Meeting Iain M Banks

IanMBanksspeaksreallyreallyquickly. Here he is, in Manchester’s Waterstones, all wavy grey hair and stubble, introducing his new Science Fiction novel Surface Detail.

“You’ve no whisky, but there’s plenty of water,” says the Scotsman, pouring a glass from the jug behind the lectern.

He stops and starts with his intro- he’s going to start reading this segment soon.

“I always think these lecterns are like spit guards for the front row,” he says, gesticulating to the audience with one hand, book in the other.

He reads the first line. Breaks off.

“Oh, just so you know,” he says, and updates us on the plot for our understanding, talking at about ten words per second, and then the reading begins- at a more comfortable pace. A war breaking out in outer space is a heavily-trodden SF scenario, but Banks has written it well.

“So as you can see,” he says after the reading, “it’s a kitchen-sink drama of the surrealist style…” This gets a laugh. Banks is, from the moment he appears in front of us, an extravagant, zany, and hilarious man. He gesticulates a lot, waving his arms around. His Fife accent is strong and he swears a fuckin’ loat, but he’s great to listen to. He explains, “I make a fool of myself so you don’t feel intimidated.” Then he pretends to jump out of the 1st story Deansgate window.

Banks’s own presentation, coupled with the Q&A session, weaves through a galaxy of strange topics. He has his own IPhone app. The M in his name, he says, stands for “marketing.” A major film studio is considering his novel Consider Phlebas. His “wee Banky eyes” prevent contact use, so the glasses-wearing Banks isn’t too keen on 3D. Hence, you probably won’t see any of his novels made into 3D movies. His eyesight also hindered him, he tells us, when he went to a nudist beach with a friend. His friend could see the goods- Banks couldn’t. Gutted. On the issue of nudity, he says he has a drawer at home stocked with unpublished story drafts. “It’s absolutely full of sex and violence,” he says, “none of which I have any experience of.”

One of his unpublished works, a collection of short SF stories titled TTR, is chock-full of puns. According to Banks, it has a pun-to-word ratio of 1-10. In a moment of bizarre anti-promotion, he says “If someone ever brings them out, don’t buy them ‘cause they’re shite.”

He goes on to mention how the bad guys in his stories aren’t always brought to justice. This isn’t a hint at an impending sequel, he says, but he points out that in real life, this happens. And cites Tony Blair. I can’t argue with that.

“I’ve just noticed there are children in here,” he says, embarrassed after using the F-word maybe 70 times. “Flippin’ heck!”

In case you didn’t know, Iain Banks and Iain M Banks are two writers, amalgamated in the same human body. The former of the two writes contemporary fiction. The latter pens SF. The two writers sit at the same desk, juggling projects inside their one impressive brain. Banks says that writing as both is “like spinning plates.” He juggles projects as he has two markets to keep his place in. It looks like he's doing well in SF- The Guardian has called him "the standard by which the rest of SF is judged".

It’s his choice which name gets printed on the book, which genre he writes in. “I could be Iain X Banks,” he says, “writing pornography!” Well. Let’s see if that happens. It could be good.

There is one other Banks project in the pipeline. He tells us of a phone call he recently received from his editor. Miming the phone in his hand, he says, “What’s that? A book? On whisky? You want someone to tour Scotland? Tasting sessions?... I’m your boy!”

That would be awesome, I think. I wonder, while we get our picture taken, if he knows how hard it is to write drunk. I suspect he does.

Bugged Launch

“On a single summer's day, writers from all over the UK took part in a mass eavesdropping experiment. They snooped on unsuspecting people in coffee shops, on trains, in the hairdresser's salon... and turned their over-heard snippets into new writing. Bugged brings together award-winning writers including Stuart Maconie (Pies and Prejudice), Mil Millington (Things My Girlfriend Have Argued About) and Jenn Ashworth (A Kind of Intimacy), with a host of new voices. Pay close attention to their words. After all- they may have been listening to you.”

-Blurb for Bugged

The Bugged book launch took place on the 14th of this month. The launch was the first official event of the festival. I was there, along with Joely Black, who wrote the official writeup. Check her account out here:

http://manchesterliterature.blogspot.com/2010/10/maternity-wards-public-transport-and.html

On 1st July, a group of Manchester writers were given a secret mission: to eavesdrop on the public... To “bug” them. They went on trains, to weddings, into maternity wards, to places and events all over the UK. The Bugged organisers wanted sharp flash fiction and poetry based on what they heard.

Within four months, Bugged the book was in paperback- a remarkable turnaround. Now at the launch, the contributors are ready to tell us more on the project and read sections of their stories.

“Pay attention to what they say,” says compare Jo Bell, “because they might have been bugging you.”

Contributor Cathy Bryant, who is also launching her own collection of stories soon, read an excerpt of her story. “Usually if I'm in a room this posh,” she said, “it's because one of my friends is being sentenced.”

Other readers included Dorothy Burgess, who “bugged” her sister-in-law to create the story “Let Go”, and Emma Morgan, who Jo assured us “knows how to skin a rabbit”, reading her tale “Honey”. Balancing the gender issue was life writer Ian Marchant, whose story “Rumours” featured a man dealing with Fleetwood Mac records being pumped through the walls on full blast at midnight... by his 23-year-old neighbour. Valerie O'Leary's “Magic Mirror” featured a woman being tricked into using urine as a beauty product. Phil Williams- who sounded just like the lead singer of Goldie Looking Chain, although in his suit looked nothing like them, read out his piece. “You aren't going to fucking do that, are you?”- the name of the poem- ends on a tense note. Phil claimed he's “a casualty of the cuts and will read for pints.”

Here's GLC, for those who don't know:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wAZTLVJSlNw

And here's the Bugged site

http://buggedblog.wordpress.com/

I'm planning on trying something of this nature- using real conversations to make new literature- so I gave the organisers my email. And of course, bought the book. Even though some of the contributors are new writers, the overall level of writing talent in the book is high. Check it out.

Why Do We Still Have Glass Glasses?

A few months ago, I was drinking in a charming little shithole pub called The Britannia, a Tudor-style watering hole near the edge of Oldham centre. It was fairly traditional- no doormen, no dress code, but rammed on this particular Saturday night.

The moment you walk in, you know what’s going to happen. If someone looks like a chav, and acts like a chav, they probably are a chav. And when a tiny pub is full, and 90% of the customers fit that bill, it isn’t going to stay peaceful. It couldn’t not kick off. It’s an inevitability within the circumstances.

Bar fights follow a certain pattern. You’d imagine they'd be noisy affairs, but there’s a crescendo of sound just before the actual fight. In a busy bar, you’ll see virtually nothing on your average kick-off- unless you’re stood right next to it. The people closest to the fight- but who aren’t involved- they all step back onto the toes of the people behind them. The bar’s hubbub increases with a few “woah”s before all casual conversation is cut off. The brawlers have everyone’s attention; they are fighting in near silence.

In this instance, a tall guy in a United shirt was launching himself at another ruffian, who had fallen back onto his arse. Ruffian, soaked in beer after losing his pint at the start of the fight, curled up. United threw a few kicks at his opponent, who. He was then punching down, hard, onto his opponent’s head, throwing a kick to the body for good measure.

Ruffian was lying in the broken glass of his own pint, strangely expressionless, when a third aggressor stepped in with his own half-full pint. He slammed it lengthways over United’s head.

United stood very still for a second, looking more confused than anything. Then blood began to piss down his face, running quickly through the beer.

I left by the front door before the police barged in.

I think this shows that certain people will be dickheads through and through- you’ll never stop them from fighting. But over the last few months, I’ve become more and more amazed that glass hasn’t been completely replaced by plastic across bars nationwide.

Think of the benefits. The situation at the Britannia would still have been violent. At least two people would have needed stitches that night. How many would if the pint pots had been plastic?

A few months ago, somewhere else in the country, an argument had brewed in another boozer. The doormen booted out the offending toerag, who was still pint-in-hand. He launched the glass pot back through the doorway out of spite. It smashed into the bar, a shard landing in the neck of a by-standing drinker. The bystander bled to death before the ambulance got to the scene. The man who threw the pint was behind bars within a few weeks. Suffice to say, if all the glasses had been plastic, that man would still be alive.

Aside from how comparatively lethal glass is, a plastic alternative would be a benefit to both sides of the bar. A pint of beer gets warm and flat because glass is a conductor. Plastic is not. With plastic, you can enjoy your drink for longer.

Behind every bar, there’s a glasswash machine. These give you shiny, clean pint glasses in a matter of seconds- using scalding hot water. Bar staff have to wait for glasses to cool down before they using them again- firstly because of handling, and secondly because a warm glass makes a flat pint. On a busy Saturday night, remember, time is of the essence.
Plastic would speed up this process.

Plastic is also lighter. Glass collectors will benefit here, as they are the ones hauling these- in their hundreds- from the main bar back to the glass wash room.

Everyone makes mistakes, especially when drunk. People drop pints, miss tables, bump into people, kick empties off podiums and step on wine glasses with high heels. These broken glasses need sweeping up fast, for safety reasons. The chances of you falling over and cutting yourself on broken plastic… well, it’s possible, but not likely.

It’s such an obviously good idea to switch to plastic, nationally. Yet the only places I’ve seen doing this were Manchester student bars, years ago. Ironically, it never kicked off in these places.

I think some managers have a “glass is class” mentality, and that by switching to plastic their punters would think the bar is cheap or tacky, or that they aren’t trusted not to smash glasses over each other’s heads. Which might be the case.

That’s why it’s down to the government to enforce a rule to keep glass out of bars. The bars won’t do it themselves. The country spends £100 million a year on glass-related violence, says the BBC. There have been “fresh calls” recently to make the change to plastic, but nothing is going through parliament. Why not?

Someone should start a Facebook group. Let’s once again remind the government what they need to do here. If we can get a decent number of people involved, we can perhaps get an MP on the case. Then we can get the problem swept up.

I am a Lighthouse.

I'm very proud to present my first guest writer, Oldham poet Lynn Myint-Maung. During a recent poetry workshop, I wrote Doctor Atomic (see previous post). This was in response to the interview I did with Lynn. Lynn then interviewed me about my writing crusade, and from her investigations she produced this fine poem.

Poem for Matt

Like a beacon at sea,
flash, off; flash, off;
Distant and small
But brave and enduring
Big battery, no place for failing
But lonely and yearning.

Then response.

Winking gleam
And another and another
Then a sea full of lights
Gay and triumphant
Flash, off; flash, off.
You believed and kept the faith
Gained joy from an act of will
Caused community from darkness 

Doctor Atomic

On Wednesday 13th October, poet Dominic Berry held a poetry workshop in Oldham Library. Our exercise was to pair up, interview each other on life experiences and write a poem based on what your partner tells you. The timed interviews and writing exercises, I think, helped to bring the best out of us all. Lynn Myint-Maung told me of a stunning orchestral performance she'd been to see the night before. So Lynn, this one's for you.

Doctor Atomic

“Doctor Atomic”, the guide-book says.
The Houston Symphonic sit in tuxedoes,
a well-structured flock of armed penguins,
wielding powerful instruments.
The music blasts and blows,
slamming into the walls
of Manchester's Bridgewater Hall.
The orchestra, planet-large,
performs worldwide,
dropping audio bombs on shell-shocked, dazzled punters.
The piece ends sudden, like the lifting of a record player's needle
like life after the bomb hits the ground.

Life re-emerges in the second half.
“Planet Suite” expands through the auditorium,
the musicians a silhouetted army,
standing guard before a giant projection.
An orange haze, swirling textures.
Zoom out: the planet's curved edges appear
we're staring at Jupiter's storm,
a colossal blemish.
A hundred classical fans convert
they are new-found astronomers now,
voyaging to Jupiter itself.

So what did Lynn write about me? Stay tuned...

In Conversation: Martin Amis and Andrew Davies

On Monday 11th October, novelist Martin Amis sat on the stage of the Martin Harris theatre with Andrew Davies, who is known for his screenplay adaptations of Pride and Prejudice and Emma. Amis, also a University of Manchester lecturer, is best known for his novels Money and Night Train.

There's little point in me harping on about every detail of the night. So instead, check out blogger Alex Herod's fine account of the Manchester Literature Festival event here:

http://forbookssake.net/2010/10/13/manchester-literature-festival-martin-amis-and-andrew-davies/

Aside these descriptions, Andrew Davies- who could pass as the love-child of Bill Murray and Anthony Hopkins- also recited many more tales, one of which featured Brian DePalma's immense beer gut.

He also mentioned the shooting of the movie Saturn Three. During this shoot Kirk Douglas had a hard time working with a female lead, who's stubborn assurance that she wouldn't disrobe for the camera led to Douglas threatening to “rip her fucking clothes off.” Davies tells us Saturn co-star Harvey Keitel “had a thing about nudity too,” and when Davies went to his house, a few weeks before the shoot, Keitel opened the door in the buff. I've not seen Saturn Three, but apparently there's a fight scene between Keitel and Douglas. Douglas wasn't too happy about this- not just because he loses but because Keitel is so much bigger than him. Eventually Douglas agreed to lose if it's an unfair fight. So that's why, if you've seen the film, Keitel sneaks up on him (predictably naked) and whacks him with a tyre iron.

Later, Davies mentions that Director Robert Altman (M*A*S*H, The Player, Short Cuts, Pret-a-Porter), although being “an absolute joy to work with”, had an attention span of maybe four to five minutes. This made filming somewhat drawn out.

Although Hollywood has treated Davies well, he's critical that the industry butchered so many of his scripts. Of the six that made it to the cinema screen, he says Circle of Friends was the only one not “hi-jacked” by America. From reading IMDB, I'd say it sounds like the Irish 1950's Rules of Attraction.

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0112679/

During the Q+A, I asked about feedback for budding screenwriters. I mentioned how advice on stories and poems were always readily available online, but screenplays... nobody seems to know much about them.

“This is the question that every writer really dreads...” said Davies. “Show them to your friends first, then professionals. Most of us can tell the difference between a bad script and a good one. Well, in fact,” he says, waving his palms into himself, “send them to me, darling!”

Stay tuned, Mr. Davies.

He also mentioned this site:

http://www.scriptfactory.co.uk/

The Script Factory describes itself as “one of Europe’s leading film-makers’ organisations finding and developing new screenwriting talent; supporting the people who work with screenwriters and screenplay material; and presenting unique and unmissable live filmmaking events with some of cinema’s top creative talent.”

I bought a copy of Amis' yuppie-lifestyle novel, Money, which Amis himself signed before a handshake.

New Jersey Poet CK Williams

“I’ve been writing a lot of sexy poems recently”, says CK Williams, leaning into the microphone. “I’m not sure how much you can bear.”

It's 3rd October. I’m the theatre of the Martin Harris Centre in The University of Manchester. The poet is here, as part of Manchester Literature Festival, to read from his new anthology Wait.

Williams reads out various pieces of his, including “Wood”, a surreal tale about a girl who’s stomach turned into timber, and “The Dance”, in which Williams is watching a stranger singing as he walks down the road, oblivious. “This Happened” was a tragedy, featuring a beautiful 18-year-old girl falling out of a window, and “Light” shed new, um, light, on cave bats. Continuing the animal theme, “Apes” described how violent these creatures are, and hence how alike they are to us. The events described in “Bianca Burning” take place in the UK, Williams assures us. In it he tells of circus performer Bianca, and of her vagina. Can’t say I know her.

In most of his poems, Williams repeats certain phrases for impact.

For impact.

Like that.

In the Q+A session Williams, who is a Princeton University Lecturer, advises reading aloud as you write. That way if you read it out to others, you don’t have to think about the delivery- it should come naturally. He also claims that writing poetry can clear the mind. “The meaning of the poem,” he says, “resolves what the poem is about.”

The event was a little short on book copies, so when I got to the front I shook the man's hand and gave the last copy of Wait to the girl behind me. There. I'm not a total bastard after all!

http://ckwilliams.com/index.html

Suffix: I walked out with the complimentary glass of wine and sipped it all the way back to Oldham Street, where a random Scottish pisshead stood in the middle of the road, performing a terrible a capella rendition of Kiss the Rain.