Friday 18 September 2009

the 13 1/2 lives of captain bluebear


Is a book by Walter Moers which I'm currently reading (swapping occasionally for Dawkins' Greatest Show on Earth).

There is a gushing quote from the Telegraph review on the back which starts "Within the first 15 pages I was carried away by the sheer craziness of it all". I'm 100 pages in.. and I still think it's bobbins.

I looked it up on the web tonight in case it was meant for under 11s and Waterstones had just mis-shelved it - apparently not. Not only is it for "all ages" (and it appears to have quite a devoted following) but it is often compared to The Hitchhiker's Guide to The Galaxy. I can't help but find that slightly irritating.. Hitchhiker's is a book full of witty insights on human behaviour. Despite the fact it started as a vehicle for various of Douglas Adams' sketches it had several plotlines and many well-developed characters. Arthur Dent particularly was so well characterised you couldn't help but feel an affinity for him. Against this we are to compare a blue bear who is born into a wacky situation before moving into another wacky situation, pausing briefly to describe the new wacky situation before tumbling headlong into, yes, another wacky situation. Not only is that not particularly entertaining, it's easy. Let's see if I can show you what I mean:
I don't remember how I first met the trolls of Hum-da-woo, but my earliest memories were of their warty faces peering in at me in my basket of custard. For reasons unknown to me at the time they took me in as one of their own, combing my feathers and changing my custard regularly. In return they expected me to help hunt for Toffee Wombats on the plains - a task for which I was ideally suited, being a parrot with a sweet tooth and eyes that could see a thousand yards.

Gradually my need for custard became too great for the trolls to satisfy, and after many years of friendship I knew we had to part. The fateful day came when I perched atop the handle of my little custard basket and, with tears in my parrot-eyes, squawked a fond farewell to my carers of many years. Their eyes similarly moist, they turned from me and walked back toward the village - the Toffee Wombats wouldn't hunt themselves after all. Taking a deep breath I picked up my basket in my beak and flew off into the sunset.

Bedazzled by the brightness of the sunset I quickly got lost. I say I got lost, I didn't really know where I was going in the first place, but nonetheless I wasn't going in the direction I had intended and this caused me some anguish. After some hours of not knowing where I was I decided to land. I came to a standstill on a large grey rock. I put my basket down, and preened for a moment. To my deep astonishment, the rock spoke! "Have you no respect?" it boomed, "How dare you stand upon an Elder of the Granite Magisterium?! I, who have beheld the Darkening of The Wonkysocks - I! who single-stonedly thwarted The Army of Miserable Pasties!"
(etc.)

It's train-of-thought nonsense. It's hardly the beginnings of a novel.

I don't know, maybe I'll change my mind in another 100 pages.

Saturday 12 September 2009

sunny, lovely, cuddly manchester

© Tom Jolliffe

It's days like this I'm happy to just wander aimlessly around Manchester like a tourist. From my beautifully overgrown, tree-filled adopted home of Whalley Range to the various beautiful and striking buildings and views in the centre, Manchester stuns on a sunny day.

I went into town for a dull 5-minute errand this morning, and ended up staying most of the day - hopping between coffeeshops across town, sitting outside each one for an hour or so reading another chunk of novel and watching sunny people meandering by.

© temjin

I wandered into St. Ann's Square to find one of those peculiar markets that always sells the same things, whatever theme it claims and wherever it's meant to be from. Basically fudge and wool. And stollen if it's a German Christmas Market. A few elderly people were listening to a female guitarist sing some sugary ballads, clapping politely between songs and smiling serenely, probably thinking how nice it was to see a young person who wasn't stabbing someone to death in a drug-fuelled craze. Families were happily being fleeced at the fudge stalls (my favourite is covered-in-fluff-because-it's-been-out-in-the-open-all-day flavour), and young women were dragging their boyfriends around the clothes stalls cooing excitedly about bargains while said boyfriends nodded absently, calming their thinly disguised irritation with memories of just how much she put out last time it was this sunny. The advance guard of this year's gay freshers was also in town, looking oddly sweet in their identikit Top Man clothes, each one's eyes like saucers at the opportunities for moral turpitude; many salivating at the thought of binge drinking and casual sex, some salivating at the fudge. They'll figure it out.

© mijoli

On the fringes of this jolly scene there was a man shouting at the happy people as they milled past, causing brief expressions of confusion to pass some of their faces - what was this incongruous dog turd of hate in our collective mixed salad of summery fun? Ah - after a few sideways glances (never look a madman in the eye) the confused passer-by spots that he is carrying a book. That explains it - he's one of them. Yes, the one man in the square who isn't remotely happy is the one who's found the love of Jesus. I don't understand why St. Ann's Church doesn't send out some kind of hit squad to deal with him. There is a man stood next to your church, clearly demonstrating that God's love is corrosive and malignant. That can't be good for business. Surely this is the Christian equivalent of a man stood outside a Scientology shop handing out leaflets on dianetics and vomiting into a bin? "I used to be stressed but scientology fixed me - BWWUUAARRGGGHHHH - no, come back.."

I was sorely tempted to stand next to our man in St. Ann's, loudly shouting extracts from my own currently-beloved book. Unfortunately it's "Making History" which is largely about Hitler - rather difficult to precis without people thinking you're a Nazi. Perhaps next time I'll try with a Robert Rankin..







(By the way, Manchester also looks lovely by night - yowzer!)