Tag Archives: theme

A quick note on the WordPress “just write” feature


I used to write all my blog pieces in Word and simply copy them. I shall probably still end up doing this in future when writing about certain things. But lately, especially writing about personal or passionate topics, I’ve taken advantage of the newly improved full screen mode on WordPress or the “just write” feature.

I honestly didn’t realise how relaxing it would be. With nothing but your words on the screen it’s far easier to find a rhythm and concentrate on your flow of thought. It’s also easier to think about the quality of each individual sentence and how the whole thing will look when you’re done. Whilst your typing, no matter what theme you have, it will feel clean and professional.

I can’t believe that such a simple improvement in usability has spurred me on to write, about anything at all. It’s made the technicalities of the process more enjoyable and exciting again. And by getting rid of distractions you feel able to deliver your best more often.

I’ve been meaning to write about the doubts I’ve been having about my writing for some time. But with the novelty of this new feature, I shall just plough onwards and try to write through it.

Well done WordPress.

Chitty Chitty Bang Bang: going, going gone?


The only Chitty Chitty Bang Bang capable of getting you to the shops is to be sold by a Holywood memorabilia company. Unlike the vehicle from the film it won’t let you fly to Tesco in style for your groceries, and the amount of room in the eccentric interior is questionable, but you could, in theory, chug along slowly to anywhere you like in a piece of cinematic history.

Of all the cars associated with the fictional creations of Ian Fleming, James Bond’s Bentleys or Aston Martins, or even Goldfinger’s gold plated Rolls Royce, are more likely to tempt your casual film fan. But for some who love Chitty as if she were a childhood friend or those who swoon over Dick Van Dyke in Diagnosis Murder, there might be no better slice of the past than this unique auction piece. A reporter for the BBC’s Breakfast programme got the chance to take the Chitty for a test drive and was quick to praise Van Dyke for making it all look so easy, whilst simultaneously singing along to that catchy and memorable theme tune.

The version up for sale was assembled in England prior to production of the 1968 film, but it has a Ford V6 engine and automatic gearbox. Various salvaged parts and splashes of colour adorn the car and its wood panelling, helping to create its famously happy image. Van Dyke’s portrayal of the slightly bonkers inventor and the other performances did the rest.

 The charismatic producer behind the Bond films, Albert “Cubby” Broccoli, was responsible for bringing Fleming’s children book to life on the big screen. Roald Dahl, the architect of so many characters in the collective conscience of childhood, wrote the script, with the Sherman Brothers supplying the songs.

In an interview with the New York Times, Pierre Picton, who doubled for Van Dyke during shooting and owner of the available Chitty ever since, admitted that the car suffered from heavy steering now and again. But he had faith that this wouldn’t damage his hopes for a “retirement nest egg”. He said he was missing her already.

Macho Antidotes to the Royal Wedding – Part 3: Bargain DVDs – Trainspotting and The Wrestler


The big day is upon us. The masculine apocalypse is now. The horsemen will round the corner towards Westminster Abbey any moment, dragging their cargo of the merry middle class and nostalgic Eton boy politicians, right into our living rooms. Oh my god it’s not long until we get to see Kate’s dress!

Shoot me now. I am apprehensive, a little scared even, because I may have been advocating alternatives to the big day but I know I’m fighting an entity so vast that it will inevitably stray into my line of sight at some point. I won’t be able to flee the hordes living and breathing the ceremony like it was their own. It wouldn’t even do any good to flee abroad, if anything they’re more marriage mad than the most devout British Royalist. So I definitely cannot outrun this and in addition I have another problem. I can’t hide from it either, because I’ve already consumed the alternatives in order to point them out to all of you. Blokes, guys and lads everywhere, I hope you appreciate my sacrifice.

We’ve reached the final alternative step and its one I like to think of as the emergency measure. Thor at the cinema requires venturing out and United on iPlayer requires dangerous proximity to internet coverage, but these two films on DVD, available on the bargain shelves of any local high street, merely need a TV. I know, believe me I know, the wedding is on all the channels.  But if you have an even more serious aversion to confetti and vows than me, just pull the aerial out and stick these two very manly films in to play, one after another.

Firstly then a film I’ve been meaning to see for a long while, the Scottish breakthrough piece for Danny Boyle, Trainspotting. Despite all the hype, from critics and friends alike, I really didn’t know what to expect from this exactly. I knew there was drug taking, in all likelihood sex, and an awful lot of accented foul language. I knew it starred an emaciated Ewan McGregor. I knew it would have both fun and filth. I knew Boyle’s playful style would scrawl a signature in every scene. I wasn’t expecting it to be quite so hilarious and true to life as it was.

Much of the humour comes from the characters of McGregor’s Mark Renton’s “so called mates”. Johnny Lee Miller, now starring fifteen years on in Boyle’s critically acclaimed Frankenstein opposite Benedict Cumberbatch in the theatre, plays a Sean Connery obsessed, seemingly streetwise fellow crack addict. His assessments of Connery’s performances as James Bond and his astonishing grasp of box office data, were particularly surreal for a fellow Bond fan like me, as he helped friends to inject heroin. He turns out to be far less clued up than he pretends to be though. Then there’s Spud, a guy who is very plainly clueless from the start, who lands up throwing his shit all over his girlfriend’s family at breakfast. Don’t ask how. Slapstick perhaps, but I laughed for several minutes.

There’s also Tommy, a guy McGregor’s surprisingly appealing narration informs us has the fault of being honest and not addicted to any banned substance. I assume the visceral poetry of Renton’s narration is so attractive because it is transplanted largely untouched from Irvine Walsh’s novel, which is infamous for its use of Scottish dialect. A scene where Tommy and Spud discuss the pitfalls of their respective women at a club, and the girlfriends do likewise about the boys in the toilets, presumably also has its roots in the book. But it’s wonderfully adapted by Boyle, with subtitles not quite necessary because of the noise and very capable comic acting depicting the darkly funny give and take realities of relationships.

Finally there’s a young Kelly Macdonald, who has since appeared in No Country For Old Men, in her first film. Renton catches sight of her in a club as she’s leaving, with his sex drive rapidly returning as he attempts to give up his habit. He follows her outside, as his narration tells us he’s fallen in love, and tries it on with her. She confidently shoots him down, only to snog his face off in the taxi and subsequently shag him rampantly in her room. In the morning Renton discovers she’s a schoolgirl, and the people he presumes to be flatmates are her parents. It’s the sort of cheeky scene present throughout the film but it centres on deeper, more disturbing truths about youths trapped in a certain limited form of existence.

Renton is undoubtedly trapped by his addiction and his school girl lover is trapped by her age, a desire to break free and be independent. We all know what it’s like to feel trapped; it’s a very human feeling, despite our supposed freedom. Whether you’re a nurse at a crowded hospital running a gauntlet of noses going off like shotguns of snot, a doctor watching patients with crash dummy heads and vacant eyes or one of thousands of the unemployed youths in this country retreading the same old paths, the same old trenches of memory through the earth, with no concept of a future. We can all get that feeling, and recognise it in others.

Ay na donne get all political pal? Keep it light! Ay?

Ah yes I forgot a character. Robert Carlyle plays Begbie, a moustachioed Scott whose job description reads thus: “playing pool and drinking at the bar, until a minor action by another customer causes him to lose his rag and beat everyone shitless”. Begbie’s probably trapped too, but to be honest his character never seemed much more than smashing entertainment. Literally.

The thing about Renton is that he thinks he’s beaten the rest of us buggers trapped in the game of life, chasing after fat televisions and fancy cars. He thinks that by choosing drugs he’s chosen nothingness and some sort of purer, pleasure filled existence. But like every revolutionary he comes to realise he is as trapped by the system as those embracing it. He needs money for his hits, friends for his sanity. Or maybe not friends, as you’ll see if you watch the film.

Trainspotting is a damn good ride through the monotony of modern existence, with eccentric but hilarious and extremely likeable tour guides. It’s more than your average tourist experience because at times it really gets you to think. And as an exploration of drug culture, Boyle’s direction is suitably dirty, bizarre and haunting, but also responsible and not over the top. You’ll flinch at some of the filth, the needles and most of all McGregor screaming his lungs out at a hallucination of a baby. Trainspotting is not simply a mash-up of visual clichés about getting high though, perhaps because it has such a strong grounding in character.

And so we come to The Wrestler, directed by Darren Aronofsky. Now Darren, as I like to call him, is someone I have a love/hate relationship with. First came the love, as I fell head over heels for the sensuality of Black Swan (https://mrtsblog.wordpress.com/2011/01/24/black-swan/) and then came the hate, when I followed this up with his earlier much praised work, Requiem for a Dream (https://mrtsblog.wordpress.com/2011/02/06/an-open-letter-to-darren-aronofsky/).

One of the reasons I found Trainspotting so refreshing was that whilst it dealt with drugs and it had its strange and psychedelic scenes of intoxication; it did not become the pretentious exercise in filmmaking that was Requiem for a Dream. I will probably be slated for saying it, and it may merely have been the context in which I first saw it (see link), but I really didn’t like that film. I did not see the point to it. Trainspotting seemed to say something far truer about addiction, despite its tongue often being firmly in cheek.

I only bring this up because it all meant that I didn’t know what I was going to get from The Wrestler; dazzling Darren or dopey Darren. The critical buzz around Mickey Rourke’s resurrected corpse meant not a jot, because some of them hated Black Swan and some of them loved Requiem.

I would not go as far as the five star quotes plastered over the cover. I would not call it the “ultimate man film” as FHM did. But it’s undoubtedly a film about a man and ageing, whereas Trainspotting, with hindsight, was a film for boys. Rourke’s Randy “The Ram” Robinson is someone trapped by his past, the legacy of his prime, and the mistakes he made during that ripe period of life.

Perhaps Rourke put in such a praiseworthy performance because he could really inhabit his character. He has been there, more or less. Rather than playing a caricature or a gun toting gangster, Rourke is simply a person here; a human being in decline, or as he says in one moving speech “a broken down piece of meat”. At first I didn’t see what all the fuss about his performance was, but then after a few emotional scenes with a potential lover and ageing stripper (Marisa Tomei) and particularly some heartbreaking confrontations with his daughter (Evan Rachel Wood), Rourke brings Randy to life.

There’s always the danger of melodramatic sentimentality, but the film manages to avoid it, primarily because of the masculine restraint of Rourke’s portrayal. Aside from some brutal wrestling scenes and one careless fuck, this is rather pedestrian territory for Darren after the frenzied, frenetic highs of Requiem and the disorientating dash for beautiful perfection in Black Swan. The Wrestler certainly didn’t grab me and it didn’t inspire the extremes of emotion that Darren’s two other efforts did. It has sporting parallels with Black Swan but lacks the wow factor of that film.

I don’t think there’s necessarily anything that wrong with The Wrestler. In some ways it is refreshing to see a film that shows so many sides of a man’s ordinary life, making his escape from that routine via his passion all the more meaningful. There’s no doubt that performing as a wrestler requires a certain level of very manly commitment to the drama. This film will offset any feminine activities like dusting icing sugar on cupcakes or fashioning paper chains with ease. But it’s so realistic, so dreary and so grim, that this antidote might lead to a dangerous and depressing overdose.

If you watch these back to back, watch Trainspotting last. It’s fun as well as not for the faint hearted. Either film is preferable to pointless precessions though, I’m sure you’ll agree. Never mind God Save the Queen, God save male souls everywhere and best of luck!

James Bond 007: Blood Stone


Right now the internet is ablaze with debate and gossip. Alright it always is, but at the moment fans everywhere are wondering who will be cast in the next James Bond film, the 23rd in the franchise. Last week two pretty heavyweight acting names were linked to the project: Javier Bardem, reportedly as the villain, and Ralph Fiennes for a “complex role”, as supposedly director Sam Mendes seeks to start a new era of quality Bonds. Both rumours are promising but many will come and go and prove to be false before we see the final product. Daniel Craig’s last cinematic outing was a major letdown and many will be hoping for a return to form more in keeping with his debut, Casino Royale.

What are 007 fans to do during the long wait for the, hopefully much improved, next instalment in the franchise? Well they can watch the old classics again; discover the true Bond of the books perhaps. Or they can dive into the different medium of video games and experience Blood Stone, an original mission released by Bizarre Creations and Activision at the tail end of last year.

It looks pretty much like an entry in the world’s longest running film series. There are exotic locations, though due to the immersive medium the creators didn’t quite push the geographical originality as far. Bond travels from Athens to Istanbul, from Monaco to Bangkok, before rounding things off in the Burmese jungle. There’s a bombastic theme song, from powerful singer Joss Stone, and she also provides the virtual eye candy with her likeness and voice as Bond’s capable love interest. Judi Dench occasionally pops up as M, though the graphics render her a rather monstrous figure. Bruce Feirstein, an experienced Bond scribe, pens the script and story. The music sounds and feels the part; ultra-suave, ultra-cool, ultra-Bond.

Crucially for fans though the ultimate fantasy element a console provides that a cinema can’t is that you actually get to be Bond! Some people cannot imagine anything more exciting.

I’m not a pro-gamer but there’s no denying Blood Stone is short. I was expecting that but then I realised I shouldn’t have been. After all this wasn’t a rushed movie tie-in, like Quantum of Solace, which was padded out with sections from Casino Royale (the crane scene was simultaneously a bit crap and mind blowing, I mean you actually are Bond!); this was an original story. They had the time to make it really good and a challenging experience.

A lot of Blood Stone is brilliant fun, especially for a fan like me. The back to basics shooting and fighting is closely linked to Daniel Craig’s film outings and satisfying to see. Bond has an impressively wide variety of hand to hand takedowns at his disposal and if you move quickly through the game environments, utilising these physical moves in unison with some snappy gunplay, things really do look like an action set piece from one of the films. Sadly most of the game is spent unavoidably bogged down in cover. The controls and game mechanics for this work superbly well, even if they make it a bit easy at times. But the inescapable fact is that picking off hordes of enemies from behind a wall or crate makes you feel like a slightly sensible soldier as opposed to an iconic, bold and highly trained secret agent.

There are moments when you do feel wonderfully Bondian though. As I said, moving as quickly as you can through the levels, using the “Focus Aim” feature, which you acquire through physical takedowns and allows you to chain together one shot kills, looks cool. But it gets very repetitive, then mind numbingly samey and finally painfully undemanding. Thankfully the game is broken up with driving segments. There’s a basic tutorial on a boat in Athens harbour during the first level but you have the most fun in Aston Martins, which infuriatingly are often just conveniently placed. For example you pursue the villains around Istanbul docks in a vintage DB5, as seen in Goldfinger, without any explanation as to how you manage to stumble across such a nice motor in a hurry. Sure any reason would have sounded forced, in the end you get an Aston Martin because it’s Bond, end of, but they could have tried.

The driving is great fun and adds some much needed difficulty to the game. I felt a bit crap, constantly ditching my DBS in the icy water or careering through cargo into turquoise blue. But when you finally master it, or do it first time if you’re any good, the chases look amazing. You don’t have to be a racing game expert either, with most of the focus being on exciting handbrake turns.

Other good moments include a stealthy mission in a Monaco casino, with Bond all dolled up in his tuxedo. There’s an adrenalin pumping sequence in the catacombs beneath Istanbul as Bond jumps and sprints away across splintering scaffolding from some monstrous machinery. And perhaps the best level is in Bangkok which starts at a graphically stunning aquarium, where everything is bathed in blue. Then after a shoot-out, Bond (or if you prefer, YOU) chases an assassin across dirty, realistically contrasted city rooftops, before finally smashing your way through the streets in a vehicle based pursuit.

Ultimately Bond’s only gadget, his “Smartphone”, proves to be just a bit too clever and spoon feeds you information throughout. This makes the experience itself, the game-play, a letdown overall. But how does the plot compare to the 22 stories in 007’s film catalogue?

If I’m honest I still don’t understand what happened in Blood Stone. I’d like to think this wasn’t just my own stupidity and confusion; the story really was baffling. As plots go it was somewhat generic, predictably for a game but disappointingly so, given Feirstein’s involvement. Bio-chemical weapons, scientists and terrorist traders are all in the mix. As is some, in my view excessive, backstabbing and double crossing and betrayal (this is when it gets incomprehensible). Most of the cut scenes in which Daniel Craig’s likeness interrogates baddies or talks to M or another ally, are horrifically cliché. The dialogue is really atrocious and again this is really frustrating given Feirstein’s key role that standards were not elevated above the usual video game level.

Games are increasingly about engaging stories as well as thrilling action, with titles like Assassin’s Creed spawning sequels, novels and possibly movies. The industry as a whole is now one of the most lucrative in the world. For an original Bond tale to fall short, without the pressure of strict release deadlines and at a time when other games, even the latest Call of Duty also created by Activision, are excelling with their plots, is crushingly disappointing. The film franchise built its reputation on quality.

So film fans, if you like Bond Blood Stone can provide adequate but unsatisfactory entertainment until the coming movie instalment. But if you’re not so keen on the world’s favourite spy, Blood Stone is good for perhaps a couple of hours of mild amusement at best. Certainly if the dialogue and plot to Bond 23 isn’t better than this offering, those responsible deserve to lose their jobs.

The Empty Chair


Breakfast time. He’s gazing at the green wicker chair opposite. It’s staring back. Its rows of gaps and slats gape at him like multiple mouths; empty caverns gasping in mock shock. “Oh look”, they seem to sneer, “look who’s all alone. Who’d have thought it?” Then a pause for effect, before hissing “I’d have thought it, that’s who. Along with anyone else with half a brain cell and eyes to see.” The chair’s eyes, vacant and harmless to the casual observer, find him no matter where he shifts his own gaze. As he nibbles and sips he feels watched from all angles. Murmurs and glances scratch at every inch of his skin.

He’d not truly noticed this before, the sheer isolation and predicament of the solitary diner. Something about this particular chair, the way it reclined nonchalantly but never left his line of sight, the unoccupied, unshakeable presence, made him feel naked without a companion. As time dripped relentlessly onward, he simultaneously wanted to leave and was reluctant to retreat. The lifeless, faceless seat appeared as a harsh flash of green, even in his peripheries as he sought comfort in the splashing palms through the window. That morning, his first in the sunny retreat hotel, he’d been woken by the sounds of rain. Later he knew he’d resort to venturing out in it. There was no alternative.

Already he felt as though the trip had descended into a time killing exercise. He knew he’d have the same gripes and troubles and dissatisfied feeling with everyday life back home, but he knew too that he missed it, if only for the familiar company. It was obvious nothing miraculous or exciting would happen to him here. He would not “find” himself, he would not party wildly or meet new, compatible, worthwhile friends. He would waste time dragging out breakfast for another five, another ten, another twenty minutes. He’d drift in the drizzle by the marina and lose himself briefly in the wealth. At best he’d finish some books he’d been putting off reading.

A pair of waiters floated past, animated in hushed Spanish. The conversation did not seem professional, such was its urgency, but the music of foreign tongues rendered its meaning, and any recognisable comfort he might derive from it, impenetrable to him. He sought it instead in other diners but again failed to find it. The majority were all in groups, clusters close in proximity but distant in reality. He found himself sitting up and forward, mindlessly burying his vision in the green wicker chair. Watching it intently he noticed how perfectly the curvaceous arms would cradle the female form. Against his will his imagination conjured up girls he knew, girls he cared for, girls he loved. Their figures were framed by the wicker, their colourful clothes vivid against the green. Their bright, shining, brilliantly alive eyes were lifted and held by the chair to look straight into his own. They smiled and laughed with him and he was happy. Then his lips flickered as if to speak, his hand twitched involuntarily towards the imagined companion and the ghostly illusion abruptly dissipated. Noisy plates filled his ears as the recordings of blissful, hysterical giggles faded and died away like echoes in the chambers of his mind. Waiters hovered and pounced. He was alone.

He didn’t head immediately back to the room. His books weren’t going anywhere. He knew it was terrible, foolish and ungrateful to be already thinking of the day of his return, mentally calculating the countdown, but he couldn’t help it. He knew he’d regret an opportunity missed when he got back, total freedom squandered. But what was there to do? He wanted to plunge into the waters of the Med, but rain poured outside. He would stroll by crushing waves later, check out the Marina bars again. Maybe he’d be hit by literary inspiration. He was already rationing his contact with friends; no internet for a while, no post-cards yet, a maximum of one text per day. He had to be doing things, justifying the Gap Year, or appear to be.

He’d plucked an apple from the stand in the breakfast room and tossed it from hand to hand now. He was sprawled on a ridiculously stylish and comfortable black leather chair in the luxurious lobby. Shiny marble glistened. Later, on his way back to the room, he would nearly fall over twice. Why did this hotel insist on tiny, imperceptible slopes everywhere? They were too steep to walk over normally and naturally, but too slight to be negotiated as one would a couple of steps. Someone would break their neck on the polished white marble and what a ruinous mess that would make. He would read and wander. And the eyes of the empty chair would plague him all week.

Tamara Drewe


Consensus = broad unanimity; general or widespread agreement among all the members of a group

It probably should have occurred to me prior to seeing the new Stephen Frears film Tamara Drewe, an adaptation of the graphic novel by Posy Simmonds that used to appear regularly in the Guardian, that a critical consensus had been reached around it for good reason. However being the ambitious, aspiring writer that I am I was determined to try and look at the film from an original angle and make a startling first impression upon all of you learned readers, dazzling you with my astute, perfectly phrased observations.

The fact is though that Tamara Drewe is an entertaining, funny film set amongst an odd-ball, insular, middle class group in colourfully shot rural Dorset. It is as well acted, skilfully adapted and playfully directed as other commentators have said. It successfully fuses together a mixture of witty dialogue and slapstick comedy moments, of rounded characters and flat cartoon caricatures, to produce a cocktail of laughs, gasps, snorts and intrigue. In my experience it is rare for a cinema to be filled with the sounds of infectious, genuine laughter for more than a handful of moments in a film, and Tamara Drewe certainly achieved this. Add in the elements of sex, youthful dreams and a tragically amusing, climatic finale and Tamara Drewe is certainly the light-hearted country romp the reviews proclaim it to be.

Perhaps though I am too quick to conform to the praise. Granted it took just seconds for the audience to erupt into laughter, prompted by the frenzied internal monologue of the northern lesbian crime writer contrasted with the preceding lustful chick-lit, but I must bear in mind the bias of my fellow cinema goers and indeed myself. You see I watched Tamara Drewe from within the confines of its rural setting. My friends and I flapped as we recognised locations; a local train station dressed up as “Hadditon” Junction, Larmer Tree gardens where a music festival took place that I myself attended earlier this summer. I and the other yokels around me may have been more susceptible to the heightened version of rural reality presented here, as it mischievously sketched familiar aspects of our everyday lives. We all knew a version of the village big shot, so arrogantly portrayed by the excellent Roger Allam, the devoted door mat wife played by the always brilliant Tamsin Grieg and knew the tedium felt by the young tearaways who end up meddling catastrophically in that closed middle class world of privilege and pleasure.

Indeed the funniest moments of the film are provided by the characters that are outsiders from the interlocking middle class, English world, namely the American Glen (or was it Greg? Roger Allam’s character never knew or cared) and the pair of adolescent girls pining over a rock star and longing for events or anything at all to simply “happen” in their village nestled in the “arsehole of nowhere”. I am not familiar with the original graphic novel but my friend assured me the script captured its essence and I was impressed with Moira Buffini’s mastery of each individual character’s idiolect. From the American academic Glen to the teenage pair gossiping in the dreary bus shelter, Buffini captures an individual voice that allows the actors to deliver believable, funny performances. Only Tamara’s long term love interest Andy Cobb, played by Luke Evans, fails to come to life as a character, fulfilling the typical role of muscular, loyal, hard done by simple soul only, with a questionable accent. Dominic Cooper’s rock n roll drummer may be crudely drawn at times, but he brings an addictive charisma to the role.

Buffini’s script not only successfully creates this vivid little world of bright characters but for the most part builds well to an at once dramatic, tragic and hilarious finale. At times the plot sags so that the laughs gave way to yawns, but these moments in which the pace slackens reflect the drudgery of life the film is depicting as well as cleverly lulling you, priming you for the next wave of gags and allowing the giggles to flow all the more easily. As someone who longs to write for a living I also appreciated the themes of truth and deception in both writing and life, and the perils of compromising for your dreams, for celebrity status. The American academic is quick to correct Hallam’s character; a writer of trashy airport fiction by his own admission, that writing is about truth and not lies. But Tamara Drewe shows us that the reality of life is deception and differing perceptions and that the best stories are bundles of these lies, frankly depicted as Tamara describes her own antics in an irresistible “brutally candid” style.

Booker Shortlist 2010


Room – Emma Donoghue
In A Strange Room – Damon Galgut
The Finkler Question – Howard Jacobsen
C – Tom McCarthy
The Long Song – Andrea Levy
Parrot and Olivier in America – Peter Carey

Ironically, given all the talk about the omission of quality humorous writing such as Ian McEwan’s Solar when the longlist was announced, the shortlist is now being hailed as the funniest in years. The Finkler Question by Howard Jacobsen is seen as a properly comic tale, whilst the others have their elements according to the judging panel. All the hype around the shortlist is the surprise dropping out of both The Slap, the biggest selling book on the longlist and The Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet by David Mitchell. In truth neither of these omissions surprises me. I have read both books and enjoyed both but neither deserved to win. The Slap is an entertaining read that is well written at times but suffers from a number of fatal flaws in characterisation, narrative structure and content that meant it could never be a worthy winner. David Mitchell’s latest work is weaker than all his previous ones and it would therefore had been odd had this one finally got him a win. He struggled with the switch to a third person narrative viewpoint, over indulged when it came to including his historical research in the story and lost some of the originality and flair so synonymous with his earlier novels. My money is on C by Tom McCarthy (despite having read none of the shortlisted titles!) as I am most desperate to get me hands of a copy of this.

I was going to attempt a funny short story to go with this post, but that may have to wait until my moods shift. Stay tuned if interested I suppose.