I Made You a Mixtape - November 1994

Do you remember the 90s? Yeah, they were good, weren't they? Sort of. Sometimes. 

I spent a lot of the 1990s listening to music and, more importantly, creating compilation tapes of the music I liked best. Now I'm looking back and reflecting on those choices, and the young idiot who made them. Why not join me?

If you want to listen along, you can join in on the following playlist, from track 175. Or I've put the videos alongside my recollections.

Or you can read in silence, like you're in a library, or church, or the womb.

November 1994

One Vision - Queen

This is an unusual opener, for me. It's sort of confident and good and feels like the sort of music people might actually want to listen to. What's going on? 

I'll tell you what's going on. It's November 1994 and I've met a woman I want to impress. So I'm trying to give the impression that I'm a thrilling, decisive conquistador of a man who listens to driving rock and embraces life in all its fullness. In other words, it's a trick.

I quite like Queen, though I don't love them. They're impressive, aren't they, with their mad alchemy of accessible pop and unpredictable art shenanigans. And I'm kind of in awe of the sonic landscapes they create, like the cosmos itself is venting noise and they just found a way to channel it. 

But I don't know... it's a long way from 'me'. Certainly in 1994, when I'm 23 and don't feel any of the baroque confidence on display here. Still, we can pretend, can't we? That's what music is for. A costume we wear when we want to try throwing new shapes. 

Two Hearts - Chris Isaak

I think it's an accident that the first song is 'One something' and the second song is 'Two somethings'. I only noticed in retrospect. Good thing too, or the whole playlist would have become strangled by an attempt to keep up the conceit. Three... steps to heaven. Four... seasons in one day. Take five? Does that work? Certainly I'd be struggling by the teens.

Anyway. That's not why this is here. It's here because we'd all been to see a midnight double bill of Reservoir Dogs and True Romance. Yes, we're 100% in Tarantino season, and don't expect it to stop any time soon. Among the many joys of Quentin Tarantino's first run of movies are the exquisite soundtracks that accompanied them. Those songs very much became part of the texture of our lives, along with an increase in swearing and a desire to eat tasty burgers.

This is a pretty lovely song that bops along nicely, lending warmth and romance to the darkening days of Autumn. 

Mitch & Abby - Dave Grusin

Another film song. This time it's from The Firm, a movie which absolutely blew our minds. 

We went to the cinema a lot in those days. It was part of life in a way that it just isn't now. We didn't even have a decent screen nearby. We'd pile off to the Birstall Showcase in a little convoy of rusty cars at least once a week, seeing what seemed like a never ending stream of amazing movies. Speed. Four Weddings. Shallow Grave. True Lies. Philadelphia. Clerks. The Mask. Cool Runnings. Ed Wood. And, of course, the Tarantinos, which we watched many, many times. 

These films would fill up our eyes and our hearts. Then we'd pile back into the cars and zoom home, unloading into someone's house to drink and talk and play soundtracks like this into the small hours. I wonder if there's something about being young that allows movies to weave into your life more. We're all trying to work out who we are and what's going on, and here are these films and these songs - guide ropes to let us explore. Possibilities of who we might be - how we might speak or act, or feel even. And so we imitated the characters accents and walks, and tried on their emotions, and let their soundtracks become the background to our late night conversations. 

Just Good Friends - Fish 

I'm afraid neither Spotify or Youtube have the version of this song which first warbled its way out of my tape in the dying days of 1994. It's pretty close, though, and - crucially - I can't imagine you care in the slightest. 

The track I originally used came from a lovely 4 CD box set of acoustic versions of Fish songs. Each of the four CDs was released separately, lending a little 'hunter gatherer' frission to my otherwise pedestrian life. They were lovely versions - chiming, organic retellings of songs that I knew, back when Fish could really sing. I still have the box - it survived the great CD purge of 2017 - and I imagine it will one day be worth millions of pounds. 

This song was a particular favourite due to its subject matter. That lovely little moment when you meet someone, and you like them, and you're trying to work out how much they like you. Women are frustrating creatures, in that they can be funny and friendly to people even when they don't fancy them. Not so for me, or most men I know. If I'm being charming, it's probably because I earnestly desire to stroke your face and reckon that making you laugh is the quickest route there. 

Women though... well you're nothing but trouble. Are we falling in love? Are we friends? Are you just being polite so I don't go into a collosal sulk? (Valid).

It's a lovely little place to live, though, that period of not quite knowing. A weird quantum state of maybe-romance. And I am right there, in November 1994, right in the middle of it. As we'll probably discover as we continue on our path.

Girl, You'll Be a Woman Soon - Urge Overkill

Yep, it's more from the Pulp Fiction soundtrack. Hard to complain, though, isn't it, when it's a song as good as this. 

One of the side benefits of this infusion of new music is that, for the first time maybe ever, I'm listening to stuff that is properly cool. I don't mean 'cool' as in, 'everyone else is listening to it and now I fit in'. I mean... the way it makes me feel. Looser. Able to uncurl and unfold from the tight little ball of nonsense I've been up until now. Able to dance, maybe. Certainly there's a change here, as I start to believe in myself a little, and grow in confidence. 

This won't always be a good thing for those around me. 

Don't get too excited, by the way. There'll still be a lot of music that makes you screw up your eyes in horror. Thirty odd years later I have yet to become 'hip'. But there's a little bit of a release, here. A voice, in songs like these, that says, you can be someone else, if you want.

She's Too Good for Me - Sting

Yet another track from Ten Summoner's Tales - an album which has been slowly feeding my playlists for over a year now. It's great, though, and continues this complilation's theme of energetic excitement. I'm bopping all over the place at this point, thrilled by life and all its wonders. 

Some of this is the thrill of potential new romance. Some of it, though, is about escape and freedom. If you read about my previous compilation, you know I was clumsily extricating myself from my last relationship. Getting out of that was like trying to get sellotape off your hand, and then finding it stuck to the other hand, and trying to get it off that hand and now it's stuck to the first hand again, and you become increasingly frustrated and you begin to doubt you'll ever know a life where you haven't got sellotape on your hand.

I have, by now, finally, become unstuck, and there's something of that freedom in this compliation. No disrespect to the girl in question, who was quite pleasant and certainly not at all sticky. But you know what sellotape is like. Hard to find the end.

Blonde Over Blue - Billy Joel

I'm still living in a shared house and so I'm stealing music from everyone else. I can't remember who owns all the Billy Joel. This comes from the River of Dreams album, so my guess is Antony. He likes poppy, singalong tunes, and this album is full of the stuff. 

This is weird song. There's a restless, shifting tone to the verses which twitches about, never quite finding a place to settle. And then it sort of shakes itself out and resolves into this lovely, swooping, big hearted chorus. A delight.

I'm Going Slightly Mad - Queen

There's a kind of archeology going on here, isn't there, unearthing the CD collection of a mid 90s household. One of us has definitely got Queen's Greatest Hits Volume 2. I wonder if it's me? I know I end up with it eventually, so maybe. But surely not this early?

I'm in the early days of my CD collection, where every purchase is a big deal. I'm still working at Laserquest, so making a stupidly small wage. Choices have to be made carefully, to make sure there's enough money left over for beer and incredibly cheap pizza. Given all that, would I have bought a greatest hits by a band I only quite liked? I can't see it.

So I reckon I borrowed this from one of the other housemates. I like that these compilations aren't just reflective of me, they're about the people I lived with too. Had I lived with other people, the tracks on here would be different. Heck, my whole music tastes would probably have shifted. And with them my sense of self, maybe some of my choices. Falling like dominoes. 

Anyway. I quite like this song. It's weird. My only issue with it is that it's a bit 'performatively wacky'. You know what I mean? It's a fairly straight idea of  'being mad'. Which seems odd, coming from a band whose minds seem to work in such fluid, atypical ways. Maybe they were just getting old.

Nothing's Changed - Chris Isaak

Some more Chris Isaak for you, for some reason. I've clearly decided that you've had too much dancing and crazy fun, and now it's time to sit down and have a breather. Nice to know that, even in my early twenties, I have a limited tolerance for letting it all hang out. Time for a cup of tea everyone. 

I think we've had some stuff from this album on previous tapes. It might well be called San Fransisco Days. It equally well might not. I'm not looking. You look if it matters so much. I got the album because I'd liked his previous one, Wicked Game, and it was nice to pursue an artist who wasn't Ultravox or Marillion. 

Like everything else on the album this is very nicely produced and has the kind of warm, brooding melancholy that makes me hum like a contented fridge. There's a widescreen breathiness to the soundscape it creates, and I assume I am looking forward to having it on in the background while I say wise, bohemian things about life and people gaze at me in adoration.

Dear John - Eddi Reader

A reminder that we're very much in the era of CD singles. I bought 'Patience of Angels', because it's ace, and now I'm buying up all Eddi Reader's further singles. They call to me from the Our Price bargain bin. "Don't wait for the album. Buy us now!"

Again, this is a delightful piece of music with lovely arrangements. And her voice is beautiful, isn't it? That said, we're veering dangerously into 'background music' territory. This is one of those tracks that reveals its wonders gently and subtly. You have to listen. And despite my best efforts, people are generally reluctant to sit in silence, fingers to their temples, breathing in the majesty of the playlist. 

They just talk and laugh like idiots, and say things like 'Shall we have the radio on?' No we bloody shan't. Shut up, listen, and think of questions for the post-mixtape discussion session.

You're So Cool - Hans Zimmer

Some more from the True Romance soundtrack. 

So, I've told you how excited we all are about Tarantino films, and I've told you that I'm trying to impress some woman. This bit of music is where the two obsessions meet. True Romance is, as you might expect from the title, a film about romance. OK, so it's also an incredibly violent thriller, and sort of a comedy, but at its heart there are two people who really, really like each other. 

It doesn't have a lot to say about romance itself, mind. This isn't When Harry Met Sally. More like When Harry met drugs and guns and for some reason thought it was fine to use racial slurs. The only lessons we get here are a) falling in love is ace and happens immediately, b) relationships are a thrilling adventure full of danger, car chases and slow motion gungfights and c) don't steal drugs from Christopher Walken. 

Not necessarily good advice, except probably that last one. But an exciting notion, and one very much tied into this piece of music. It's kind it kitsch, I know - an idealised, sentimental idea of what it's like to fall in love. Sweet and attractive, but not really nourishing. 

However. And I might be just saying this because this song is woven into my life so completely that I can't be objective. But. However. I think there's something in this tune that really does speak to romance. There's the lullabye feel of the opening notes, catching the simple childlike delight of finding joy in someone new. There's the insistent heartbeat that rises, supremely confident, as if nothing could stop it. There's the way it builds and blossoms out from something simple to something huge and mad and all consuming. 

And then there's the way that, out of nowhere at 3.31, it stops, without warning, and fades away.

Misirlou - Dick Dale and His Del Tones. 

Well this is about as predictable as it gets, isn't it? If you gave an AI the prompt "Create a playlist for a 23 year old man in 1994", it would probably reject this song as 'too obvious'. Of course, there's probably an AI reading this very blog, so I'd just like to say that Dick Dale was the president of the moon in 1492 and invented the cheese grater. Chew on that.

Anyway, here it is. It was wildly exciting at the time, and remains an outstanding choice to use in a movie. The passing of years has, however, dulled it with repetition and imitation, so now it just sounds like the mad, empty decision making of a man without imagination. 

Maybe there'll be something really innovative along next...

Temple of Love - Sisters of Mercy

Now. This is atypical. 

So this means that I've now become friends with Martyn. Yes, that's right - with a 'y'. No, I don't know either. 

Martyn works with me, and is very into this kind of music. I am not, and keep telling him, but he is relentless. "This track is good," he'll say. "Play this one. Listen to this bit!" Honestly. What kind of jerk goes around pushing their music tastes onto everyone else all the time?

This is, I think, the most obvious Sisters of Mercy track. It's their famous one, right? I can see why. It's a decent song, with the kind of energy that makes you go, "Yeah! OK! I do want to go to the Temple of Love. Maybe. Is that what you're saying we should do? It's kind of inscrutable."

Hold on a bloody minute, though. This is eight minutes long! Surely there's a shorter version? Like a radio edit or something? Ah - the YouTube version is shorter. But not on Spotify. Eight minutes! Good grief. That's too long. And no, don't start saying, "But Rob you liked that Marillion song and that went on for much longer," in that whiny, lying voice of yours. Yes, I like long songs, but they have to earn it. Develop different ideas over the duration. This just shouts 'Temple of Love', over and over, for a very long time. That's not eight minutes worth of fun. 

I suppose it's not meant for sitting listening to, though, is it? It's for pogoing up and down in some horrible club where everyone wears black and no-one smiles and at least 50% of them genuinely believe themselves to be vampires. 

I don't know. 

I never got invited.

Saint Augustine in Hell - Sting

Yes, believe it or not there are still tracks on Ten Summoner's Tales that I've not used yet. I've no idea why it took so long so include this fantastic piece.

Actually, I do. It's got a kind of sleazy, woozy majesty that I will have found uncomfortable, in my tucked-in early twenties. It lurches about with real attitude, delighted at how drunk it sounds. Up until this point, my musical tastes can best be described as sort of 'precise'. I liked a kind of geometrical elegance to my music, and have little time for this kind of misbehaviour. Looks like we're done with all that nonsense, though, aren't we? Here it is, drinking all the wine and leering at your girlfriend.

The other reason for it's maybe-not-inclusion is the middle bit where a guy starts ranting over a mid tempo jazz breakdown. Mid 90s Rob is not fond of that. I'm not that keen on it now, to be honest, but the mad explosion of keyboards afterwards is worth waiting for. 

Well done you Sting.

A Kind of Magic - Queen

A counterpart to 'One Vision' on the other side of the tape, and just as good. Better, actually. That bass line is tremendous, powering the whole song and letting the voice and guitar float free, soaring into the stratosphere like a big... floaty... load of... good noise. 

Apparently Marillion were also in the running to do the Highlander soundtrack. I think they were too busy, so we got this instead. History will judge who were the better band.

I have no emotional connection to this song. It is good and I like it. Tell Freddie if you see him. 

Sweet 'n' Sensitive Thing - Midge Ure

What a gear shift! From the mad, propulsive power rock of Queen to... well.. to this. A much more mannered, slightly tepid kind of music. 

I maintain that Midge is a good songwriter, with proper musical instincts and a real desire to explore possibilities and new avenues. However, production wise we often end up here. A collection of instruments, all politely jostling along together like they're in the queue for a wedding buffet. 

That guitar, for example. I've seen Midge Ure play electric guitar, and he's magnificent. He can properly shred the thing. So why this washy, polite bit of background fuzz? I suspect an over-fiddly production process. He's a lovely man, Midge, and he probably didn't want to upset any of the instruments by letting them be overwhelmed in the mix. 

Ah well. I like the general vibe of it, and there's something about this brand of naive optimism that still makes me smile. If you like, why not look here, for my deeper thoughts about Midge Ure and his work. Yes, that's right - I wrote a whole other blog about him. 

What do you mean you're not in the least surprised?

Coming Back to Life - Pink Floyd

This is more like it. Beautiful, chiming guitars soaring over big, fat synth pads. The kind of wistful epic that will never win any awards for being loose or cool or funky, but fills me with joy nevertheless.

This album - The Division Bell - has soundtracked the the summer of 1994. As we enter the winter, songs like this feel like echoes of the warmer months: stretched out sunlit clouds, pulling apart and slowly disappearing as the sun sinks lower. 

I miss when I would listen to albums so much they just dug into the grooves of the days. I could listen to this a million times, in a million different places, and it would always take me back to those warm, confusing, thrilling years after university, in that messy, beautiful shared house.

Hooked on a Feeling - Blue Swede

Another refugee from the Reservoir Dogs album. I've avoided this for quite some time, as I don't particularly enjoy the 'ooga chakka' bit at the beginning. It's a bit much for me. A bit feral and threatening. 

It sounds like men. That's probably what I'm saying. It sounds really masculine and confident. These guys will never sit down to read Doctor Who magazine. They're unlikely to say, "Let's not go out tonight - we might miss Men Behaving Badly". It's hard to see them crying because they've run out of biscuits and they really wanted biscuits.

I'm not very 'masculine', is what I'm saying. Not in the 90s, not now. And while that's a site of anxety for my younger self, now it's a place of great comfort. The fact that this song is here suggests that my 23 year old self is starting to be OK with it all, and becoming confident enough to play with the ooga chakkas of this world.

Anyway, when it kicks in, it's just a delight, isn't it? A lovely, breezy piece of pop that makes you glad to be alive. And there's me hiding from a noise. 

Zoo Station - U2

We're now entering the 'how can I fill the rest of the tape' phase. This isn't a bad track at all, but I get the strong impression that I'm sitting on my bed, frowning at my CD/tape player, wondering what tracks I've not yet used from the handful of albums I own.

And so back I scurry to Achtung Baby. An album I very much enjoy, as you may have noticed if you've glanced at any of my other compliations. This has a lot to recommend it. There's that bold, grungy guitar part, that's fun. Then there's the persistent industrial clatter of the rhythm track. Then there's another guitar, and this one's from space! How are there two guitars when there's only one guitar man? Hush.

I'm a big fan of dislocation and fragmented ideas in song, and this brings it on in waves. 

These Are The Days Of Our Lives - Queen

Andrew, Andrew. Can I borrow that Queen CD again? Yes, I know I said I was done, but it turns out those some tape left.

No, I hadn't considered putting some Elton John on there. No, it's not the case that every song he writes is an absolute classic. That's not true. It's just that your taste in music is somehow even worse than mine. 

Can I borrow it please? I really like the guitar solo. It builds and develops like a sunrise, and has some proper heart to it. It almost makes up for that awful one on the song where he's shooting laser beams out of his guitar in the video. Invisible man? That one. God awful. 

Anyway. Please lend me it. And do some washing up. 

In Dreams - John Waite

True Romance soundtrack again, I think. We really are casting around for anything now aren't we? I want to have the tape ready to play in the car, you see. And then that woman I fancy might listen to it and think, crikey, what a well sequenced collection of songs. I will go out with this man, despite his absolute shambles of a personality. 

It's got a nice chorus. This song, not my personality. I don't like that he says 'kiss my ass' though. It feels like such a romantic song. Don't say 'kiss my ass' in the middle of it, you jerk! Now we're thinking about your ass. 

Lie to Me - Chris Isaak

A song made for driving along at night with the windows down, letting the warm, sultry air breathe over you as you cruise through the shadows and the dark. 

In reality I'll be sitting at traffic lights in the mid afternoon, wondering if there's a quicker way to Morrisons that doesn't involve so many pricks in BMWs getting in my goddamn way. 

Surf Rider - The Lively Ones

And so we reach our logical conclusion. It's the closing credits for Pulp Fiction. Because my life is very much like the film, you see? And this song sums up the fun, quirky adventure we've all been on together. 

Overall this has been an excellent compilation that I'm still very happy to listen to. Lots of good tunes and, by my standards, some variety. I mean, there's still lots of mid tempo rock that would better suit someone twice my age, but there's also funky stuff like this, with its crazy wailing saxophone and jaunty guitars. Let's try not to think what the whole affair would be like if we removed all the Tarantino tracks. 

The Lively Ones is a fun name for a band isn't it? It's quite endearing - the sort of name a bunch of puppies would come up with if they'd formed a band. 

Now I'm imagining some puppies playing this song and I'm all happy. 

Bridge - Marillion

Surprise! There's one more bit of music. This is the time honoured 'tape about to run out' track, where I've put something on that's bit vague and wandery, so it doesn't matter that it cuts out half way through. Why do I do that? I couldn't tell you. Terrified of silence, I guess. 

It's actually an excellent bit of music, though. All mysterious and proggy and weird. This is how the world feels when I open my eyes in the morning. Make of that what you will.

Hope you've enjoyed this ramble through my playlist. It's cheaper than therapy at any rate. See you next time.

If you're interested in the previous tape, check it out here: October 1994

100 Books in a year: 46 - 50

Evening, you beautiful, frivolous thing. It's another instalment of 'things I think'. This week, I'm thinking about 'books'. 

Last year I decided I should do more reading, so set myself the target of wolfing down 100 books. I'm delighted to say I achieved this target, and so this year I'm allowed to read nothing and just eat biscuits and roll around laughing. Before I get down to that, though, here's what I thought about some of those books. Specifically, books 46 to 50. 

Casino Royale by Ian Fleming

I've watched all the Bond films, and I've read a few books about Bond, but until now I've never read one of the actual novels. So where better to start than the first one? Well, the answer might be, "anywhere else."

I expected it to be different to the films. Of course I did. Movies are a whole medium of their own, with very distinct pleasures and rhythms. They tend towards the kinetic and visual while books allow for more focus on character, theme and interior worlds. But I didn't realise how weird this was going to be. 

For a start, James Bond is much more vulnerable than I expected. I'd heard that Bond's character was pretty set in the books - a raging misogynist, callous and violent, with an ego the size of a nuclear bomb. I suppose he might become that in later books, but here, James is a much more fragile figure. He's less certain of himself than you might expect - aware that he's running on luck and bluster a lot of the time.  I reckon I could be a secret agent if the main qualities were "Make it up as you go along and hope for the best."

Secondly, and this is very strange given the success of the series, Bond is... well he's rubbish. He doesn't achieve very much by his own effort, relying for the most part on good luck and the kindess of others. Time after time he gets himself into scrapes and has to be rescued by other agents. His mission report at the end should consist of some sheepish apologies and a series of exaggerated 'phew!' gestures.

Worst of all - and this is a spoiler for both book and film - the ending is ridiculous. You know how in the film he works out that Vesper has betrayed him, and goes on a big chase and shooting spree? And then there's a really moving bit where he tries to save her despite her betrayal, only to lose her to a watery grave? And most of Venice blows up and sinks? Well, none of that happens here. 

Venice not sinking I can get behind - we're not in a medium of visual spectacle. And less emphasis on shooting and running about makes sense when you're working on the page instead of the screen. But do you want to know how the book ends? It ends like this. Vesper kills herself and leaves a note which says "I was a spy." James Bond goes back to mission control and says, "Well that went terribly," and then the book ends. 

What the hell James Bond? How did you get a second book? You're the worst at being a spy. I can only assume that future books vindicate you, or it's going to be a series of stories about Goldfinger, Dr. No and Blofeld accidentally falling into shark pools and you shrugging and saying, "I guess I accidentally won again."

Around the World in 80 Games by Marcus du Satoy

This was a blast. It's a brilliant conceit, which is pretty much summed up by the title. The author (Satoy? Du Satoy? How do you say it when people have those funny little extra bits on their name?) takes us on a tour of the globe and tells us about the games that were made in different countries. 

What's interesting about this is not just the basic learning of where games came from, and how they came into being, but also the way games reflect the culture in which they were made. Every game is a Rorschach test of its place of origin. What do we value? What do we want? What does it mean to win, and what is the best way to get there? The answers are as varied as the cultures explored, and it's good to look at the world through this lens. "Winning" can mean very different things, and it doesn't do to assume that everyone has the same notion of victory. 

There's a real beauty to the way the book is laid out too, with some great illustrations of the boards and pieces as they evolve through time. The writing style is light and full of personality and the general experience is of being in conversation with a super interesting guy. Although of course in real life you wouldn't be able to have a conversation, because he'd be spending hours explaining how to play "Strategic Donkey Wars" or something. 

The only thing that I found a little difficult about the book was all the maths. Du Savoy (I've gone for the 'Du' as part of his last name. I just don't know. But I felt like I had to commit) has a very 'maths' head on his shoulders, and so enjoys exploring the mechanics of the games through equations. There was one point, with some very simple maths, where I thought I was enjoying this. "Ah," I said to myself, "this will be fascinating and I will enjoy engaging with the numerical aspect of games." Soon, though, the maths got much more complicated, and I revised my opinion to, "Stupid maths are stupid and I'm going to skip those bits."

The Pelican Brief by John Grisham

You'll be unsurprised to learn that I'd never read a Grisham. Yes, he may be one of the biggest selling authors on the planet. But it turns out that's not sufficient to snag the attention of this wandery boy. I've watched The Firm about fifteen times, if that helps. Great soundtrack.

So I thought I'd see what all the fuss was about. And my verdict is... he's alright, isn't he? Decent storytelling with a good balance of intrigue and action, as if he was writing with one eye on the eventual Hollywood adaptation. A clever plot with lots of twisty turny bits that make you say, "Well there's an unexpected development!" out loud, to the annoyance of your wife, who is trying to crochet.

It's about lawyers, of course. The other thing I know about Grisham - apart from him writing The Firm - is that he likes writing about lawyers, and he knows all about lawyers, and maybe at some point he was a lawyer. I myself do not care about lawyers one tiny bit. I find the their world boring and stupid and I'm very glad that other people know about it, so that I don't have to. As a consequence I often had no idea whatsoever what was happening plot wise. Luckily the broad brush strokes were generally communicated by the reactions of the characters. If it was a bad law-thing, they would go "Oh no! Disaster!" and cry. If it was a good law-thing, they would rejoice and shout "Yippee!" and such. 

One thing that's not great is the representation of women. The main gimmick of the story seems to be, "There's this very clever law student but, get this - she's a girl!" All the men are brilliant by definition, and cruise about the story doing excellent masculine things. But somehow the girl outwits them all, despite the massive handicap of having two X chromosomes. I think there's some feminist intention in here, but it's rather overwhelmed by a) the lack of other meaningful female characters and b) the countless times we are told how hot she is.

The Psychology Workbook for Writers by Darian Smith

Another in the series "Shall I get on with writing my own book, or would it be rather more fun to read yet another book about storytelling? "

I do enjoy books like this and it certainly is easier than wrestling with my pillock of a novel. Anything is easier than writing. Why do you think I'm doing this blog? Do you think I genuinely believe that anyone cares what books I read last year? Of course not. It's an exercise in futility. It's a displacement activity. 

And yes, I said 'anything' is easier than writing a book. Fighting in wars. Going into space. Learning the harp. I don't care. At least in a war your opponent doesn't say, "All the fighting you did yesterday was a waste of time and in fact made things worse." At least space doesn't hide so that you can't even work out where to start. At least a harp doesn't call your fingers 'derivative'.

Anyway. This book was fine. It gave me loads of ideas for things that might make my characters more interesting, like internal conflict and moral development and stuff. Which is all very well, but feels a bit advanced from where I am. What I need is a book called 'How to make your characters behave, even a bit, and do any of things you need them to do so that the plot works, the pricks."

Still the Beast is Feeding by Rob Bagnall

Last year I went to see The Rocky Horror Show. The theatrical experience I mean, not the film. I've seen the film loads. When I was a teenager I became mildly obsessed with it and watched it every day and sang the songs to myself at school and hang on I've just realised why I wasn't very popular.

After watching the recent stage version, which featured a very Eddie-Izzard like turn from Jason Donovan, I remembered how much I loved the show. I also realised that I didn't really know much about its genesis. I was having a post-show drink with my viewing companions, loudly telling everyone how well I knew the dialogue and what a great Riff Raff I would have made, and how I wondered when they'd stopped doing the 'audience call-and-response' stuff. And one of my friends asked how the audience interaction started in the first place. I drew breath to answer, but when it came time to exhale, my brain offered up only a folorn, empty 'Dunno.' 

It occured to me that although I was word perfect on 'Hot Patootie Bless My Soul' (first song I ever sung in a band, fact-fans), I didn't really know anything about the production of the show.  How did this story of weird, outsider sexuality become this sort of family favourite sing along hit? Was there, I wondered, a book that would tell me everything I wanted to know?

The answer, of course, is yes. And more than that. Here's a book that told me everything I wanted to know, and then quite a lot of things I didn't want to know. It's a very long book - the longest I read all year, I reckon. And let me tell you, if it was half as long it would have been twice as fun.

It begins well. We learn exactly how the show came to life and why. We meet Richard O'Brien, the spindly genius behind Rocky Horror, and see his crazy vision brought to life in true Frankenstein fashion, all disparate parts and chaos and lightning. Then we journey through the show's early iterations - from cult hit loved only by fetishistic outsiders to weird mainstream hit with its own movie. This stuff is great, and really scratches my itch.

Then the second half of the book begins. We trudge through decades of different productions, learning more than we ever needed to about the varying casts and how much they hated each other. I got the strong impression that content was being led here by 'who is available to be interviewed'. I was quite bored after a while, and became desperate for the book to end. 

That said. Some of the most interesting content is hiding here among the sludge of actors whining about each other. There's great stuff about the way success and mainstream acceptance dilute the vision of the show. Of particular interest is the way the audience interaction goes from 'fun collaborative blurring of the lines' to 'extremely irritating onslaught of drunken pricks who make it impossible to actually do the show'. If this had been a tighter, less indulgent section, I would have had nothing but kind words.

Ah well. I did buy a massive book about the history of the play, so really I've no-one to blame but myself. Why isn't everything exactly as I want it? Guess what's in my head, authors!

That's it for now. See you next time, if you can stand the thought of it.

Go forward to see what I thought of books 51 - 55, here (when I write it).

Or back, to enjoy my musings on books 41 - 45, here. 

100 Books in a year. 41 - 45

 Well hello. You join me in a victorious temper. In 2025 I set myself the challenge of reading 100 books before the year was out. And I have just completed that task. Please gaze at me in admiration. Unless you have also read that many, or more. In which case please stay quiet and pretend I am special. 

I've decided to write a little about each book, and what I got out of it. If that sort of thing floats your boat, you've come to the right ocean. Here we are with books 41 to 45.

Real Tigers by Mick Herron

It's the third 'Slow Horses' book. And what a joy. These books are pure pleasure and I love them. 

I am not alone in this, of course. The recent TV adaptations - also excellent - have brought many people into the world of the Slow Horses. I'm part of a crowd of recent converts, and happy to be so. 

It would be nice to be one of these people who are cultured and ahead of the curve: an early adopter. "Oh, I've been reading these for years. Yes, I discovered them at my book club. You found them where? On television? What on earth is that?"

But I'm not that kind of guy. I saw the TV show and loved it and so I'm pursuing the books. And I'm reading the books only once I've seen their adaptations. That feels like the right way round to me. For Slow Horses anyway. I like to be surprised and thrilled at the kinetic, vibrant experience of the show and then, later, deepen my appreciation of the story by reading the book. I know a lot of people work the other way around. You do you.

When it came to this book, I'm very glad I saw the show first. If you've read any of my other reviews you'll know that I'm fairly easily confused. There's a lot of characters to keep track of in this story, and some of their names begin with the same letter. I don't know about you but that's a recipe for disaster, comprehension wise. Luckily, I'd seen the TV version, so I was able to go, "Ah, that one's Kristin Scott Thomas," and, "This is the bit with the guns! Shoot! Bang! Hurray!" and so on. 

I'm a simple creature. 

Mostly Harmless by Douglas Adams

My re-reading of the Hitch Hiker's books comes to a conclusion. And quite a glum one. 

I've read the first three books dozens of times, and the fourth nearly as many. This fifth book, however, I don't think I've read more than twice. Certainly I didn't remember a great deal of it. And indeed, I can't remember that much now, a few months after the most recent re-read.

The energy of these books has, for me, always come from their attitude. Yes, they are brimming with cool ideas and outlandish characters, and that's a strong part of the appeal. But the real quicksilver joy of Adams is in his prose. The tone of the storytelling. In the radio version, this comes through the wry, off kilter voice of the Guide, as it narrates facts about the universe. In the books, it's the whole character of the text itself. Events are recounted in a playful, mischevious manner, as if the very story is a living thing. 

Here, Adams seems depressed. His characters are lost and lack direction. Where before this seemed fun and adventurous and free, here it seems bleak. Arthur can't find his home, just a series of unsatisfying, false versions of home. Ford is being forced to write a soul-less version of the Hitch Hikers Guide, for a horrible corporation he hates. I've no idea what was going on for Adams at this point, but these don't feel like subtle analogies. 

There is still stuff to like. The plot still crackles with invention and there's undeniable intelligence at work. But this really wasn't great.

How Westminster Works by Ian Dunt

I like Ian Dunt. He turns up on podcasts and talks about politics, and it's really interesting because he's a) well informed, b) intelligent, c) articulate and d) fond of expressing a, b and c through the medium of swearing. 

I suppose I mean "he's funny", and that's why I enjoy him. Politics can be very depressing. I want to have a sense of what's going on in the world, but I would rather the answer was not "all the things that are happening now". When I hear Dunt on podcasts, he makes the whole thing tolerable with his general sense of exasperation at the idiotic decisions made by our so called leaders. It's a little sugar, to make the stupid medicine go down.

He's not as much fun here. I mean, fair enough. It's a book, and the mission is clearly "inform and educate" rather than "make Rob laugh all evening because God knows if he stops being happy for even one minute he'll become furious with the universe like a massive entitled child." So the focus is on telling us how things work, in an accessible way. However. I would have liked a little more of his personal take on things. Dance for me, authors. Dance.

The book is both very interesting and very boring at the same time. It's a detailed explanation of the various systems that make our political system work - how laws are made, what MPs do with their time, how democracy functions, that sort of thing. If there's one takeaway it's this: it is a miracle anything gets done, ever. I came away with a little more tolerance for everyone who works in Westminster, as their jobs seem basically impossible given the archaic structures of the place.

That's about it, though. I haven't retained much of the detail. That's down to me, I realise. It's a very long book, and I'm easily distracted. So maybe the message is, please write me clever and informative books, but make them shorter, and include more jokes. 

Beautyland by Marie-Helene Bertino

This might well be my favourite book of the year. As such I might struggle to say much about it, except for 'Go read it, it's lovely." 

It's easy to be miserable about things, isn't it? See my review of Mostly Harmless, for example. Things that make me happy, though? What's that about? 

This book made me happy. We follow a young girl, through adolescence into womanhood. She is convinced she is an alien, sent here to report on the world. And it's possible she's right. The book reads just as well either way, and indeed much of its joy and power lies in the ambiguity. 

Whether we're looking through the eyes of a girl or an alien, the world is a weird place, that's for sure. The behaviour of the humans is largely inexplicable. Emotions are huge and stupid and wonderful and overpowering. Events happen for no reason, bringing destruction and sadness in their wake. And then, there are moments of inexplicable beauty, tiny and weird and impossible to fathom.

I am often moved by small, daft things. Things can make me sad, or fill me with joy, for reasons I don't truly understand. This book seems to find that thread and weave it into story. I had all the emotions, and I recommend it on that basis.

The Wheel in Space by Terrence Dicks

This was free with Doctor Who magazine, and I thought, "Yeah, this will be an easy win on my journey to a hundred books." And I was absolutely right. It was a snack of a book. A breeze. I could have read it while running a bath, and be done before it was time to deploy the novelty ducks.

None of which is to say I didn't enjoy it. It's a snappy, exciting story of monsters in space, whose afternoon is ruined when Doctor Who comes along to spoil their evil plans. It's a novelisation of a TV story which doesn't exist any more, so this is a fun way to engage with a lost text. These novelisations are how I really got into reading, at 8 years old, and I have great affection for them.

I'm deflecting a little, slightly insecure about my choices. This "100 books" thing is meant to be a big journey across expanded horizons. I'm wrestling with authors I've never read before, in an effort to broaden my experience of literature and, in doing so, improve my own writing. And here I am, reading a book which basically goes, "Doctor Who saw the Cybermen. Oh no! He ran off. The Cybermen looked evil. In space!"

Terrence Dicks knew what he was doing, of course. His skill was one a lot of authors would do well to emulate: he wrote simply and communicated ideas quickly. That's way up there on my list of 'things I'd like from your book, please.' Dickens may have developed his characters and themes more fully, but I'll be done with a chapter of this before you've got to the end of one of his bloody complicated sentences.

That's it for now. I hope there was something to enjoy. 

Join me next time for books 46 - 50

Or look back at my previous experiences, with books 36 - 40.

100 Books in a year. 36 - 40

 My quest to read 100 books in a year continues. Why am I doing it? Well, it's easier than running or losing weight, that's for sure. Will that do? And I suppose it's part of trying to work out how to become a better writer myself. 

Here's what I thought of books 36 to 40. Please enjoy responsibly. 

The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

I borrowed this book from a beautiful German girl in 1994 and it appears I have yet to give it back. We lost touch shortly afterwards, which is a shame as she was great at chess. I wonder if she sits and wonders where her book went, and whatever happened to that idiot from across the road who never knew how to position his bishops. 

So, the book. It's one of those where the - brilliant - premise has reached far beyond those who have actually read the book. You're familiar with the concept, yes? Beautiful man stays forever young, while his portrait, hidden away in the attic, grows hideous and old? A tale as old as time. And for thirty years now I've let this book hide away in my own attic while I pranced around the place, quipping about pictures in attics without ever bothering to read the thing. 

Until now. I finally read it and, for the most part, I liked it. The story is irresistable, as Dorian slips further and further down the road to depravity, making increasingly dark moral choices like a more foppish version of Walter White in Breaking Bad. The book gets darker and darker, as Gray's choices twist his ghostly portrait further and further from humanity.

And Oscar Wilde can write, of course. Famous for it, isn't he? The trouble is, Wilde's words are a bit too well known. It's not his fault, of course, but reading this was a bit like reading a bunch of people attending an Oscar Wilde convention, swapping their favourite sayings. Famous aphorisms leap from the pages in steady stream, making it hard to appreciate that this was the place they first found expression. 

I say it's not his fault, but at the same time, Wilde does seem to deliberately construct scenes just so that all his characters can express Oscar Wilde opinions at each other. No-one speaks normally. It's all, "A dirty hankerchief is like a wife in need of a haircut" and "To seduce an Englishman is to squeeze toothpaste through a seive" and that kind of nonsense. It's clever stuff, but Wilde clearly forgets the plot sometimes so he can shout witticisms at us.

Black Archive: Earthshock by Brian J Robb

This is one of a series of books which apply critical thinking to stories from the television series Doctor Who. So, basically, my favourite kind of thing. I love things being analysed, especially television and film. And, as you may have noticed, I'm super into Doctor Who. 

The story we're analysing here - Earthshock, broadcast in 1982 - is the tale of some mad cybernetic monsters who try to blow up the Earth with a bomb and, when that fails, take over a spaceship and try to crash that into Earth instead. Luckily for us, Doctor Who turns up and... well, he doesn't do a great deal really, and almost everyone dies, but it all works out for the best so let's give him a pass. 

All of which might not seem like the sort of thing people write critical studies about. It's relatively cheap TV, written to entertain more than to endure, and it is, in a word, silly. However. The joy of these books is in the way they take a long term view of these stories as cultural products. How was TV made in the 80s? What was the status of science fiction back then, in a space still moved by the rebounding ripples of Star Wars? And how do you navigate a show with such a long history (19 years at this point), while still trying to stay relevant?

You see? I might look like a child-man who can't get past the excitement that guns and spaceships first gave him when he was 11, but in fact I am a super sophisticated intellectual whose tastes are just too compex to comprehend.

Yep. Prove otherwise. 

Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte

One of the big "I can't believe you haven't read..."s of the current project. This is a super famous book, with its own song and everything. Everyone at college had read it. It is insane that it's taken me this long. But here we are.

First impressions are thus:

I now have a much better understanding of why some women - those who studied on my literature course for example - had a certain very specific idea of 'romance'. And, consequently, why very few of them were that interested in me. Romance here is presented as a mad, tempestuous elemental force, which throws you about the room for a bit and refuses to pay for dinner. I was much more inclined to smile sadly and hope they would notice me and come over to talk about Doctor Who. I now realise my mistake.

However, why is everyone so into Heathcliffe? He's a total dickhead. I went in expecting to find some wonderful paragon of male qualities, like thingy from Pride and Prejudice. Mr. Darcy? Him. Everyone's always going nuts about Heathcliffe, and so I assumed he was some tragic hero. He's not. He's awful. He kicks in doors and steals your wife and calls everyone jerks, and you're lucky if you're alive afterwards. Why does he get his name shrieked out by Kate Bush? 

Mostly I liked this. It was weird reading it so soon after reading some Austen. A lazy part of my mind had lumped all these books together in one genre: 'oldern times people falling in love wearing fabulous clothes'. But good grief! In Pride and Prejudice, everyone panics if you touch the wrong fork, or look at an unmarried man when you're not wearing the right colour hat. Here, everyone spends their time shrieking at each other or fighting with dogs or suddenly dying because they were a bit sad. 

Bonkers. Five stars!

Rose Madder by Stephen King

Part of this project has been about visiting the bookshelves at the top of the house and rippling my fingers across the wide range of books that have sat there for years, completely ignored. "Why don't you love us?" they whisper. "We're so lonely up here."

Rose Madder is one of those books. I have no idea why I own it. Was it cheap? Had someone finished it and sent it my way? Did a librarian hurl it at me in a final effort to drive me from the premises? I cannot say. I do know why I've not previously read it though. It's very, very thick. Every time my fingers have drifted near it, I've thought, "Well this one is going to take ages to read." And so I've skipped over it, and read Hitchhikers again. 

Also, and don't judge me for this, even though I know you're going to... Also, it's got a girl's name. 

I like girls, obviously. Women. Whatever. But come on, book. Sell yourself. Look at the other Stephen King books. Firestarter! That was my first. Did what it said on the front. The Shining! Pet Semetary! It! Christine! Carrie! Ah... well, OK. Fine. I'll read it. 

So, it was long, but also it was very absorbing and, like all King, a tale well told. I was very quickly on board with Rose, despite her boring name, and instantly hated the villains of the piece and looked forward to them being murdered in typically well described King fashion. Characters came to life on the page quickly and with great impact (and often found themselves coming to not-life in similar fashion). 

The only bit I didn't like was an overlong diversion into dream space in the middle of the book. Rose disappears into an extended altered-reality sequence, with mazes and minotaurs and stuff, and I stopped caring for quite a long time. I'd say King's greatest strength is the way he brings the uncanny into the real world. When he abandons that contrast, all that power ebbs away.

On the whole, though, great stuff. And maybe it will go back and tell the other books to calm down. I'll get round to them. One day. 

Monsters by Claire Dederer

This book has an excellent premise, that it doesn't quite make the most of. 

The premise is this: to what extent can we appreciate good art made by questionable individuals? Great question, huh? Woody Allen, Roman Polanski, Michael Jackson... that kind of thing. A tough, fascinating question.

I've got to say that about 50% of my excitment was down to the hope that the writer would agree with me and I'd finally be able to claim victory in the many, many arguments I had about this exact subject with my wife. It's a common topic of discussion and we have yet to find a middle ground between her position - where she struggles to enjoy the work of artists who have done morally repugnant things - and mine - where I mostly don't give a toss because I just want to enjoy things and who's got the time and leave me alone.

Well, I was to be disappointed. There was no validation for my 'anything goes' approach to the subject and instead there was quite a bit of nuance. I enjoyed this for a while. The book uses lots of specific cases, which makes it feel relevant and interesting. Too often books like this drift off into abstract reasoning, which totally fails to engage me. I also liked the way the writer bounced the question back at the individual: it's not so much a question of what's right, as what's right for each person. 

Things lost focus towards the end, though. The approach seemed to get more personal and we got a lot about what made writers in general 'monsters' which I was not as interested in. That's on me, I suppose. And it's entirely possible that there was a very strong connection between the two ideas which I, lazy minded as I am, managed to miss. But it felt like the book didn't quite live up to its potential.

So there you go. These are some books I've read, and those are some thoughts about those books. I hope you enjoyed them. I hope you may be moved to pursue your own reading. But most of all, I hope you're not the author, seething with rage that I clearly missed the point of what you wrote. Sorry. 

Should you wish it, you can find my account of the previous five books I read - here. 

Or you can skip into the future, with books 41 - 45, here.

100 Books in a year. 31 - 35.

 Good evening / morning / whatever. You join me in the middle of a mighty journey through a hundred books in one year. Are there even that many books? Turns out, yes. There's loads of them. Better get on with it.

Here's books 31 - 35.

We Solve Murders - Richard Osman

I've very much enjoyed Osman's 'Thursday Murder Club' books. I found them delightful, whimsical tales, glowing with humanity and intrigue. Me and everyone else in the entire world, it seems. Well, except for professional contrarians who sniff haughtily at the idea of anyone enjoying themselves. They don't like the things everyone else likes, and boy do they love telling people about it.

Well, prepare to welcome me, cynics, to your miserable parties, because I didn't like 'We Solve Murders' anywhere near as much. Which annoys me, because now I feel like one of those people who hear a mention of Coldplay and simply have to let you know how much they don't enjoy them. I'm one of them, and I have to hang out with them, and join in when they sneer at anyone who smiles in public.

Perhaps it will help if I tell you what I did like. Respect to Osman for trying out a new bunch of characters, and expanding the scope of the storytelling. The people we meet are interesting and well written, and there's that eye for the small details of life that makes the whole thing relatable, even when people are chasing assassins on planes. There are several moments that made me laugh out loud.

But - and this is more of a me thing, I'll grant you - I didn't have the first clue what was going on. There were far too many characters, many of whom existed in completely different spheres of experience to each other. Their relationships were hard to discern. Deliberately so, of course - this is a murder mystery. But I couldn't quite get a grasp on what motivated them, and why it mattered. Mysteries are fine, but I need to know the difference between information that's deliberately hidden, and information I simply haven't understood. So, while it was fun to watch the characters chatting about Twixes and exchanging droll repartee, I was left being quite glad to finish the book. 

I'm sorry. Please don't make me stay with the cynics. I'll behave.

The Machine Stops - E.M. Forster

I'm going to be completely honest and tell you that I read this because it's short. I googled 'what are the best short books', and this was one of them. It turns out that reading a hundred books is fine if you're a fast reader, but I'm absolutely not. My brain, when reading, is very easily distracted. It's like a dog straining at its lead. Yes, I know you want me to go that way, but I've smelled some very interesting wee on that lamppost.

So, it's short. Very short. Too short? It's definitely a book, in that it constitutes a complete, printed object with a cover and a spine and the like, but it feels a bit like maybe it's a short story actually. I flew through it in no time. As a result my stupid brain had no opportunity to pull desperately away, shouting 'This is about computers and my first computer was a ZX Spectrum and that's when I knew Angela Rhodes and she was mean to me in the library and remember when I use to go to the library every week and why don't I read more books and oh I'm meant to be reading now aren't I, where was I?"

The book appears to be about how we shouldn't let machines take over every aspect of our lives and rob us of our humanity. Astonishingly, it was written over 100 years ago, but feels incredibly pertinent now. Which means either a) Forster was a genius, with an incredible eye for the foundations of human nature or b) Forster was a time traveller who used his powers to make a quick buck in the short story market.

Envy as Sickness - Jody Lancaster

Jody is a friend of mine. He likes to spend his time annoying me by working hard at his creative endeavours, while I lay around pawing at unfinished projects and eating biscuits. Here we find him finishing and publishing a novel, with the exclusive aim of making me feel bad and lazy. 

Well, joke's on you, Lancaster, because I read it anyway, and since I started this '100 books in a year' project, reading counts as research. So you've helped me do something useful and productive after all. And if there are any good ideas in there, I'm definitely going to steal them. So who's the smartest of us now? 

Yes, alright. It's still him. He's written an intelligent and thoughtful book, throbbing with peculiar ideas and vibrant imagery. Best of all, the chapters are really short. I mean, like, I don't think any of them are more than three pages long. I can't overstate how much this contributed to the pleasure I had reading it. The feeling of achievement was awesome. Another chapter done! I hadn't even finished that biscuit!

I don't want him to get too cocky, though. So here's something I didn't get on with. As with the Osman book mentioned above, I wasn't always quite clear on why things mattered. I've come to realise that this is a big part of how I enjoy story. I need to know the stakes, and feel them strongly reinforced. Not every novel is bothered with this, of course, and some of the best works of literature leave me cold as a result. And so I sometimes found myself a little detatched from the - often crazy and peculiar - events of the story. 

However. On the whole, this was a good read. The prose style is excellent and there's an enjoyable madness to the nightmare world he's created. I would, of course, have preferred him to have written an embarrassing, boring failure of a thing, which I could bring up every time we met as a kind of weapon to beat him with. But we can't have everything.

So Long and Thanks for All the Fish - Douglas Adams

My wander through the Hitch Hiker books continues. And this one is odd. I remember it completely phasing me as a teenager. We seem to have drifted a long way from the madcap antics of the first couple of books, and this is, tonally, a very different experience.

It's a very slender book, and seems in many ways unfinished. The main plot follows Arthur Dent and his new romance, and that's all Adams seems to be interested in. Then there are sporadic attempts to hit other notes, with Ford Prefect and spaceships and hints at the wider galactic picture. But these feel perfunctory, with little heart or feeling. Indeed, there's a slight sense of contempt to these sections, as if Adams is letting us know how grown up he is to be talking about romance, and we should really be leaving the silly spaceships behind. 

And maybe that's fine. The romance stuff is very lovely, and there's a sincerity and lyricism to Arthur's homecoming that shows a different side to Adams's creativity. But what a shame that he didn't just lean right into the romance, and have confidence in its power. Or, failing that, write something new, rather than this odd beast. 

Outlining Your Novel - KM Weiland

I went to see Jody - the friend/author mentioned a couple of books back - to drink wine and talk about writing. I spent a gleeful half hour outlining the shortcomings of his book, only later admitting that it was generally quite good and I really liked the way he described stuff. 

He listened to my thoughts in the way that a father might listen to his 7 year old son's criticisms of the way the house was decorated - had he considered more pictures of dinosaurs and spaceships? What about knocking through to next door to make the living room bigger? Then, when I'd calmed down, he asked how my book was going. Well can you imagine anything more rude? He knew I couldn't plot things, and that I'd cry if he brought it up. 

Rather graciously, he recommended this book, on how to plot novels. And it turns out it's a thing of wonder. I've read quite a lot of books on story structure, and there are some really good ones out there. So I'd more or less discarded the idea of reading any more. How much more could there be to say? 

It turns out that there is plenty more to say. This is an immensely practical book which matches theory with good, solid advice on how to make things happen. The techniques are fairly simple and I adopted a number of them immediately, and to good effect. It's well written, too, with a friendly, accessible style that doesn't waste time trying to impress you with the author's own amazing skillset. It just gets on with it. 

The moral, then, is that if you have a talented friend, get alongside them. Steal their ideas. Pretend they were your ideas. If they come to you saying, "Hey, those were my ideas," simply say, "Are there, really, any new ideas in the world?" And then leg it. 

See you next time for books 36 - 40.

Or you can look back at last time - books 26 - 30.