Archive for May, 2009

Posted in Pictures on 29 May 2009 by nicholasroyle

IMG_0187

Sounds like a great show.

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‘All Right Now’

Posted in Dreams on 28 May 2009 by nicholasroyle

I’m in a bar of some kind to see a gig by a four-piece band. I know one of the guys in the band. I enter and they’re rehearsing. It’s uncategorisable music. Not quite jazz, not really classical or popular. I listen for a bit then head next door to find the loos. I’m standing up peeing into the washbasin – an unusually big washbasin with the tap and plughole so far away they’re almost impossible to reach with my hand – and hoping no one comes in when someone comes in. One of the band members. I hastily withdraw, but I’m worried he saw. I make a show of being in the middle of washing my hands. I say to the guy who’s come in that I don’t know what kind of music they’re playing. They’re certainly not like Performance, I say, as if this guy, or one of the others, is Joe Stretch, which he isn’t and neither is any of the others. ‘I don’t know if you’re jazz, classical, Radio 2,’ I say. He says he’s going to play me something to answer my question. I hear ‘All Right Now’ ‘Free!’ I say. But he means Deep Purple. I’m confused. (27/05/09)

Feral children

Posted in Dreams on 25 May 2009 by nicholasroyle

Feral children climbing in and out of abandoned buildings. Somehow this links to a hole in the wall where counterfeit money is appearing – coins, not notes. Big thick 50p pieces, cylindrical, made out of pig iron. On some the Queen’s head is replaced by that of ‘Tal’. On others by former monarchs. They don’t look much like real coins, but I think they’ll do. Later I’m with J and his new girlfriend (?). Others are present, including Fitz and someone with wild frizzy red hair and a freckled face. I don’t know him but I do, if that makes sense. Fitz, now resembling the guy with frizzy hair, tells J he wants to see the video of J’s girlfriend. Apparently someone’s videoed her in the bathroom. Into my field of vision comes a thickly belted waist and a truncheon. Police. The truncheon rests close to my hand. ‘I imagine you know what we are after,’ the policeman says to me. ‘All the money,’ I say to him as I hand over the counterfeit coins. Before leaving, he gives me Charlie’s MGS tie from around his wrist. (24/05/09)

Black detective

Posted in Dreams on 24 May 2009 by nicholasroyle

Someone – not me – is rewriting an existing series of crime novels. The main differences are that the first book in the series will appear in a smaller format and the protagonist, presumably some kind of detective figure, will be black whereas formerly he was white. The author doing the rewrite is a woman. I am eager to get a look at the results, particularly to see the black detective. (23/05/09)

Wankers shelf

Posted in This writing business on 21 May 2009 by nicholasroyle

I have an ethical dilemma. I don’t get sent a lot of books, but I do get sent some. Inevitably they are not the ones I would like to be sent, while those I would like to be sent I have to go out and buy. And then I don’t have time to read them, but that’s another matter. Usually, the books I get sent that I don’t want I give to charity. Oxfam, Cancer Research, British Heart Foundation. Then you feel you’re doing something useful. But what should you do when you’re sent something that belongs on the Wankers shelf? Do you have a Wankers shelf? I do. It’s for books by Wankers. Books that are so bad – or books by authors who are Wankers, whose books might actually be OK, from time to time, but they themselves are such unbearable Wankers – that you wonder if the best thing to do, rather than giving these books to charity, is to keep them out of circulation. 

I was sent a new book the other day by a Wanker. Let’s call him X. I mean, obviously I’m not going to name him, am I? It would be more fun, of course, but it could lead to all sorts of trouble. And in any case, it doesn’t really matter. He’s one of my Wankers. For you he might not be a Wanker. And you might have Wankers who I think are fab writers. But I’ll tell you what, if you don’t think this guy’s a Wanker, you just don’t know enough about him. So, I’ve got this book; it’s sitting on my shelf. Not the Wankers shelf, but the interim shelf, where the new stuff goes before I’ve figured out where to put it. Like the Just Returned shelf in the library or the New Stock shelf in Oxfam. It’s doing nothing there other than taking up space. It has to either go out, to charity, or be moved upstairs to the Wankers shelf. You see, partly, I feel I’m doing the world a service by keeping this stuff out of circulation, and partly I feel it’s important not to give X any more readers than he already has.

I wonder if I’m on anybody’s Wankers shelf? Actually, if he has one, I can think of at least one author that would definitely put me on his Twats shelf, because I can still picture the email he sent me some months after my review of his novel appeared. A model of brevity, it contained only one word. In surprisingly small type, too.

Pink bus

Posted in Dreams on 20 May 2009 by nicholasroyle

Cycling in New York. It doesn’t look much like New York, but I know it’s New York. I pass by huge construction works. Giant  circular holes in the road, ten or fifteen yards across, filled with concrete. Maybe some kind of foundations? A little further on, more of these, but these are definitely not foundations. These are something to do with resisting movement in the ground. Earthquake protection, perhaps? All very vague. Now I’m on Broadway, only it doesn’t look a lot like Broadway, as previously discussed. Several lanes of traffic coming towards me. I say something to the driver of a car as he passes close to me, letting him know what I think of how much clearance he’d given me. In the distance, also coming towards me, is an old double-decker bus, like a Routemaster, only it’s not red. It’s pink. (19/05/09)

Bono’s missing payment

Posted in Dreams on 18 May 2009 by nicholasroyle

I’m emailing Nigel K on my iPhone. According to a guy called Duncan at Time Out it’s my fault that a payment due to be transferred to Bono has not been made. When I get a call from this Duncan guy telling me it’s my fault I tell him I’m sure Bono will manage. The guy has no sense of humour and clearly wants a scapegoat, and I’m it, although I’m convinced I’m not to blame. There had been some calls back and forth, which I had taken on an old silver mobile, to do with some mix-up. I had sought to have my name printed correctly and somehow this had led to Bono’s not getting paid for something or other. I look at the phone and it has some weird information on the tiny screen – where it should say what network I’m on it has some other information that means nothing to me. I worry it means I’ll end up paying extra for these calls.

Walking down a steep pavement, I overtake a large East African-Asian woman and her daughter. The woman puts her hand out to me. I take it and dance and skip on ahead. The woman reacts. What am I doing? I say I’d accepted her hand of friendship. She says OK. At the bottom of the hill I double back up the adjacent road, a cobbled street coursing with water. I climb up through the running water in my Converse trainers, knowing it’s too deep and they’ll get soaked, but I don’t care. The woman thinks this is funny until her daughter starts copying me. (17/05/09)