Harrogate - A to Z
Friday 19th July - 7:50am
D Day. Or rather DdM day. Only a few hours and a disgusting British Rail cooked breakfast now stand between me and my du Maurier panel and professional humiliation.
Actually, it's not that bad. I have somehow managed to pack four novels and 8 short stories into the last five days. And after a shaky start, I found in My Cousin Rachel a wonderfully compelling and beautifully written novel. Not to mention the coded sub-text reference to anal sex in Rebecca that I'm still debating whether I should bring up!
By the way, if you happen to be near a radio, Radio York is interviewing me at about 11:30 today. Yes I know - my life is one long sequence of glamorous media assignments ... It'll be Jay Leno next.
In case you're wondering, I'm actually writing this blog while sitting on the train in King's Cross, having successfully dodged all the kids dressed as wizards frantically looking for Platform whatever-it-is-and-three-quarters as they settle in to wait for the publication of the new Harry Potter tonight. The miracle of modern technology. I'll be posting regular updates over the next few days so check back in. It's known as live blogging, or logging, although that sounds like something you spend the night doing after a bad curry...
Friday 20th July - 8:50pm
So that's that then. Panel done. Thank God for that. And amazingly, it wasn't quite the train wreck I had predicted. At least that's what the nice ladies who came up to me later said.
I managed to cram in references to the few books I had read (and the many I had skimmed through) together with allusions to enough short stories to make it look like I knew what I was talking about! Plus to spice it up, I mentioned that DdM was bisexual, that there were some things she wasn't so brilliant at (character, clunky plot elements etc.) and slipped in my anal sex reference for good measure. You want to give good panel? Just say the word lesbian and back passage in the same sentence and you're onto a winner.
In fact the whole experience reminded me of when I went to see my tutor after getting my degree result. I was feeling rather full of myself at the time, as despite all his dire predictions, I had somehow scraped a First by learning hundreds of quotes by heart and then littering my essays with them to make it look like I was far more widely read and insightful than I in fact was.
Sensing my triumphant mood (and possibly the tactics I had adopted), he lost no time in cutting me back down to size.
"A First isn't a sign of intelligence," he said. "It's not even a sign of hard work. In fact the only thing you need to get one is to be a smart alec."
So that's me then. A smart alec. And boy was I grateful for it today!
Saturday 21st July - 9:50am
There is one achievement that crime and thrillers writers prize above all others - outlasting Alex Barclay at the bar. And last night I managed it. Long after 'la Barclay' retired, defeated, to her boudoir, I was still up and partying hard. (Needless to say Simon Kernick and Kevin Wignall were still knocking shots back by the time I finally called it a day).
It was in reality, a rather tame evening, as I think people were saving their energy for tonight's no-holds-barred extravaganza. But it didn't wholly pass without incident: there is a rather strange man here, a Scandi called ****** or something (name withheld to spare embarassment!), who as well as being an unreformed drunk, appears to be an unashamed letch.
Nothing unusual (or wrong) about that some of you might say, but several of us observed him 'working the room' last night, moving stealthily from girl to girl, thrusting his sweaty face into their conversations, casually stroking their bare arms or snaking his arm around their necks to draw them close.
My first instinct was to admire his persistence, as repeated (but far more polite) variations of "p**s off" from his visibly uncomfortable victims elicited nothing more than an amused shrug. Undaunted, he simply crept away to find his next target. The snatched fragment of his chat-up routine that I overheard ("I want to make sexy time" - yes, I am serious) further impressed me - many of us think it, but few of us actually say it.
But as I watched, my admiration soon gave way to a kind of horrified revulsion. Watching him at work is actually one of the more disturbing things I have ever seen; part vampire, part stalker, part night-bus flasher. You just knew that at the first sign of weakness, hesitation or drunkenness from whoever he was talking to, he would strike. Eventually my patience snapped and I (uncharacteristically for me) marched over and led him away from the two women he had just accosted.
"Why don't you leave the girls alone," I blazed as I pinned him to the wall, overcome with knightly valor. "Can't you see none of them want to even talk to you, let alone be felt up by you. Go to bed and stop making a fool of yourself."
He stared at me blankly for a few minutes, then slurred a response.
"You are not educated British gentleman. You did not go to Cambridge."
That's when I knew the guy was mental. Anyone who equates Cambridge with good manners is clearly beyond redemption.
Sunday 22 July - 10:45am
My chivalric intervention on Saturday night has been earning me doe-eyed looks and gushing write-ups from all the women molested by the "fiddler from the fjords" over the previous few nights. If only I'd realised when I was single that picking a scrap at a bar with someone smaller than yourself and too drunk to put up any resistance made you more attractive to the opposite sex. Maybe that's why everyone fights in Newcastle at the weekend. It's like some primeval mating ritual.
Not that the Scandi sex pest is the only odd person here. One person in particular has a handshake like a drowned ferret and chases authors round the hotel asking for "a leetle photo pleeese". Nothing wrong in that you might think, beyond his strange sing-song voice that is part Borat and part the weaselly guy in The Mummy who carries all the good luck charms around his neck and comes to a rather sticky end.
More disturbing is his rudeness. When Nick Stone asked him what he thought of his new book, he gave a weak smile and then made a sound like someone laughing nervously while being sick, before saying - "I no like". Unsurprisingly Nick told him to f**k off. Undaunted, the next day he came back as if nothing had happened and asked for another "leetle photo". I refused to let him take mine, saying that I was worried it would capture my soul, an explanation which, weirdly, he accepted without question. But when I went up to my room I did check under the bed to make sure he wasn't lying in wait for me.
All the Harper Collins authors went out for dinner last night - Stuart McBride, Alex Barclay, Michael Marshall and Steve Jackson - together with assorted editors and publicity folk, including my dashing editor, Bruce. We had a great meal, the highlight of which was McBride's face when I tricked the staff into believing it was his birthday and they produced a cake topped with an ICBM-sized sparkler. It's not often he's lost for words, or embarrassed, but last night was definitely one of them. (By the way, don't believe a word he says about me and the Madonna concert - he's Scottish and that ridiculous beard muffles his hearing!) We got back in time for the quiz. Our team was bobbins, although I did get the Daphne du Maurier quote!
Outlasted Barclay at the bar again - she's definitely lost her touch. Also there were regulars Mark Billingham, Simon Kernick, Kevin Wignall, Dreda Say Mitchell, Laura Wilson plus all the Harper mob of course and Fiona Cane who showed up looking as glamorous as ever. And 'new boy' Tom Cain put in a guest appearance too - I use 'new' and 'boy' in the loosest possible sense of the words! Have to say the real joy of these conferences are those late night sessions when you get to swap war stories with other writers and meet all you incredibly passionate crime readers. It makes it all worthwhile. (Special mention to Daryl and the nice Irish girl with the red hair whose name I don't know but who was part of the Mark Billingham posse!)
The highlight of the whole weekend for me though, was probably meeting Lee Child (again), and Harlan Coben for the first time. One of the nice things about the crime world is that people like them who are at the top of their game are so accessible and willing to talk and provide encouragement and advice to the rest of us. But to my annoyance, our conversation was suddenly cut short by a nasal whine.
"A leetle photo pleeese."
Sunday 22 July - 10:30pm
So there we are. Another crime writing festival pats us on the shoulder, ruffles our hair and wishes us good luck until next year. And what a good festival it was. Thank-you Daphne Wright / Natasha Cooper for asking me to take part - hopefully I didn't let you down. Thank-you also Simon Theakston for sponsoring the whole thing. He and I actually were interviewed together for Radio York on the first day during which he confirmed my suspicions that he's a thoroughly nice man! And he had the most incredible spiel about how a glass of Theakston's Old Peculiar was very much like a good crime novel. I've no idea what he said but I remember thinking it was genius at the time. In fact, I'm off for a pint of Agatha Christie right now.
Cheerio.
Actually, it's not that bad. I have somehow managed to pack four novels and 8 short stories into the last five days. And after a shaky start, I found in My Cousin Rachel a wonderfully compelling and beautifully written novel. Not to mention the coded sub-text reference to anal sex in Rebecca that I'm still debating whether I should bring up!
By the way, if you happen to be near a radio, Radio York is interviewing me at about 11:30 today. Yes I know - my life is one long sequence of glamorous media assignments ... It'll be Jay Leno next.
In case you're wondering, I'm actually writing this blog while sitting on the train in King's Cross, having successfully dodged all the kids dressed as wizards frantically looking for Platform whatever-it-is-and-three-quarters as they settle in to wait for the publication of the new Harry Potter tonight. The miracle of modern technology. I'll be posting regular updates over the next few days so check back in. It's known as live blogging, or logging, although that sounds like something you spend the night doing after a bad curry...
Friday 20th July - 8:50pm
So that's that then. Panel done. Thank God for that. And amazingly, it wasn't quite the train wreck I had predicted. At least that's what the nice ladies who came up to me later said.
I managed to cram in references to the few books I had read (and the many I had skimmed through) together with allusions to enough short stories to make it look like I knew what I was talking about! Plus to spice it up, I mentioned that DdM was bisexual, that there were some things she wasn't so brilliant at (character, clunky plot elements etc.) and slipped in my anal sex reference for good measure. You want to give good panel? Just say the word lesbian and back passage in the same sentence and you're onto a winner.
In fact the whole experience reminded me of when I went to see my tutor after getting my degree result. I was feeling rather full of myself at the time, as despite all his dire predictions, I had somehow scraped a First by learning hundreds of quotes by heart and then littering my essays with them to make it look like I was far more widely read and insightful than I in fact was.
Sensing my triumphant mood (and possibly the tactics I had adopted), he lost no time in cutting me back down to size.
"A First isn't a sign of intelligence," he said. "It's not even a sign of hard work. In fact the only thing you need to get one is to be a smart alec."
So that's me then. A smart alec. And boy was I grateful for it today!
Saturday 21st July - 9:50am
There is one achievement that crime and thrillers writers prize above all others - outlasting Alex Barclay at the bar. And last night I managed it. Long after 'la Barclay' retired, defeated, to her boudoir, I was still up and partying hard. (Needless to say Simon Kernick and Kevin Wignall were still knocking shots back by the time I finally called it a day).
It was in reality, a rather tame evening, as I think people were saving their energy for tonight's no-holds-barred extravaganza. But it didn't wholly pass without incident: there is a rather strange man here, a Scandi called ****** or something (name withheld to spare embarassment!), who as well as being an unreformed drunk, appears to be an unashamed letch.
Nothing unusual (or wrong) about that some of you might say, but several of us observed him 'working the room' last night, moving stealthily from girl to girl, thrusting his sweaty face into their conversations, casually stroking their bare arms or snaking his arm around their necks to draw them close.
My first instinct was to admire his persistence, as repeated (but far more polite) variations of "p**s off" from his visibly uncomfortable victims elicited nothing more than an amused shrug. Undaunted, he simply crept away to find his next target. The snatched fragment of his chat-up routine that I overheard ("I want to make sexy time" - yes, I am serious) further impressed me - many of us think it, but few of us actually say it.
But as I watched, my admiration soon gave way to a kind of horrified revulsion. Watching him at work is actually one of the more disturbing things I have ever seen; part vampire, part stalker, part night-bus flasher. You just knew that at the first sign of weakness, hesitation or drunkenness from whoever he was talking to, he would strike. Eventually my patience snapped and I (uncharacteristically for me) marched over and led him away from the two women he had just accosted.
"Why don't you leave the girls alone," I blazed as I pinned him to the wall, overcome with knightly valor. "Can't you see none of them want to even talk to you, let alone be felt up by you. Go to bed and stop making a fool of yourself."
He stared at me blankly for a few minutes, then slurred a response.
"You are not educated British gentleman. You did not go to Cambridge."
That's when I knew the guy was mental. Anyone who equates Cambridge with good manners is clearly beyond redemption.
Sunday 22 July - 10:45am
My chivalric intervention on Saturday night has been earning me doe-eyed looks and gushing write-ups from all the women molested by the "fiddler from the fjords" over the previous few nights. If only I'd realised when I was single that picking a scrap at a bar with someone smaller than yourself and too drunk to put up any resistance made you more attractive to the opposite sex. Maybe that's why everyone fights in Newcastle at the weekend. It's like some primeval mating ritual.
Not that the Scandi sex pest is the only odd person here. One person in particular has a handshake like a drowned ferret and chases authors round the hotel asking for "a leetle photo pleeese". Nothing wrong in that you might think, beyond his strange sing-song voice that is part Borat and part the weaselly guy in The Mummy who carries all the good luck charms around his neck and comes to a rather sticky end.
More disturbing is his rudeness. When Nick Stone asked him what he thought of his new book, he gave a weak smile and then made a sound like someone laughing nervously while being sick, before saying - "I no like". Unsurprisingly Nick told him to f**k off. Undaunted, the next day he came back as if nothing had happened and asked for another "leetle photo". I refused to let him take mine, saying that I was worried it would capture my soul, an explanation which, weirdly, he accepted without question. But when I went up to my room I did check under the bed to make sure he wasn't lying in wait for me.
All the Harper Collins authors went out for dinner last night - Stuart McBride, Alex Barclay, Michael Marshall and Steve Jackson - together with assorted editors and publicity folk, including my dashing editor, Bruce. We had a great meal, the highlight of which was McBride's face when I tricked the staff into believing it was his birthday and they produced a cake topped with an ICBM-sized sparkler. It's not often he's lost for words, or embarrassed, but last night was definitely one of them. (By the way, don't believe a word he says about me and the Madonna concert - he's Scottish and that ridiculous beard muffles his hearing!) We got back in time for the quiz. Our team was bobbins, although I did get the Daphne du Maurier quote!
Outlasted Barclay at the bar again - she's definitely lost her touch. Also there were regulars Mark Billingham, Simon Kernick, Kevin Wignall, Dreda Say Mitchell, Laura Wilson plus all the Harper mob of course and Fiona Cane who showed up looking as glamorous as ever. And 'new boy' Tom Cain put in a guest appearance too - I use 'new' and 'boy' in the loosest possible sense of the words! Have to say the real joy of these conferences are those late night sessions when you get to swap war stories with other writers and meet all you incredibly passionate crime readers. It makes it all worthwhile. (Special mention to Daryl and the nice Irish girl with the red hair whose name I don't know but who was part of the Mark Billingham posse!)
The highlight of the whole weekend for me though, was probably meeting Lee Child (again), and Harlan Coben for the first time. One of the nice things about the crime world is that people like them who are at the top of their game are so accessible and willing to talk and provide encouragement and advice to the rest of us. But to my annoyance, our conversation was suddenly cut short by a nasal whine.
"A leetle photo pleeese."
Sunday 22 July - 10:30pm
So there we are. Another crime writing festival pats us on the shoulder, ruffles our hair and wishes us good luck until next year. And what a good festival it was. Thank-you Daphne Wright / Natasha Cooper for asking me to take part - hopefully I didn't let you down. Thank-you also Simon Theakston for sponsoring the whole thing. He and I actually were interviewed together for Radio York on the first day during which he confirmed my suspicions that he's a thoroughly nice man! And he had the most incredible spiel about how a glass of Theakston's Old Peculiar was very much like a good crime novel. I've no idea what he said but I remember thinking it was genius at the time. In fact, I'm off for a pint of Agatha Christie right now.
Cheerio.
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