Images (c) Peter Coleborn
Monday, October 20, 2008
The Birthday Party
Here are a couple of photos from Jo's birthday party (more photos can be seen on www.petercoleborn.co.uk but please note, this website is in its infancy):
Cafe Manet?
Jan and I stayed in a hotel in St Albans last week. Nearby, we came across a Cafe Rouge. I was impressed by the bar -- so I took a photo (with permission). The cafe reminded me so of the Impressionist painting by Manet. Photo (c) Peter Coleborn
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Down Portobello Road
Jan and I had a wonderful time yesterday evening. We spent the dark hours in the upstairs room of a fabulous restaurant in Portobello Road. Around twenty diners congregated together to celebrate Jo Fletcher's special birthday. There was plenty of wine (including bubbly), superb food and excellent company. The meal finished with a 'roast'. Not the sort involving an oven, but where we all spoke a few words, relaying our memories of Jo -- some were incredibly funny. As usual, I was armed with my camera and documented the evening. I hope to post a few pictures on the blog.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Poet Laureate Announced
It's just been confirmed that my friend Chris Morgan has been appointed as Birmingham's Poet Laureate. Well done, Chris. He will be expected to write poems about the city, mentor the Young Poet Laureate, and attend special events. A very prestigious appointment.
With his permission, here is one of Chris’ poems:
THE CAR BODY PLANT
I always cycled in through pre-dawn
gloom, it seemed, for the 7.15 start,
yellow and sweating beneath my cape,
just one of a tide of half-asleeps
flowing into that infernal manufactory,
smoke-city of the blood-red night, each
of us squeezed into a terrifying conformity;
for them, fat pay-packets like an addiction.
My green boiler-suit, APPRENTICE
on chest pocket, possessed me,
marking me out, to be sent
for left-handed screwdrivers, for tubs
of elbow grease, for a laff. My O levels
and RP accent made me an outsider,
fuelled a mutual misunderstanding,
and a soupcon (my word, not theirs) of guilt.
Huge presses shook the floor, crunching
improbable shapes from steel sheets,
Richter six point something as I walked past;
older press operators all lacked
a finger, blood sacrifice to inattention;
hearing dimmed by decades of carcrash;
I never asked about their hearts or souls.
On assembly lines, spotwelding guns
were like futuristic weapons from a movie,
spitting chains of sparks across gangways
as their superhero crab-claws pinched,
and the air smelled sharply of lung-
destroying metal dust. Always loud hissing
and screeching, as of dying breaths,
as bodies were tortured into shape.
Chris Morgan
With his permission, here is one of Chris’ poems:
THE CAR BODY PLANT
I always cycled in through pre-dawn
gloom, it seemed, for the 7.15 start,
yellow and sweating beneath my cape,
just one of a tide of half-asleeps
flowing into that infernal manufactory,
smoke-city of the blood-red night, each
of us squeezed into a terrifying conformity;
for them, fat pay-packets like an addiction.
My green boiler-suit, APPRENTICE
on chest pocket, possessed me,
marking me out, to be sent
for left-handed screwdrivers, for tubs
of elbow grease, for a laff. My O levels
and RP accent made me an outsider,
fuelled a mutual misunderstanding,
and a soupcon (my word, not theirs) of guilt.
Huge presses shook the floor, crunching
improbable shapes from steel sheets,
Richter six point something as I walked past;
older press operators all lacked
a finger, blood sacrifice to inattention;
hearing dimmed by decades of carcrash;
I never asked about their hearts or souls.
On assembly lines, spotwelding guns
were like futuristic weapons from a movie,
spitting chains of sparks across gangways
as their superhero crab-claws pinched,
and the air smelled sharply of lung-
destroying metal dust. Always loud hissing
and screeching, as of dying breaths,
as bodies were tortured into shape.
Chris Morgan
Friday, October 10, 2008
Cthulhu Statuette
This is one of five statuettes I cast in resin-plaster over the summer months. I can't cast any more because I managed to badly damage the mould on number five. The original clay master is also, alas, destroyed.The statuette stands about 6" tall, and looks great on the mantle above the fire place.
If you are interested in obtaining one, please get in touch.
Photo (c) Peter Coleborn
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Prince of Stories
I had a pleasant surprise this morning. I received copies of Prince of Stories: The Many Worlds of Neil Gaiman, compiled by Hank Wagner, Christopher Golden and Stephen Bisette (published by St Martin's Press). This is a great-looking book covering the career of Neil Gaiman, from the earliest of days to now. I haven't had time to investigate it fully, but I did read the chapter 'Fantasytime at the New Imperial' over breakfast.
The New Imperial. How many people remember that hotel? It was the home of the first Fantasycon, and remained so for many years -- until it was closed down to mutate into offices or shops or something. It was the type of hotel where, to paraphrase Karl Wagner, the johns were down the corridor. But it had a strangeness and charm that modern hotels simply lack.
Anyway, back to this book and Gaiman's chapter. It is a wonderfully funny report of his adventures at his first ever convention -- Fantasycon VIII in 1984. His anecdote on the Lovecraft panel, where a certain artist said that he liked to draw tentacles, is priceless.
The book also includes several photographs I took of Neil Gaiman over the years, and it's great to see them included, some in full colour. Others acknowledged in the credits include Stephen Jones and Peter Crowther.
The cover art is by Dave McKean.
The New Imperial. How many people remember that hotel? It was the home of the first Fantasycon, and remained so for many years -- until it was closed down to mutate into offices or shops or something. It was the type of hotel where, to paraphrase Karl Wagner, the johns were down the corridor. But it had a strangeness and charm that modern hotels simply lack.Anyway, back to this book and Gaiman's chapter. It is a wonderfully funny report of his adventures at his first ever convention -- Fantasycon VIII in 1984. His anecdote on the Lovecraft panel, where a certain artist said that he liked to draw tentacles, is priceless.
The book also includes several photographs I took of Neil Gaiman over the years, and it's great to see them included, some in full colour. Others acknowledged in the credits include Stephen Jones and Peter Crowther.
The cover art is by Dave McKean.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
The Appetite by Nicholas Royle.
The Appetite by Nicholas Royle. Gray Friar Press (2008) £8.00
Reviewed by Peter Coleborn
Nicholas Royle is one of the UK’s literary secrets. He quietly and all too infrequently writes masterfully disturbing stories and novels. The Appetite is such an example. This novella (similarly to Graham Joyce’s Three Ways to Snog an Alien, also reviewed in this blog) is about two people falling in love. Royle places this romance against the backdrop of a hurricane and its aftermath. The fierce storm, with its strong merciless winds, swept people up into the clouds, seemingly to disappear. But a few days later they return, falling out of the sky. Miraculously, there are only slight injuries.
Sally is one of the storm’s victims, and returning to earth she falls into Mike’s arms. And so begins their romantic liaison. She, though, is happily married and refuses to leave her husband. And so their relationship spirals into issues of guilt and claustrophobia.
And at the same time the world around them shifts, moving closer together, as if things are shrinking. This only compounds the sense of claustrophobia.
The Appetite effectively captures the conflicting emotions of Mike and Sally. It delineates their stresses as they test their relationship, until Sally has to finally decide.
Nicholas Royle, in this book, has taken a simple tale, added an element of strangeness, and then twisted in the literary knife. This is surely a front runner for the British Fantasy Award’s Best Novella next year.
Reviewed by Peter Coleborn
Nicholas Royle is one of the UK’s literary secrets. He quietly and all too infrequently writes masterfully disturbing stories and novels. The Appetite is such an example. This novella (similarly to Graham Joyce’s Three Ways to Snog an Alien, also reviewed in this blog) is about two people falling in love. Royle places this romance against the backdrop of a hurricane and its aftermath. The fierce storm, with its strong merciless winds, swept people up into the clouds, seemingly to disappear. But a few days later they return, falling out of the sky. Miraculously, there are only slight injuries.
Sally is one of the storm’s victims, and returning to earth she falls into Mike’s arms. And so begins their romantic liaison. She, though, is happily married and refuses to leave her husband. And so their relationship spirals into issues of guilt and claustrophobia.
And at the same time the world around them shifts, moving closer together, as if things are shrinking. This only compounds the sense of claustrophobia.
The Appetite effectively captures the conflicting emotions of Mike and Sally. It delineates their stresses as they test their relationship, until Sally has to finally decide.
Nicholas Royle, in this book, has taken a simple tale, added an element of strangeness, and then twisted in the literary knife. This is surely a front runner for the British Fantasy Award’s Best Novella next year.
Three Ways to Snog an Alien: book review
Three Ways to Snog an Alien by Graham Joyce. Faber (2008) £6.99
Reviewed by Peter Coleborn
A terrible cover. Looks like chic lit for teenage girls. But get past that and you’ll find a wonderful exploration of teenagers in love. At first I was reminded of the Matheson story ‘The Trouble with Julie’; but Joyce has very much his own voice and his own compelling story to relate.
Doogie falls for the new girl Angelica. Naturally, for kids of his age, there’re the usual taunts about Doogie loving Angelica. Nevertheless, they go on a date – for an ice cream in a local café. But he sees something disturbing, something that convinces him that Angelica is an alien. And now he’s on the look out for all things weird. The girl’s parents’ strange behaviour only further confirm his suspicions.
At home, Doogie does what we all would nowadays. He Googles the Web. He soon encounters a group of on-line conspiracy theorists who concur with him. Doogie is sucked into an investigation, armed with pointers to prove Angelica’s alien nature. He is warned that the investigation could prove highly dangerous.
But at the same time, Doogie is using the Web to search out dating tips, on how to handle women. The conflicts these two threads create are very amusing. Made me giggle out loud a few times.
If I didn’t know better, I’d suggest that Graham Joyce was writing from experience (well, to all teenage boys, girls are unfathomable, anyway). But – big but – Joyce adds that element of ambiguity. Doogie’s question is fully answered. Or is it? Are Angelica and her parents aliens? Or are they just strange? I’m not telling here.
I am a great fan of Joyce’s writing. He writes crisply and engagingly, with no superfluous words. He has a knack of creating very real people. They have normal lives, in normal towns and cities. And then he shifts reality ever so slightly, using that conflict to create perfect fiction.
Joyce’s previous young adult titles published by Faber are TWOC and Do the Creepy Thing. Read them all.
Reviewed by Peter Coleborn
A terrible cover. Looks like chic lit for teenage girls. But get past that and you’ll find a wonderful exploration of teenagers in love. At first I was reminded of the Matheson story ‘The Trouble with Julie’; but Joyce has very much his own voice and his own compelling story to relate.
Doogie falls for the new girl Angelica. Naturally, for kids of his age, there’re the usual taunts about Doogie loving Angelica. Nevertheless, they go on a date – for an ice cream in a local café. But he sees something disturbing, something that convinces him that Angelica is an alien. And now he’s on the look out for all things weird. The girl’s parents’ strange behaviour only further confirm his suspicions.
At home, Doogie does what we all would nowadays. He Googles the Web. He soon encounters a group of on-line conspiracy theorists who concur with him. Doogie is sucked into an investigation, armed with pointers to prove Angelica’s alien nature. He is warned that the investigation could prove highly dangerous.
But at the same time, Doogie is using the Web to search out dating tips, on how to handle women. The conflicts these two threads create are very amusing. Made me giggle out loud a few times.
If I didn’t know better, I’d suggest that Graham Joyce was writing from experience (well, to all teenage boys, girls are unfathomable, anyway). But – big but – Joyce adds that element of ambiguity. Doogie’s question is fully answered. Or is it? Are Angelica and her parents aliens? Or are they just strange? I’m not telling here.
I am a great fan of Joyce’s writing. He writes crisply and engagingly, with no superfluous words. He has a knack of creating very real people. They have normal lives, in normal towns and cities. And then he shifts reality ever so slightly, using that conflict to create perfect fiction.
Joyce’s previous young adult titles published by Faber are TWOC and Do the Creepy Thing. Read them all.
Allen Ashley
I received an email from Allen Ashley, bemoaning the lack of a photograph of a certain individual. In the meantime, here is Allen selling Elastic Press books at Fantasycon. Allen is generally a good sort -- even if he is an Arsenal fan.
Check out the Elastic Press website -- they publish some nice books, including a new one due in a month or so, edited by Mr Ashley.
Photo (c) Peter Coleborn
Mythago Wood
I recently re-read Robert Holdstock's Mythago Wood -- reissued as a fine hardcover edition. Here is my review of it, initially posted on Amazon and sent to the BFS' Prism:
Back in 1981, Robert Holdstock wrote the novella 'Mythago Wood'. It was so good it was expanded into the World Fantasy Award winning novel of the same name (it won it in 1985). I am so happy to see Mythago Wood reprinted as a handsome hard cover, over twenty years on.
The decades have not dimmed the story or the quality of the writing. Ryhope Wood is a wooded area in the English countryside - but that's not all it is. From the outside, one can walk around it in hours; yet once inside the journey may take weeks. It is also a piece of land that has its roots (pun intended) travelling back not just in time, but to the realms that generate our myths, where the archetypes of legend originate.
This book is no rote fantasy. It tells of the passionate obsession and loyalty of the Huxley family, of two brothers and their father. Returning from the War, Stephen discovers that his brother Christian had disappeared into Ryhope, searching for their father. Stephen and his companions follow. But the trip in to the woods becomes a trek, and the hapless travellers become lost and subsumed into the myths they set out to explore.
Mythago Wood engages the reader as all good books should and so few do. Although Holdstock later wrote sequels to this story, Mythago Wood is a standalone novel. It is brilliantly written by one of the UK's foremost fantasists. Buy it. Read it. Love it.
-- Reviewed by Peter Coleborn
Back in 1981, Robert Holdstock wrote the novella 'Mythago Wood'. It was so good it was expanded into the World Fantasy Award winning novel of the same name (it won it in 1985). I am so happy to see Mythago Wood reprinted as a handsome hard cover, over twenty years on.
The decades have not dimmed the story or the quality of the writing. Ryhope Wood is a wooded area in the English countryside - but that's not all it is. From the outside, one can walk around it in hours; yet once inside the journey may take weeks. It is also a piece of land that has its roots (pun intended) travelling back not just in time, but to the realms that generate our myths, where the archetypes of legend originate.
This book is no rote fantasy. It tells of the passionate obsession and loyalty of the Huxley family, of two brothers and their father. Returning from the War, Stephen discovers that his brother Christian had disappeared into Ryhope, searching for their father. Stephen and his companions follow. But the trip in to the woods becomes a trek, and the hapless travellers become lost and subsumed into the myths they set out to explore.
Mythago Wood engages the reader as all good books should and so few do. Although Holdstock later wrote sequels to this story, Mythago Wood is a standalone novel. It is brilliantly written by one of the UK's foremost fantasists. Buy it. Read it. Love it.
-- Reviewed by Peter Coleborn
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)