Friday, January 23, 2015


I'm running a new series of guest posts throughout 2015: Fetish Friday. Don't get all sweaty in the pants—I’m going back to an older definition of the word, and asking artists to show us something that helps them with the ritual of creation, some part of their surroundings—physical or mental—that eases the path into the creative state, whether it be a location, a piece of music, person, picture, a doohickey, whatnot, curio or ornament without which the creative process would be a whole lot more difficult.

Most of my friends, coworkers, and family know I’m obsessed with pirates. Check my internet search history and it comes up with things like ‘frigate breadth’ and ‘carracks vs caravels’, and ‘how to cook salamagundy’.  I’m doing an Honours thesis on pirates in pre-modern England, and I’m working on a pirate novel. My favourite historical figure is the wild and wonderful Grace O’Malley.

I think I am drawn to pirates because I am their complete opposite. I am indoors-y and bookish, and my adventures are mostly confined to the page. In spite of my love of ships, I am most assuredly not a sailor.

A dear friend of mine – an American artist named Kristin Lane – is familiar with my pirate obsession, and she encourages it shamelessly. A few years ago, she asked me what flag is flown by the pirates in my novel. I described a red flag with a black rose, modelled off the Tudor rose. To my delight, some months later Kristin sent me a small canvas panel with the design painted on it. She had also added a little something of her own, saying:

“The red is easy to see from a distance, but the black wouldn’t be so contrasting. The white not only draws the eye and makes the design more readable, but also serves a purpose. White is fresh, new, pure, and unused. The longer the flag flies, the more weathered and discoloured it gets. I took this principle from early martial arts training. Before they started dyeing the belts you only had one which would get dirtier and dirtier the more you trained. This is why we go from white belt to black belt.”

I keep the flag on my desk. It reminds me of the journey my pirate captain must make. When she starts to sail she is untried, uncertain, and unprepared for the responsibility of a ship and crew. By the end of the novel, she must know where she stands on the deck, and she must know what she stands for. The centre of her flag must go from white to black.

Like my captain, I’m new to the business; my debut novel is being released this year. The canvas panel, with white blazing in the centre, reminds me of how far I have to go. I have a lot to learn, and a lot of work still to do. Moreover, the flag helps me to deal with all the things that are so daunting to a newcomer in the world of professional writing. The flag enables me to see the late nights, early mornings, weeks of solitude, rejection letters, deleted drafts, and rewrites not as failures – but as weathering. Evidence that I can sail.

Meg Caddy has a BA in English Literature and History from the University of Western Australia, and is currently writing an Honours dissertation on pirates. In 2013, her YA fantasy novel Waer was shortlisted for the Text Prize, which led to a contract with Text Publishing. Meg was the 2013 Young Writer-in-Residence at the Katharine Susannah Prichard Writers’ Centre. Her short story ‘Amphibian Summer’ was shortlisted for the Questions Writing Prize, and her poetry has been shortlisted for the Ethel Webb Bundell Poetry Prize. In 2014, her poem ‘Tiddalik’ was published in the 2015 Poetry d’Amour anthology.

For the past five years, Meg has been working with children of all ages. She is passionate about storytelling, cooking, pirates, and lizards.
Twitter: @MegCaddy1

Are you a creative artist? Fancy joining in and letting us know about that special item, object, location or cosmic state of being at the heart of your creative process? There's always room for another lunatic in the asylum: email me and make your most excited Horshack noise. 

Thursday, January 22, 2015

Review: The Bloody White Baron

The Bloody White Baron
The Bloody White Baron by James Palmer

My rating: 0 of 5 stars

Unreadably bad. Palmer is clearly a writer with a passion forMongolia, and a political point to make, but his long asides and diatribes, coupled with footnotes that vary between simple references and long, unsubstantiated opinion pieces, turn this mess of a book into an utter farrago. Ungern-Sternberg is clearly a compelling character, and there's bound to be a fascinating biography of the man out there somewhere, but this isn't anywhere near it. Did not finish.

View all my reviews

Review: The Four Just Men

The Four Just Men
The Four Just Men by Edgar Wallace

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Written in 1905, this remains a gripping and exciting character piece that examines the effect of political terrorism on a passive populace. While the characters of the police who pursue the titular four are never more than loosely drawn, those of the men themselves are the clearest fascination, and the gaps in their characterisation just encourage the reader to fill them in by himself.

The plot whips along, the tension palpably increases as the annointed hour of the act moves ever closer, and while the climax has a whiff of the deus ex machina, it's allowable in the realms of what is, clearly, a pulp novel that outstrips its boundaries.

It's exciting, stirring stuff, with the added benefit of -- quite unconsciously-- being a fascinating glimpse into the bigotry and superciliousness of the Edwardian Englishman.

View all my reviews


Yeah, so...... literary pretensions...... it's a thing......

"45 minutes after she says it, James Joyce's English teacher decides that "Time's up,
finish the sentence you're on," isn't the best way to get him to finish his exam"

Friday, January 16, 2015


I'm running a new series of guest posts throughout 2015: Fetish Friday. Don't get all sweaty in the pants—I’m going back to an older definition of the word, and asking artists to show us something that helps them with the ritual of creation, some part of their surroundings—physical or mental—that eases the path into the creative state, whether it be a location, a piece of music, person, picture, a doohickey, whatnot, curio or ornament without which the creative process would be a whole lot more difficult.

I don't think anything of a material nature gets me writing - no music, no pictures, no objects or artefacts, nothing like that. But I can't work out what's going to happen in a story until the character starts talking to me. 

I've got a plot kinda sorta stewing at the moment. It's actually been asked for by Omnibus - a historical set very very early - bronze age. Dyan Blacklock sent me a newspaper article on a burial in Sussex from about 2200 BCE, and thought it might inspire something. The man had died apparently from a sword-cut. He had been buried with a very rare, very beautiful bronze dagger, so he was an aristocrat. But the illustration didn't say anything much to me. I researched the date - and whaddaya know, 2200 BCE is pretty much on track for the last major building phase at Stonehenge. They raised the five big central trilithons about then. Thing is, those stones weight about 25-30 tonnes apiece, and they moved them mostly overland about 24 miles to the site. Nobody knows exactly how, but it woulld have taken a huge number of bodies, for that time and place.

It was that that got me thinking. I think maybe my character will be the bloke responsible. This would have to be someone who could enforce a peace in a very warlike age, but he couldn't be simply a warlord. He had to organise a workforce of six to eight thousand, which means about twenty times that number of farmers to feed it. Given crop yields and population density then, we're looking at most of central and southern England being directed to a single purpose. Huge.

So I think I know what the character will be - a warrior who becomes a builder. But he hasn't said a word to me yet. I have no idea what he's like - his voice, his speech patterns, his word choice. That will lead on to posture, gestures, behaviours, thought. But until I can actually hear him speak, I don't know what these will be. And here's the thing. Without those, I don't know what will happen to him, because I don't know how other people will behave to him.

So it's that voice that is my fetish, if you want to call it that. I suspect that he might sound upper-class, for those times - for there certainly was a class system. I suspect that causes conflict - but I don't know how. He isn't talking to me yet. I can't write a word until he does - if he ever does.

We'll see, I suppose.

Sometimes it happens straight away. More often not. Sometimes it's inconvenient. I've actually had the experience of a character walking up behind me, tapping me on the shoulder, and the following conversation ensued:

"I'm not going to do that," she said.

"It's in the plot."

"Don't be silly. I wouldn't do that."

"What? You have to do it. It doesn't work, otherwise."

"It doesn't work, as is."

"Now, look here. You're just a figment of my imagination. You do what I tell you to do."

"Get lost, boofhead. You'd never have made a writer, anyway."

So I noodled around for another way. It took me a week, but she eventually approved an alternative, and it led to a different plot twist, and it worked better that way, anyway.

So. The character has to talk to me. That's my fetish.


Dave didn't have an author pic to share, so here are a few novel covers to give you an idea of the range of which the man is capable. Dave was first published in 1994, won two Aurealises in 1997 and 1998, got on the Premier's Award list three times, and has published twenty-two novels, ephemera and trivia and a couple dozen short stories. 

Are you a creative artist? Fancy joining in and letting us know about that special item, object, location or cosmic state of being at the heart of your creative process? There's always room for another lunatic in the asylum: email me and make your most excited Horshack noise. 

Thursday, January 15, 2015


You think the Bubble Boy has it bad? How could you possibly face life as a Bubble Fish?

"He's not a puffer fish, he's allergic to water."

Friday, January 09, 2015


This is it. Everything is packed. Everything is put away. Everything's been disconnected.  Tomorrow the truck comes, and the Batthaim is no more.

We've been here over five and a half years. It's the longest I've been in a single house since I shared a two bedroom duplex with my Mum and younger brother when I was a teenager, 23 years ago.

My bonus son, Aiden, reached adulthood and embarked on his own life from here. Miss 13 graduated Primary School here. Master 10 was home schooled here. We've had grandchildren, boarded adult family members and childrens' friends, struggled with major illness. I sold my first novel here, and my second and third. Luscious became an educator, and fought tooth and nail to advance her tertiary education. Our kids learned to swim in this house, to ride bikes, to read and write. We've lived here, when all is said and done, really lived, that sort of life you promise yourself when you move to a seaside town from the city.

It's a white elephant of a house. The gardens are too big and the weeds have never been under control. The reticulation is a bitch to operate. There's not a right angle in the fucking place. You can't reach the ceiling in the foyer to clean it. The taps screech and scream and not one of the washers we've fitted over the years has solved it. The patio was designed by a five year old with crayon poisoning, so that the rain pours down onto the seating area instead of away from it. We don't get terrestrial TV, The mortgage is too high and we've struggled to afford it and maintain any sort of standard of living for the kids. I've grown to dislike it terribly. I'll be glad to see the back of it.

And yet, it's been our home. Really our home. It's been a significant part of our lives. No matter where I've been since, the house I lived in with my parents between the ages of 8 and 13, before it all went to shit and they divorced, is the one I think of as my childhood home, the place where my memories really began. This will be that house for my children, I think: when they look back on their childhoods, this will be the place where their memories really begin. And now we're leaving it behind.

It's for a better deal, there's no two ways about it-- the place we're moving to is closer to my work, close to Miss 13's secondary college, closer to all the places we choose to spend our time when we're out and about, deep in the heart of Rockingham-- my old town, my home town. It's more compact, less sprawling and unwieldy. It's more manageable, more affordable, newer, better built. The gardens are smaller. We'll have more money, more time, more leisure. There's no down side to this move.

But still, this is our home. The Batthaim. And now we're leaving it.

We're going to need a new name.


So: two days ago, three murders burst into the offices of the French satirical magazine Charlie Hebdo and gunned down two policemen and 10 members of staff. At least another 11 have been injured.

There's a lot of talk around the content of the magazine, the cartoons it published, the religion of the assailants, the nature of terror and of terrorists. Truth is, right now it's all hearsay and speculation. The full reasons behind the attack will not be known until the gunmen are apprehended and interviewed, and even then, it's likely to be veiled by a thundercloud of polemic and grandstanding-- on all sides of the argument-- for longer than it'll take to convict and sentence them.

In the meantime, here's what I know: journalists and artists were gunned down, in their place of work, and it's likely that they were murdered because somebody didn't like the nature of their art.

So let's be clear: If your response to a work of art is to kill the artist, you are not a soldier, you are not a freedom fighter, you are not a terrorist or a religious zealot. You are a murderer, pathetic and tawdry like all murderers. And you should be treated accordingly. No soapbox to stand on, no flag to wave. Who gives a fuck what Martin Bryant wants to say? Or Ivan Milat? That's you: you're scum.

Now, here's a thing, or for me, at least, it's a thing: way back when, I wanted to be a cartoonist. It was a serious ambition, until I came to realise that I could be an author, or a cartoonist, but not both-- I did not have the time to hone my skills in both departments well enough, and writing was a more immediately applicable use of my practice. But there's always been that desire, and in the meantime, I had accumulated a collection of a couple of hundred scribbles and thumbnails, put aside until I had the skills to translate them to full drawings properly. The skills never arrived, the thumbnails endured, that's why Thumbnail Thursday began.

The idea that I might be brutally murdered because of a drawing is one that resonates along my bones, and I haven't quite been able to shake it for the lat couple of days. I know there are acts of brutality and awfulness that occur across the globe, every day of the year. I know that somewhere, someone will be lining them all up and readying a response that says "Oh, this one or that one or this one over there is worse." I believe you. I'm sure you're right. But this is the one that's still shivering for me.

I've wanted to do something, and my initial response has been: I want to draw. It seems a stupid, small thing, but I want to make a little note that says: hey, French artists for a magazine I didn't know existed, and which I had never read! Me too! I've held a pencil. I've made the image. I have my art.

Art must always win.

For two days, I couldn't think of a thing: I'm out of practice, and pretty much, I couldn't think of anything profound enough to pretend that I had a place amongst the myriad of genuine artists who were publishing their responses. Until I realised: that's not the point. My whole thing has been the thumbnail, the scribbled outline on a post-it note or scrap of notebook paper. So I decided I would post a blank page, torn out of my notebook. That would symbolise my response. And then I came up with this:

So, that's my response. From me to Charlie Hebdo.  
And now, here's a thing: it's not enough. Art must always win. Against guns, against threats, against the brutality of human ignorance. Because art, no matter how basic and untrained, no matter how slapdash and mundane, is an expression of beauty, of the desire to translate human thought and personal philosophy into an object that adds to the flow of human progress.
Murder removes: art adds.
So here's a post-it note. Draw something on it, please. Post it on your own blog, or Facebook page, or tumbler or whatever social page you use: stick it to your fridge, or a lamp post, if that's what you have.
Add some art, to help cover the loss of the future works that have been taken from us. Draw something for Charlie.


I'm running a new series of guest posts throughout 2015: Fetish Friday. Don't get all sweaty in the pants—I’m going back to an older definition of the word, and asking artists to show us something that helps them with the ritual of creation, some part of their surroundings—physical or mental—that eases the path into the creative state, whether it be a location, a piece of music, person, picture, a doohickey, whatnot, curio or ornament without which the creative process would be a whole lot more difficult.

I don’t believe in writer’s block. 

I believe in procrastination, and writers are Procrastination Masters. And yes, that needs to be capitalised. But we tend to procrastinate when things are proving tricky and often it’s necessary to find headspace to properly ruminate on whatever that particular tricky thing is at that particular time. Trouble is, the kind of rumination necessary is something that can’t be done easily with the forebrain. It needs to percolate away in the hindbrain. At least for me, my subconscious is far better than my active mind at figuring out story nuance or just what the hell it is I’m writing. So I need to distract myself and let the old brainmeats permeate. 

Lots of things work – mowing the lawn, walking the dog, going for a swim – anything that occupies my mind enough, but not so totally that it can’t stay busy in the mental basement. Those tasks that require engagement but not concentration free up the subconscious to work out writerly issues. And for me, by far the greatest of those is riding my motorcycle. It needs my awareness - I have to watch the road and watch the traffic (because the safest way to ride is to assume that every bastard out there is trying to kill you), and I can enjoy the scenery. Meanwhile, the dark and dingy basement brain is busily whipping its captives with barbed wire flails, extracting story juice. Whenever I know that a story or book requires some thought or I feel a bit lost and entangled in plot and characters, I hop on the bike. Or I put the story aside until I get a chance to go out for a ride and let that word baby simmer. And that’s only one reason my bike is a fetish item. It’s also super fast, hella fun and just damn sexy as hell. 

I mean, come on - Look at it! VROOOOM!

Alan Baxter is a British-Australian author who writes dark fantasy, horror and sci-fi, rides a motorcycle and loves his dog. He also teaches Kung Fu. 

He lives among dairy paddocks on the beautiful south coast of NSW, Australia, with his wife, son, dog and cat. His latest work is the dark urban fantasy trilogy, Bound, Obsidian and Abduction (The Alex Caine Series, HarperVoyager). 

Read extracts from his novels, a novella and short stories at his website – – or find him on Twitter @AlanBaxter and Facebook, and feel free to tell him what you think. About anything.

Are you a creative artist? Fancy joining in and letting us know about that special item, object, location or cosmic state of being at the heart of your creative process? There's always room for another lunatic in the asylum: email me and make your most excited Horshack noise. 

Thursday, January 08, 2015


Ah, Daleks. Is there anything they can't make funny?

Answer: nope.

On a side-note, I think I nailed the pregnant Dalek tummy. Which has to be an important life skill, right?

"But. Father. I. Love. Him"

Tuesday, January 06, 2015


This is Spike.

When all's said and done, he's just about my oldest friend. I've known people longer (waves: Hi, Seanie!), but Spike's been my constant companion for verging on 22 years. Other friends have moved away, or moved on, but Spike's been by my side, and in my garden, for literally half my life.

I bought him when I was living in a shared house, just after I'd finished Uni, in early 1993, when I was 22 years old. He sat in a pot, and every time I moved digs, he came with me. Then, when I bought my first house, I planted him properly.

When I moved from that house, I took a cutting, Spike's a succulent, so basically, he's as pod person as a plant can get. Hack off a limb, and you grow a whole new Spike: all you need is potting mix and water. He's my kind of plant: inde-fucking-structible. Spike grew anew. When I moved again, I took another cutting. And again. This time, he's been in the ground almost 6 years, and he's doing bloody well for himself.

When Aiden moved out of his shared house recently, and into a new place with his fiance, I took a cutting, and gave it to him so he could have his own Spike. And I took the opportunity to do the same for Blakey and Cassie, so now all three of my bonus kids have Spikes of their own. And now I'm on the move again. 

So, 11 houses later, (including, at one stage, returning to an old house after 6 months, so he was simultaneously in garden and pot!), here's Spike once more, pod-personned up and ready to go:

The Spike abides.


It's arrived: my story The Glow of His Eyes, the Depth of his Gaze has been posted at the Cosmos Science Magazine website.

It's a rare foray into hard science fiction for me, and anyway, don't you just want to know what it's got to do with chicken eyes?

Go, read, enjoy.

Friday, January 02, 2015


I'm a geek for the artistic process, and for artists. I love reading biographies, I devour How-To's and Behind-The-Scenes volumes. As much as I love the act of creation, I also love the psychological, social and thought processes that go into that act.

So this year I'm going running a new series of blog posts: welcome to Fetish Friday.

Now, before you get all sweaty in the pants area, let's be clear: I'm going back to an older definition of the word fetish, and asking artists to show us something that helps them with the act of creation, some part of their surroundings-- physical or mental-- that eases the path into the creative state, whether it be a location, a piece of music, person, picture, a doohickey, whatnot, curio or ornament without the creative process would be a whole lot more difficult.

Let me give you an example:

This, here, is my shower. If you've read any of my fiction, anything longer than a flash piece at any rate, that story has driven me to this shower at least once.

The vast majority of my fiction is unplanned. I start with an image, a character, a setting--- something minor and singular-- and unwind from there, moving from problem point to problem point until everything builds to a giant tangle of problems, and then... resolution, climax, denouement, and fade. Which is fine...... until I write myself to a problem I can't solve. If I can't solve it, then neither can my characters.  

Which is when I retreat to the shower. Maybe it's because I'm to cheap to shell out for a proper isolation tank, but once the screen is between me and the word, and I'm alone with the steady thrum of water battering my head and shoulders, and running down my face in such a wave that I can't even sense the walls around me, that's when my mind realises nobody's watching, slips its leash, and goes for a right old wander. And that's usually when I hit upon the solution that nobody was looking for. 

Fiction is like football: it's all about creating angles, and finding gaps that nobody was expecting. When I'm isolated from every possible distraction, when my body temperature is plummeting below the ambient heat (or rising through the frost layer, in the tracky-dacks months), and when I'm alone in my cocoon of calming water, that's when the angles open up. When I'm in need of a breakthrough, when I've written myself into a cul-de-sac and can't find the gaps in the surrounding walls, I retreat to the shower.

Some stories I can measure by the number of shower I have to take...

So there's my fetish revealed, and that's what's happening across the course of the year. In coming weeks you'll hear from a range of creative artists as they discuss their own particular creative fetishes. If you're a creative artist, and you fancy joining in and letting us know about that special item, object, location or cosmic state of being at the heart of your creative process, well, there's always room for another lunatic in the asylum: email me and make your most excited Horshack noise. 

Thursday, January 01, 2015


Enough with the celebrating the birth of Jesus schtick, back to our normal service......

"I don't care what he's done, this is affecting my TV reception!"

Wednesday, December 31, 2014


The drinks are cooling, dinner's on the simmer, and I'm about to close down my innahnet for the duration.

I've decided against resolutions for the coming year: truth is, it's been hard, at times, to keep my nose above water this year, and the idea of doing anything other than trying to get my personal and professional lives on track in 2015 does not appeal. So, rather than set up a wishlist I'll spend a year feeling bad about not achieving, here's a short list of things that'll be nice to have happen, and a list of things I was glad to have happen in 2014.

  1. Lose some weight. No targets, no plans. I'll be in a new town, with new opportunities to be active. If I lose some weight as a result, I'll be happy.
  2. Give precedence to my writing. There have been too many distractions this year. My career has wallowed, and I've lost impetus. I'd like to recover that, and get back to the only thing I'm good at.
  3. Spend more time with my family. I'm moving 15 minutes closer to work. I want to make good use of that extra 30 minutes a day.
  4. Get out to some more Lego events.
  5. Be happy. I've spent too long this year under stress, and miserable because of it. I'd rather not do that again.
  6. Sell more work: whether it's a new novel, more short stories, a film script, I'm not going to care. I've been happiest when I've been running my career for my own amusement. I'm going back to that.

As to the year just gone, here's a few of the good things:

  1. I was invited to present a workshop at the Perth Writer's Festival, a career highlight and proof that I could think about entering the wider literary world with a straight face.
  2. My family blossomed in ways that brought me to tears on occasion. 
  3. I sold a few short stories, and every one was to a new market.
  4. We sold our expensive, hard-to-maintain white elephant of a house and bought a new, smaller one nearer to my work, which should ease our financial pressure in 2015.
  5. I found a group of largely like-minded Lego fans and made it to a couple of group meetings, giving my hobby a social dimension it has previously lacked.
  6. I had a good year for passing on my experience, with a number of workshops and public appearances under my belt.

Happy new year, y'all. See you next year.

Wednesday, December 24, 2014


It's getting towards the end of the day. The Blu-Ray pile has Snowpiercer and two Quatermass movies, freshly purchased, waiting to be unwrapped and watched. The beer is in the fridge. I'm about to start putting together the special dinner platter for Luscious and I that marks the point where I wish you all a Merry Christmas and book the hell out until the other side of the festivities.

So, before I go, to say thanks for popping in every now and again and reading my bewildering blether, have a short story on me. It's not even remotely festive.

Enjoy, Merry Christmas, and see you on the other side.

Perry hadn’t slept in three days. Not since he’d worked it out. Not since the last piece of the puzzle had presented itself, like a full-colour, 3D blow to the frontal cortex and he’d finally, after twenty years, fit the whole thing together. The World Government was real. He’d found them. The masters of humanity: identified; tagged; nailed down. Incontrovertible proof that, despite all the conspiracy theories, despite all the crazy people and the pop culture mockery and the Hollywood hand-waving, there was a secret cabal that ruled the planet. The faces in his folder. The names on his list. They all checked out. They all left trails. It had taken him twenty years, twenty years of playing the game, being the spy in the network, moving up the corporate and military and Government ladders until he could talk to the right people, stalk the right people, track the right people. And find the right people. All in his folder. All on his list.
Three days. He hadn’t slept, hadn’t stopped moving. Constant movement had become his watchword, his way of avoiding surveillance. He knew too much for safety. Who they were. How they did it. Mind control.  Perry snorted into his coffee. All those theories, all those lunatic fringes, all those message boards. All correct, without the strength of character to prove it. The Government, the real Government, could do control people’s minds. Were already doing it. Had been for years. Perry glanced around the diner. The only question was how. It wasn’t via the air. He had disproved that theory early. But it could be via contact, via subliminal messages in the TV, could even be something they put in the food. Through food. Jesus. He stared down at the coffee, then dropped the cup in sudden panic, watching the brown dregs as they pooled on the tabletop. Jesus. Through the food. He scrambled out of the booth and strode towards the exit. If they were doing it through food then movement was no longer a protection. It was a weakness, perhaps his only one. Anything prepared by a stranger was suspect. He had to get home, had to barricade himself against the world and work out what to do. He would need to source food, as fresh as possible, prepare it himself to be sure. Avoid processed meals, avoid anything tinned. Wash it himself, prepare it himself. That was the only way to be sure.
There was an ATM nearby. Perry steered towards it, peered at himself in the mirrored surface above the slot. Tired, haggard eyes stared back. He took out everything he had, made sure to keep the receipt. Leave no trace behind. That was the key. He turned the collar of his coat up, shrunk inside. A fresh food marketplace. A new kitchen knife. Supplies. Paid in cash. Talked to nobody. Said nothing. The hot weight of his file under his arm, tucked in against his ribs. Hidden. Safe. Took it out as he strode towards his flat. This, this was the evidence that would bring everything down, would expose the secret masters for what they really were, he thought, tearing it into pieces as he walked. Once this got out the world Government, the cabal, would topple. He dropped the folder into a bin, kept walking, his mind made up. Tomorrow, he would find safe avenues for release, people untouched by the global corporate message, and give them the information, see it released to the public in a million ways. He smiled, relieved now he had reached the endgame, and threw his money into an empty lot.
His flat was cold, dark, all his surveillance equipment undisturbed. Perry nodded in satisfaction. They hadn’t found him, not yet. They were still unaware of his pursuit. He put the food away, crumpled up the ATM receipt and flicked it onto the living room floor along with his empty wallet. Then he moved about the flat, making sure everything was in place: pulling out drawers, overturning furniture, slashing cushions with the new knife. Everything was as it should be. Perry released the breath he had been holding. He knew from long experience that this was the most dangerous time. The job was done but not finished. He could not afford complacency. After tomorrow, the world would be changed. There would be danger then. Those whose downfall he caused would be hurt, and would know his name. But for now he was safe, and undetected. Eat only the fresh food, he thought, draining a glass of beer from the fridge. Stay awake one more night. Be alert until the morning. Then, he nodded as he sat down at his computer and deleted the hard drive, then the secret masters will be exposed. Peace could come to the world, and eventually, to William Perry.
There was nothing left to do but wait. Perry put a can of soup on to boil, then returned to the hallway outside his flat. He made sure it was empty, closed and locked his door, then kicked it off its hinges. Twenty years of careful planning would soon be over. The lie at the heart of the world was exposed. Humanity would thank him, in time, when the cabal was thrown down. People could live free, released from their mind-controlled, drone existences. He stepped inside and lay down amongst the wrecked furniture in his living room.

Tomorrow, he thought, as he plunged the knife into his chest, again and again, tomorrow he would change the world. 

Tuesday, December 23, 2014


Time to look back on 2014, and like SOCO in an abattoir, carefully pick through the mountains of shit in the hope of discovering something worthwhile.

1. What did you do in 2014 that you'd never done before?

Visited the Moondyne Joe Festival in Toodyay. And presented a workshop at the Perth Writer's Festival. Which, basically, means that I peaked in February.

Apart from that, this was pretty much a rinse-and-repeat kind of year. 

2. Did you achieve your goals for the year, and will you make more for next year?

Let's be honest, I don't even remember what my goals were, but let's be even more honest: no, I didn't achieve them. It was that kind of year. I'd make some for 2015, but let's be even super-honester, I doubt I'll achieve them either. I can't even tell you if I'll still be writing at this time next year, and if we're super-duper-holy-shit-we're-being-honest-now-aren't-we-honestest with each other, if I'm not writing it's not like very many of you will be here this time next year to read whether or not I've reached them, is it?

I'm moving house in January. Let's just see what a new neighbourhood and new financial situation bring before we make any rash promises. 

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?

My Bonus Daughter Cassie gave me tickly-sausage grandchild number 2, Anthony, in February. 

4. Did anyone close to you die?

Luscious' Uncle Neville died in October. Not close to me, but it touched Luscious and that's close enough for comfort.

5. What countries did you visit?

A country road took me home, to the place I adore. Somehow I ended up in West Virginia.

Or nowhere, take your pick.

6. What would you like to have in 2015 that you lacked in 2014?

Inspiration, independence, the means to be my own man instead of exhausting myself at the beck and call of whatever bureaucracy pulls my strings for once.

7. What dates from 2014 will remain etched upon your memory, and why? 

Because I am a time-traveller, the date from 2014 that will stick with me is 10 January 2015. That's when we leave this white elephant of a home I have hated for over 4 years and re-establish a new, streamlined Batthaim in a house we can afford, with gardens I can maintain, in a town we want to get out and about in with facilities and social opportunities we want to pursue.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?

I achieved goose eggs this year. My biggest achievement was in allowing Luscious and the kids space to achieve. And did they and how: I talk about that below. But some days, the best thing you can do is be support staff for others, and that pretty much sums up my domestic and professional lives.

9. What was your biggest failure?

Burning out. I shouldn't have allowed myself to get to this place.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?

No, but Master 10 had enough for all of us.

11. What was the best thing you bought?

A smaller, more manageable house closer to work and the activities and facilities we use on a regular basis. We move in January.

12. Whose behaviour merited celebration?

Miss 13, who was made Head Girl of her primary school, became a Junior Councillor at the City, and topped a year of hard work and academic extension programs by being awarded dux at her graduation. As far as perfect children having perfect years go, she was, well, perfect.

And, as a pair, Luscious and Master 10. Apart from an abortive attempt to enter the school system, which lasted less than 4 weeks, Master 10 was all but housebound with Rumination Syndrome for the past 18 months. Together, he and his Mum tackled this enforced isolation with a combination of positivity, focus and determination to maintain a quality of life that left me stunned in their faith in each other and the size of the obstacles they conquered on a daily basis: so much so that Master 10 graduated year 4 in mid-November, a full month early. In between times, Luscious maintained a full external load of University study, never dropping below a Distinction in any assessment, maintained a functioning household, and still found time to fit writing in around the edges.

As I began to burn out under the strain of a stupidly high-pressure job and the need to shore up a stuttering writing career, I have watched in little short of awe as they continued to confound despair, illness and ongoing stress to have the kind of year that would make any husband and father weep with pride. They have been my inspiration, and more often then not, the only thing that dragged me out of my bedroom to work in the morning. Faced with their sheer brilliance at life, I have been shamed into attempting the minimum many times more than I wished to.

I have an incredible family, but even more so, they are superb people.

13. Whose behaviour made you appalled and depressed?

Can we go past the vicious, incompetent, and downright criminal bunch of thugs, sociopaths, and bigoted zealots that the repressive, inbred right-wing of this country voted into power?

Nope. We can't.

14. Where did most of your money go?

Keeping our heads above water, with the occasional foray into a quick weekend away with the kids.

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?

The opportunity to start buying some of the classic space Lego sets I not only had as a kid, but also the ones I missed out on. What can I say? Escapism's been pretty big for me this year.

Master 10 conquering his Rumination Syndrome and insisting he be enrolled in school for 2015 was the most brilliant thing in the world to witness. As of the time of writing, he's 12 weeks recovered and counting.

16. What song will always remind you of 2014?

17. Compared to this time last year, are you: i. happier or sadder? ii. thinner or fatter? iii. richer or poorer?

More tired, fatter, and flatter.

18. What do you wish you'd done more of?

Getting out of the spiralling circles inside my own head and enjoying simple interactions with the real, outside world. I spent far too much of the year gnawing away at my own stresses, and far too little using the small oases of peace to find some joy.

19. What do you wish you'd done less of?

Hiding in social media. The fucking stuff is a virus, giving me far too many opportunities to spit out pronouncements instead of reflecting and taking positive action. Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Pinterest... all we do is shout at each other in simple sentences (verbal or visual), all of us at the same time, until the signal to noise ratio is so overwhelming, so all-encompassing, that we wire ourselves up to it and stop believing in the real world. And maybe, if you have a great work-life balance and your keel is set to the optimum angle, that's okay. But I've spent too long this year scurrying into it as if it was some kind of refuge from the process of dealing with my real world careers, interactions, and problems. And because I've viewed it as a refuge, I've used it to build up walls of unhealthy behaviour and statements I would never say in the real world, because this is my refuge, dammit, and here I can choose the manner of my interactions and structure the world to suit my own uneven psyche.

And here's the thing: I don't even like it. And somewhere, this year, I forgot that. Because, when it comes down to it, I'd rather kick a football than tweet. And I'd rather read a book than a status update. And while I recognise the irony of announcing all this via a blog post, the truth is, I don't care: why am I happy to live in a house without terrestrial TV but can't live without fucking Twitter, of all the useless wastes of my psyche? My balance is gone.

So I've canned my Twitter account. And I'll be going through all my little social media accounts that I don't use, don't care about, and am better off without. And if I end up with only this blog-- which I've been maintaining for over 13 years and is, more often than not, a conversation I have with myself than any brilliant, all-encompassing social connector-- and my private Facebook page, wherein I keep in touch with those people I don't get to see in person and those hobby groups that only exist on-line, well, I'll probably be all the happier for it.

20. How did you spend Christmas?

We'll be at Luscious' brother's house, with various members from her side of the family. The kids will be in the pool, Luscious will be in her cups, and I'll be circling the table trying to see if there's any left-over crackling I can gnaw upon.

21. Who did you meet for the first time?

Several members of the Perth Lego Users Group, who finally gave me an outlet to attend a build day and meet some fellow AFOLs. I'll be looking to get out more often in 2015. 

22. Did you fall in love in 2014?

No, I have enough love already.

23. What was your favourite TV program?

It was the year of the crime show in the Batthaim. Apart from introducing Luscious to an old love in the always-excellent Dalziel and Pascoe, we also finished off Ripper Street and Whitechapel from 2013 and ploughed through Vera, The Inspector Lynley Mysteries and (my favourite) The Suspicions of Mr Whicher, all of which were uniformly excellent.

That said, the best thing we discovered this year was nothing of the sort. Last Week Tonight gave a forum to the brilliantly incisive John Oliver, this weekly HBO satirical show presenting him as the outsider who can say the things that established Americans like Stephen Colbert and John Stewart and their mainstream channels can only hint at. And oh, how did he say those things! From incredible skewerings of the Olympics, FIFA, US policing methods, and pharmaceutical lobbyists, to wonderfully absurd campaigns to rescue horny space lizards (and wouldn't it be wonderful if I was making that up?), Oliver took a format on the verge of saturation, destroyed it, and built it in his own, flame-mouthed image. It was so clearly the best thing on TV it makes you wonder why we can't all be like that.

If you've not experienced, here's how he covered the subject of our own Unca Jugears, the dumbfuck we have to apologise for every time he opens his mouth:

24. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?

Not hate, but I have developed a fine contempt for several individuals that has affected the way I've interacted with them. Some I cannot avoid, as they revolve around the same professional circles, but I can certainly feel my career arc altering to exclude them.

25. What was the best book you read?

I handed out three 5-star reviews on Goodreads this year. I re-read The Lord of the Rings for the first time in years, and found it as utterly stunning as I always have. Not always a good book-- time has enhanced its flaws as well as its moments of perfection-- but it remains a truly great one. I also revisited a favourite writer in GK Chesterton. I read his masterpiece The Man Who Was Thursday for the first time, and found it an utterly delightful, comic crime caper with a philosophical bent that lends the spiralling absurdity a serious underpinning that lifts it above a merely humorous work. 

But, overall, I'm going to plump for Lucius' Shephards' The Dragon Griaule as my book of the year. I'd read two of the contained stories before, but nothing could prepare me for the sheer scope, ambition and shining brilliance of this collection. You can read my full Goodreads review here, but take it from me: this is one of the best and most important works of fantasy of the late 20th Century. 

Honourable mention goes to The English Monster by Lloyd Shepherd, a thoroughly wonderful novel that started out as a fictionalisation of the Ratcliffe Highway murders (a subject of great personal fascination) and then morphed into a fantasy crime procedural that had me alternately gripped and giggling with delight at the sheer narrative chutzpah. Put simply, it's the kind of novel I want to write when I grow up. 

King of the Graphic Novels this year was Thor: God of Thunder #1 by Jason Aaron and Esad Ribic, which I called an absolutely stunning re-imagining of the Thor character, with an epic storyline befitting a major player in the Marvel Universe and a powerful God to boot. You can read my full Goodreads review here

The Will Self Memorial Just Shut the Fuck Up and Stop Award this year went to Michael Crichton's stunningly awful Pirate Latitudes and Michael Hjorth's deeply tedious crime novel The Disciple, both of which sit proudly atop a DNF pile of two. 

26. What was your greatest musical discovery?

A couple of years ago I gave up on JJJ, as it all it ever seemed to play was second rate American hip-hop, and I was mightily sick of the same whining, out of rhythm yelling, song after song. Halfway through the year, prompted by the death of my iPod, I returned to the station an was immeasurably pleased to find that they'd rediscovered such things as melody and singing. I've even gone so far as to vote in the Hottest 100 for the first time in years. So here's what I voted for, including my favourite pick of the year, a new track by one of my old faves, The Hilltop Hoods:

4. Wrong Direction, British India.

Good old-fashioned tuneful pop music with fresh lyrics and a sense of sweaty urgency. It's not breaking any new ground. It's just good, clean fun.

3. Uptown Funk, Mark Ronson ft. Bruno Mars. What can I say? I love a big band sound, I love funk. And nobody does it better right now than Mark Ronson. All the sounds and rhythms he perfected behind the likes of Amy Winehouse are in full, ahem, swing here.

2. Maybe, Carmada. I've loved electronica since the days when Thomas Dolby and Howard Jones were wandering around sounding like nobody else around them. Not often, but every now and then, a track sticks, and sticks hard. I'm well into this one right now.

1. Cosby Sweater, Hilltop Hoods. Yeah, so I'm old enough to remember when hip-hop wasn't about hitting women and being a scumbag. Rhythm, message and a sense of fun: there's no school like the old school, and this is just one hell of a fun, shape-throwing old school hip-hop slice of goodness. It's also my favourite song of the year.

27. What was your favourite film of this year?

Damn, but there were some good ones this year. First release cinema-wise, my most-anticipated movies were Guardians of the Galaxy and The Lego Movie, both of which I found to be fun, funny, and utterly delightful. Both movies were riven with self-awareness, calling out their audience on the geekiness that had brought them to the cinema while simultaneously reinforcing and validating the love of the material from which they were wrought. Cinema has the power to influence, inform, and change modes of thinking, and yet, these movies were built on central foundations of fun and inclusiveness, and I loved them. The other much-anticipated event, from my point of view anyway, was Godzilla, which, well, wasn't. A few good scenes, interspersed with dull, uninvolving characters played by actors with no discernible personality, may not make you the worst movie of the year, but it will ensure that I shan't be picking up the DVD later in the year.

The Battbox played host to a number of crackers, as well: Sex and Drugs and Rock and Roll, Andy Serkis' love letter to Ian Dury, was memorable for a stunning central performance. Ditto Eric and Ernie, a BBC Made-for-TV effort that cast a sympathetic and nostalgic view back at the early days of the beloved Morecambe and Wise. Longford was emotionally exhausting, The Enemy a labyrinthine and twisted look at a broken psyche that was a most unexpected pleasure and the best thing the terminally inconsistent Jake Gyllenhaal has done in years. Europa Report was the best SF movie I saw this year, supplementing its low budget with a superbly tight script and flawless performances, and The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo was stunning in its brutality and visceral performances.

But for me, Ralph Fiennes scintillating adaption of Coriolanus, transporting the action of Shakespeare's play to a modern, Balkan setting, was my film of the year. A superb cast at the top of their form-- Fiennes and (particularly) Brian Cox have never been better-- performing one of the most underrated of Shakespeare's works, in an adaptation that enhances the scripts' strength and pares away its weakness to leave a perfectly filmic treatment.... while the 1999 Titus remains, to my mind, the best filmic adaptation ever of a Shakespeare play, this is only slightly less worthy, and easily on a par with Ian McKellen's brilliant Richard III. It's a stunning achievement.

This year's What Did You Expect, It's an Adam Sandler Hate Crime Stinking Turd Sandwich Award goes to Blended, which is just the latest... well, the hint is in the title. 

28. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?

44 this year, and I spent the day at work. Birthdays are nice and all, but when Luscious has a hospital visit you need time off for, you swap your RDOs around. 

29. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?


30. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2014?

If the shit fits...

31. What kept you sane?

To be honest, I was so burned out by the time I reached my Christmas break I'm not sure I retained it. I find myself utterly repelled by the thought of returning to my day job, of taking up my keyboard, of doing anything beyond keeping my front door closed and the world on the other side of it, that I'm not sure sanity is necessarily the issue.

32. What political issue stirred you the most?

The continuing inhumanity and sociopathic hatred evinced by the current Liberal government. Let's be clear: buffoons like Joe Hockey and Malcolm Turnbull may be simply incompetent and unfit for office, but Tony Abbott, Scott Morrison and Christopher Pyne are criminals, and it will be a happy day when they are dragged into court to answer charges. Long may the dwell in ignominy and disgrace.

33. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2014.

It's time to concentrate on my own goals and peace of mind first. I'll get to the rest of you in your turn.

34. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.

Woman, I know you understand,
The little child inside the man.
Please remember, my life is in your hands,
And woman, hold me close to your heart.
            -- Woman, John Lennon

Thursday, December 18, 2014

Thursday, December 11, 2014


"Tell me where you see yourself in five years."
Hitler, Brutus and Satan, and it's an entrance interview in Hell.
They can't all be winners......