Author: simondgary

“All My Colors” is the first book by David Quantick that I have read, I can assure you that it will not be the last.

In television, Quantick has writing credits for shows like “Veep,” “The Thick of It,” and “On the Hour.” But if I were also to mention shows like “Jam” and its radio predecessor, “Blue Jam,” you will get an idea of the kind of territory in which “All My Colors” sits.

The book revolves around Todd Milstead, a boorish thug of a man who fancies himself a writer. His delusion is held back by one simple reality: he really cannot write. But he can quote, and he can lecture which, for the time being, will have to be enough.

That is until a book spews about of him, the next Great American Novel, “All My Colors.”

Quantick skilfully steeps the novel in a foreboding sense of doom from the beginning, as Milstead slowly sinks into the filthy mire of gothic horror. The language is exact, and the pace is exhilarating, leaving a book that breathlessly swirls around and captivates the reader. I am not usually a swift devourer of books, unlike Tim, Quantick’s fictional bookshop owner, but this was a tome that I could not put down. When it was over, I had to sit, breath, and regain my troubled equilibrium.

On a deeper level, Quantick explores the nature of certainty and ideas, with Kafkaesque precision. As a would-be writer myself (though hopefully not a Milstead), I recognize that there are few new ideas, that we are all composites of everyone who has come before. There is a horror in questioning the illusion of individuality. Has there ever been an original thought in my brain?

Quantick deftly picks at this question, creating characters like Behm, the private detective, who deliberately ticks every box in P.I. checklist, much to the delight of the main protagonist.

If you are an insecure writer, I would thoroughly recommend this book. You will not sleep for weeks.

If you are not an insecure writer, well, I also thoroughly recommend this book. You might regain healthy sleep patterns a little sooner, but I would still plan for a couple of days of nocturnal nail gnawing.

To summarise, buy and read this book, then tell others to buy and read this book. What lives in our minds cannot be forgotten, right?

If you would like to purchase this book now, please find a link in the shop.

Mr Quantick’s next book, “Night Train” has a paperback release date of 7th July 2020. Here is a link to pre-order.

I think it must have been the Christmas of 1999 when I asked for, and received the book “Playground of the Gods,” by Ian Stafford.

Subtitled, “A Year of Sporting Fantasy,” it was a breathtaking read, as, throughout 1998, Stafford played and trained sports with some sporting giants.

He played football with Flamengo, rugby with the Springboks, cricket with the Australian Test team, rowed with Sir Steve Redgrave, distance ran with the Kenyan squad and boxed with Roy Jones Junior.

Stafford carried out the training on a level footing, with no quarter given, which is evidenced by the list of injuries included in the appendix (although his actual appendix escaped undamaged!)

One encounter that stayed with me, though, was the time he spent playing squash in Peshawar. Peshawar is situated in Pakistan, at the eastern end of the Khyber Pass, near to the border with Afghanistan. It has mountain ranges on three sides and is home to the Khan dynasty.

Stafford played squash with Jansher Khan, who would win eight World Opens. It appeared that Peshawar was something of a squash hotbed, however. From the same area came Jahangir Khan, a six-time World Open champion. This proximity of greatness reminded me of the cricketing Waugh brothers, Steve and Mark. A mythical insult always haunted them: “Best batsman in the world? You’re not even the best batsman in your family!”

In the case of Jahangir, his father, Roshan, brother Torsam, and cousin, Rehmet, were all wonderfully gifted players. In addition, Jahangir’s niece, Natasha Khan, is better known globally as the musical artist “Bat for Lashes.”

I have often wondered what it would be like to be part of such a renowned and talented family. How would the achievements and rivalries sit? But further, imagine being proudly ordinary in a family of over-achievers? How would that feel?

So when a recent flash fiction competition prompted entries with a photograph of a mountainous Indian scene, I was transported back to my literary memories of Peshawar. The following flash-fiction (ironically a quarter of the length of this introduction) is entitled “In the Shadow of Sagarmatha.” (Sagarmatha is the Nepalese name for Mount Everest.) Please enjoy.

In the Shadow of Sagarmatha.

My grandfather was a champion cricketer, as was my father, who spun as prodigiously as any in the land. My brother excels on the football field, evading challenges fair and foul, while my sister travels the continent with her volleyball skills. Even now, she lurches in Lhasa. I have no such expertise. Laughter follows my efforts.

So, today I leave. I run into the shadows of Sagarmatha. Barefoot, traversing fields, valleys, and foothills, I shall cover the sixty miles in hope. Once a year becomes once a lifetime. The blessed Gurkhas will select me to climb my own peculiar mountain.

Matt Nagin is a writer, educator, actor, filmmaker, and standup comedian from New York City.

In other words, Nagin is a man of many parts and many talents. In the book “Do Not Feed The Clown,” we find him living at the extremes of that identity.

If Lenny Bruce was alive and writing in 2020, this might be a book that he would create. In a collection of smouldering vignettes, Nagin holds up the mirror at much that is abhorrent in this world and then promptly rubs our collective noses in the filth.

At times, you might want to look away, and accusations of poor taste may follow. But this is comic writing on the leading edge. A famous Bruce routine and Nagin’s telling piece on “Insensitivity Training” have much in common. The reader, not the writer, defines the power of language. After all, it is only a set of shapes on a page. The dark edges are there to illuminate, not shock.

At times, I found this difficult to read. Nagin’s references are drawn from sources far and wide, and his vocabulary is greater than mine. But, if I reflect and ask myself was I glad to read this book, well, the answer must be yes.

“Do Not Feed The Clown” could well be one of those important books that go severely under the radar. I hope, in a small way, this review goes a little way to redress that fear. Please read this book. It will definitely make you think.

To get your copy of this explosive tome, follow this link to the shop.

“Bird Wing” is a collection of flash fiction works by Dreena Collins. Reading one of Collins’ stories is something akin to splitting the atom. On the outside, they are small, round, and harmless. But once opened, they explode with power, impact, and precision. As a reader, I often found myself sitting in the epicentre, the eye of the storm, marvelling at what had just happened. As flash infers, this happens which such a dizzying speed. The temptation is to go back, again and again, like a child rifling through a bag of dangerous sweets. What will the next one taste like?

I have tried to write flash fiction, or I should say good flash fiction, and it is difficult. When you read the finished product of a virtuoso, and Collins undoubtedly is, you are reminded of a swan. On the surface, Collins seems to glide elegantly over the prose but, I can assure you, each word has been chosen from a cast of many, agonisingly placed, swapped out, and replaced, worried about and cared for.

This meticulous pursuit of perfection is what you are receiving when you read the extraordinary “Bird Wing.”

If a novelist paints on a large canvas (though I know Collins is working on a novel!), then here Collins is working with the same exactitude as the wonderful Willard Wigan, purveyor of the micro-sculpture. Willard creates his sculptures with a single grain of rice, or a scrap of nylon and mounts them into the eye of a needle, or some other unfathomable place of ludicrous smallness. Each stroke of Wigan’s blade is carried out beneath a microscope, between breaths and heartbeats, lest the natural rhythms of his body disturb. I imagine Dreena, should she read this, would draw a level of recognition from these tiny, super-human efforts.

I thoroughly recommend “Bird Wing” to any reader. The book is particularly suitable for those who like to dip in and out, but beware! The resonance of the stories will stay with you for days.

Collins is also the author of the short story collections “The Blue Hour” and “The Day I Nearly Drowned.”

Find links to purchase “Bird Wing,” “The Blue Hour” and “The Day I Nearly Drowned” in the shop.

Read my review of “The Day I Nearly Drowned” here.

Simon Gary is the author of the comic novel “Gone to the Dogs” and its brand new prequel, “Thryke: The Man That Nobody Knew.”

I became famous on the same day that I fell into the Tiger Enclosure at my local zoo.

The person who filmed the incident also became famous, but they did not get to be on television.

The presenter asked me what I felt when I came face to face with the Siberian tiger.

“Sad,” I replied.

A zoologist, who was sitting next to me on the couch, explained that I had been sad before I fell in the cage. He said that the tiger was an unusually intuitive feline. It felt my sadness, so did not rip me limb from limb.

Then they played the film from the other famous person. There were screams and people pointing. I didn’t remember any of that.

I saw an image of someone I supposed was me, sitting opposite a giant cat. It did make me remember his hot breath, searing my face. It smelled, I guessed, of meat. I had also not considered that the other tigers had sat around me, in an almost perfect semi-circle.

The presenter nodded and asked if I had been scared?

“Only afterward, when the people started shouting at me. At the time, I just felt sad.”

There was some sniggering in the studio. “Some people on my phone said it would have been better if I were devoured, or at least chewed a bit,” I added, helpfully.

What had made me scratch the tiger behind the ear?

I didn’t know. Perhaps it reminded me of my grandma’s kitty. She was large and orange too.

The zoologist chipped in again. “When Alan scratched the alpha behind the ear, all of the tigers had gone into a collective state of confusion. It was an unprecedented moment for them all.”

Next, there was a brief discussion on mental health provision within the community, I didn’t think that concerned me, so I kept quiet and thought about the feeling of tiger fur. Soft, thick, warm, and misunderstood.

Then, with a fanfare, a curtain went up at the other end of the studio. There was a cage with a lion in it.

“In a moment,” enthused the presenter, “we will be testing the cat whisperer’s talents with a fully grown lion. Come back and see the fun after the break!”

I looked across at the lion, and it gazed back at me. I think we both began to feel sad.

Here’s another flash fiction that I experimented with recently. The brief here was to explore the theme of “Abandonment.” Again, I didn’t trouble the judges, but I am still learning.

Those that have read “Gone to the Dogs” might recognize one of the characters here!

“So, you’re back?”

She peered around the door frame, silhouetted in the warm glow of the half-light.

“Yes.”

She lowered her gingerbread eyes. “You can’t keep doing this.”

“Please,” I stepped forward and placed a hand on the peeling panel. “I can explain. I’ve been busy.”

“Too busy for me?” Her remark struck me like a blow in the solar plexus. I was winded, and she was right. I could not defend myself.

“Kathy, look, I’m here now. Here to stay if you’ll have me? Here to the end.”

Immediately, I heard the chant of ‘fraud’ echoing around my mind. I winced, but her downcast eyes missed the deceit.

“You had better come in. You’re letting all my warmth out.”

The door yielded, and I stepped across the threshold.

I sat on the lumpy sofa. The crocheted throw slipped from the rear as my weight dissipated. I tried to adjust it, but it was no use. A tear in the cushion fabric emerged, sprouting fibres like exotic fungi.

“You’ll have to make do with black tea, I’m out of milk,” she called, from the kitchenette. Her voice seemed tired.

“That’s fine.” I doubt she heard my reply. My eyes were busy scanning the myriad of candles that lit the room. She emerged, clutching two mugs.

“The meter ran out,” she explained. “I don’t have any coins.”

I began to fish in my empty pocket. “I prefer it like this. The droplets of flame catch your eyes.”

“Please, don’t.”

“But you’re beautiful. Can’t I say it?”

“Perhaps once, perhaps a few times. Anymore becomes repetition. It becomes all that I am. Just a painted shell.”

“Don’t be like that.”

She placed the mugs onto the coffee table and sat opposite. The wingback chair hugged her femininity, and her ebony hair cascaded against the antimacassar. I caught a waft of her perfume on the air.

“When is my birthday?” she asked suddenly.

“What?”

“When is my birthday? It’s a simple enough question.”

“Well, you’re thirty-two. Too young to have antimacassars!”

“That wasn’t what I asked!” There was anger and exasperation in her tone. “You come back here, having disappeared for goodness knows how long, begging for forgiveness, yet you still know nothing about me? How is that supposed to make me feel?”

I considered her question for a while.

“Angry?”

“You’re damn right, I’m angry! I’m angry at me! I find you so inconceivably annoying sometimes, but you know I cannot live without you!”

“You cannot live without me?”

She leapt from the chair and began, with a swerve, to march around the flat.

“How can I? You created me! You are the author of my story, yet you leave me here, waiting for weeks on end, while you no doubt write about someone else!”

I felt the shame. I knew that Kathy was right. “It was just a few flash fictions. They meant nothing! It’s you I love! That’s why it will be so difficult to do what I must do.”

When summer is in full bloom, I do enjoy a dalliance with cricket. It is not just the game, but also the gathering of eccentricity that circles around it. Cricket is a towering bastion of the great characters, and radio’s “Test Match Special” draws them like a moth to a bulb.

Henry Blofeld, beloved TMS commentator, is one such of these characters. In this book, he lovingly tells the tales of many others. My personal favourite was the cricketing Prince and trickster, the Nawab of Pataudi, who played 46 Test Matches for India, 41 as captain.

Blofeld brings him to life with gentleness, sympathy and, great humour, as he does with the many other characters he met on his travels. It is a lovely book and one that has the same grand feel of a Lord’s Test Match.

The one thing that keeps you coming back to the pages is Henry Blofeld’s joy and pure love of life. It is comforting how much of this life is enjoyed with the accompaniment of a rather good wine. A mind-boggling array of vineyards and cakes are sampled as the stories run their course.

I sometimes wonder if joyous people like Henry Blofeld are sadly on the decrease. At times, it felt as if Henry, the dear old thing, was signing off for an era of innocent larks and amateur sommeliers. But then, I remember those cold winter mornings, not too long ago, when I could switch on Radio Five Live Extra, in the car on the way to work. There, as I carefully traversed the pitch M27, I would be cheered by the mirth of PCR Tufnell. TMS is, wonderfully, still alive.

You wouldn’t necessarily need to be a cricket fan to enjoy this book, but it would certainly help. I found it to be well-written, warm, and funny. It even had me scurrying for the dictionary a couple of times! Very highly recommended.

Just recently, I have been dabbling in something called Flash Fiction.

If you look out in the realm of the internet, you can find loads of great competitions, where you can enter your flash fiction offerings.

Sometimes, these are open, in the sense that you can write about anything you want. Sometimes, the competitions have themes or prompts to help you get the creative wheels turning.

But in all cases, your story will need to adhere to a strict word limit. These word limits range from the very low, say one-hundred words, up to the more expansive, which could be as far out as five-hundred.

But if you think five-hundred words gives you licence to be loquacious, then think again! You can use up your limit before you notice it!

As a novel writer, I was not operating under the guideline of a word limit. When I wrote “Gone to the Dogs,” it was with a sense of space and freedom. To be honest, there were times when I wasn’t quite sure what was coming next. If something occurred to me, I could write about it and make sense of it later when editing appeared on the horizon.

But with flash, every word must be selected, polished, and placed with a mosaic precision. All fat must be removed, yet there must still be a narrative that pulls in and engages the reader. Maybe it’s more about leaving questions in your readers’ minds, rather than settling them.

Again, being honest with myself, I am not that good at flash fiction. But I am learning. There are many masters of the craft out there, and one of the great things is that the competitions allow you to read the work of the winners. It doesn’t take long, and it is a great learning experience.

So, who knows, when I finish the “Gone to the Dogs” prequel – currently entitled, “Thryke – The Man that Nobody Knew,” I hope my writing will have been tightened and polished by my experience of flash. It’s certainly something to aim for.

I’m going to end this post with a flash of my own. It was recently entered in a competition that came with the photographic prompt of a derelict bumper car. Perhaps I took the prompt too literally, as this entry didn’t trouble the judges, but I’ll leave you to decide!

Stay safe, and stay well!

It’s called “The Two Shells.”

“Look at it, love! Look at those lines! It’s a classic, is that!”

“But…”

“Look, I know what you’re going to say, but come on, consider that paintwork! Some of it might even be original. There’ll be collectors fighting over this when it’s finished.”

“It’s a bumper car. It’s the shell of a bumper car.”

“Come here, love! Don’t you remember? We rode on one of these, the night of our first kiss? It could even have been this very one!”

“That wasn’t me, Bryan.”

“It wasn’t? I’m sure…”

She touched his arm gently. “Don’t stay out here too late.”

There are moments on television that stay with you forever. They become part of who you are. They burrow away into your psyche and subtly change you forever.

The five series of Inside No.9 have been amply packed with these sorts of moments, though, in not wanting to rob anyone of the joy of viewing, I cannot share them in detail.

What I can share with you is my joy at the constancy of the writing. Reece Shearsmith and Steve Pemberton have always dabbled in the darker side of things, with great success. Alongside Mark Gatiss and Jeremy Dyson, they penned the disturbingly hilarious “The League of Gentlemen,” which came to our screens back in 1999. People, of a certain age at least, still wander the corridors of factories and offices, growling the phrase “Hello Dave!” or the equally terrifying “Are you local?”

But it is within the structure of “Inside No.9” that Shearsmith and Pemberton have truly honed the darkness of the humorous threat. The collective series have become a canon approaching televisual perfection. You know something horrific is coming, but you just don’t know what…or when.

Series Five contains six wonderful episodes. It starts with “The Referee’s a Wanker!” which I felt was the strongest episode of the run. Similar to all previous episodes, such as the first-ever, “Sardines,” the writers use a single changing room to heighten the sense of claustrophobia. Humans, like any animals, do strange things when caged up together. However, the final, magnificent reveal showed much that was pertinent to the outcome had happened away from our disbelieving eyes.

“Death Be Not Proud” is an episode that seems to have spawned something of a star. David Sowerbutts, wonderfully portrayed by Steve Pemberton, seems to have generated a cult following, out in internetland. Basin haircuts a plenty are bound to ensue. The episode had me recalling the Series One offering, “Tom & Gerri,” though this was perhaps a shade darker.

“Love’s Great Adventure” was another remarkable episode. I especially enjoyed it because the episode reveal was so subtle and delicious. Again, the small house where the action unfolded, added to the tightness of the interaction. You had to work a bit as a viewer here, particularly in terms of chronology, but the eventual pay-off was quite delightful.

“Misdirection” was a slice of the macabre that also had me recalling previous episodes. As the action unfolded, in a darkened magician’s studio, I was reminded of the academic study, where the “Riddle of the Sphinx” played out. Revenge is a dish best served cold, and this instance was perfect in its tortuous delivery.

“Thinking Out Loud” was fantastic if only for the delicious parody of the social media influencer. I wondered just how Shearsmith and Pemberton would bring the diverse elements together, yet they did, with skill and trademark panache.

The run ended with another excellent episode. It began with the less than promising set-up of a quiet night for two officers sitting in a police patrol car. It started with a piece of flag posting that had me smugly waiting for the inevitable, only to find myself hoisted on my own intellectual petard; by an ending that I defy anyone to have seen coming.

From the series, there will be many moments that will stay with me. They will join other “Inside No.9” inspired mind burrows, such as the haunting “12 Days of Christine,” or the startling “Devil of Christmas” with all of its Krampus inspired depravity.

I think it will be the first and last episodes that will have the most influence. I shall have to be careful to spot where they pop up in my own fiction.

Please, if you have never watched any of these series, go away and do so now. You will thank me that you did!

In our last post, we enjoyed the theme of nostalgia.

I am nostalgic about many things. Bizarrely, some of it I have no real right the be nostalgic about, like the 1970 Brazilian football team. Being born in 1974, I never saw them play. But somehow, they are in my heart. I don’t know why, but they are.

My love for the comedy of the 1970s grew from the plentiful repeats that were available during my early days.

Chief among those were the seemingly, weekly airings of the wonderful “Carry On” film series.

Of course, I didn’t understand most of the jokes, but the unfettered rioting silliness was a joy. A new love bloomed.

So, when I discovered the art of Jayne Tunnicliffe, it was a great moment. Now, Jayne Tunnicliffe is one of those people who appears to be brilliant at everything. Having starred in “Coronation Street” and “Phoenix Nights, amongst other shows, it hardly seems fair that she is a brilliant artist. But guess what? She is.

I purchased three of Jayne’s “Carry On” themed mugs, bearing the likenesses of Sid James, Kenneth Williams, and the effervescent Hattie Jacques.

The mugs arrived quickly and beautifully packaged. There was no danger that any of the products were damaged, and they all came in pristine condition.

The artwork, as you can see, is superb. Tunnicliffe has picked out all of the nuance and warmth, embedded in each of these iconic comedic faces. I am not an artist, but I would imagine the Sid James, in particular, is a joy to paint. Each crag and line, earned through experience, must tell such intoxicating stories. What a joy it would be to uncork a couple of light ales, and sit next to the fire to listen.

Looking at the mugs, I can hear the cackle of James, the nasal protests of Williams, and the boom of Jacques’ riled Matron. These sensational products have given me the joy of nostalgia, fuelled, of course, by a steaming cup of tea.

I intend to buy more of Jayne Tunnicliffe’s work. You will be pleased to hear that prints are also available for all of the images, so you can have Charles Hawtrey beaming down on you, should that be your wish. Folksy, in general, and Jan Tunnicliffe’s area of it, in particular, are just the ticket when it comes around family birthdays or Christmas. I got my brother a Boycie mug for his birthday, and he loves it.

If you do one thing today, check out www.folksy.com. You’ll be so glad that you did.