Wearing My Other Hat...

An interview with me over at the BBC's Doctor Who site...

We Apologise for the Inconvenience

So, a round up then of all these silly new books.

I'm working on a third Gene Hunt humour title for Transworld. This takes the form of a "quotes" book (though, perhaps unexpectedly, 90% of the quotes are original and written by me...) and is designed to appear like it's been knocked up by DC Chris Skelton and DS Ray Carling as something of a joke. Can't tell you how difficult it is coming up with more one-liners for Hunt... getting there though.

On top of that I'm creating a pair of "adult" annuals (in reality pitched at 14/15 and up but, owning a fifteen year old, that's much the same thing...). One will be based on Spooks the other on Hustle. Not to panic though I do have a full month in which to write and plan them!

Finally an absolute dream job: I am updating Neil Gaiman's superb biography of Douglas Adams, "Don't Panic!" This autumn sees the 3oth anniversary of the first hitchhiker's novel's publication (and indeed the new novel from Eoin Colfer "And Another Thing...") and Titan Books are releasing a fourth edition of the book with material from me that will cover all Adams related nonsense from 2002 until now.

Douglas Adams is an absolute hero and a man I can relate to only too well. He started off wanting to be a performer and a comedian, he then found himself writing books. Books filled with very silly things...

If only I was half as clever.

And yes, still working on the two novels but can't announce them yet.

Darkness on the Edge, Light on the Horizon

Just received the signature sheets for PS Publishing's wonderful Bruce Springsteen themed anthology "Darkness on the Edge" (which I'm chuffed to bits to have a story in, PS is a dream publisher... I would own everything of theirs if I could).  

Also sold a lot of books over the last few weeks so forgive the silence -- and I imagine it may continue as I struggle through my workload!  As well as three Tie-In projects 2010 will see the publication of my first original novels through a big publisher (which is not to discount the worthiness of the small press but, y'know, the money's nice and the distribution is a damn sight better).  Can't give any details as yet but I'm sure you'll understand if I say I'm beyond thrilled.

The Watchtower

More adventures were had yesterday, Debra and I are unstoppable at the moment.

We walked the treacherous route up to the watchtower that overlooks Moraira (and, for that matter, pretty much everything else).  It's only about twenty minutes from the road but you have to have a modicum of fitness -- or, in 

our case, oxygen cylinders and crack pipes -- as the route is incredibly steep. 

We took a detour halfway up to visit the mouth of a large cave -- it's used for paleolithic research apparently... archeology barbecues and christmas parties.  The floor was covered in incredibly fine dust, more like ash than sand, and I was somewhat sphincter-shrunken to spot quite how many snake trails there were.  Snakes love cool, dark caves of course... bully for them... legless, fanged meat-tubes.  I hate snakes. Which, of course is what a man says when he really 

means: "Snakes make me hop up and down in fear like an eight-year-old needing a pee, squealing like a baby and generally being pretty terrified for no tangible reason."

Cautiously, manfully, running out of the cave mouth like a girl (flinging Smithers the Yorkshire Terrier over my shoulder to keep the Slithery Fucks busy) we continued on our way to the watchtower.

The foliage is thick along the rough path, packed full of greenery and more wild flowers than most people would expect over here (but then everyone imagines we live in either a Spaghetti Western location or a Benidorm-style hive of fruit machines, kiss-me-quick hats and more pink, bloated tourist flesh than you can smear a Cornetto on). 

At the summit we sat at the tower's base and ate a small picnic lunch.  Debs tried to make the binoculars work (mistaking a boatload of people for a Heron might tell you how successful she was). The walls of the tower are covered in people's names, signing the brick to prove they hadn't fallen off the cliff (or been eaten by asps) en route. We didn't add our signatures to the rather imposing guest book, just pottered around for awhile doing the sorts of things humans always do when you put them somewhere really high up (look for their house, wish they could fly, imagine what it might be like to fall off...). We know we did it after all...

Dinner a la Crusoe

Last night we cooked dinner on the beach. It's about twenty minutes walk from the house (on the way back, that walk will kill you, we live on a mountain) and in the summer an enterprising woman sets up a little beach bar just above it, a wooden hut that plies a basic food menu but an expansive selection of alcohol to wash it down with.  It's way off the road, nestled in a small grove of olive trees. Some nights jazz quartets or mariachi bands play amongst the swinging paper lanterns and the rain-stick hiss of seawater filtering through pebbles. 

But the hut's just a rectangle of light coloured dirt, an absence of weeds, a space waiting to be filled. We walk straight past it and descend the last few steps onto the rocky shore. The beach is lined with pine trees and we find a perfect hollow to keep the sea breeze off our fire.  A large spider, very much distressed at my upheaval of his home in the name of hunger -- something I had hoped he might understand -- watches as I lug rocks and build a hollow rectangle to fill with kindling and coal. We line the space with foil, thinking we can lift out the spent coals when we're done. The fire begins to crackle, and we settle down on a sun-lounger cushion to drink wine amongst the pine needles. Once the coals are glowing we add the food, pork for Debra, chicken for me (I don't touch no swine), marinaded in barbecue sauce and red wine, with a side salad and some vegetable kebabs. 

After twenty minutes or so of grilling I shift a few more rocks, giving us tables in the prehistoric style.  The food is good.

Merry Christmas Baby

Yesterday was mum's sixtieth (though she won't thank me for mentioning it, my only hope being that she's never heard of the internet as she's far too old).  

We went to Mundomar... ("Seaworld" as those more cunning linguists will have realised) as there's nothing more likely to please my mother than thrashing water mammals. 

The park is crammed into a tiny space but you never actually realise it, the path is windy and the vegetation is lush, in fact it all seems far too beautiful to only be a healthy spit away from Benidorm, a city that offers this as perhaps it's most famous tourist attraction.

You're constantly besieged by crazy spaniards in animal suits, making you mug for their camera-wielding accomplices. One safari-suit wearing sea lion grabbed me by the waist whispering "Merry Christmas, baby..." in my ear as the camera-shutter clicked.  I can't help but feel I would have been violated in the bushes had I not escaped.

Everything's about the children, they're plucked from the crowds over and over again, forced into lemur compounds with fistfuls of grapes, stuffed into kayaks and pushed out into dolphin pools.  They all look terrified... 

It was a fine old day.

Then off to a restaurant for the evening, L'Almercera, just outside Teulada for what turned out to be the most splendid gob-full of deep fried cheeses and curried sauces, vodka, beer and brandy... all the food groups.

The place was empty except for us which was a little sad, the food was excellent (and at a flat price of three courses plus wine for €15 hardly expensive).  Steve Devey (pictured right) is planning a "paranormal investigation" of the place soon... perhaps it's the dead that are keeping out the living.

I actually ended up agreeing to tag along on a forthcoming "psychic" investigation of a bandit's house just outside Alicante.  This will be interesting of course as I am a complete skeptic.  Still... sometimes a rationalist has to dip his toe...

Lemon Entry

Another book that's nearly with us (though I haven't seen a copy of this one as yet... nor my final payment for that matter!). Lee's all embarrassed that Amazon lists him as a writer, I don't mind one jot, his design-work in this is some of his best yet and it tells the story just as much as I do.  Though perhaps Doyle should have received some form of credit?

I get twitchy about the deerstalker and pipe though... you have to do it, it's the Holmes "logo" the face of the brand... still, I know that only a tit would have walked the streets of London looking like that (he didn't) and that he preferred a slender church warden between his lips (in a tobacco sense you understand).  I blame Paget and Rathbone...