The troubled mind belongs to Owen Wood, a man slowly but surely unravelling from his family and from his life following a tragic accident. In fact the only thing that Owen isn’t unravelling from is his past, and in particular his memories of his childhood vacations spent with his grandparents in the Welsh hills. It’s a story that leaves you thinking that you are somehow intruding on Owen’s grief, loss and confusion and yet it’s also a very powerful book so that at the same time it demands your attention and perhaps more importantly it demands your emotions. I read it largely on the Tube on the way to and from work – I’m always struck by how often my fellow commuters read over my shoulder, how often I read over theirs (usually when they are at the sports pages in Metro!) and how often I see one passenger engrossed in reading over the shoulder of another. And it was that kind of feeling I had as I read it, like I was looking over Owen’s shoulder, knew I shouldn’t, but couldn’t help myself, so engrossed was I in his story!

It’s a story that, through shifts in time, depicts the tragic and slightly puzzling circumstances of Owen’s accident, a car crash that results in both the loss of his arm and the death of his daughter. It goes further back to Owen’s memories of an idyllic, or maybe slightly romanticised, childhood in rural Wales, a place that almost seems to make Owen come alive, come out of himself, as if only in this rural setting on a sheep farm can Owen make sense of the world and his place within it. The other time shifts go forward and backwards through a series of events in Owen’s life -  adolescence, marriage, work, children. What anchors Owen to the world is his love for those he cares about, which doesn’t extend beyond his wife, children, mother and grandparents. In a quiet and understated way he is a real alpha-male – his desire to take care of those he loves is his real reason for being. And in the aftermath of the accident, the loss of his daughter, the impact of his loss of his arm on his sense of himself and his life, his relationships essentially unravel and spiral out of control. His attempts to then reassert that control become the heart of the story.

It’s a novel that’s powerful, sad and beautiful in equal measure. As I said before the subject matter ought to leave you feeling a bit like the “spectre at the feast” and yet it doesn’t. It’s really well written, especially the character of Owen himself. There’s something very appealing in him, in his character flaws, even in his speech patterns!  It means that although you can’t easily approve of the things he does you can’t help but understand them and even sympathise with them.

On one level it’s a pretty bleak tale of a man and his family coming apart at the seams. Add to that the fact the fact that Tim Pears also weaves into the book an equally bleak picture of life in Britain, especially among those in poverty or going through hard times, and it should be a bit of a miserable read – but it isn’t. It’s a wonderful read. I thought this was because the bleak personal tale set against that bleak background put Owen’s life into a context that somehow helps the reader make sense of it and perversely it somehow lends the novel an air of hope. It’s not necessarily a hope that all will come right in the end and that they’ll all live “happily ever after”, but more that the book gives you the feel that it’s OK to hope, to look ahead for better times. I won’t spoil the end in case you read it, but I loved it!

I’d never heard of Tim Pears until I read a review of this book, months ago, on Heaven Ali’s Blog. (I get about 33% of my books recommendations from there if I’m honest – and I get 33% from Annabel’s House of Books and the other 33% from Claire’s blog at Word by Word – between them they’ve become like “personal shoppers” for me!).  Anyway I searched for this book for a long time but a bit half-heartedly – I always looked on the shelves in bookshops but didn’t force myself to “track it down at all costs”! What a mistake. It’s a great, great book. I’ve already compiled a list of a few other Tim Pears novels – and I won’t be so half-hearted about tracking them down for if they are half as good as “Landed” is, they’ll be well worth the effort.

If you want to have a look at that original review of Landed that sparked it off for me you’ll find it here at Heaven Ali’s blog

There’s one other thing that the Ben Folds song ‘Landed’ and the Tim Pears book ‘Landed’ have got in common – they’re both great! If you don’t know Ben Folds, have a listen. And if you don’t know Tim Pears, have a read – hopefully you’ll find something, in one or the other, or even both, that you’ll like!

Having survived Trainspotting, Ewan McGregor soon regretted his decision to take the job as Scotland’s new football manager

………..First up I admit the title of my post is little more than a shameless attempt to cash in on Irvine Welsh’s “Trainspotting” to improve my stats!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I’m assuming it’s OK to ‘cash in‘ on Irvine so to speak – after all he’s built a bloody writing career by cashing in on being a Scotsman! Sauce for the goose and all that!

Second up an honest assessment of London Underground – for all the stick it gets I think the Tube is pretty good (though I would prefer none of the credit for that to go to that muppet Mayor Boris!). It’s not “pretty good” in the sense that I wake up and immediately think “Oh good, The Central Line again today!”. But it’s “pretty good” in the sense that it runs on time (mostly) and it gets me from A to B (give or take the odd detour via C or D to avoid broken down trains or passengers being ill on the trains ahead!). One of the very best bits of commuting on the underground is that words are everywhere – some of the ads on the trains and the  stations are blooming clever, there’s an abundance of books, newspapers and Kindles, and if you’re experienced in using your elbows effectively you can, like me, always create just enough space to get a book open in front of you (I see the crowded tubes trains I get on at Oxford Circus as a challenge rather than an impediment to a good book!). However one of the best  things about commuting in London is poem spotting on trains!!!

(At this stage I would guess anybody reading this post, who actually came looking for something about “Trainspotting” or Irvine Welsh, or Begbie,  is beginning to think ‘What the………………………………………………………………………………………….’.If that IS you – you’re right – there’s nothing for you here – so as Begbie would no doubt utter, and probably to your delight, “Fuck Off Then!”

Oooooooooooooooooh  – swearing in writing just let me feel all “Irvine Welsh” for a second there, it really did!!!!!!!!!!!!

Anyway, back to poem spotting on trains.

There have been “Poems on the Underground” since 1968. They must be one of the longest running public art projects in the UK as a

One Poem – Useful! One Handy Wee Tube Line Map! Very Useful! One Air Vent – Bloody Useless!

result – and their popularity shows no sign of abating. The poems are chosen jointly between London Underground and The Poetry Society. They are then displayed on trains or in Underground stations. There’s generally a theme for the poems chosen – the set for the start of 2013 are all about London as seen through the eyes of Londoners or through the eyes of visitors to London. The six poems in the most recent collection are: a description of London by Wordsworth; an extract from WB Yeats poem Vacillation, written when he was in London during the war, a poem about the stations of the Northern Line by Connie Bensley; a poem by Jo Shapcott about the beautiful and iconic new architectural landmark in London, the Shard ( I was admiring it the week before last on a sunny but very cold morning while standing freezing my you-know-whats-off waiting for a train at Blackfriars station – which in itself has GOT to be the most spectacular view from a railway station platform in the world!); a poem by a young Ghanaian poet Nii Parkes about an early immigrant experience of coming to London; and a poem by Lorna Goodison about the dreams of a Jamaican teacher working in London as a char-woman.

Been There! Seen It! Done It! Bought The T-Shirt! (Well that’s a lie – not bought the t-shirt yet!)

So far on my travels, I saw the WB Yeats excerpt first on a Central Line train and then not long after saw the Wordsworth poem, which is accompanied by illustrations by David Gentleman, on a Hammersmith and City line train. So only two out of the 6 so far! If anybody from London Underground reads this – any hints about which trains or stations the others are on? And one more thing if you’re reading this and you are from London Underground – when you are sitting on the Central Line trains, the hand rail actually blocks the first two lines of the poem from view! The HandC line is fine!

So if you are either a fellow-commuter, or coming on a visit to London, look out for the poems on the Underground – if you like words, reading, poetry, they’ll just add that little bit to your day!

And since I’ve seen the WB Yeats, and since Yeats is my personal favourite poet, here to finish is a little reading from his aforementioned poem “Vacillation”

Bryan Ferry looking shifty, gets out sharpish, leaving the snake to take the rap!

……….In 1978 I bought Bryan Ferry’s album “The Bride Stripped Bare” . At the time there was much talk of its references to his ex-girlfriend Jerry hall, who’d left him for Mick Jagger the year before. Here would be a great songwriter laying out his heart for me – and others, to see, and to admire. It’ll be heartbreaking I thought! It’ll be furious I imagined! It’ll be raw I surmised! Actually it was a bit of a damp squib to say the least. The lyrics were pretty banal and some of the songs were not that great either! And with several of the songs having been written by others, it was hardly the ‘stripping bare’ of Bryan and Jerry that the album title, and all the publicity at the time, implied!!!!

Fast forward almost 35 years!!!!!!!!!!!!!

In 2012 I read a list of ‘Guardian Books Of The Year’. It included a recommendation for the American poet Sharon Olds’ latest anthology ‘Stag’s Leap’  – it mentioned, almost in passing, that she had laid bare the break up of her marriage.  I noted it as a ‘possible to buy’ on my iPhone. I bought it and read it, several times in January and February this year. That title, ‘Stag’s Leap’ did the opposite of Ferry’s – it gave no hint of what was inside and set up no false expectations – but inside this is the the break-up of Sharon Olds marriage stripped bare, and it’s a stunning, compelling anthology.

The end of a marriage is I guess an all too ordinary occurrence in many respects – but there’s nothing ordinary for those at the centre of events and this is an extraordinary telling of that all too ordinary occurrence. Olds’ husband left her for a colleague at work after years together, and the book takes you on a journey with her through her discovery, feelings, memories and reactions. They were written at the time of her marriage break up across the first 18 months or so – however she’d promised her children she’d wait for at least ten years before they would ever see the light of day. She thought her kids had enough to contend with.In the end she waited fifteen years before publishing them – but they are no less powerful, no less poignant and no less dramatic for the passage of time.

What struck me time and again in this collection is the intimacy of the work – you really do live every word that she dredges up from her being. Everything is so brilliantly crafted that I’m certain it must have taken every ounce of her creativity and talent at a time when she perhaps might not have had the energy to spare – yet it reads as if it has been effortlessly put together. From the first poem in the collection though, ‘While He Told Me’, she takes a remarkable approach to the work – there’s nothing sentimental about any of the poems and yet they are warm, even when the feelings they describe are so cold.

While he told me, I looked from small thing

to small thing, in our room, the face

of the bedside clock, the sepia postcard

of a woman bending down to a lily.

She has a generosity to her ex-husband that’s kept up throughout – with only the odd falter she even extends that generosity of spirit to his new lover – and when she does let her guard drop a little on that you’re more than ready to forgive her. There’s not a raging anger here – it’s more of a search for understanding and that illogical desire to hold on to hope or to memory. In ‘Last Look’ she describes the very moment of his departure for a new life with someone else

In the last minute of our marriage, I looked into

his eyes. All that day until then, I had been

comforting him, for the shock he was in

at his pain – the act of leaving me

took him back, to his own

early losses. But now it was time to go beyond

comfort, to part. And his eyes seemed to me,

still, like the first ocean, wherein

the blue-green algae came into their early

language, his sea-wide iris still

essential, for me, with the depths in which

our firstborn, and then our second, had turned,

on the sides of their tongues the taste buds for the moon-bland

nectar of our milk – our milk……………

That unassuming title, “Stag’s Leap” refers to the label of their favourite wine – but it perhaps does tell you everything you need to know about what you’ll find in the pages of this book. These are poems of exceptional courage for they describe that leap into the unknown of pain and reflection and coming to terms. They are told with grace and poise but they are never less than real – as you read of her standing at the abyss of the loss of her husband you just know, even though she never goes there, that she must have done so with her heart hammering in her chest and the blood pounding in her ears. It’s gut-wrenching to read some of these poems at times and it’s heartbreaking at others. But, the midst of the loss and heartbreak, these are the work of a poet who seems to me to be  above all so gallant and so courageous! That is what makes these wonderfully crafted poems into something utterly extraordinary. You really should read this – even if you don’t normally read poetry, even if you read no other poetry this year – you really should read this!

This latest novel by Pat Barker does the same – it takes the horrors of that time, turns them into words, but her rather understated and straight prose fits the context so well. It means there’s no chance of forgetting that for all that the words you read are shapes and letter formations you know so well, it is impossible to comprehend the devastation they describe.

That’s one of the emotional contrasts in this book -  words and sentences that make perfect literal sense combining to describe a destruction of both the human body and the spirit that’s beyond comprehension. The book goes across both the pre- and post-war periods, contrasting the innocence and hope of one with the painful re-building of lives in the midst of despair in the other. And in the middle, carnage.

Sister and brother, Toby and Elinor Brooke, grow up together in the warmest and closest of sibling relationships. Theirs is a life of genteel Edwardian privilege, but before the war, one dark event threatens to tear their relationship apart. And yet it survives, if anything the event draws them still closer together emotionally. Nevertheless this darkness sits silently but ominously between them. But even with this, the bond between the pair appears unbreakable until Toby is posted ‘Missing, Believed Dead’ at the Western Front in 1917. It’s a telegram message read by thousands of families across Europe at that time, but the shadow it casts on Elinor’s life leaves her to be bereft not only by the absence of her brother, but by the absence of any knowledge of how he died or why? There’s a sense in Elinor that all is not as it seems but she still sets out to uncover the story behind her brother’s death. She enlists the help of a former lover from her pre-war art student days, Paul Tarrant, himself both a physical and emotional casualty of his time at the Front. Emily’s determined search for the truth, and Paul’s reluctant support of that search, lead them to focus on another fellow ex-art school student, Kit Neville. Neville was in the fox-hole with Toby Brooke at the time of his death, but he’s saying nothing. Neville is recovering at Queen’s Hospital from having his face destroyed, a patient of the pioneering face reconstruction work of the surgeon Harold Gillies, and the trained surgeon-cum-artist Henry Tonks. It is in this world of destroyed bodies and lives under reconstruction that Elinor tries to finally find out why her brother died.

The book is a narrative journey, not so much through the actions of the characters, but more a narrative journey through their emotions. At its heart it focuses on survival and reconstruction of bodies, minds, souls, relationships and even memories. The main characters are all strong but there’s no tension in that collective strength – instead it delivers a book which in some ways is about good and bad things people do, and about good and bad things which happen to them, without having any hero’s in the story and without having any characters as villains. Instead it has the feel of a book where the characters are all too fragile and battered to be heroic and a book where the villain of the piece is the world they live in.

Years ago I read Pat Barker’s “Regeneration Trilogy” focused on Siegfied Sassoon, and the treatment for some soldiers deemed to be suffering from shell-shock. It was based on the real-life work at Craiglockhart of the psychiatrist WHR Rivers. In many ways there’s a familiarity with Toby’s Room and yet there’s a freshness to Toby’s Room too. But what they share is the great fit between Barker’s economic prose and the subject matter. The book is an emotional experience to read, but it’s never maudlin’ or sentimental. Instead the emotion comes from the scale of the devastation the characters experience and the fact that somehow they survive. When I read books like Toby’s Room, now from the comfortable distance of almost 100 years, it amazes me that any of them survived it – there’s a raw brutality and almost disregard for people that leaves me feeling angry and appalled in equal measure. So a read of Toby’s Room isn’t an ‘enjoyable’ one because of the subject matter of suffering and survival, I don’t think it’s meant to be ‘enjoyable’. But it’s a terrific book and in my view, it’s one that’s not to be missed.

Victor – looking glum – if only he’d known what a phenomenon his story was destined to become!

……….I’m no film critic and my blog isn’t about films – but I went to see Les Miserables in the cinema last night and I just want to say something about it ( regardless of how unqualified I might be to write about movies – I’m not qualified to write about books or music either but I never let that stop me – so why shouldn’t I chuck in two pence worth about a film if I feel like it!)

Before I get into the film, I want to say I read Hugo’s “Les Miserables” as a young man and I think it is a great book. I’ve been lucky enough to see the theatre musical several times – i think it’s great – the best musical of all those I’ve seen – so from that it should be clear that I’m a fan. And before I get into the film I want to say this isn’t a review as such – just my feeling about the film. So nothing that follows is about plot or characterisation or any of the other stuff I might drone on about when I write about a book.

So, Les Miserables, the film…….where do I start? Well………………………………………………..

……………..LES MISERABLES IS MAGNIFICENT!

Hugh Jackman as Valjean is magnificent! The cinematography is magnificent! The atmosphere in the film is magnificent! Forget what you might have read about Eddie Redmayne being miscast as Marius – he isn’t – he’s bloody magnificent! Amanda Siegfried is magnificent as Cosette! The settings are magnificent! They’ve added a little to the score and to the script and as a result the score is more magnificent than usual and the script is more magnificent than usual! The kid who plays Gavroche is magnificent! Sacha Baren Cohen and Helena Bonham are amorally, madly, magnificent as the Threnardiers ( mind you those roles are so brilliant I think my partner and I could play the parts well!!!! – Altogether now – “Master of the House, Isn’t Worth Me Spit, Comforter, Philosopher And Life Long Shit!”).   The student revolutionaries are magnificent! The prostitutes are magnificent! The poor of Paris are magnificent! The girl who plays Eponine is magnificent! EVEN bloody Russell Crowe is magnificent – if you’ve read some of the pompous shite written about his performance I’d recommend you ignore it ( although I’ll admit as a Gladiator fan I kind of kept expecting him to say ‘I am Maximus Aurelius, Gladiator of Rome!’ every time he appeared on screen.)

But, above all, Ann Hathaway is BEYOND MAGNIFICENT as Fantine. She’s a revelation. If you can watch her singing “I Dreamed A Dream” and not have the hairs on the back of your neck standing up and tears running down your cheeks you need to see a doctor – in fact a doctor might not be enough – if you don’t feel this you must be among the waking dead or at the very least emotionally illiterate!

I’ve never seen anything like it in the cinema – its not got long left in cinemas in the UK I’d guess – if you’ve not seen it yet do yourself a favour – go see it.

Les Miserables, the film, is WONDERFULLY, INCREDIBLY, FANTASTICALLY, TERRIFICALLY, BLOODY MAGNIFICENT!

I loved it – can you tell?????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

A “soupcon” of Les Miserables – that’s nearly a sentence in French you know!

It’s a phrase from Dumas ‘Mohicans of Paris”. And of course ‘cherchez la femme’ has become a standard phrase – and in a lot of detective fiction it’s a common cliche – the mysterious femme fatale in the mix, the vixen turning men from ordinariness to obsessions and crimes of passion. Years ago I bought an album by a band called “Cafe Jacques” – on it was a song called ‘Crime Passionelle”, in which the chorus was “Cherchez la Femme, Cherchez La Femme, qu’est que tu dis maman?!” – I spent a significant proportion of the 1980′s going around singing that! (And in Glasgow that wasn’t without risks you know!)

With a title like ‘Gone Girl’ I suppose ‘cherchez la femme’ is to be expected in this book, but as the story unfolds the complexity of that search for the woman unfolds and unravels, so that this is no hackneyed, cliched, pulp fiction detective yarn – instead it’s a brilliantly paced, cleverly plotted thriller. In fact it’s exceptionally clever. Though that might just be it’s flaw – it might be a little bit TOO clever!

You know from the outset that something doesn’t quite fit but as the book progresses, every time you think you know where it’s going you discover you don’t. Nick Dunne is essentially a bloke whose wife disappears on the morning of their fifth wedding anniversary. He’s the prime suspect, but as the story unfolds in alternating chapters, told by Nick himself and then from his wife’s diary, you get the impression that the cops are barking up the proverbial wrong tree. However Nick still has questions to answer – is he as perfect as he seems, and even if he is flawed, even if he’s actually a bit pathetic, is he really capable of murdering his wife and disposing of the body. But as the story unfolds and Nick’s flaws and weaknesses start to emerge to dent that preppy-perfect image, his wife’s diary make you realise that Nick’s seems to have been as good with his wife as he claims. Or does it?!

From there on this book simply draws you in – like being on one of those old fairground rides of spinning walls that glue you to them just in time for the floor to be taken out from under you – that’s exactly what Gillian Flynn does to you when you read this – she sucks you in then holds onto you while she whips the floor out from under you! Now that would be a writing talent in anybody’s book – but in “Gone Girl” she does it time and again – that’s what makes this an exceptional thriller / crime novel – but again maybe there’s only too many times you can have the floor taken out from under you before it all starts to get a bit passe!

Nick Dunne, as a character, is just on the right side of asshole but also just the right side of dark to make you keep wondering if maybe he’s on the wrong side of asshole! The pace of the narrative is great – and it’s laced with a wry dark humour throughout. Amy’s complex – a mixture of home-made apple-pie and Glenn Close in “Fatal Attraction!” If I had a criticism, it’s these. Firstly the two detectives leading the investigation into Amy Dunne’s are a bit on the wooden side. The banter between them in particular seems everything the rest of the book isn’t – a bit listless, predictable, and frankly, dull! (But then maybe that’s deliberate). Second criticism is that in a book with so many plot twists and turns – and when you get half way in there’s one real corker of a twist – I do wonder if some people reading might end up questioning how believable it all is. That’s pretty much for individuals to determine – I can see why someone might think it’s all a bit too much and therefore get irritated by the book.

But I was hooked on it from the first page to the last and it was one of those books I think I devoured rather than read – I couldn’t wait to pick it up again on every occasion I had to put it down – had I been able to I’d have read this without stopping. So if you are looking for a thriller you’ll fall in love with, this might NOT be it, but if you are looking for a thriller to fill that insatiable appetite some of us have for a plot you want to feast on, pick up “Gone Girl” and devour it till you can’t devour another word!

This has really got next to nothing to do with Harold Fry! – but it’s amazing how many images of road tax discs are available online – What Is Wrong With People?!!

……….I put things off! I put off getting the bins out for collection on a Friday morning until Friday morning – everybody else has it done by early evening Thursday. I put off shaving, which I hate, until someone says “Are you growing a beard then?”. I put off renewing things like road tax till the last minute – in fact so much so that my family nickname is lastminute-dot-Col! (It’s not the only name I get called around here but this is one of the tamer ones!). I put off doing this book review for god’s sake -  I read this books months ago – so you see I put things off!!

And I put off reading Harold Fry because I thought it might be a bit schmaltzy and twee – and it is – but it was still a big mistake to put it off – for it’s a great read! So if you are putting off reading about Harold’s pilgrimage, don’t! Read it as soon as you can (and get that BLOODY car taxed while you’re at it!)

Before I read the book, I read reviews of it elsewhere. Most of the bloggers I like, rate, and in whose judgements I’ve got faith, had read it and rated it highly – but those reviews also left me unsure about what kind of book it would be: is it a love story? ; is it a parable? ; is it an adventure? ; is it a comedy? ; or is it a bit of a “you too can be inspired by this story of the indomitable human spirit!” sort of book?

And the answer is that it isn’t any of those -  and yet somehow it’s all of those!

The shoes on the cover of this book are modelled on my own “old-campaigner” trainers I believe! i.e. in tatters!

Harold Fry is a gentle, quiet and unassuming bloke, recently retired and living out what seems a pretty sedate life (in every sense of the word!). The book begins with an air of despondency – it feels like Harold and his wife Maureen are waiting on the end of their lives coming. Out of the blue Harold receives a letter through the post from a dying woman, a friend and ex-colleague, and so he writes a reply and sets off to post it to her in Berwick-on-Tweed. He has no intention of doing anything other than that – a fact characterised by the yachting shoes on his feet! But when he reaches the end of the road to post it he decides not to post it there but to go on to the next post box. And from there it becomes not an errand to post a letter but a mission to hand deliver that letter, by making a modern-day pilgrimage of the 600 miles between Harold’s home and Berwick-on-Tweed. Along the way Harold meets all facets of life in the UK, from businessmen looking for a different meaning in life to a Slovakian migrant in a menial job which is miles below her talents and abilities as a doctor. His journey is one of hope, partly for his dying friend, partly for himself, partly for his wife and partly for all of us – sometimes that hope comes from Harold but more often than not it’s given to him, sometimes deliberately and sometimes unintentionally, by the people he meets on his journey.

When I read that paragraph above back, it sounds too twee and too simplistic to be any good – but it works – and works brilliantly. There is a simplicity to the writing, but it’s the straight-forward kind of simplicity and so it helps the book enormously. It is this that stops it becoming too sugary or too introspective and instead keeps up the narrative flow from start to finish.

At the heart of the book though is of course the character of Harold, and I found him one with whom I could both believe in and identify with. He’s a hero – he’s a million miles from James Bond or Jason Bourne or Indiana Jones, who are the archetypal all-action movie heroes I usually like – Harold is more of a perfect fit as a hero. I’m a fifty-one year old man getting wider as fast as I’m getting older – why wouldn’t I identify with Harold! The other characters in the book are a bit more variable – some of them more believable and real than others – but it didn’t matter.

Harold Fry is a book that is deceptively simple, because there are other layers to it. There’s definitely a feel of a Biblical parable, as Harold gathers an entourage and finds his pilgrimage becoming less personal and more collective. There are also some pretty dark and emotionally charged parts of the book – in fact it gives you a couple of stiff ones to the solar plexus in the latter parts of the story! It also seems to me it’s a book that has a real look at loneliness – the kind that’s emotional rather than physical – there is Harold’s loneliness within his marriage – Maureen’s own loneliness within the same situation, the loneliness of their recently widowed neighbour, the detachment, either from their peers or their neighbours, that characterise several of the people Harold meets on his journey. But above all, it’s a cracking story.

If Nancy Had Met Harold This Album Would have Been Titled Yachting Shoes!

All the way through it, as I read along, I couldn’t get Nancy Sinatra out of my head – there was a refrain I made up in one of those eejit moments we all have (note the use of the phrase “all have” - this is an attempt for reassurance that it’s not a problem I’ve got – so if you read this PLEASE leave a comment that just says “I HAVE EEJIT MOMENTS TOO!“). You know the “these boots were made for walking” drivel – I had that – substituting boots for yachting shoes – running through my head frequently in the gaps between reading the actual book! That’s the effect that the Pilgrimage of Harold Fry had on me – it’s a book about “senior moments” – they’re good senior moments, but they’re still senior moments – and here was a book about senior moments inspiring me to my have several of my own “Sing-Along-With-Nancy” senior moments – bizarre – but Harold Fry was worth it!

If you want to read other reviews of Harold Fry you can find them on Annabel’s House Of Books (her review has got the title I’d have wanted!) and Alex In Leeds and HeavenAli (her review has a great wee map showing that walking from Devon to Berwick is a bloody long walk!)

Night beds didn’t get a listing on the NME roll call of awful names – but they could easily have done! And yet, like some sort of Einsteinian law there’s clearly a relationship between bad band names and the music! ( In Joe Lean’s case the music was a sign of the bad music to come! ). The scientific law for Night beds must be that the sheer naff ness of the band name is in direct inverse proportion to the wonderfulness of their music – for it’s great!

I first heard of them only a few days ago. My partner casually mentioned them. ‘Have you heard of a band called Nightbeds? I heard a song of there’s on the radio and I think you’d like it!’. After a predictable exchange along the lines of “Nightbeds?” “Nightbeds” “Nightbeds?!!!!!!!!” “Yes-Nightbeds!” “Night – beds????????!!!!!!!!” “YES! NIGHT-BLOODY-BEDS!”, I loaded up Spotify and sure as fate up they came! I feel instantly in love with their stuff and I’ve been playing it non- stop ever since!

I have to hand it to my girl – she knows what I like. While i love indie and my favourite station is BBC Radio 6, I listen to old fart radio in the car on the way to and from the station ( mostly Today on Radio 4 but occasionally I live it up a little with Radio 3!). My girl is much more likely to be listening to Absolute, or XfM ( she listens a lot to Heart and Smooth as well but we’ll gloss over that aberration quickly!) – she’s put me in to several great bands – but I think Night beds might be the crowning glory of her music tips!!!!!

The guy behind Nightbeds is Winston Yellens a young bloke from Nashville. Their album is due out here in the UK on Feb 5th though there are EPs out that will give you a flavour of their exquisite floating melodies and his great voice! And if you want a comparison then I’ll go back to my partner – she’s not only got a great ear for my taste but she can link them up. She commented that she thought I’d like it because it sounds like Bon Iver! And I love Bon Iver. And she’s right. And if you want further proof that she’s write in her tip and in her Bon Iver comparison, have a look at these reviews from BBC Music and The Guardian!

Sweet Tooth by Ian McEwan with story heroine Serena Frome (rhymes with Plume) – (and also rhymes with crap!)

I didn’t start to blog to slate books or authors – in fact the exact opposite – I love books and want to just enjoy the feeling of sharing my thoughts, and most of the time the sheer enjoyment and joy they bring me. So I won’t overdo the slating of Sweet Tooth – and I know lots of people have read it and liked it – but I thought it was a real disappointment.

It tells the story of Serena Frome, “rhymes with plume” apparently(!!), described inside the cover as “the beautiful daughter of an Anglican bishop” – and therein lies the first niggle for me – it’s all a bit predictable and trite – I think I’d have preferred something along the lines of “Serena Frome, rhymes with comb, the  plain and plump daughter of an Aberdonian fish shop owner!”. Serena goes, via an older Cambridge professor-lover into the intelligence services, where she becomes the public face of an MI5 plan to recruit and manipulate right-minded young aspiring writers to produce the right-kind of anti-Soviet literature and propaganda. I know there’s the willing suspension of disbelief and all that but I can’t believe that Ian McEwan isn’t somehow taking the piss with this plot that’s so paper-thin it reminds me of that bloody awful “Izal” loo paper they gave out in Scottish schools which you were supposed to wipe your arse with, but for which we used to use the left over sheets as tracing paper!!! All the way through I just kept thinking – he can’t be serious about this as a story line – can he? I can believe most things of Britain’s intelligence services but I think even they’d laugh at the ludicrousness of this idea! I wont say any more about the story, or the characters, because to be honest, I don’t really care enough and as I say I don’t want to slate it endlessly. There are some bits that I was intrigued by – part of the story lends itself to McEwan giving a bit of an insight into the creative writing process – interesting but ironic that the insight into creativity is built around something that seems to be utterly lacking in creativity. It also allows McEwan to outline a number of story plots and ideas though the vehicle of “books and short stories” created by “Tom Haley”, the writer being “worked” by old Selena The Plume! That’s ironic as well – he seems to have chosen to give away plots to “Tom Haley” that are a damn sight better than the one he’s ended up publishing!

I did wonder if the final irony is in that author character’s name – ‘Tom Haley’ – it takes only one consonant change to become Tom Daley!!!! I could then see Ian McEwan have him writing a plot for a TV programme about celebrities learning how to belly-flop from different heights in a diving competition called “Splash!” But that’s a useful benchmark – because I thought Sweet Tooth was as awful a book as Splash is a TV Programme!

I’m so sorry to write this about an Ian McEwan book – and one that I’d really looked forward to so much. But I thought it was rubbish – brilliantly written rubbish I’ll grant you – but still rubbish!

However other people really did like it and you’ll find much more positive reviews here at Savidge Reads and Book Hooked Blog

I know it too! There are three things in my life that, for me, are always well worth waiting on.

It’s worth waiting for the two stages of pouring a pint of Guinness – watching that head grow and settle – lovely!

It’s worth waiting for my partner to get ready when we go out – she always emerges late but she’s always absolutely beautiful and I feel wonderful to think she’ll be going out with me!

And it’s worth waiting for an Ian Rankin novel – they are always good, sometimes great, and occasionally, like this one, truly special!

To all intents and purposes, Standing In Another Man’s Grave is the comeback of ex-DI John Rebus. Now I’ve missed him since Ian Rankin “retired” Rebus. But it wasn’t until he emerged as a character in this book, on the very first page of it, that I realised just how much I’d missed him!

He’d made sure he wasn’t standing too near the open grave. Closed ranks of the other mourners between him and it. …….Rain wasn’t quite falling yet, but it had a scheduled appointment. The cemetery was fairly new, sited on the south-eastern outskirts of the city. He had skipped the church service, just as he would skip the drinks and sandwiches after. He was studying the backs of heads: hunched shoulders, twitches, sneezes and throat-clearings. There were people here he knew, but probably not many………..Words were being uttered but he couldn’t catch all of them. There was no mention of the cancer. Jimmy Wallace had been ‘cruelly taken’, leaving a widow and three children, plus five grandkids. Those kids would be down the front somewhere, mostly old enough to know what was going on. Their grandmother had given voice to a single piercing wail and was being comforted.

Christ, he needed a cigarette.

I simply wallowed and luxuriated in this first paragraph, and from there to the end, Ian Rankin didn’t let me down for a second!

The story sees Rebus re-engaged by Lothian and Border Police in what’s really a cold case unit. At the same time, the disappearance of a young woman, Annette McKie, in Fife, prompts another distraught mother, Nina Hazlitt, to contact the police yet again about her suspicions that this is not a one-off disappearance and is in fact part of a series, which happen along the A9 road, and which began many years before with her own daughter. CID don’t take much notice of her theory for the current case of Annette McKie  – but when she tries to contact an officer she knows within the cold case unit, she discovers he is no longer there – and instead she gets, you guessed it….. Rebus! And there are two things that have always characterised Rebus, his nose for a case and his willingness to take on a seemingly lost cause and have a tilt at what others think are Don Quixote-type windmills! It’s not long before Rebus has wormed his way out of cold case unit and into the McKie investigation team, thanks partly to his sidekick of old, Siobhan and thanks partly to the sheer willingness of Rebus to stick his neck out.

I’ll go no further for fear of spoiling it for anyone who might decide to read it (and you should, you really, really, really should!). But it is a great book, one of the best Ian Rankin books in my humble opinion! The characters of Rebus and Siobhan are as strong and vibrant and doggedly real as they ever were – but if anything there’s an additional spice to their relationship now that there is more of a blurred boundary between boss and subordinate! (It’s kind of like in Winnie the Pooh, when Pooh’s surrounded by water, and he decides to try and sail on a honey jar, which he names ‘The Floating Bear’ – AA Milne writes about how for a while “Pooh and The Floating Bear were uncertain as to which of them was supposed to be on top” – well the Siobhan/Rebus relationship is exactly the same – though obviously minus the flood and the honey jar!).

The writing is as good  as ever, the pace is great from beginning to end though it never feels rushed and the plot has just enough twists to make it mesmerising but never ridiculous. The previous characters of Malcolm Fox and his “Complaints” team are also there as is the sinister menace that is the gangland hard man Ger Cafferty. In the hands of someone less skilled this could end up feeling like a story with everything but the kitchen sink thrown in – but in Ian Rankin’s hands it’s a carefully balanced set of ingredients, blended together perfectly into an absolutely cracking book. I loved it!

Some comebacks aren’t really that welcome – like “Steps – The Reunion” – I mean why would they bother? It’s not as if anybody would have missed them – surely not!

Some comebacks are just plain silly – like “The Doors” without Jim Morrison. Talk about missing the point!

Some comebacks are welcome and long overdue – like the return of Paul Buchanan from The Blue Nile!

But some comebacks are the stuff of dreams and a cause for celebration – perhaps my most sought after comeback is the return of Eric Cantona to Manchester United – but if I can’t have my idea of heavenly perfection in ‘The Return Of Cantona’, then the byline on the cover of  Standing In Another Man’s Grave is the next best thing, for it reads

“REBUS IS BACK!”

And as Shrek says to Donkey  – “That’ll do for me Donkey! That’ll do!”