Stuart’s Plague-Times Naughty Newsletter Number The Eleventeenth
Way-Back-In-The-Longago Featuring Incorporated Hedgehog Industries Ltd. is proud to be associated with: oldness
Now we’re getting somewhere - September 2023, to be precise. When it was probably raining, and we had no tatties because the sodding deer had eaten all the green bits off the shaws. BASTARDS!!! All those fields of delicious grass for them to munch on and they have to devastate our potato crop.
As Beetroot would say, “Grrrr! Grrrr! Grrrr!”
But that’s a tale for another time. For this time, we have:
Stuart’s Plague-Times Naughty Newsletter Number The Eleventeenth
Hello Naughty Newsletterists!
Yes, it’s that time again, when into your inbox plops a fresh, steaming dollop of newsletter – untreated, even though it’s not been raining heavily and there’s no way the system was over capacity. Liberally peppered with sweetcorn-esque nuggets of delight, that…
Actually, I’m going to stop this metaphor right here. It’s icky. And has a whiff about it.
Let’s start again.
Hi.
It’s been a bit of a year, to be honest, and lots of things have happened since last we spoke. Few of them good.* And as a result I’ve not been getting out and about to festivals, or achieving much. But the lovely Julia at Transworld thinks it’s important for me to stick my head out from my hermitage from time to time and remind the book-reading world that I haven’t been eaten by rabid squirrels,** so here we are: Newslettering.
Without further ado – assuming that you’ve had your fill of ado-ing thus far*** – let us gird our loins with bacon and garlic, before popping them into a pre-heated oven at 200OC for twenty to thirty minutes, then pour ourselves a nice glass of wine and settle down for Stuart’s Plague-Times Naughty Newsletter Number The Eleventh!
* But more of that in Item Number The Fourth.
** Yet.
*** Some people like a bit of ado in the morning, others won’t touch it till the sun’s over the yardarm. But either way, you should always ado responsibly.
ITEM NUMBER THE FIRST: In Which There Is Much More In The Way Of Hens About The Place
As you will see, in Item Number The Fourth, there was a need at Casa MacBride to get some new hens.
We like our hens, and they fulfil a vital role in the breakfast department. Eggies are the breakfast du jour, every jour. Well, most jours, anyway. Boiled, scrambled, fried, or poached, we are desperately eggy people. Which is why you should never tailgate our trolley when we’re in the supermarket.*
There are few things more delightfully delicious than a boobytrapped butty. Especially in a nice Glasgow roll, with butter on both inside surfaces, and a good smear of Dijon mustard, topped with a fried egg – slightly crispy around the edges, no uncooked white, squishy yolk. Mmmmmmmmm…
And then, of course, there’s the frisson of excitement as you consume this scrumptious repast: when will the yolk pop? And when it pops, will you be able to keep all the yolk in the bun? Or will it drip all over your plate, leaving the Yellow Marks Of Shame?
I once made it clear that a character in one of my books was a bad ’un by having them pop the yolk with a fork, before starting in on the butty. Which is clearly a marker of sociopathy. Only to later discover, while staying over at a friend’s house, that they do exactly that! I sat opposite them at the breakfast table while they Jeffrey Dahmered their egg. Oh, how I shuddered.**
Where was I?
Ah yes: hens.
We decided we were after four new girls to feed our egg habit. Which is probably slightly more than we need. There’s only two of us, after all, and a limit to the number of eggs we can eat. We have innocent supermarket tailgaiters to think about, after all.
So, Fiona and I did take a trip to a farm where they does buy in hens and sell them on. A hen dealer, if you like – surreptitiously selling feathery cocaine. And we did go into the big shed thing and went, “Ooh, that one’s pretty. And we like that one. Ooh that one’s pretty, too!”
Safe to say that we stuck to our self-imposed hen limit and returned home with a Rhode Island Red, a Bluebelle, a Leghorn, a Cuckoo Maran, and a Light Sussex.
Because clearly we’re great at self-control.
From left to right, we have: Bernadette Wolowitz, Amy Farrah Fowler,*** Midge Maisel, Penny Hofstadter, and Suzy Myerson.
As if that wasn’t exciting enough, they’ve finally started laying eggs! Lovely fresh pullet eggs, that are weenie, but perfectly formed. Bit of a sod to fry, because their weenieness makes it challenging to get the whites perfectly set before the yolk starts to thicken. But we’re getting there.
* Eggtastic emissions can be surprisingly eggy.
** And vowed never to look in their chest freezer. In case it contained actual, you know, chests.
*** Come on, that’s a great name for a hen!
ITEM NUMBER THE SECOND: In Which There Is Some Exciting Writing News That I Can Now Talk About
Remember, last time, I was being all arch about some news I had, that I couldn’t tell you for … reasons? Well, now I can tell you. Though after all the buildup, it might not be worth the hype. Who can tell in there strange and rectangular times?*
Anyway, at the risk of overhyping it yet again: Tan-tan-ta-tan-tan-ta-taaaaaa!
If you’re the kind of person who subscribes to Amazon Original Stories, you’ll soon** find your reading device besmirched by a brand-new and exclusive thing what I is writing for them:
THE TASTING MENU
Sometimes a meal ends with unjust desserts…
Three friends – a crime writer, a detective inspector, and an ex-career criminal – go on a foodie road trip to the Scottish Highlands and Islands, expecting stunning scenery, excellent food, and a chance to reminisce about the good old days.
The highlight is a visit to Am Bòrd Mòr, a remote and very exclusive restaurant set on a private island in Loch Broom, where they’re in for a once-in-a-lifetime dining experience.
The question is: whose?
One of the three friends is a killer, one is a liar, and one will do whatever it takes to survive.
It makes a nice change to have a shorter work actually escape into the real world, rather than just disappearing into my Forbidden Drawer Of Forgotten Stories, like those nice Tufty and Steel novels.***
Plus, The Tasting Menu is set in Loganworld, where Logan lives. But neither he nor anyone else from the series feature in the story. But it’s set in his world, so it’s a nice bit of “getting into practice” for me, ready for Logan’s unfortunate return in 2025. I say “unfortunate”, because it’s probably not going to go very well for him. It doesn’t usually. Nasty things seem to happen to him every time he takes centre stage for one of my books.
But I digress.
I shall be leaping into writing The Tasting Menu, just as soon as I’ve finished the next draft of THE BOOK OF DOOM!**** And I’m rather looking forward to having fun with it.
And the research should be tasty too…
* Nothing like really selling your own work, is there?
** Soon in the geological sense of the word – it’s not going to be out till September next year. Which is quite a long way away in non-geological terms, but only a fraction of a blink of an eye when compared to the reign of the dinosaurs. Who almost never wrote novellas about this kind of thing.
*** Technically, anything over 40,000 words is a novel, and both And The Corpse Wore Tartan and Tufty The Vampire Slayer are over 50,000, so that totally counts, dude! Mind you, given the fact that my longest book to date, A Dark So Deadly, was about 194,000 anything less than the size of a breeze block is going to look weenie by comparison.
**** Not it’s real title, but then we haven’t decided on what it should be yet, so it’ll do as a placeholder.
ITEM NUMBER THE THIRD: In Which There Is Just One Month To Go
It’s ticking-clock time in the world of Stuart’s Publishing Endeavours, because the paperback version of The Dead Of Winter is going to hit the shelves on the 9th of November! Sitting there, in its shiny jacket, like a slightly smaller version of its older hardback self. Kind of like a weird rectangular caterpillar turning into a weenier rectangular butterfly that can’t fly. So just a butter, then. A rectangular butter. Full of words. Lots of them.*
And, of course, it’ll be slightly cheaper than its older hardback self too. Meaning, if you were looking for early Christmas presents for a loved one (or two),** though make sure the stockings are big enough before forcing a paperback book in there. Make sure they’re not fishnet too – that would spoil the surprise as the recipient could see through the holes. Unless you cover the book in some nice wrapping paper.*****
So, if you’re in the market for such a thing, then such a thing will be available in all your good bookshops and a smattering of supermarkets too – which are like regular markets, only they have to squeeze themselves into telephone boxes to take off their costumes and assume their secret identities, working for the local paper under a pseudonym who wears glasses.
Hey, I don’t make the rules.
* Some of which are somewhat rude. But not many of them. Most of the words are perfectly well behaved and you could definitely take them home to meet your mother and not worry about them micturating in the pot plants and getting the Labrador pregnant.
** Not going to judge you on that one, but beware of too much kinky business when it comes to gifting books. There could be consequences!***
*** Like a really painful papercut in a sensitive area.****
**** Such as Peebles.
***** No matter how good an idea it seems, never wrap your book in cheese paper. You know, the paper they sometimes wrap cheese in? Because it makes your book smell all of cheese, and if you’re reading in bed, that’s just going to give you olfactory nightmares throughout the night. And make you peckish.
ITEM NUMBER THE FOURTH: In Which It Has Been An Horrible Year
Do you remember when the late Queen declared in 1992 that she had an awful bumhole, and then we all realised that we’d misheard her and what she’d actually said was “annus horribilis”?
Well, we’ve had an awful bumhole of a year, too. Though with fewer conspiracy theories involved.
The unwelcome run of scorching weather led to a sudden and devastating outbreak of red mite in both The Convent and The Palais De Poulet, that swiftly resulted in the deaths of Sister Evangelina and Chris In The Morning. We pumped heaps of diatomaceous earth and mite-killer into the coops, but it didn’t make any difference – the bastard things were legion.
When we had Chris In The Morning post mortemed, it turned out he’d been an unwell fish all his days. Not only had he arrived with us suffering from a nasty dose of coccidiosis (which we managed to fix with medication), he also had a deformed keel bone, and only one kidney.
No wonder the poor sod was so useless.
Pff…
Anyway, it all happened very rapidly: we had to abandon both The Convent and The Palais De Poulet (the vet advised us to “set fire to the pair of them”)* and urgently purchase a pair of non-wooden runs to make sure the three hens we still had survived. Which was cheap. *ahem*, *cough, cough*, *grimace*, *not even vaguely*
But that, of course, pales in comparison with the most awful bumhole part of the year. We had to say goodbye to Fiona’s father, Gordon. He’d been staying with us for a good chunk of the year and although he’d been ill for quite a while, the end still came as a nasty shock.
Gordon was good people, with a huge grin,** and an insatiable appetite for the finest fish suppers in the land.
We used to take him up the coast to Buckie and The Fry Inn, for a single fish and a wee handful of my chips (Fiona gets the same, only with extra stolen chips, meaning there were seldom enough chips left for poor Stuart),*** then sit in the car, down at Portgordon Harbour,***** and munch in contented silence as the gulls wheeled and the seals sang their strange cars-going-round-the-Monaco-Grand-Prix-circuit songs.
He was also very partial to a hot pie – steak, mince, scotch, he didn’t play favourites – or a nice plate of chicken wings. Which might make him sound like a chunky monkey, but he wasn’t at all. Gordon was just a pleasure to cook for and eat with. Even if he did struggle getting his non-army-issue teeth through things at times.
He was a man obsessed with sport – in person and on the telly: football, snooker, cricket, racing, tennis, bowls – you name it, he’d watch it. How Raith Rovers will survive without his staunch support is anyone’s guess.
That and ancient TV programmes. While he stayed with us, there was always either a bunch of numpties chasing a ball about, or Last of the Summer Wine on the telly. Victor Meldrew, Del Boy, Heartbeat, Still Game, all the things that would make him show off those slightly blunt dentures in delight.
We had a funeral for him, in his beloved Fife, well attended by people who knew and loved him, followed by traditional sandwiches and buckets of tea.
We raise a wee nip from time to time, in Gordon’s honour, and smile about the good times.
But most of all, we miss him.
* Poop to that – I spend ages on the Palais. We’re going to keep it, hen-free, sterilised, and make sure every nasty blood-sucking bug is dead before putting our hens anywhere near it. And even then, it won’t be till well into next year.
** Full of false teeth, because the Black Watch stole all of his when he did his National Service.
*** Though I thole this indignity with only the bare minimum of whining, moaning, and complaining about how everyone’s got much bigger fishes than me,**** and ALL MY SODDING CHIPS!
**** This is 100% true – the person getting the supper always gets a smaller fish than the person ordering the single fish. I once asked a lady who did work the frier in a different chipper about this and she admitted it was definitely a thing, because she always felt sorry for the person getting the single fish. Even though that person was going to be filching chips from the person who has now been blighted by the smaller fish.
***** Appropriately enough.
ITEM NUMBER THE FIFTH: In Which We Am One Step Closer To Next Year’s Book Actually Being A Thing…
Due to the challenging nature of this year (as outlined above) I’m somewhat behind on my 2024 book. Normally, by the time we get to this point of the year, I’m polishing off the line edits* and looking forward to getting shot of the damn thing. This year, however, we don’t even have a title – it’s going by the nom de plume: “VCN”. Which isn’t exactly helpful.
I should point out that “looking forward to getting shot of the damn thing” is not a reflection of the book itself, it’s more that by this point I’ll have spent nine months writing the book, rewriting it, sodding about with it, sodding about with it some more, then done another round of sodding about. By which point I’d really like to be thinking about something else for a change.
ANYTHING ELSE!!!
But, as I say, I’m way, way, way behind.
This book is getting a third draft, which is unusual for me. Normally I like the book to be as close to my original vision for it as possible, but this one has morphed quite a bit between the first and second drafts. Hopefully for the better. Certainly for the different.
It has legs,** so it could become a series, depending on whether or not people like it. Though that would mean I had three series to juggle at the same time. Not sure if I’ve got the cheeses for that. When would I have time to write anything new?
Speaking of which, the 2024 book is my last standalone before dragging Logan back onto the stage for another pummelling (as also outlined above, but in a different place). And, as I’m giving serious consideration to writing an Ash Henderson book after that, it’s going to be a while before I even get the chance to explore pastures new … and do horrible things to them.
No time to think of such things right now, though – I’ve got that Dreaded Third Draft to be cracking on with.
Silly sod that I am.
* For those interested in such things it usually goes: first draft, second draft (structural edit), line edit (detailed things), copy edit (very detailed things), page proofs (extremely detailed things plus any formatting errors that have crept in betwixt my Word document and the typesetter’s systems), and off it goes to print.
** As they say in “the biz”, in that it could run and run. Or that you could slap sexy stockings on it (for Christmas-presenting, remember?) and whistle at it in the street – LIKE A NEANDERTHAL!***
*** Which is a terrible slur on Neanderthals. I’m sure they never cat-called from a building site, or objectified women on the bus. Besides, I suppose, given the lack of “domesticated” cats until the rise of agrarian societies they’d have to sabre-toothed-tiger-call.****
**** Isn’t it lovely that a sabre-toothed tiger is formally referred to as a Smilodon? Presumably because they looked so happy as they ate our ancestors.
ITEM NUMBER THE LAST: In Which Stuart Does Recommend Other People’s Books For A Change (Again7)
I have to admit that this has not been a great year for reading at Casa MacBride. Not my bit of it anyway.* I’ve tried heaps of books, but very few have made it past the first couple of chapters before that sinking feeling called, “Life’s Too Short For This Poop” settles in and I abandon it for something else.
That may sound frightfully judgemental, and it is, but it may not be the books’ fault. At another time, in another place, perhaps I would’ve loved them? But at this time, and in this place, they ended up on the Poo Pile.
But there was one that very much tickled my things:
THE BLACK CRESCENT, by the inimitable Jane Johnson. Once again I must issue a transparency warning, because it’s the right thing to do. This is markedly different from the political version of “transparency” which is used as a smokescreen to lie even harder to everyone and cover stuff up. Actual properly see-through transparency! Longtime newsletterists may remember that I’ve previously recommended Jane’s** excellent The Sea Gate, and disclosed that Jane was my first ever editor. It was she who decided to take a punt on Cold Granite, and thus turned me into the fat hairy old misanthrope I am today. So I may be biased.
And now that’s out of the way: I loved The Black Crescent, big time.
It’s been a long, long time since I’ve looked forward to getting back to a book – snuck chapters in before dinner when I’m supposed to be doing something else; read on into the night even though I know I’ve got a thing to get up for in the morning; taken a book with me in the car, because I know there might be a 15 or 20 minutes hanging around when I get where I’m going.
We join Hamou Badi, a Berber in 1950s Morocco, as the country struggles towards independence from its French colonial overlords. Born in a mountain village, Hamou bears the mark of the zouhry – the child of a djinn, born to a human mother, with a foot in both worlds and a skill for finding things. But when he’s eleven years old, what he finds is a body.
As a young man, he moves to Casablanca, joining the police to earn money to send back to support his mother and sisters. Being a gendarme in the sûreté brings with it its own challenges, though, as the Moroccan people chaff under the injustices imposed upon them by the colonial regime. Things are reaching boiling point, and violence isn’t far behind…
Jane carries off the incredibly difficult trick of writing a book that slides with ease from one genre to another, and back again, all set against a historical backdrop that many people will never have experienced before. One that’s painted with the deft strokes of a master. The sights and smells and tastes of bustling Cassablanca and the dusty remote villages, hidden away in the Anti-Atlas, sing with vivid authenticity.
That’s down to her skill as a writer, but having a husband who’s a Berber and grew up in these very places certainly has added an extra frisson of verisimilitude.*** You can read the story of how they met, in life-threatening circumstances, on her website.
Do yourself a favour and grab a copy; this is a magnificent, gripping, sweeping adventure that will steal your socks and never give them back.
And Fiona thought it was great too.
* Fiona, on the other hand, has had much more success – working her way through the Outlander books by that powerhouse of Historical-Fictioneering: Diana Gabaldon.
** I can call her Jane, rather than Ms Johnson, because we’ve eaten squid together. Aren’t I swanky?
*** Now there’s a sentence to make your babouches curl.
FARGO, SEASON ONE isn’t a book, but it is most excellent – crammed with weird, quirky, and downright strange characters.
I thought the original Cohen Brothers’ film was a lot of fun, but Fiona and I missed the TV version when it came out. And having missed the start of the first season, we didn’t bother with any of the others. Why would we when we didn’t know what the heck was going on?
But recently, we sat down in front of the telly, having just finished a boxset of something (though I can’t remember what),* and Fargo was on Amazon Prime, so we thought: what the heck. And tried what we thought was the first season. Only it turned out to be the fourth season. Which is not the same thing at all – 1 and 4 being quite different numbers. It rapidly became clear that Season Four wasn’t really attached to Season One, and with a shrug of the shoulders, we settled down to give it a go.
And it was OK. Went on a bit too long, and lacked the sheer bonkers joy of the film, but it was OK. Mind you, Jessie Buckley is terrific in it, with her deliciously demented portrayal of murderous nurse, Oraetta Mayflower.
As it wasn’t terrible, we went back to the start and had a bash with Season One.
Hooo, boy. That was some spicy meatloaf!
It shares much more of the film’s DNA, with Billy Bob Thornton stealing the show as hitman and gleeful agent of chaos, Lorne Malvo. Martin Freeman’s Lester Nygaard – a man tortured by his bitter wife, and still tormented by his high-school bully – is very much in the vein of Jerry Lundergaard (William H. Macy), while Alison Tolman’s Molly Solverson pays a nice homage to Marge Gunderson (Frances McDormand) as the deputy trying to get to the bottom of all this murderous malarkey. No kidnap drama this time, though, only death, blackmail, and horrible misunderstandings all served up with a dollop of the darkest humour.
Personally, I would’ve concluded the story at the end of Episode Seven, but then I’m that kinda guy. That said, there are some nice twists and character turns in the last three episodes which make it worth hanging in there till the final credits roll.
Now we’ll find out if Series Two is as good…
* Not exactly a good sign.