Obiter Dicta

Thursday January 19^th.

Ah, it seems some time since I wrote.  I have, in mitigation, been busy – sometimes – with publicity for The Locked Ward. The attention is surreal. I find myself doing photoshoots and live inserts into radio programmes (…'I've got Desmond O'Docherty on the line now, the author of a new book entitled 'The Cloaked Sword'. Derek, tell us a little about how you came to be disorderly in the I.C.I.') I open broadsheets and my slightly raddled pie-face is staring back out at me. There's talk of a hundred projects a week on TV, radio and online. BBC Breakfast. This Morning. Richard and Judy. Some come off, some dinnae.     

            And  the big radio interview that I spoke of last time, the ‘The World At One’ one, didnae. It did not materialise. (I see you now, as in an HM Bateman cartoon, recoiling in shock and crying, “Whaaaat?! What did he say? ‘Didn’t come off’?”) I ken, incredible! But true, notwithstanding. It came about in this wise…

            I was scheduled to be on WATO, as the BBC like to call it, on Monday the 9thy August. I rose betimes, brushed my tooth, arrayed myself in fresh garments and headed off for Edinburgh's fine stone buildings on the 8.43 Orange Blossom Special. I was to be interviewed at BBC Scotland's studios on Holyrood Road. I had no sooner alit from the footplate of the choo-choo than my mobile phone started to agitate in my pocket.

            It was a person from WATO called Jasper. He said he was sorry but the news agenda was so heavy that I was being dropped. I said I was supposed to record the interview, so why didn't he let it go ahead and they could use it in the future. He said that was not possible. He had phoned, he said, to save me an inconvenient journey. I pointed out that my journey had only become inconvenient as (and because) he spoke. And moreover, I was not at all happy that he was  called Jasper. Anyway, there was nothing to be done (that gives me an idea for the start of a play) so with very ill grace I got right back on the ferkin train and chuffed back home, decidedly unchuffed. And got on the blower to my publicity person, a lady in old London town.

            I observed to her that Wodehouse once remarked that it was never difficult to tell the difference between a ray of sunshine and a Scotsman with a grievance. Well, 'times that by a hundred’ as stupid people say nowadays, and that was me. She, too, was disgruntled, to be fair. Completely misplaced her gruntle, on the instant. She'd done a lot of work on it and cancelled the Today programme for it. She would take it up with Jasper's boss, China.

            And no, he doesn't work for the government of Chung-Hua-Min Kung-Ho Kuo. He works for a young woman called ... China. I shit you not. China.  I think her brother, Crockery, is a big noise in the city.) I had occasion to email her before Christmas and, of course, commenced my communiqué with the immortal words of Francie and Josie: "Hallo there, China," but I suspect the reference would have been lost on her. She being both English and a young person.

            Bum. Bum, bum, bumbaleerie, bum. I was rather disappointed. It’s not often that you get the opportunity to be on WATO, especially for writing a wee book about working with mad folk. But, like famous philosopher says, ‘You caint always git what you wa-hant.’ I don’t blame my publicity lady. I don’t even blame Jasper or China. (I might blame their Mums and Dads a little for the names. But, as I say, the days of calling the wean Tam or Betty have long gone from the earth, God be with those very days.)  Who I blame is the bloody Scottish government for causing such a stooshie about the Independence referendum that day that the news programmes got clogged with it. Ah, but wait! I shall be revenged. When the time comes, I shall vote for amalgamation with the Windward Islands. Such is life. There have been, and will be, other opportunities.

            Check out, if you are so inclined, The Scotland on Sunday (Spectrum) for 8^th January, the Independent for Tuesday 10^th January, The Times non-fiction short reviews for January 7^th and The Spectator for December 31^st 2011. (There are good online reviews in Bookgeeks (Mike Stafford) 4^th January and in Bookbags on the 1^st of January.) And today the Guardian website published a very favourable review by the great poet, John Burnside. It will also appear in Sunday’s Observer.

            Okay, that’s me done pimping my book. I feel like a slattern now. Next time, I shall write about my launch in Word Power Books in dear old Edinburgh toun, which comes to pass on Tuesday of next week (24^th.) Toodlepip and haud yer breath till then, playmates.

Here’s to the next time.

Obiter Dicta

Thursday January 5^th, 2012

Greetings and condiments of the season to one and all. Since I wrote my last obiter dicta, I have been interviewed twice for the newspapers, done a phone interview on Talk Radio Europe, and been the subject of two photoshoots. (Ah, how readily the word ‘photoshoot’ trips off the keyboard of my little PC!) Already a hardened veteran of these things, I can see why Katie or Naomi find them so taxing and such hard work. The number of times I had to fold my arms across my chest and stand slightly turned to the left whilst facing the camera at the same time THEN turn slightly to the right and do the opposite would have driven a lesser mortal sane. Lift your chin a little. Look straight down the lens. Look over there away to the left. Put your hands in your pockets. Take your hands out your pockets. I’ll tell you this; I’ll never sneer at a supermodel’s workload again.

            It’s all because of The Locked Ward, of course, my little memoir of my time as a psychiatric orderly in the secure unit of a hospital in Scotland which is officially published today. You’ll find a short extract from it elsewhere in me blog, if I remember and I can pick the right extract. The two photographers, one per shoot, were thoroughly nice guys and model professionals, and I got on with them very well. The women who interviewed me were equally pleasant and professional. One came to visit me in my wee hoose in the wilderness, and the other phoned me from London. As yet, the stuff has not appeared in the papers (Scotland on Sunday and The Independent) but I expect them daily. 

            The interview on Talk Radio Europe happened this morning at 9.30. The fact that I am stuffed, choked and loaded with a cold was just an add-on to make me enjoy it the more. Actually, the prospect held little terrors for me. Away back in a previous world, I worked in local radio. Back when I was slimmer. Back when I thought matching check shirt and tanktop was a cool fashion statement. Back when I was a father of a months-old child. (I’m now the grandfather of her 9- and 3-year olds.) I thought nothing then of doing live reads on the air. The phone interview was a throwback to them thar times. It lasted 30 minutes, so was a reasonably in-depth piece. I’m not sure what the audience is for the station. But I have a guaranteed big one on Monday when I do the BBC’s World at One. Am I daunted? I was going to say ‘You bet your ass I am.’ But no, I’m not much daunted. This interview should be shorter and more concentrated. All good publicity for the book.

            So. The book. Here it is, in hardback, 352 pages of it. The Locked Ward published by Jonathan Cape. It’s all my agent’s fault/credit that it’s here. When he suggested I write it, my first reaction was ‘No way. Far too many ethical considerations. Confidentiality is a major problem.’ But he talked me into writing a 25 page proposal, and sent that off to Dan Franklin at Cape, who said he thought it was ‘extraordinary’ and that the ‘writing (was) remarkable’. I wrote it in six weeks. 

            Mind you, I excised a fair chunk of that in the proof stage, but the book worked better for it. All it needs to do now is sell. If it doesn’t, I could be stacking shelves at Tesco this time next year. Sic transit Gloria Munday. Whoever she was.

            Here’s to the next time.