirit houses – San Phra Phum, as they’re known locally. These are the miniature buildings you see outside nearly every Thai home and business, held aloft on wooden pillars like bird-tables, often fragranced by smouldering incense sticks and garlanded with flowers. Their purpose is to provide accommodation for the spirits residing on the premises and to keep those spirits contented, so that they don’t move into the human building and cause ghostly high-jinks there.

Inside the spirit house, you get things such as a representation of the angel-like Hindu deity Phra Chai Mongkol, who bears a sword and a bag of money, presumably to ensure protection and good fortune for the house’s ethereal inhabitants; human figures to keep the spirits company; dolls’-house-style pieces of furniture for the spirits’ comfort; and possibly models of horses and elephants, to help them get around. I’ve even seen spirit houses cluttered with model cars and toy figures, presumably to give the spirits something to play with; and ones bedecked with strings of coloured lights, presumably to allow the spirits illumination after nightfall.

While in Khao Lak, I looked for spirit houses that had miniature Christmas trees and decorations put inside them so that the spirits could experience the festive season too. But I didn’t see any. Just as well. I don’t think the spirits would appreciate the gesture. Imposing Christmas on them would be a step too far in terms of Westernisation.

Meanwhile, the hotel we were staying at put on a lavish Christmas display in its front yard. I particularly liked the display’s Christmas tree, which had been assembled out of beer bottles. Alcohol is the only thing that makes the festive season bearable for many people, so a Christmas tree celebrating beer seems very fitting.

On the other hand, I have to say the display’s Santa Claus was the most hideous and evil-looking representation of the old fellow I’ve ever seen. Not only was he wildly cross-eyed, but his face – what could be seen of it above the beard – was a patch of putrid, decomposing brown mush. I really hope this thing didn’t climb down anyone’s chimney last night.

Anyway – a Merry Christmas to you all.

December 23, 2024

Bali bits and pieces

My partner and I have just been in Thailand. But before I put anything on my blog about that, I suppose I’d better post this last instalment about our experiences in Bali…

Taman Ayun Temple

This was our first stop on a tour we did with a spritely, 60-something Balinese guide who spoke English with an Australian accent – the result of years ferrying Australian tourists around the island’s attractions. Also, his raspy tones made him sound like an Australian Keith Richards. Appropriately, he complained about how life had been in Indonesia during the brutal military regime of General Suharto, who among his many sins had banned Western rock music. Our guide recalled the joy of being able to listen to the likes of Led Zeppelin and AC/DC after Suharto’s departure in 1998.

Unlike the Balinese mountain and coastal temples we visited, Taman Ayun Temple was sedate in its topography. Its buildings, compounds, stone-tiled paths, lawns, gardens, trees and green-painted, Victorian-style lampposts were arranged over a flat strip of ground contained within a long, narrow, U-shaped waterway. But I liked it because we arrived early, before other tourists, and had the premises to ourselves. I especially liked wandering the sides of the complex and looking across the water – tall, thin, poplar trees spearing it with their reflections. And at the temple’s far end were paths leading into some woodland with immensely fibrous and creepered banyan trees. That part was the closest I got to exploring Bali’s nature during our holiday.

Typically for Balinese temples, there were tapering, tiered pagodas shaped like stacks of ceramic bushings you’d find in an electrical substation. And at the end of the circuit we made around Taman Ayun, we encountered a display-area that was half-gallery, half-museum. In addition to many traditional and modern paintings, it had on show a trio of shaggy Balinese demon costumes. These included one of Rangda, whom Wikipedia describes as “the demon queen of the Leyaks in Bali… Terrifying to behold, the child-eating Rangda leads an army of evil witches against… the forces of good.”

Coffee Plantation

We’d known a coffee plantation was included on our tour itinerary. Unfortunately beforehand, we hadn’t given it much thought – or done any research.

We were shown around the plantation and ended up in a treehouse-café that resembled Tarzan’s jungle home in one of the old movies featuring Johnny Weissmuller. It looked particularly Tarzan-esque because of a catwalk that snaked from it, through the treetops, to a platform where you could take photos of the adjacent mountains, round, blue and caressed by tufts of passing cloud. In the café we were presented with 17 little tasting glasses containing 17 differently flavoured and coloured coffees, teas and other plantation-produced drinks.

What soured our experience there was the sudden appearance of a luwak, a type of civet used extensively in the production of ‘luwak coffee’. The process, to quote a somewhat ungrammatical information sign at the plantation, goes like this: “Luwak eats coffee beans that are still intact… Through the luwak digestive system, undergoes natural chemical treatment, fermenting in the stomach and come out with excrement… The taste very unique! Fermentation in the luwak stomach make low caffeine. It has rich flavour like almond chocolate taste and very smooth.” In other words, luwak coffee is made from beans eaten, digested and shat out by luwaks, which supposedly have less caffeine but a richer, smoother, more chocolatey taste.

A plantation staff-member brought a luwak around the café’s tables so the visitors could look at it. The poor beast seemed befuddled. Worse, when it was brought to us, the luwak panicked, sprang out of the staff-member’s hands onto my left arm, clambered across my shoulders and descended my right arm before being captured again. Upset by this, my partner consulted her smartphone. She discovered that luwaks should be fed on a varied diet of fruit, seeds and insects, not the monotonous, nutritiously-deficient diet of coffee beans they get at the plantations. They’re also confined to small cages and, as shy, nocturnal animals, being displayed to tourists during the daytime traumatises them.

I know – in all cultures, animals used in the production of food are usually treated cruelly. I’m well aware of that, being from a farming background. But the poor old luwaks could at least be spared the indignity of being dragged from their cages, during daytime, for tourists to gawk at. If we’re in Bali again, we’ll make sure coffee plantations aren’t on the itineraries of any tours we do.

Ulun Danu Beratan Temple

This temple complex was beautifully sited on the shore of Lake Beratan in central Bali. The view you got from it across the water was, basically, a rhapsody in blue: the shimmering, rippling, glassy blue of the lake, the solider green-blue of the Bedugul Mountains rising above the lake’s far rim, the crystal-clear blue of the sky. Also, horticulturalists would love the place even if they didn’t walk as far as the temple-buildings. The approach was gorgeously landscaped with lawns, flowerbeds, flowery borders and neatly groomed trees.

After our experiences a few days earlier at the tourist-infested Lempuyang Temple, it was a relief to be in a Balinese temple that was busy mainly with local people. Crowds of them, both adults and children, had assembled wearing white sarongs and red senteng (shawls bound around the waist) and white or red udeng (traditional Balinese male headdress). Not all the locals had gathered for religious purposes – for, at the lakeshore, a squad of boys were using fishing rods, their lines out in the water among the water-lilies and between the moored wooden boats. However, there were still a few foreigners around. One hideous spectacle that stuck in my mind took place at a stage where folk were invited to don historical Balinese costumes and pose for photographs – a Western lady, no doubt an influencer, had tricked herself out as a Balinese princess and was posing for picture after picture with a nauseating, full-of-herself smile on her visage.

A little disconcertingly, along the shore from the temple buildings, the complex became more family-friendly, with the statues of traditional Balinese deities and mythological creatures giving way to Disney-esque ones of animals: fish, peacocks, parrots. There were also bird-headed paddleboats and even a little compound where youngsters could hang out with and cuddle large fluffy rabbits. Oh well. I suppose parents visiting the temple appreciated it having attractions to keep the kids occupied too.

Jatiluwih Rice Terraces

We stopped for lunch at an eatery that was in the middle of this UN World Heritage Site. It’s prized for the traditional rice fields that occupy the multiple terraces scaling its hillsides. When we stopped at a booth to buy our entry tickets for the area, I noticed a sign on the booth listing possible activities on the terraces and the prices that doers of those activities needed to pay. The list of activities ran up to the shooting of movies in the area, by foreign directors, which cost vast amounts of Indonesian rupiah. (The rupiah was currently worth 0.000088 Singaporean dollars, so a lot of zeroes were involved.) Shooting a movie there with a local director was slightly less expensive. As far as I know, the famous shots of Julia Roberts pedalling her bicycle through the rice-fields in Eat, Pray, Love (2010) – or, as I prefer to think of it, Watch, Gag, Puke – were not filmed here.

After we’d eaten, we ventured along a footpath leading in amid the expanses of rice. The rice-fields occupied a slightly-undulating plain of green and yellow, occasionally carved up by lines of trees, which stretched off towards distant, broad mountains. The path was bordered by a channel, full of water, and the edge of the adjacent rice-field collapsed over it, the plants dipping their golden heads in the water as if drinking it.

This tour took place on Tumpek Landep Day in Bali, which according to balispirit.com is “a ceremonial day at which offerings are made for objects that are made of metal,” which nowadays include “cars and motorbikes… Most Balinese people truly believe that these ceremonies and blessings will bring them luck and keep them safe in traffic.” Thus, as we drove around, we saw multiple vehicles – stationary and in motion – with charms and rosettes fixed on their bodywork, dangling long, dried strands of coconut-palm leaves.

However, these vehicular decorations didn’t sway the police in the city of Ubud, where we were staying. When Balinese / Australian Keith Richards returned us there at the tour’s end, we noticed some 4x4s that were naughtily parked in ‘no parking’ areas along the sides of the main street. To chastise them, the local cops were letting all the air out of their tyres.

Nyang Nyang Beach

We visited this beach three days later, after we’d relocated from Ubud to Uluwata. Its main attraction was the claim it was very cut-off and secluded. A taxi dropped us above the beach. From there we had to descend a long, very steep road that dropped down through a deep cleft cut out of the shoreline’s rock. The sun blazed from the strip of sky visible above. The road looked like it’d be an ordeal to walk up again, but our plan was to follow the beach to its far end, from which, supposedly, a flight of steps climbed back to civilisation. At the bottom of the road we found a parking lot and a ramshackle bar. From there, we stepped down onto the beach itself.

It was busier than we’d expected, both with bronzed teenaged and 20-something bodies lying on the sand sunbathing – or in a few instances, sitting straight-backed, meditating – and with a pod of surfers out on the water, each awaiting his or her turn to ride in on each big wave that passed by. A little way down the beach, we found another ramshackle bar – just a shed with a two solid walls and two open sides, a couple of fridges, an icebox, some clunky old wooden tables and chairs, and battered metal signs advertising rum, mojitos and something called ‘Friendship Coffee Vodka’. We stopped there for a rest. Nearby, a Balinese guy was operating a film camera, pointed in the direction of the surfers. They ‘d hired him to film their surfing antics, clips of which would later be uploaded to their social media accounts.

Then we walked further. The other holidaymakers disappeared behind us and we definitely felt the vibe of solitude and isolation that’d drawn us here. Disappointingly, though, Nyang Nyang Beach still had some gunk washed up on its sands: plastic bottles, bottle-tops, cartons, cups and cutlery, and flip-flops and shoe-soles.

At the beach’s far end we found a little old man with an icebox who was selling water, Coca Cola and beer. He showed us the flight of steps, which he proudly told us he went up and down several times a day. Actually, the ‘steps’ were a chaotic track of rocks, earth and rubble, an assault course rather than a staircase, which wound its way up through the vegetation covering the cliff-face. Hurriedly changing our plans, we thanked the old man and made our back along the beach to the bottom of the super-steep road. Luckily, another old guy there with a motorbike offered a ‘taxi’ service – for a fee of 25,000 rupiah, he’d shuttle you up to the top of the road on the back of his bike. My partner rode up with him first.

While waiting for the motorbike to return, I had a quick beer in the bar beside the parking lot. A slogan had been graffiti-ed on a timber column there: ‘F**K EVERYTHING AND BECOME A PIRATE’. Pirates, I thought sourly. That’s what all you wee influencer / Instagramming surf-boys out there are. Modern-day pirates.

Aye, right.

December 12, 2024December 23, 2024

Jim Mountfield joins the swan song

© Midnight Street Press

Jim Mountfield, the pseudonym under which I write horror stories, has just had another work published in an anthology. This comes soon after two other Mountfield short stories were included in the anthologies Nightmare Fuel: Body Horror 2024 (in October) and Monster: Underdog Anthology 2024 (in November). The new story appears in Swan Song: The Final Anthology, just published by Trevor Denyer’s Midnight Street Press. Though I’m pleased about this, the experience is also bittersweet because Swan Song is the final book or magazine to come from Midnight Street Press and marks Trevor’s last work as a publisher, though I’m sure he’ll continue as a writer and poet.

Trevor started publishing in 1998 with Immediate Direction Publications, the original incarnation of Midnight Street Press, and the first thing he produced was the magazine Roadworks. In summer 2001, my story Hound Dog Blues turned up in Issue 12 of Roadworks. It was inspired by a 1995 court-case in my southern-Scottish hometown of Peebles involving a mate of mine, which ended up overturning the United Kingdom’s ‘Dangerous Dogs’ legislation of 1991, in Scotland at least. A judge couldn’t determine whether or not my mate’s dog, a mongrel called ‘Slitz’, qualified as being a dangerous breed, as some had claimed, and declared the legislation not fit for purpose. Anyway, the resulting Hound Dog Blues could best be described as ‘Irvine Welsh meets Stephen King’s Cujo (1981)’.

A year later, when Immediate Directions Publications also put out a fantasy magazine called Legend, I managed to place a story, Her Web, in it too. Her Web was a milestone for me because it was my first-ever fantasy story to get into print. In recent years, I’ve had quite a few fantasy stories published under the pseudonym Rab Foster, so the appearance in Legend set the ball rolling there.

© Midnight Street Press

I’m grateful to Trevor Denyer for publishing those two stories when he did because it gave me a break when my morale really needed it. The early 2000s was a period when, as a writer, I often felt I couldn’t get myself arrested, let alone published. I remember staring almost disbelievingly at his acceptance letters. (At that time, it was still a thing to post physical manuscripts to publishers, making sure you’d included the all-important stamped, self-addressed envelope in which an editor would send a reply saying ‘yay’ or ‘nay’.)

That was also back when my nom de plume wasn’t Jim Mountfield or Rab Foster, but Eoin Henderson. I’m superstitious, and when I was having little luck getting stuff published under that pseudonym, I changed to others. Since then, I’ve had reasonable runs of luck with Jim Mountfield and Rab Foster, so I expect to remain being them for a while longer.

Later, after Immediate Direction Publications had changed into Midnight Street Press, further stories of mine saw print in Trevor’s yearly magazine Hellfire Crossroads and in his anthologies Strange Days (2020) and Railroad Tales (2021). These include two stories that are among my favourites of what I’ve written. The Next Bus appeared in Issue 4 of Hellfire Crossroads in 2014 and was about a tourist who finds himself stuck at a remote bus-stop with a homicidal maniac wanting to make a life-or-death wager on when the titular next bus will arrive. I don’t drive and depend on public transport to get around, so the story expressed my frustration at spending much of my life waiting at bus stops, wondering when the bloody bus is going to come.

I also really liked The Groove, which appeared in the subsequent issue of Hellfire Crossroads, as it wasn’t only about horror but about another topic close to my heart, music. It had a lover and connoisseur of music getting his revenge from beyond the grave on his widow – her musical tastes begin and end with Mariah Carey, Phil Collins, Whitney Houston, Bryan Adams, Robbie Williams and Celine Dion, so you know she’s evil – when she schemes to enrich herself by rewriting his will, getting her hands on his massive record collection and selling it off on eBay. Not only that, but she befouls her husband’s memory by playing Robbie Williams’ Angels (1997) at his funeral.

Earlier this year, Trevor brought out a new magazine called Roads Less Travelled, but that didn’t do as well as expected and led to his decision to close Midnight Street Press as a publishing concern (though not as a retailer – its past publications can still be purchased from its website). Swan Song: The Final Anthology contains the stories he’d planned to publish in future issues of Roads Less Travelled, had the magazine been a success. These stories include a horror / science-fiction number by myself, as Jim Mountfield, entitled The House of Glass, which owes something to the work of H.P. Lovecraft. However, it’s set among the non-Lovecraftian landscapes of Sri Lanka, the country where I lived from 2014 to 2022.

Containing 20 stories of horror, dark fantasy, science fiction and slipstream, Swan Song is available at Amazon UK here and Amazon US here. And to browse Midnight Street Press’s voluminous back catalogue, visit its website here.

© Midnight Street Press

December 10, 2024

The literary Bond revisited: The Spy Who Loved Me

© Vintage Books

First published in 1962, The Spy Who Loved Me is the ninth of Ian Fleming’s James Bond novels and holds several records in the Bond literary canon. It clocks in at 198 pages, making it the shortest Bond book. It was also the last book to appear in a world that knew Bond as a literary and not a cinematic character, because its publication came just six months before the release of Dr No, the first Bond movie produced by Cubby Broccoli and Harry Saltzman. And it was the worst-received of the books. The Daily Telegraph reacted to it with a despairing “Oh Dear Oh Dear Oh Dear!”, the Listener dismissed it as ‘unremittingly’ and ‘grindingly boring’ and the Observer demanded, “why can’t this cunning author write up a bit instead of down?”

Once the critics had stuck in their knives, Fleming himself disowned the book. He asked his publisher not to print a paperback edition of it, a request honoured until two years after his death. He also stipulated that any movie version of The Spy Who Loved Me could never use the book’s plot, only its title.

I’m sure that 15 years later when Cubby Broccoli got around to filming The Spy Who Loved Me, he was distraught about this. “You mean,” lamented the cigar-puffing mogul, “I can’t follow what happens in the book? I have to put other stuff in my movie instead? Like cars that travel underwater? Giant oil-tankers that swallow nuclear submarines? Roger Moore skiing over a clifftop and saving himself with a Union Jack parachute? No! NO!”

© Eon Productions

Well, I’ve finally read the original, much-maligned The Spy Who Loved Me. My initial reaction was Ian Fleming at least deserved credit for venturing off the beaten track. Fans of his previous eight books were surely surprised when they started reading it in 1962 and discovered they were hearing a first-person narrative voice rather than Fleming’s usual, authoritative, third-person one. “I was running away,” it begins. “I was running away from England, from my childhood, from the winter, from a sequence of untidy, unattractive love-affairs, from the few sticks of furniture and jumble of overworn clothes that my London life had collected around me; and I was running away from the drabness, fustiness, snobbery and claustrophobia of close horizons and from my inability, though I am quite an attractive rat, to make headway in the rat-race. In fact, I was running away from almost everything except the law.”

The first-person voice is that of Viv Michel, a young French-Canadian woman who’s been left in charge of a closed-for-the-winter motel called The Dreamy Pines Motor Court in the mountains of northern New York State. After a first chapter where Viv doesn’t cope well with a thunderstorm raging above the motel’s empty cabins, playground, swimming pool and golf range – she stupidly pulls an electrical switch at the same moment that a bolt of lightning lets rip, and the resultant electrical shock knocks her unconscious – she spends the next eighty pages explaining how she’s ended up in this situation.

She describes her early life in Canada; being sent to a finishing school in England where she “was made to suffer agonies” for her accent, for her table manners “which were considered uncouth”, for her “total lack of savoir-faire and, in general, for being a Canadian”; and finding work in London while suffering the afore-mentioned “sequence of untidy, unattractive love affairs”. After the last affair results in her having an abortion in Switzerland, she returns to North America, where she resolves to search for adventure and self-discovery and shake off the memories of the men who’ve used and abused her. So she purchases a Vespa 150cc Gran Sport and sets off on a road trip. It’s on the road that she comes across the Dreamy Pines Motor Court, where she gets offered employment; first as an end-of-season receptionist and then, when it closes for the winter, as a caretaker minding the premises until its owner, one Mr Sanguinetti, arrives to take possession of the keys.

Viv’s position at the Dreamy Pines feels slightly like that of Jack Torrance at the Overlook Hotel in Stephen King’s The Shining (1977) and things soon go as badly for her as they did for the ill-fated Jack. Two hoodlums with the nicknames Sluggsy and Horror show up at the motel in the middle of the night and take her prisoner. It transpires that Sanguinetti is a gangster and the pair are henchmen tasked with burning the place to the ground as part of an insurance scam. Viv, the only witness, looks likely to be torched along with the motel.

It’s here that we encounter the single detail of the book that makes it into the 1977 film ‘adaptation’ with Roger Moore. Looking at Horror’s face, she notices “a glint of grey silvery metal from his front teeth,” indicating that “they had been cheaply capped with steel.” Sound familiar?

© Eon Productions

By now we’re more than halfway into the book. Back in 1962 at this point, readers must have been panicking: where the hell is Bond? Well, he appears at The Dreamy Pines later that same night – Viv’s first impression of him is that he’s “good-looking in a dark, rather cruel way” with a scar that “showed whitely down his left cheek” – and he explains that his car has suffered a flat tyre on the road nearby and he’d like to get a room. He soon wises up to the situation and joins forces with Viv. The next seventy pages play more like a Mickey Spillane novel than a Fleming / Bond one, with considerable running, hiding and shooting before Sanguinetti’s scheme is thwarted and Sluggsy and Horror end up dead at the bottom of the local lake. Then Viv and Bond indulge in some love-making and then, as abruptly and enigmatically as he arrived, Bond slips off again. In the final pages, Viv muses: “He was just a man who had turned up at the right time and then gone on his way.”

Though The Spy Who Loved Me wins kudos for bravely departing from the usual Bond formula, there are moments when seemingly Fleming remembers it’s still a Bond novel and is forced to compromise, with awkward results. He wants Viv to be more believable than the average Bond girl, which is why we see her depicted as a working Londoner. But on the other hand, as a Bond girl, she can’t be too ordinary so she also gets a French-Canadian back-story to make her appear more exotic – the overall effect of which feels contrived. Also, while Fleming wants her to be feisty and independent, he needs her to have a vulnerable side too – to be a credible damsel-in-distress, for whom Bond rides to the rescue as a knight in shining armour. That may explain the opening chapter where she panics during the storm and, frankly, comes across as a dolt.

And to make up for Bond’s late entrance into the plot, Fleming feels obliged to bring his readers up to speed on what Bond’s been doing in the meantime; so we get the telling of a previous Bond adventure. In a twelve-page chapter entitled Bedtime Story, Bond explains to Viv in detail how he ended up on the road that night. He was driving south after an operation in Toronto wherein he and the Canadian Mounties prevented the assassination of a Russian defector by the KGB and SPECTRE. By this point, Bond and Viv know the extreme danger posed by Sluggsy and Horror, so you’d think they’d have other things to focus on besides telling stories.

One thing I found surprisingly impressive about The Spy Who Loved Me is Viv’s account of her love-life in London. It’s as far removed as possible from the fantasy romance / sex scenes associated with the Bond novels. Just out of school, she gets involved with a youth called Derek Mallaby, whose posh, confident veneer hides, temporarily, the fact that (a) he’s desperate for sex and (b) he’s clueless about how to have sex. What follows is a painful tale set in the England of “drabness, fustiness, snobbery and claustrophobia” that existed before the 1960s started swinging and the permissive era arrived. The only privacy Viv and Derek can find for making love is in a small balcony-box at a cinema, “a meagre-looking place, showing two westerns, a cartoon and so-called ‘News’ that consisted of what the Queen had been doing a month ago.” Their attempted lovemaking, on the floor with Derek on top “in a dreadful clumsy embrace”, is anything but sensual and ends abruptly when a furious cinema manager bursts in on them: “Filthy little brats…! I’ve a damned good mind to call the police. Indecent exposure. Disturbing the peace.”

Barely articulate about what they’re trying to do, relying on strained expressions like ‘doing it’ and ‘being a sport’, and not even knowing what a condom is called and having to describe it to a shop assistant as “one of those things for not having babies”, Viv and Derek are products of a repressed, joyless, monochrome Britain that the Bond novels, with their exotic glamour and glitzy hedonism, were supposed to give readers of the era an escape from. No wonder The Spy Who Loved Me pissed so many of those readers off.

Once Viv and Derek have properly ‘done it’ a few times, Derek proves to be a cad and dumps her. She then gets into a second relationship with a German man called Kurt, which culminates in her getting pregnant, having an abortion and being dumped a second time. Kurt “had inherited strong views about mixed blood… and when he married, it would be into the Teutonic strain.” Fleming’s well-known dislike of Germans is on full display here.

This part of the book is so interesting because it suggests Fleming, a writer not noted for his empathy with women, is trying for once to think outside his normal male-chauvinist box and identify with a female character having a hard time in a world populated with predatory, shitty men.

Alas, this is rendered null and void later when Bond, hardly un-predatory and un-shitty himself, turns up and Viv promptly goes doe-eyed and weak-kneed at the sight of him; implying that Viv’s problem wasn’t men, it was just the absence of a fully-fledged alpha male like Bond to satisfy / tame her.

And, late on, Fleming truly sabotages his cause when Viv comes out with this jaw-dropping assertion: “All women love semi-rape. They love to be taken.” These ten words have rightly earned Fleming and The Spy Who Loved Me much opprobrium and they undo whatever good work he did with his depiction of Viv earlier in the book. I’d like to say they show an attitude towards women that’s wildly and rightly out-of-date nowadays – but of course in these Trumpian times, the era of Andrew Tate and Conor McGregor, there’s probably loads of male influencer-wankers out there in the so-called ‘manosphere’ who’d agree with Fleming’s sentiment.

In the end, I have no reason to disagree with the many people who label The Spy Who Loves Me the weakest of the Bond novels. The contradiction at its heart, that it’s a Bond story and yet wants to be something other than a Bond story, makes it uneven and inconsistent. And it’s all over the place in its sexual politics and, at worst, those politics are unspeakable.

But it deserves a little respect for attempting to do something out-of-the-ordinary, and thanks to Fleming’s always-amenable prose it’s an easy-enough read. And, in parts, hints of a better book glimmer through. It’s The Spy Who Tried Something Different.

© Penguin Books

December 4, 2024

Jim Mountfield racks up another one

© Stygian Lepus

I grew up on a farm. In fact, I grew up on two farms, one in Northern Ireland and the other in Scotland. So when I write fiction, farms are a common setting for my stories. That includes scary stories, which I write under the pseudonym Jim Mountfield.

A big inspiration for my ‘farm-horror’ stories was a 2005 Irish film called Isolation, written and directed by Billy O’Brien. It’s about a lonely and financially-pressed farmer forced to take the filthy lucre of a bio-genetics company and let them experiment on his cattle. Being a horror film, this doesn’t result in faster-growing livestock as the company hopes but some nightmarishly malformed, slimy organisms whose alien tissue is soon infecting all living things on the farm, bovine and human. Though it’s not well-known, Infection has a great cast – including two of my favourite Irish actors, John Lynch and Ruth Negga, plus Essie Davis and Sean Harris.

What really impressed me, though, was its bleak agricultural setting, one where soulless concrete animal-sheds and black-tarped silage pits loomed next to decaying barns and lakes of slurry, everything dark and driech in the continuously pissing rain. This made me realise that, at least on a bad-weather day, much modern farming is so grim it’s a horror story even before any monsters show up.

© Film Four / Lions Gate Films / Irish Film Board

Last year, I had three farm-horror stories published – Wool in (the now sadly-defunct) The Sirens Call, The Turnip Thieves in Schlock! Webzine and The Shelter Belt in Witch House. Feeling I’d rather overdone this sub-genre, I didn’t write any more for a while. Until now – for I’ve just had a new, farm-set story published, one featuring the requisite soulless concrete sheds and decaying barns, rain and muck. It’s called Rack and Ruin and appears in the newly-published Issue 19 of The Stygian Lepus.

The original idea for Rack and Ruin came from the roadkill I’d frequently see on the back-road beside my family’s farm in Scotland. One very wet day, walking along that back-road, I encountered some roadkill that’d been so mashed by the wheels of passing cars, and partly-dispersed by the pounding rain, that I had no idea what animal it’d been. I gave the gruesome thing a wide birth as I walked by it. I would have given it an even wider berth if this had happened after I saw Isolation, for it resembled one of the squishy, hellish things in the film.

Rack and Ruin was also influenced slightly by the classic H.P. Lovecraft story, The Colour Out of Space (1927), in which a meteorite crashes in the hills of Massachusetts and releases a strange blight on the surrounding land – the property of a farmer called Nahum Gardner, who subsequently sees his crops and livestock mutate and become uneatable and unsellable and his family members die, disappear, go mad or grow horribly deformed. This is accompanied by the appearance of an indescribable colour that exists outside the visible spectrum.

Lovecraft’s story is told through the eyes of a narrator, a surveyor, who gets the details of the story from one of the Gardners’ neighbours. Thus, there’s little from the perspective of the farming family actually at the centre of the horror. I thought I would try to address this in Rack and Ruin. Farming is tough enough in the real world, being tethered to a piece of ground, toiling at it night and day in all weathers, trying to make a living from it whilst at the mercy of the natural climate and the economic one. Imagine how much worse you’d feel if your precious land was threatened by something inexplicably cosmic in origin.

The Colour Out of Space has been filmed several times and at least one of them, a 2019 version directed and co-written by Richard Stanley, does tell the story from the viewpoint of the Gardners. However, as Nathan Gardner – Stanley’s renamed Nahum Gardner – is played by Nicolas Cage, he hardly behaves like any farmer I’ve ever met. The scene where Cage freaks out after discovering his beloved tomatoes have been spoiled by the pesky meteorite is funny, though.

© SpectreVision / RLJE Films

For roughly the next month, my story Rack and Ruin can be read here. And for the contents page of The Stygian Lepus, Issue 19, and access to all its stories and articles, visit here.

December 3, 2024December 4, 2024

Jim Mountfield sheds some tears

© Hiraeth Publishing

Late last month saw the publication of the Samhain 2024 edition of the fiction, non-fiction and poetry magazine The Hungur Chronicles. I’m pleased to say it includes an 8000-word short story of mine called The Tears of the Pontianak. The story is a horror one so, as with all my horror fiction, it’s attributed to the pseudonym Jim Mountfield.

I had the original idea for the story one day while I was exploring Singapore’s impressive Asian Civilisations Museum. A couple of items of antique furniture – beautifully ornate and lacquered and each containing a dozen drawers – caught my eye and got me thinking. I imagined a chest of drawers like these being acquired by a rich man with a lot of guilty secrets in his past, secrets his conscience could only deal with by compartmentalising them and totally shutting them away from his existence now. Not only would the drawers be symbolic of how he’d compartmentalised his life, but they’d somehow have a supernatural power to revive his guilty secrets and force him to confront them.

The Hungur Chronicles is a rebooted version of Hungur, a magazine I wrote stories for back in 2010 and 2011. The reason I hadn’t written for Hungur / The Hungur Chronicles since then is because the publication features “short stories, poems, articles, and illustrations related in some way to vampires.” And until recently I’d found it difficult to come up with a fresh and interesting vampire story. Like zombies, vampires are a staple of horror stories that have been used a zillion times before. It seemed impossible to write about them in a way that wasn’t clichéd.

So, yes, The Tears of the Pontianak isn’t only about a strange chest of drawers. It’s about a vampire. However, the ‘vampire’ in question is something a little out-of-the-ordinary, at least for Western readers. It’s a Pontianak, a malevolent female creature that appears in the folklore of Indonesia, Malaysia and Singapore. Though Pontianaks have different attributes in different places, I went with the Malaysian version of them, which, according to Wikipedia, “depicts them as “vampiric” blood-suckers that dissect through the internal organs of men.” But to link the Pontianak with the other elements in my story, like the haunted chest of drawers and the rich man with a guilty past, I had it feed on something other than blood. I also needed to set the story in Southeast Asia. Thus, The Tears of the Pontianak is a minor milestone for me because it’s my first published story that takes place in Singapore.

Finally, I’m fond of basing fictional characters on gnarly old cinematic character-actors whom I like. For example, ones inspired by James Robertson Justice and James Cosmo have turned up in stories of mine that’ve seen print during the past year. The Tears of the Pontianak contains a character modelled on Michael Smiley, the grizzled Northern Irish character actor whose CV includes roles in several weird, disturbing and violent Ben Wheatley films: Down Terrace (2009), Kill List (2011), A Field in England (2013) and Free Fire (2016). As I’m also grizzled and Northern Irish, and people tell me I’m weird enough to be a character in a Ben Wheatley film, I identify a lot with Smiley. And in The Tears of the Pontianak I pay tribute to him.

© Film4 Productions / BFI / Rook Films / StudioCanal

Containing four additional stories, some poetry and a non-fiction article, and with a striking cover by painter Sandy DeLuca, the Samhain 2024 edition of The Hungur Chronicles can be purchased here.

November 30, 2024December 3, 2024

Favourite Scots words, S – part 2

© Channel Four Films / PolyGram Filmed Entertainment

Today is November 30^th, the feast-day of Andrew the Apostle, now better known as St Andrew, the national saint of Scotland. And seeing as it’s St Andrew’s Day, I will post another instalment of my guide to my favourite words in Scots, the dialect of Middle English still spoken in modern-day Scotland. Like Singlish, the unofficial fifth language of Singapore, there’s a good case for Scots to be considered a language of its own. Indeed, it’s been recognised as such by the Council of Europe’s Charter on Regional and Minority Languages.

In my previous entry, the words I covered began with ‘S’ and I only got as far as ‘snaw’. So here are the rest of the ‘S’-words.

Sneck (n) – the latch or catch used for fastening a gate. Actually, my trusty and much-thumbed copy of the Collins Pocket Scots Dictionary tells me that snib, the mechanism for securing the bolt on a door, is a Scots word too, though I’d always thought it came from standard English. Both sneck and snib can be used as verbs.

Soap dodger (n) – an unhygienic and un-fragrant person who has a deep aversion to soap, baths and showers. I looked up ‘soap dodger’ online and was told it was a general ‘British’ slang-word that appeared around 1990. But I’m sure I’d heard it in Scotland long before that – mainly by fans of arch-enemy Scottish football clubs Glasgow Rangers and Glasgow Celtic, who used it as a term of abuse for each other.

Sodger (n) – a soldier.

Sonsie (adj) – plump, rosy and healthy. This adjective appears in the opening lines of Robert Burns’ poem about Scotland’s premier foodstuff, Address to a Haggis (1786). Saluting the bulging-with-sheep’s-offal haggis, he writes: “Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face / Great chieftain o’ the puddin-race!“

Sook (n) – nothing to do with an Arabic marketplace or commercial district, a sook is a person who sucks up to, those in authority. The term is commonly used for school pupils who grovel shamelessly before their teachers. However, the whole obsequious, cap-doffing, belly-crawling, brown-nosing British establishment could be described as ‘sooks’ because of their behaviour towards the Royal Family.

© Mainstream Publishing

Meanwhile, in his book Scots – The Mither Tongue (1986), Billy Kay identifies the first great sook in history as being James Boswell, the companion, biographer and toady of Dr Samuel Johnson, who was perfectly happy to pander to the Doctor’s anti-Scottish prejudices even though he was Scottish himself. (“I do indeed come from Scotland,” he whined when he first met Johnson. “But I cannot help it.” To which the Doctor snorted contemptuously, “That, Sir, I find, is what a very great many of your countrymen cannot help.”)

Souch (v) – a verb denoting the activity of the wind when it blows in a noisy fashion.

Souter (n) – a shoemaker or cobbler. Famously, Burns used the word as a nickname for a character – a cobbler by trade – in his magnum opus Tam O’Shanter (1791). Souter Johnnie is a drinking buddy of the poem’s titular, dissolute hero. Early in the poem, we see Tam in the pub with “…at his elbow, Souter Johnnie / His ancient, trusty, drouthy cronie / Tam lo’ed him like a very brither / They had been fou for weeks thegither.”

Also, at school, I had a teacher called Mr Souter. But I won’t crack the obvious joke about him talking ‘a lot of cobblers’.

Spaewife (n) – a woman who tells fortunes. The Spaewife is the name of an 1885 poem by Robert Louis Stevenson, in which the narrator plies a spaewife with all manner of philosophical questions (“Hoo a’ things come to be whaur we find them when we try…”, “Why lads are a’ to sell an’ lasses a’ to buy…”, “The reason o’ the cause an’ the wherefore o’ the why…”). However, he keeps getting brushed off with the glib answer, “It’s gey an’ easy spierin’.” (“It’s very easy asking.”)

Spaver (n) – a trouser zip or fly. The now-defunct online Doric Dictionary showed how the word was used with this eye-watering example-sentence: “Help, mither, av nipped ma tadger in ma spaver!”

Speir (v) – as the quote from Stevenson’s The Spaewife indicates above, this means to ask.

Spurtle (n) – a long wooden utensil once used in Scottish cooking, sometimes a spatula for turning over oatcakes, sometimes a stick for stirring porridge. I can’t recall the name of the story it was in, but I vividly remember reading a description of a sheep’s carcass lying on a Scottish hillside with its four stiff legs “sticking up like spurtles”.

Square go (n) – a face-to-face brawl where neither opponent carries a weapon nor has any advantage over the other. Inevitably, this term is used by the psychotic Frank Begbie in Irvine Welsh’s Trainspotting (1993), during his account of a fight he got into in a poolroom: “…this hard c*nt comes in. Obviously f*ckin’ fancied himself, like. Starts staring at me. Lookin’ at me, right f*ckin’ at me, as if to say, ‘Come ahead, square go.’ You ken me, I’m not the type of c*nt that goes looking for f*ckin’ bother, like, but…”

From wikipedia.org / © Moncrief

Stairheid (n) – the top of a flight of stairs. Long ago in urban Scotland, when much of the working-class population lived in close proximity in one or two-bedroom flats in tenement buildings, accessed by steep, stone stairs, a stairhead rammy was what you got when two neighbours – often female – had a falling-out and came to blows.

Stave (v) – to incur an injury by spraining or twisting a limb or digit.

Steamin’ (adj) – one of the many adjectives in Scots for describing a drunk person. (Others include arsed, bevied, bleezin’, blootered, buckled, fou’, gubbered, hingin’, minced, mingin’, miraculous, miracked, mortal, reekin’, reelin’, stocious and wellied.) Steamin’ also spawned the word steamboats: “By the end o’ the night I wis absolutely steamboats!”

Stoater (n) – a person or thing that is especially wonderful, beautiful or excellent. “Donald Trump’s a stoater!” cried nobody in Scotland, ever.

Stob (n) – a wooden post, like one you’d find in a fence.

Stookie (n) – a plaster-of-Paris cast put around a broken limb.

Stour (n) – a black, grimy dust. I’ve seen ‘stour’ used to describe smoke, but it would have be foul, tarry smoke that leaves deposits of dirt over everything. Stourie is the adjective derived from stour.

In my Scottish hometown of Peebles, a stourie-fit – a ‘dusty-foot’ – was someone who wasn’t a native of the town but an incomer. Presumably, their wandering feet had collected much stour before they arrived in pristine, stour-free Peebles. And as the town is a wee bit clannish, your family might have to be settled there for a few generations before your feet were considered less stourie.

Stowed oot (adj) – packed with people. Many times in my youth, I tried to enter a social venue, only to be pushed back by a bouncer who snarled, “Ye cannae come in! We’re stowed oot awreidy!”

Stramash (n) – a disorderly commotion or argument. A word popularised by the late Scottish TV commentator Arthur Montford, famous for his extravagantly checked jackets, who would rarely let a football match go by without referring to some sort of stramash breaking out in the penalty box.

Stushie (n) – a disagreement or row, perhaps not quite of the violent character of a rammy or a stramash. Years ago, In 1992, I remember somebody Scottish remarking on how there’d been “a stushie aboot thon song Ebenezer Goode by the Shamen” (whose chorus was the dodgy-when-heard-out-of-context ‘Ez-er Goode! Ez-er Goode!’). So maybe it approximates to a rumpus or uproar. Sadly, I have never heard people arguing bitterly over the bill for a platter of sushi, so I haven’t had the chance to cry poetically, “There’s a stushie about the sushi!”

Swallie (n) – a drink of alcohol, derived from the word ‘swallow’. A Scottish person offering you a tipple might ask, “Dae ye fancy a wee swallie?” Needless to say, a ‘wee swallie’ is usually anything but wee.

Sweetie wife (n) – not a female spouse who sells confectionery but a person who’s a gossip. Interestingly, the term sweetie wife is normally applied to a man, not a woman.

Swither (v) – to oscillate indecisively between various options or courses of action. During the Covid-19 pandemic, Boris Johnson swithered about whether or not he should impose lockdown on England, with disastrous and tragic results. Of course, Johnson is such a reptile he does something that rhymes with swither too.

From ontheterracing.blogstspot.com

November 14, 2024November 14, 2024

Jim Mountfield goes guising again

Two years ago, under my horror-fiction nom de plume Jim Mountfield, I had a short story called Guising published in an issue of the magazine The Sirens Call. As its title indicates, this story centred on the Scottish Halloween custom of guising, which in the opening paragraphs I described thus:

“Scottish people will tell you that guising isn’t the same as trick-or-treating, though it involves children dressed as ghosts, witches and monsters going to front doors and receiving confectionary or small sums of cash from householders. The Scottish custom is transactional. The children have to earn their rewards. This means putting on a show for whoever they’re visiting. A brief show, admittedly, like telling a story or singing a song. Guising has its roots in the activities long ago of mummers who’d turn up at houses and taverns on special days such as Christmas, Easter, Plough Monday and All Souls’ Day, stage short plays, and afterwards collect money from their audiences…”

Unfortunately, Sirens Call Publications recently ceased business, so I can no longer provide a link to the issue in question.

Well, I’ve just had another Halloween-themed short story published, again as Jim Mountfield and again (mostly) set in Scotland. And there’s more guising in it. This one is called Bag of Tricks and it appears in the collection Monster: Underdog Anthology 24 from Legiron Books. All the stories in Monster involve Halloween and the anthology should have gone on sale a fortnight ago to coincide with October 31^st. However, a last-minute glitch with Amazon meant its appearance was delayed into November.

While the guising in Guising took place in the working-class streets of a small mill-town during the 1970s, the guising in Bag of Tricks is more suburban and up-to-date. It happens in 2023, smartphones are present, and the brattiest kid is dressed as a character from the Saw (2005-23) franchise. The setting is a smart, edge-of-town estate and the guising party is accompanied by adults – in the feral 1970s, kids were allowed to roam free at night, but in the more child-safety-conscious 21^st century, they’re supervised. Those adults have “decided that, because some houses belonged to older folk who remembered how Halloween had been in Scotland before it got Americanised, the children wouldn’t just chant, ‘Trick or treat!’ and expect to receive sweeties. No, they had to be traditional Scottish guisers and perform – delivering a joke, a story, a song – so that they earned the confectionary.”

Obviously, this being a horror story, those guisers get more than they bargained for as the evening progresses.

A bumper beast of a book containing 416 pages and 39 stories from 37 authors, Monster: Underdog Anthology 24 can be purchased as a paperback here, and in its Kindle edition here.

November 13, 2024November 14, 2024

Thom is da bomb

I don’t know when I became a fan of the band Radiohead. They seemed to creep up on me by stealth. I’d been aware of them for years before suddenly, one day, I realised: “Hey! I really like them!”

Appropriately for a band who crept up on me, the first song by them I heard was Creep from their debut album Pablo Honey (1993). Though a massive hit, I didn’t actually like Creep, finding it dull and plodding. My disdain for it was shared by Radiohead themselves, with guitarist Ed O’Brien saying of their performances of the song during the early 1990s: “We seemed to be living out the same four and a half minutes of our lives over and over again. It was incredibly stultifying.”

At this time I worked as a university lecturer in the northern Japanese city of Sapporo. One day in 1995 I received a gift from a cool indie-kid in one of my classes, Yoko Koyama, who’d discovered that despite my outward veneer of grumpiness and grouchiness I was, underneath, a sensitive soul who was heavily into music. The gift was a cassette recording of Radiohead’s newly-released second album, The Bends. I diplomatically accepted it, not expecting to like it much on the basis that I hadn’t been impressed by Creep. But when I listened to it, I thought, “This is actually pretty good.” Not brilliantly good, but definitely good.

Around then, Radiohead visited Sapporo and played a gig, but the night of their concert was one when I had to teach a couple of evening classes at the university. So I missed the chance to see them. The next day, I went into one of my regular Sapporo drinking hangouts, the Beifu-tei Bar, and got talking to a mate of mine, a Scotsman from St Andrews called Stevie Malcolm. Stevie informed me, “Aye, thon English rock band were in here last night after their gig. What dae ye call them? Thingmie-heid.”

“You mean, Radiohead?”

“Aye, Radio-heid!”

I got the impression Stevie had chatted away to Radiohead barely knowing who they were. Though from the band’s unconventional approach to the music industry and their discomfort with the trappings of superstardom, they probably liked chatting to strangers in bars with barely any idea of who they were.

In 1997 Radiohead released their third album OK Computer, which even my snobbiest, most purist music-loving friends, who’d dismissed Pablo Honey and The Bends with a contemptuous flick of the hand, had to admit was an awesome record. It still figures prominently when music publications list the best rock albums of all time and retrospective reviews frequently award it a full five stars. And though subsequent albums – Kid A (2000), Amnesiac (2001), Hail to the Thief (2003), In Rainbows (2007), The King of Limbs (2011) and A Moon Shaped Pool (2016) – never created quite the same stir, and often made demands on the listener by veering off into the avantgarde, experimental and left-field, I’ve found all of them laudable.

It helped that, unlike other bands who at various times were massively loved by audiences and hailed by critics as world-straddling musical colossi, Radiohead never seemed in your face that much. So you didn’t grow sick of them. Whereas for a few years U2 or Oasis, or even REM, seemed to be everywhere in the media, with the result that their ubiquity led to a backlash – the public losing interest, the critics getting disenchanted, familiarity generally breeding contempt – Radiohead were more subtle, less intrusive and lower profile. Perhaps their credibility endured because of that.

Even their appearances in popular culture tended to be wry and quirky and happened in unexpected, and cool, places. For example, I remember the very last episode of Father Ted (1995-98) when the suicidal priest Father Kevin (Tommy Tiernan) gets cured of his depression by Ted playing to him Isaac Hayes’ joyous Theme from Shaft (1971) – only to lapse back into suicidal depression when he hears Radiohead’s Exit Music (For a Film) (1997) playing on the radio in a bus. Or when they turned up in a 2001 episode of South Park called Scott Tenorman Must Die and added a final layer of torment to the unfortunate Scott Tenorman of the title. Scott is a kid who’s been tricked by Eric Cartman into eating the minced bodies of his dead parents. When he discovers what he’s done, he understandably bursts into tears. Just then, his favourite band, Radiohead, happen to stroll past, see him and cruelly mock him for being a ‘cry-baby’.

Anyway, last week on November 5^th, Radiohead’s vocalist and main songwriter Thom Yorke rolled up here in Singapore to play a solo concert as part of his Everything tour. Yorke has a long history of making music on his own, from his 2006 album The Eraser, through 2014’s Tomorrow’s Modern Boxes, to 2019’s ANIMA, and he’s also been involved in a couple of side-bands like Atoms for Peace and The Smile, so it’s not a surprise to find him performing without the rest of Radiohead. I attended the gig accompanied by my better half, Mrs Blood and Porridge, who wouldn’t have missed this occasion for the world. She’s such a dyed-in-the-wool Radiohead fan that the other day she even made our cat watch the video for 2016’s Burn the Witch on YouTube.

Yorke played at the Star Theatre, which I’ve visited a couple of times in the past. At previous gigs there, I was not greatly impressed by the crowd, many of whom seemed more interested in filming the event on their phones than getting into the excitement and vibe of the music itself. As I wrote a while ago about a Deep Purple concert: “Why remove yourself from the occasion and gaze zombie-like at tiny figures moving about a tiny stage on a tiny screen…? It’s also, needless to say, disrespectful of the performers onstage… Honestly, there were times when the auditorium was so densely flecked with glowing phone-screens you felt you were flying over Las Vegas at night.” But tonight’s audience, Singaporeans and foreigners alike, seemed to be genuine Radiohead fans and Thom Yorke-lovers who knew the great man wasn’t going to appreciate having a thousand phones pointed at him by a thousand glaikit dimwits. So, thankfully, phone-usage was at a minimum.

It wasn’t the most physical of performances. Yorke spent most of his time on a patch of stage encircled by musical equipment, including several keyboards, and looked like a cross between Rick Wakeman of Yes and Captain Nemo tinkling out Sebastian Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor on his organ. He did, occasionally, venture towards the audience to play guitar or indulge in some shuffling dancing. The latter drew affectionate cheers. I have to say seeing Thom make his funky moves brought a smile to my face, as it seemed to prove there was at least one person on the planet whose dancing is even worse than mine is.

But what of the music? I’d read a worrying review of a gig from earlier in the tour, in Sydney, where the writer observed, “Each Radiohead song that’s played – they make up just under half the setlist – is met with a hushed reverence, while loud chatter is heard every time something else gets an airing.” Maybe that means modern-day Sydney concertgoers are disrespectful bozos, for that certainly wasn’t my impression of the Singapore crowd. Yes, the ten Radiohead numbers he played during the set – coming from a range of the band’s albums, though nothing featured from Pablo Honey, Hail to the Thief or The King of Limbs – were enthusiastically received. But the audience showed their appreciation of the non-Radiohead stuff as well. This included material from all three of Yorke’s solo albums, two new songs (Back in the Game and Hearing Damage), and two he’d composed for the 2018 soundtrack for Luca Guadagnino’s remake of the Dario Argento 1977 horror classic Suspiria.

It all meshed together nicely. The solo material evoked at different times the sounds of the Aphex Twin, Depeche Mode and Nine Inch Nails and I even wondered if Yorke was getting a bit disco-y at one or two points. Naturally, electronica-rooted Radiohead numbers like Idioteque, Everything in its Right Place or Packt Like Sardines in a Crushd Tin Box (off Kid A) slotted in seamlessly among that lot. Surprisingly, though, the band’s more conventional – dare I say more tuneful – songs, like How to Disappear Completely (Kid A again) Fake Plastic Trees (off The Bends), and All I Need (off In Rainbows) fitted in smoothly too, making it an impressively cohesive set. Maybe it was because Yorke’s falsetto – often mocked, but inimitable, haunting and gorgeous – provided the aural thread that stitched together all these disparate pieces of musical cloth.

Praise is due too for the accompanying light show, with several tall screens treating the audience to dazzling and dizzying displays that, during the evening, seemed to range from daubs of luminous green graffiti to blizzards of multicoloured confetti, from drizzles of Matrix-style code to what looked like, frankly, masses of glowing spaghetti. Occasionally, these gave way to stark white light, and darkness, where, at his consoles, Yorke looked like a torturer operating his torture-machines in a gothic dungeon. Occasionally too, the chaotic patterns coalesced into the ghostly features of the man himself. Thus, the show was an impressively visual as well as aural experience. I have to say it was easier on the eyes than the screens at the previous gig I’d been to at the Star Theatre, which’d subjected me to regular, unflinching close-ups of the 78-year-old visage of Deep Purple’s Ian Gillan.

By the concert’s end it seemed the many diehard fans in the crowd had got their money’s worth. Their frequent cries of “I love you, Thom!” had never lessened in enthusiasm while the 22-song set wound on. And presumably the guy who shouted, before the gig and behind us on the escalator while we rode up to the theatre’s entrance, “Please, Thom, don’t play Creep tonight!”, went home happy too.

A good evening, then. It certainly took our minds off the horror that was happening elsewhere on November 5^th.

November 7, 2024November 14, 2024

The controls are set for the heart of the sun

In my previous blog-post, I cited the ending of the apocalyptic 1961 sci-fi film The Day the Earth Caught Fire, where we’re inside a newspaper office and see that two versions of the next day’s front page have been prepared. One page’s headline announces WORLD SAVED. The other announces WORLD DOOMED. Which headline, I wondered, would be appropriate after the US presidential election on November 5^th?

Well, the results are in. And it’s…

I think I’ll stay away from the news for the next week or so, as it’s going to be full of the sights and sounds of the very worst people on the planet popping open the champagne and jeering and crowing about Trump’s win – from despots and corrupt authoritarians like Vladimir Putin, Benjamin Netanyahu, Kim Jong Un, Victor Orban and Aleksandr Lukashenko to billionaires who believe (probably rightly, given the evidence now) that democracy is something that can be bought and sold in the quest for profits, like Elon Musk, Jeff Bezos, Charles Koch, Rupert Murdoch, Paul Marshall and all the other media tycoons, hedge-fund moguls, oligarchs, oil barons and would-be tech overlords.

Despite a majority of British people hating Trump’s guts, Britain’s press and social media will be particularly infested with sycophants drooling and slobbering over the orange turd’s victory. These range from online grifters who make their money whipping gullible people into frenzies of paranoia and hatred, such as Andrew Tate, Russell Brand, Neil Oliver, Tommy Robinson and failed nepo-baby thespian Laurence Fox; to the preening hacks who pen vitriol for the country’s right and far-right-wing publications, like Brendan O’Neill, Alison Pearson, Douglas Murray, Piers Morgan and Isabel Oakeshott; and to its most discredited, unsavoury and opportunistic politicians, such as Boris Johnson, Liz Truss, Nigel Farage, Lee Anderson and Jacob Rees-Mogg. So, I’ll avoid that lot too for a while. I don’t want to be put off my food.

Many hideous people are no doubt licking their lips at the prospect of the dystopian years ahead, thinking about what they can do as part of the Trump bandwagon and how they can line their pockets from it. I’m sure that includes all those I’ve mentioned above.

Finally, I now find myself thinking of the ending of another 1960s sci-fi film, that of Franklin J. Schaffner’s Planet of the Apes (1968).

Not only does this conclude with Charlton Heston discovering the Statue of Liberty buried up to her chest in sand – indicating that the USA, plus the rest of human civilisation, are now extinct and lie hidden under millions of tons of sediment – but it shows Heston having a meltdown in front of this haunting and pitiful spectacle. “You maniacs!” he rages. “You blew it up! Damn you! Goddamn you all to hell!”

He could have been referring to those millions of Americans who thought it was a good idea to vote Donald Trump back into office the other day.