Review - The Dead Beat by Cody James

Awesome book. Such a shame it's out of print. This is a real rock'n'roll novel that makes compulsive reading. Reminded me of Margaret Atwood's The Edible Woman for its sense of atmosphere and beautiful, honest prose. I can't recommend it enough - but as I say, it's almost impossible to get hold of a copy these days. In 2011 it was up for the Guardian's Not The Booker Prize and due to the overwhelming amount of positive reviews from bloggers there was an inevitable backlash from the literary community. A few harsh words were written and Cody James pulled the book to its current out of print status. Totally undeserved. This book could've, should've become a cult classic.

Story 27 - Frisbee

Played Frisbee this afternoon. I’ve often see all these people playing it outside the library on Wednesdays. Never realised before today that it was an actual proper Frisbee club. They join up every Wednesday afternoon and throw the Frisbee at each other, then go for a drink afterwards at this pub in Falmer village. Sometimes they even go away for weekend trips too. Devon or somewhere like that where they camp and throw the Frisbee.

I’m taking the piss a little, but that’s not to say I don’t appreciate how friendly they all were when I wandered in amongst the group. All I needed to do was sort of mope around nearby when the Frisbee suddenly came flying towards me. I caught it and then it was simply a matter of throwing it to someone else to be included in the game. Didn’t think too much about who I was throwing it to. There were a couple of fit girls and I considered aiming it towards one of them more often than not but the whole concept seemed a little silly and Neanderthal so in the end I didn’t. Plus I generally felt a little shy too. Voiced a few, “Ah, missed it,” sounds but finally the only person I ended up talking to at all was the leader (who’s name was Nigel – all confident and sporty looking; a total Mr Popular amongst the Frisbee gang). He asked what year I was in, what I was studying and if I wanted to join them in going to the Lion Inn pub in Falmer; but I declined ’cause I’m up for a proper getting-wasted-and-going-to-the- union evening.

Story 26 - The Dream Machine and the End of the Human Race

It was a new application. Invented by a man in New Poland called Mac Schubert. Somehow it tapped into your brain and read your mind.

We remember everything you see, it’s all there. Our little conversations, the thoughts, the decisions, the scratchings of our heads… a lifetime of tiny incidents from deciding what we’re going to eat for breakfast to what shirt we’ll wear for work. A lifetime of memories.

Wouldn’t it be great if you could live your life again? “Live your life over,” was the line they used in the advertisements.

Schubert and co had the elderly in mind. Too old and infirm to do much apart from sit in a chair plugged in to their i-pads. It would bring happiness to victims of unfortunate accidents: the disabled, and could even aid depression, madness, drug addiction and the list went on.

Choose a date, a time, hit the button and you were away. What were you doing at four o’clock on the twenty-first of June nineteen-ninety-three? The dream machine would take you back to that moment and you were suddenly re-living a day forgotten by your conscious mind.

Remember that holiday in Madrid back when you were eighteen? Why not go again?

Apple secured the patenting. Millions were spent on advertising and billions were made as the world queued up to get their own personal app.

Almost immediately the effect of this new toy began to take its toll. (Have you guessed it yet?)

Put yourself in the situation of your average Joe Bloggs. You have a choice: Get up, start a whole new day that might turn out to be fairly non-eventful, even disastrous; or stay in bed, turn on your dream app and live through a day that’s guarunteed to bring you a perfectly satisfying, pleasurable time.

When one could repeatedly go back to their golden age of youth, was there really any alternative?

And then something new became available; an illegal download: Hackers tapped in to the dreams that people were experiencing and sold them on the black market.

Unsatisfied with your own life? How about trying something new? Ever seen the pyramids? Ever fought in a war? Ever had a threesome with two well-known porn stars? Ever been Tom Cruise?

An ageing Tom Cruise (you may have heard of him) was famously fighting a legal battle to win back the privacy of his own memories. Mostly he was unsuccessful because the hackers had got there before the laws were written; and the lawyers who gave a damn were few and far between anyway - too busy re-living their (or Tom Cruise’s) college days…

Addiction to the device proved devastating to commerce. People were showing less enthusiasm for their jobs, hardly willing to leave the house. Food was about the only thing anybody bought. Before they knew it they’d become cocooned inside their own minds. The body no longer had any use - people stopped taking care of their personal appearance and hygiene. They ate, they shat, they dreamed.

Apple may have secured the patenting but soon the thing had gone viral. It had spread across the world in a matter of months. Unemployment soared. People were stealing the essentials, feeding their habits by abusing the public electricity sources.

Of course there were some who opposed the devise. There were demonstrations, petitions; there were even plans to make it illegal by the end of it. But inevitably it was too late. Nobody was living. Almost no one was making any effort to start a family, to reproduce. The average age of the world population eventually exceeded sixty and after that there was no going back. The governments no longer cared and even the scientists were too busy being Steven Hawking to come up with any useful solution to the problem.

There are a few of us left now. But we can hardly call ourselves “the human race.” We’re barely animals. Nothing but tribes scattered around here and there. Surviving. Learning. Starting again. To conquer the planet again we’ve more than a long way to go.

All we can do is learn from our mistakes. But the device still exists. And even with education the danger will always be out there somewhere.

Review - Remember to Forget by Jonny Gibbings

From the writer of Malice in Blunderland comes this unexpectedly heart-warming novella about a husband and father winning back the love of his family. It’s very well written, well paced and just like his first novel could easily be turned into a film. However, while Malice in Blunderland would be an edgy satirical flick, Remember to Forget reminds me of one of those afternoon made for TV movies that pulls on the strings of your more sensitive emotions, of love and happiness and what the really important things in life are. A guilty pleasure, you’re unable to switch over and are welling up by the end of it. I thought this novel made a beautiful statement about the gifts that family and partnerships have to offer and Gibbings should be extremely proud of what he has achieved. But I also missed the hedonistic laugh out loud storylines from his first novel and the angry political righteousness of his blog. The versatility of Gibbing’s writing nevertheless suggests that there is plenty more to come, and that he is an author to watch out for.

For this blog's interview with Jonny Giggings click here.

guest story - Beggar My Neighbour by [Whiffytidings]

London, 1820

Every night the huge cast iron doors to the Savings Bank clanged shut at seven o’clock and the same stout gentleman with the bushy yet meticulously clipped moustache would carefully lock them, always mindful of potential attackers. For this reason it was not uncommon for him to be accompanied by an armed guard, but tonight his companion seemed altogether unseasoned.

‘Keep an eye out for anyone untoward will you Carberry, there’s a good man.’ he grunted, searching for the lock with a heavy key.

Young Carberry, having served his first day as a clerk, searched the street almost theatrically until his eyes rested upon a wretched beggar beckoning to him from the side alley.

‘Mr Pitt,’ he whispered. ‘There is one man, although I fancy him more disconsolate than dangerous.’

Pitt, still wrestling with the lock, as he did every night, glanced over and scowled.

‘That lamentable fellow again? Curse him. I have lost count of the number of times I have found him sprawled across that alley drooling utter incomprehension. The man’s a clear lunatic, yet every time I alert Bow Street or those at the asylum to his presence he evades them. Nothing wrong with his brain in that respect, but clearly a cuckoo nonetheless!’

The door secure, Pitt and Carberry climbed into the waiting carriage. Carberry stole a final glance at the beggar who was now waving a filthy scrap of paper in their direction while making a series of desperate, unintelligible sounds. As the coachman geed the horses onward, the beggar slumped crestfallen against the alley wall and began to weep.

He wept silently until nightfall when a sudden tap on his shoulder aroused him from his sorrow. Looking up he met eyes with one of two women. They appeared well yet clumsily dressed with their stockings showing and earthy stains upon their dresses. He wondered if they had had fallen victim to an accident of their own.

‘Allo there ducky, you are awake then. You lookin’ to dip your ‘Ampton wick tonight?

You lookin’ to get your greens? Look at ‘er, she’s ‘ad a green gown already this evening!’ she laughed. ‘Ha! Course not, you don’t look as if you ‘ave enough money to get by, let alone pay for a good ‘our of our company.’

The beggar winced; angered that he had spared his concern on common street molls. He turned his head and looked angrily down the alleyway, wishing them away.

‘Cat got your tongue ‘as it?’ she snapped. ‘Cor, tell you what Cynthia, I don’t know ’bout ‘is tongue, but look at ‘is hands. Some rat’s definitely been at them fingers.’

The smaller and younger of the two prostitutes leaned forward and let out a theatrical shriek.

‘Neither ‘e ‘as Betty, there’s just stumps where some of those fingers ought to be.’ she cried. ‘Ooh, ‘e makes me feel sick ‘e does!’

The beggar turned his head towards the baying pair, casting them an icy glare. His eyes burned and, quickly, he opened his mouth to revealing a thin, grisly, serpentine flap, the remainder of what had once been his tongue. The two women screamed and turned and fled like rats from a snake, hastily exiting the alley. Alone once more, the beggar bowed his head and closed his eyes.

He recalled vividly the events of six months ago: his emergence from the common law court, the words ‘we find the case in favour of Mr Peacock’ ringing deliciously in his ears; the second he paused to triumphantly sniff the air; the three thick-set opportunist yobs who grabbed him and the wicked, pernicious gleam of the amputation knife they briefly paraded before his terror-struck face. Roughly, they bundled him into an alleyway, not dissimilar to the one by the bank, stripping him of his finer possessions as they beat him hard with foot-long wooden cudgels. Finally, his leather drawstring wallet was emptied of the few shillings it contained.

‘Is this it?’ grimaced the shortest of the three men. He was scrawny with sooty grey hair and torn breeches and had clearly adopted the role of leader some time ago. ‘We bag ourselves a rich geezer from that courthouse and this is all ‘e as on ‘im? You two morons, told you ‘e didn’t look posh enough.’ He looked down at his victim, ‘you’re not rich at all aintcha? What are you doing ‘anging around a place like this? Mumford, the blade please.’

Mumford, the tallest and ugliest of the three men handed the amputation knife to his leader and formed his four teeth and black gums into an aberrant grin. The short man grabbed the blade and a handful of Peacock’s hair and Mumford held down his arms and legs while the third man prised his mouth open.

‘I’m sorry we ‘as to do this over such a small amount, but this is what we do. Keeps us safe. We’re ‘onourable gents see? We don’t go about killing no-one, but still we can’t have you waggling your tongue about us. So, out it comes.’

Peacock howled and began rolling his tongue back as far into his mouth as he could. He snapped at the fingers of the man holding his mouth open, receiving a punch to the face in retaliation for every successful bite. After a particularly heavy temple blow, the small man seized his chance. He reached into Peacock’s mouth, pulled his tongue and sliced it off.

The beggar flicked his eyes open. Try as he might, he could not block this memory. The feeling of cold, unforgiving steel followed by excruciating pain. His futile attempts to scream. The small man laughing, taunting him with catcalls of ‘hold your tongue’ while the other two men stuffed his own handkerchiefs into his mouth in an attempt to stem the crimson cascade from his mouth. Then came the charitable unconsciousness which presently overtook him: he remembered nothing of the further dismemberment of his fingers or being dragged to the gates of the nearby infirmary where his attackers abandoned him.

He began to unfold the scrap of grimy paper, ritualistically crossing his hands to gain purchase with the few fingers that remained. Again he read its now quite faded contents:

A promise to pay on demand to the order of Richard Peacock the sum of ten thousand pounds.

The judge’s blessing. His birthright. A hard-fought inheritance wrested from the grip of an insidious uncle. An uncle he dared not now go to. For his help he did not need, not if he could simply convert this cheque to hard, spendable currency. But how? Those with the power to do so considered him nothing but a vagrant or a cuckoo or an unwanted nuisance perpetually on their doorstep? He thought of his Brighton home he had yet to get back to and the forty five mile walk that would most probably kill him. No, it remained easier to scavenge on the bountiful streets of London and find rest at night in her compassionate alleyways – at least until he could find a way to finally gain access to a bank.

Again he imagined what he would do first once the cheque was cashed. No trader would turn him away if he offered them a large sum of money. Money talks, even when you cannot. A good wash, a good night’s sleep, brand new clothes and a feed. Then he’d charter a fast carriage to his seaside home.

‘There ‘e is!’ a voice sounded. The beggar looked up in alarm. The prostitutes had returned with a stocky, red-haired man wearing a brown bowler. ‘The vicious blighter’s an animal. Oh, if ever I have to see that little flickering snake’s tongue again. Go on ‘Arry, give him what for!’

The red-haired man delivered a series of full, vindictive blows to the beggar’s head and body. His thoughts quickly turned from his rehabilitation to nothingness as, again, he drifted into unconsciousness.

The next morning Carberry stood outside the huge cast-iron doors to the Savings Bank. He thought himself a trifle early, but what did ten minutes matter in comparison to the good impression it created? Bothered by a high-pitched wheezing emanating from the alleyway beside him, he investigated its source. There he discovered the beggar from the evening before. His face was a battlefield of purple bruises, his eyes encrusted in blood. He did not move at all, save for a faint movement in his chest as he attempted to keep breathing. In his gnarled hands he firmly clasped the same filthy, blood-spattered piece of paper. The beggar recognised Carberry as a bank employee and, with difficulty, raised an arm to motion him over. Moving gingerly towards him, he flinched as the beggar held out the piece of paper but took it and read it. As Carberry’s eyes widened, the beggar’s closed and, as the clerk’s mouth opened in amazement, so the beggar’s formed a final, peaceful smile.

Review - The Drive by Tyler Keevil

A Fear and Loathing style road trip down Highway 99 in a rented Dodge Neon. Our single protagonist turns on the ignition and off we go on our adventures. Unlike Hunter S Thompson's much more famous book, this is realistically written and a lot better for it. The Drive is simple, good old fashioned story telling with a great plot; and there’s no going off on tangents. The drugs are still there, as is the booze … and the women, the biker gangs, the danger, the diners, the desert, the heat, the desperation, the overcoming of it all and a satisfying ending … and so are you, with the character all the way. Once finished you’ll wish you could go back to the beginning and experience it all over again; which of course you can.

To give you the official blurb:

A single call from his Czech girlfriend catapults Trevor into a serious crisis. Desperate to get his mojo back, he blazes down Highway 99 in a rented Dodge Neon.

But soon his journey to California is fraught with peril, and all he has for protection are a semi-automatic pistol, his trusty plastic visor and a flea-ridden cat. As the drugs and the heartbreak kick in, the question is no longer whether Trevor will get over his girlfriend's infidelity, but whether he’ll get out alive.

A fast-paced and hilarious contemporary odyssey, The Drive has all the adventure and surrealism of Hunter S Thompson's Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas – but overlaid with heartfelt yearning and hope.

This book is published by Myriad Editions, a small independent publisher from Brighton. It is Tyler Keevil's second novel.

Review - The Fall of Charlie Dixon by David Couldrey

This may be my last entry for a while; possibly ever. Before my leave of absence I’ve got to mention this little book I found called The Fall of Charlie Dixon. It’s a self-published novel but don’t let that put you off. The writer is young but extremely talented. Try the “look inside” on Amazon to give you a taste.

We follow Charlie Dixon (this name only appearing on the cover) right from when he enters the world, through childhood, boarding school and finally the teenage years where he becomes led astray by various “hoody” mates. It’s set in the noughties, with the backdrop of 9/11, the war in Iraq and the London underground bombings tragically mirroring the growing frustration and violence of the youth culture Charlie finds himself entwined with.

I won’t give too much away about the ending, but let’s just say that it’s a fantastically written coming of age tale with a lot of bad decisions and plenty of black humour.

It’s available from the usual places that you’ll find such self-published novels. i.e. the internet.

Okay, signing off, and good luck to David Couldrey in his further writing career. A name to watch out for.