Just over two weeks ago we went to an RSPCA rescue centre in Stockport and picked up Dermot, an agouti Dwarf Lop rabbit.
On Saturday 30th May, at roughly 2pm, almost exactly two weeks after we picked him up, Dermot died at home.
Just writing those words really upsets me.
I have never had a non-aquatic pet before and as much as I like keeping fish and look after them the best I can they're not particularly interactive or loveable. Dermot was my introduction to pets you can genuinely love.
And I fell in love with Dermot straight away: he was affectionate from the off, loving nothing better than sitting beside you while you stroked him or combed him with a brush (he was moulting heavily). He had little mannerisms which are probably common in rabbits but as a new owner they really touched me. For instance, we gave him water from a bowl - instead of a bottle hung up from his pen - and he'd make a gorgeous little squeak every time he swallowed some water. Or he'd purr softly while you stroked him. There are many I could list, so many we discovered in just two weeks.
I'd always assumed that rabbits lived a maximum 5 years and as Dermot was already 18 months old I spent the first week of ownership worrying that we'd only have him a few short years. So completely had I fallen in love with him that I was already fretting about a horrible day 3+ years down the line where I'd have to say bye to him. It was only through reading online, and talking to people who owned rabbits, that I found out he could live 10-12 years if we looked after him correctly. So, that worry started to drift away. I didn't know the upset that awaited.
Dermot had a large dog pen at the back of the living room but he didn't appear to like it, wanting to get out at every opportunity, either to lie down in his favourite place under the table, or to sit on the sofa if either me or Hannah was home. We wondered if he wanted some shelter in his pen so I bought him a little wooden house for it and he spent large parts of Wednesday and Thursday in his new house. Even though - as new owners - we didn't think anything was wrong with this, looking back now we can see maybe clues that Dermot wasn't well. He still ate his veggie treats in the evening but whereas before he spent all day demolishing his hay rack, now he only visited it occasionally.
On Thursday evening we took him to our new rabbit-savvy vet for an MOT and to learn how to pick him up properly. When the vet told us Dermot should leave 100-150 rabbit droppings a day I became a bit concerned because that number had started to drop off slightly. This quickly came to a head on Friday morning when we realised he'd stopped pooing altogether. He was still eating (though hay interest had dropped even further) but nothing was coming out of the other end.
We rushed him back to the vet where he was diagnosed with the dreaded GI Stasis, an illness that kills many rabbits. We spent all day with Dermot giving him his medication, plenty of his favourite leaves from the garden and lots of TLC. And at about 9pm he started to pass waste again. We were overjoyed.
On Saturday morning he seemed to be back to his old self, hopping around the living room, jumping on the sofa and trying to get into the kitchen. It was only when we noticed that he had a problem with his left eyelid that we took him back to the vet. I actually wasn't overly concerned for once but there was something the vet didn't like about Dermot's posture and he gave us some anti-parasite medication for a notorious rabbit infection known as E. cuniculi, or EC for short.
We took Dermot home and he spent the next 30 minutes drinking. After that though he sat quietly, disinterested in us and for the first time refusing food of any sort. We thought he was sulking about the vet visit and maybe the various different meds he'd been given.
At about 2pm he started to tilt severely - a known symptom of EC - and struggling to have balance when standing. Withing minutes he had a fit and died in our arms.
I didn't want this blog to be about his death, I wanted to let people know he'd died and also that he meant a great deal to us, but I think writing it down and talking about it is a way of coping, of processing what is a series of bad memories.
Anyway, his post-mortem yesterday revealed a severe infestation of EC, with major kidney damage from it. In most cases deterioration is slow and can maybe be managed. The shocking thing for the vet was the swiftness of it, how quickly it took hold and killed my little boy.
The vet said there was nothing we could do, the kidney damage was long-standing, and the only solace we can take from it is that if the EC hadn't killed him, the kidney damage would have. Dermot was rescued from a house with 14 rabbits living in squalor and it seems he contracted EC there (it is passed through rabbit urine).
We always wanted a rescue rabbit rather than one bought from a shop. Approximately 60,000 rabbits are abandoned and rescued every year and to buy one from a shop when there are so many lonely rabbits wanting a home seems cruel. Also, one other bonus is that on the RSPCA website you get a biography of each rabbit, giving you a clue as to their personality. It was this that drew us to Dermot. The RSPCA staff called themselves "smitten" with him and described Dermot as "a lovely boy". They all loved him, this came across in every discussion we had with them. They described him as "a rare gem".
In the grief of losing someone we'd fallen so quickly in love with there was this feeling of guilt, both that we'd somehow contributed to the death but also with this feeling that we'd let down all those other people who loved him. The vet advised us to tell them about the EC as the other rabbits rescued from the same house may be carriers but it was upsetting for Hannah to hear their shock and dismay at what happened.
It seems it isn't our fault and it's touching that so many people have said to us that it's great that Dermot got to spend his last two weeks with us, rather than dying in a rescue centre. This is a comfort and I thank everyone who has told us that, especially when it comes from the vet and the RSPCA people who knew him and know about the horror that is EC. My guilty feelings have dropped hearing others say there was absolutely nothing we could have done, though being the person I am I've tormented myself with the thought that any stresses of moving to a new home maybe accelerated his illness. Everyone else says this isn't the case.
I feel angry at the injustice of it all. Dermot was indeed a rare gem, he deserved to live till he was 10-12, with owners who'd care for him and spoil him rotten - as long as all treats were healthy. It just seems horrifically unfair that such a lovely lad would only get 18 months of life and only 2 weeks of strokes, of cuddles and of throwing tubes of hay around to get at the tasty veg inside. How is that fair?
Most of all though I just miss the guy I called 'my baby boy'. I miss seeing him sunning himself when I'd get in from work, looking like the most relaxed animal in the whole world. I miss the squeak he made when he drank water. I miss him trying to get on the table to investigate Hannah's drink, his adorable and inquisitive face trying to discover the secret of Fanta. I miss him staring at me while I led on the sofa watching telly. I miss so many things.
On Wednesday I decided for some reason to watch Hot Fuzz. Dermot came and sat next to me. He didn't just park himself on the sofa, he ensured he was as close to me as possible, shuffling himself along so he was buried in right beside me. I spent the next two hours stroking his head. When I went to bed later he stared at me from his pen and I felt a genuine love for the guy, at the start of what I thought would be a very long friendship.
I hope that Wednesday evening one day becomes a happy memory because right now it breaks my heart. Breaks it like nothing else before.
(I was going to put some pictures of him on here and maybe one of the keepsakes we've kept: his water bowl, his brush and a clump of his fur. But it's too raw right now, it hurts me to look at pictures and his things. I have to close the door of the room where those keepsakes are kept. Hopefully sometime soon it won't hurt so much and I can share them)
Tuesday, 2 June 2015
Thursday, 8 January 2015
The Books Of 2014
Anyone unfortunate enough to spend any time with me will
inevitably hear about my quest – now in its third year – to read 50 books in a
single year. I’ll usually receive a polite “oh yeah, how you doing?” and then
the person in question will slope off and find somebody else to talk to. But,
you know, if you’re trying to read 50 books in a year you don’t really have
much else to talk about. Except all those hours and days spent in the garden or
on the allotment. So what would you prefer, book chat or gardening lecture?
You’d rather talk to someone else? Oh right, okay, fine. Don’t worry about it,
I haven’t got time for chat anyway, have you seen the size of this fantasy
novel?
In 2012 I read 20 books and in 2013 I doubled this
number to….(brings up calculator)…40 books. Yet that last figure was
swelled by a desperate amount of smaller 100-150 page books at the end of the
year. I doubted I could read that many again, especially because I’d started to
resent the amount of time I spent reading. There are other things to do, I
mean, have I told you how long I spend on the allotment?
And by the end of May I’d read 14 books. This was actually
good going when you looked at the size of the things I’d read but meant that,
if I continued at that rate, I’d read about…(opens calculator again)…33.6 books
by the end of the year. Which is good but wouldn’t finally release me from this
self-inflicted torment. But then two things happened: the work on the
allotment/garden lessened off (next time we meet ask how much effort I put into
it from March-May each year, you’ll be desperate to hear about the books then)
and the sun came out. There are two times in life that are tolerable for
continued existence: Christmas and sitting in the garden with a book and
ice-cold Erdinger. June, July and August saw such a ramp up in the amount of
books being read that I not only caught up with the schedule but overtook it. I
started chucking in bigger and bigger books and when mischievous people
suggested that I should aim for 52 books instead I just shrugged and took that
challenge on. I think I may be the world’s biggest hero. I even largely had
September off! What a guy.
And so on the morning of the 31st December I
finished book 52 and reflected that I’d enjoyed most of what I read and learnt
a great many things. But that in 2015 I think I’m going to spread around the
hobbies. Computer games won’t play themselves will they? Nobody else is going
to dig that pond in the back garden (call me to find out all the details).
Plus, books that have had to be shelved – including a 1500
page tome on the Third Reich – may finally be consumed, now I know I can spread
it out over longer than a week without panicking that I’m falling behind
schedule.
Anyway, on with the run-down of the 52 BOOKS OF 2014.
Did you know that Jeremy Paxman has no time
for conscientious objectors? How about that he appears less than outraged that
the British army shot some of its own troops?
When Paxman outed himself as a conservative
earlier this year some people reacted with surprise, even though it was fairly
obvious to me. And it’s the author’s views on certain parts of the war that
stopped me fully enjoying what is a passable history of WW1. His position is
well argued but they come from an alien viewpoint to my own, a sense of duty
exists so strongly in Paxman that it can be used to defend the deaths of almost
a million British people. But I don’t have that part of me that can find a
valid reason for the pointless death of millions. Nothing, absolutely nothing
is worth it. The duty men felt in the trenches was to each other, no man wanted
to let his friends down, and this is more poignant and heart-breaking than any
sense of obligation to the nation. Paxman does acknowledge this bond between
men and how it crossed the class barrier but he puts too much importance on the
effects it wrought - post-war society didn’t become a meritocracy with the posh
mixing with the proles in village pubs, it largely went back to what it was before.
We look back at WW1 and see it now for the
horrific tragedy it was. True, it wasn’t seen like that in 1914 but if you read
the experiences of those who fought as the years progressed then they quickly
start to mirror how it’s seen now. The generals are as vilified by survivors of
the Somme every bit as much as they are by the historians that Paxman aims for
here.
And as I was reading this book last January
Michael Gove came out and said openly what runs as an undercurrent through this book (warning: link to Daily Mail). And that prick is our education secretary. Holy shit!
I enjoyed pretty much every book I read in
2014 but very few actually had an impact on my life. I mean, I like fantasy
gubbins, history, guns & guts and The Beatles, yet reading books about them
doesn’t change the importance of these things in my life. I already like them
rather a lot (as a scan over this list will show).
Over recent years gardening (why not ask me
about it?) and nature have become key components in both my hobbies and beliefs
(seriously, ask me about composting) yet books like this force a key change in
how I actually interact with the world. In my early days of gardening I’d
appreciate insect life in the garden but this wouldn’t stop me using pesticides
on flowers and crops. But over recent years I’ve become far more in-tune with
the environment, with the subtle interactions between plants, pests and
predators. When I first started gardening I’d be annoyed to find caterpillars
destroying a cabbage I’d reared but now I’m far more zen about it. It’s a great
feeling, to appreciate that everything has a purpose, a place. I think I’ve
become a bit odd.
Dave Goulson’s beautiful, warm, witty books
(see 52 for the other one) on insect life (this one is solely devoted to his
beloved bumblebees) actually caused me to step back and look again at our
planet. It’s books like these that make me want to live somewhere where I can
have my own wildflower meadow, with a pond filled with wildlife and where we
can life a sustainable life alongside nature. This is the nearest I have to a
life goal now (how old I’ve become) and it’s books like these that make me
crave for it. Philip Hoare’s majestic Leviathan turned me from being a
complacent and vague pro-conservation wastrel into someone much more interested
in ecological issues. Goulson’s books have made me want to live in the country,
spending my days breeding radish and cataloguing water boatmen. Anyway, for a
lengthy blog about how this book made me feel read here.
2013’s list contained 3 Cornwell books and
2014 did too. These were part of a trilogy however and combined two of my
favourite things: King Arthur and that whole dark ages, kings and swords stuff
that I like to call ‘castles n shit’. Cornwell actually calls this trilogy his
personal favourites of all those he’s written. And, fuck me, the man knocks
them out at a rate of knots. There’s always a new one in Waterstone’s.
Anyway, I really enjoyed them. They
achieved the rare distinction of being Cornwell books I actually remembered the
plots of after I’d finished the book (see last year for my inability to recall
anything of his other novels). But then again these are about King Arthur and I
fucking love that guy.
Top three fictional kings:
1.
King Arthur
2.
King Kong
3.
The band King
This is the second book in what I believe
are called The Warlord Chronicles.
An entertaining and informative history of
William One’s rise to the throne of England. The first half of the book
actually concentrates more on England pre-1066 and I actually found this the
best bit of the book: it was a very interesting era of England’s history,
containing as it did an intriguing mixture of bastards and utter bastards. And
you know there were less French people in that part of it (joke*).
Post-conquest was an intriguing time but
who wants to read about foreigners beating up plucky Anglo-Saxon immigrant
invaders?
*The Normans weren’t really French
First of this year’s classics I’d never
read before. I got on with it far better than some others I’ve also felt the
need to read (see 10 below). Like Orwell’s 1984 this has become one of those
books that has entered the language to such an extent that people who have
never read the book before will still have a good idea at the key concepts
involved in it. And as I write this now I can’t help but think of people using
the term ‘alpha-male’ and how much I hate them. There have been so many people
throughout the history of this book who’ve read it and thought ‘yeah, I’m so
alpha, totally alpha, 100% alpha. Deffo.’ What terrible people they undoubtedly
are.
This is the third and last book in The
Warlord Chronicles. I was intrigued on starting this book as to how he’d finish
it (and what Arthurian legends he’d incorporate). I won’t spoil it but I
thought Cornwell’s take on Lancelot was great. I love King Arthur.
A fact-heavy discussion on several of the
elements. Well-researched and readable, for some reason this book (carbon)
hasn’t stayed in my memory (carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, calcium, blu-tak, fire).
On paper (carbon) this is the perfect book (see pervious) for someone (carbon,
hydrogen, oxygen, methane, crisps) interested in science (all elements plus
those stuck together with glue to make mollycues) and facts. I resemble that
someone (see previous). But I was surprised on looking back that I read this in
2014 (lots of bad elements), it seems so much longer ago. My vague memories
(see previous) of it was that I was glad it had ended. Maybe I just wasn’t in
the mood (no crisps) at the time (not elemental based). You (carbon, polyester)
should check it out yourself. I’m not here to hold your hand (carbon, e-coli)
you know.
The funny first volume of Danny Baker’s
memoirs. I like Baker (he loves The Beatles so I have to) but I can’t help feel
sometimes that he could do with a touch more self-deprecation. That’s probably
just a personal taste but I feel that ego should always be counterbalanced with
thinly veiled self-hatred. Makes for a well-rounded person.
Some don’t like the way Hemingway writes
and I fully understand that to some people his style of prose can irritate.
That wasn’t my problem with A Farewell To Arms though. No, my problem was that
I wanted to punch the protagonist in the face. By the end of it I properly
couldn’t stand spending any more time with the focus of the book, I hated him.
Second book in a row with a disagreeable
protagonist/narrator. The eponymous Prince Of Thorns is a massive shit, who in
the first few pages indulges in a gang-rape. You know, it’s just hard to root
for someone after that. I stuck with it, partly because I wanted to see how the
writer tried to redeem him but also because the world involved had a nice twist
in it. More later…
Oddly, just after starting a different
fantasy trilogy of books I decided to plough into this Robin Hobb series
instead. It was my usual story regarding a fantasy series: greatly enjoy the
world they’re set in, found characters I really rooted for, felt a bit
disappointed in the ending. I can’t discuss the ending here and I’m happier
with it now 6 months on, just at the time it felt a bit flat. I think the
problem is with me, maybe I’m incapable of happiness at the conclusion of
anything. Except Life On Mars, that was a beautiful ending. Everything else, try
again.
Book 2
Book 3
15. Mark Mason – Walk The Lines
This is when my reading properly
accelerated. There is nothing like sitting in a garden, reading, watching bees
and waiting for somebody to bring you a sandwich. And maybe another bottle of
Erdinger. Sometimes a lolly. Or an ice cream. It’s the reason I have a nice
garden.
This book concerns a man walking the length
of every London Underground line but above ground. That’s it. The only reason
to read it is if you like London (tick) and love the Underground (tick tick).
16. Edward Stourton – Cruel Crossing: Escaping Hitler Across The Pyrenees
Newsreader writes book about people fleeing
from the Nazis. One of my weaker areas of Nazi study I found it very
interesting. I think the Nazis may have been bad people.
17. PG Wodehouse – Carry On, Jeeves
I bought a bulk-load of Jeeves books in
Fopp a couple of years ago. They were £2! But, annoyingly, I couldn’t get them
all so there were gaps in my collection. This was one of them. I probably had
to pay £7 for this. £7!
The Jeeves books are as gentle as a big bag
of bunnies. The short story collections are worth reading just to see if you
can predict how it ends by the time you’ve read the first couple of pages.
18. ChristopherFowler – Full Dark House
For some reason this book ended up on my
Amazon wishlist (Boycott Amazon!). When I spotted it at my ma and da’s house I
decided that I’d read it to find out how it’d made it to a relatively small
list of mainly fantasy books.
And I still don’t know why it made it to
the list. It’s a crime book, and I don’t read crime. The only thing I can think
of is it is set during WW2 and boy do I love some WW2 shit.
Still, I have no interest in reading the
other books in the series. I mean, they’re not even set in WW2! Why would I
waste my time reading a book without tanks or dragons in it?
The true story of what happened to the
players of Dynamo Kiev during Nazi occupation (spoiler: bad shit). It’s a
well-researched little book into how the team were allowed to still play
against Nazi teams, though they were of course encouraged to lose. And then
what happened after they refused to comply. Imagine a grim Escape To Victory
where Pele is shot and Sylvester Stallone is starved to death.
I love nature. I greatly enjoy walking.
Yet, whereas this list shows that I also enjoy reading about nature it appears
that I find books about walking less gripping. This is not to say this is a bad
book, far from it, I just think it’s something I’d rather do than read about.
This is also the reason why my book ‘Amazing Frazzles’ is still lying unread on
my bookshelf.
If you want to read over 50 books in a year
why not consider re-reading a load of Adrian Mole books? I read 5 of them in
2014 and would probably have gone for the full-set (8 in total) if I didn’t
think it would somehow devalue my achievement of reading 50 books in a year.
Devalue my achievement? What the actual fuck? What sort of achievement is this?
This isn’t an achievement!
Here’s the actual top 5 actual things I actually
achieved in actual 2014:
1.
I built a garden cane storer on the allotment.
Please ask me about it? Ask to come and see it! You’ll want to hug me, tears
streaming down your face.
2.
I ran a 10k in less than 50 minutes for the
first time.
3.
I completed Lego Hobbit on the PS4. My fourth
platinum trophy. I’ll show you my trophy list next time you’re round.
4.
I predicted the World Cup final at the start of
the tournament and won over £200 for doing so. But, get this…it was the second
time in a row that I’d done it. Boom! I’m a reincarnation of that bloke from
the past who did all those predictions, thingie, er…Nosferatu! Yeah, that’s
him.
5.
I’ve made some lovely soap. It has a lemon layer
and a lime one. Smells like 7-Up. Or Sprite if you’re common.
First book in the Memory, Sorrow, Thorn
fantasy trilogy. Has a ginger haired hero. Qualo.
We’re all guilty. Innocence doesn’t really
exist. There is no such thing as altruism, we all do things for our own glory,
a sense of self-worth and foolish, foolish pride. We are scum.
That’s what I got from it anyway. Fair
enough.
Second Adrian Mole.
The writer of Band Of Brothers (the
greatest TV show of all time) describes the glider attack by British troops on
a key bridge in the early hours of D-Day. Ambrose writes it as an adventure
story and it really benefits from such an approach. A master of the art of
readable war non-fiction.
Now, I like to read and watch things to do
with WW2. Boy, do I? Yes I do, boy. Al Murray though puts me to shame with his
obsession with all things World War Two-y. This book starts from the experiences
of watching war films with his dad, where the pair of them criticise everything
on screen for its inaccuracies, both in terms of storyline and also if any incorrect
tanks/planes/army units appear on screen. But then it changes into Al Murray
talking about various episodes/events of the war, interspersed with personal
stories of his own interactions with it, such as a trip to the Pegasus Bridge
outlined in the book above.
He also wrote extensively of how amazing
IWM Duxford is for war obsessives. He had me convinced, I took a trip down to
Cambridgeshire the month after solely because I wanted to see what he’d written
about. He’s right though, it is magnificent. I spent a whole day there and had
to properly rush it at the end, so much was there to see.
Anyway, another great book for WW2 nerds.
It may not be the first Bill Bryson book I
own, but it’s the first one I’ve read.
A chunky yet highly readable trot through
the major events that happened in America during 1927, a year that saw Charles
Lindbergh make the first powered flight of the Atlantic, Babe Ruth break
baseball records, Henry Ford crank out his successor to the Model T, talking
cinema, the rise of Al Capone and many other events still remembered nearly 90
years later.
It’s a really good book and Bryson doesn’t
hesitate in pointing out how massively flawed the majority of the people he
talks about were. In fact it becomes clear that however advanced America was
becoming its morals lagged many decades behind; Ford was a terrible
anti-semite, Lindbergh would soon become tarnished by his support for Nazi
ideals, racism was rife and women really were third-class citizens. Violence
and hatred were everywhere. It’s interesting to compare American society in 1927
and what rose out of Europe in the next decade.
Speaking of American racists, here’s a book
with several in. I’d like to be Atticus Finch when I grow up, though I suspect
I’ll end up more like Boo Radley.
Third Adrian Mole. The only book this year
that I actually started and finished on the same day. If you want to read the
Adrian Mole books you may as well skip it.
Fourth Adrian Mole book. Christ, these are
easy to read.
And fifth.
Magnificent book looking in detail at every
single record that The Beatles recorded. As well as looking at how each song
was written and recorded some background is given to the effect The Beatles’
records had on the wider world. So we find out that the usually reserved Allen
Ginsberg surprised his compatriots by dancing joyfully to I Wanna Hold Your
Hand, how LSD almost totally destroyed Lennon’s mind and allowed Paul McCartney
to wrest control of the group and the band’s uneasy relationship with the counterculture
of the late sixties.
The best book I’ve ever read about The
Beatles.
The second of the ‘Of Thorns’ trilogy.
The final book. After almost three whole
books of increasing tension, with a cast of villains, anti-heroes and anti-hero
villains all destined to meet for one final apocalyptic battle, you realise
about 30 pages out from the ending that there appears to be rather a lot to
pack into these last bits of paper if the author is to finish this saga
acceptably. Boy, how is he going to pull this off satisfactorily? Oh, really? That’s a shame.
You know I feel I unfairly judged the
ending of Robin Hobb’s Assassin books as there are far worse ways to end a
fantasy series. For instance, spending 2 of those last 30 pages explaining why
you were ending it there.
Final WW2 book of the year. A brief pre-war
history of the RAF in the first part, followed by a detailed discussion of the
Battle of Britain.
In reading all these books I really do come
across staggering amounts of bravery. A story sticks in the mind from this book
of a British pilot running out of bullets deciding instead of heading back to
base he’d just ram a German bomber with his aircraft. Head on! Amazingly he
actually escaped with his life. Though not with a working aircraft.
I read loads of Terry Pratchett books as a
teenager because I just didn’t know any fucking better. After a 25 year break I
decided to pick at them again, partly through nostalgia but mainly because
everyone says that the books become a vastly different beast as the series
matures. Everyone says that, absolutely everyone. But, being a bit of a dick, I
didn’t decide to just leap in at that stage of the series, no, I decided to
read them again from the start. This is Book 2 and no it hasn’t got good yet.
The third Jeeves book. Annoyingly I’m going
to have to pay full price for Book 4. I’m hoping it’s the gritty one where
Wooster gets involved in far-right politics and Jeeves does a bucketful of
horse.
A look into how the Soviet Union dealt with
The Beatles (spoiler: they weren’t keen on them) and how a large group of fans
and musicians resisted authorities to listen to, cover and worship “The Fabs”.
It’s quite sweet really, even if the book itself could perhaps have been a tad
shorter. Still, it turned me on to some interesting Soviet bands of the era.
Still not great by Book 3. Is there an
actual line at which it becomes good? I’m very old now and can’t remember the
plot of any of those I read as a teenager.
Have you ever been to see John Harrison’s
amazing clocks in Greenwich? No? You should. Greenwich is a nice day out
actually, have a look next time you find yourself in London.
This book is the story of Harrison’s
attempt to win the prize for solving the problem of calculating the longitude
at sea, something that would finally enable accurate travel over the oceans.
It’s a great tale about how large parts of the establishment put obstacles in
his way and the unbelievable persistence of Harrison when faced with these.
I once heard that George had an uneasy
relationship with the semi-colon. I don’t think this fact is true as his books
are littered with them. He uses them properly too, never getting confused about
whether a semi-colon or a comma would be the best option in a sentence. I think
the person who said this outrageous lie about Orwell and semi-colons is bang
out of order! Who told me this lie? Was it you?
I read somewhere that this was a very scary
book. So I read it for Halloween. I didn’t poo my pants once. Well I did, but
not because of this book. I’d seen the ghost of a mouse!
I think I’ve read too much true-life horror
to get scareded by a book.
As we neared Remembrance Sunday on the
hundredth anniversary of the start of WW1 I thought I’d dust off the unread
autobiography of Harry Patch, who was indeed alive and ‘the last fighting
tommy’ when I bought this. It amazed me throughout the book how much the man
remembered of his long life, comparable to me, a man just turned 40, who can
remember barely anything that hasn’t happened in the past 10 years. How can
Harry Patch remember the name of people from his childhood a century earlier
whereas I have forgotten the names of practically every single teacher who ever
taught me? Maybe Harry filled his head up with his own personal experiences and
didn’t attempt to use up his grey matter with the storage of FA Cup final
results, an encyclopaedic knowledge of WW2 or the words to the theme tune of
the Family Ness (will sing for crisps).
Of course, the real reason is that Harry
remembers his past because it was traumatic and eventful. My childhood was
peaceful and ordinary, it wasn’t scarred on my memory like WW1 was on all those
who survived it. Only moments of great excitement or tragedy are left behind in
our memories. In the same way that Harry remembers vividly a battle from a
century ago I can clearly recall the moment I almost ripped my ballbag open on
the park fence in Fleetwood. Sadly, publishers are yet open to publishing my
memoirs on that incident. I’ll keep sending them the manuscript though. And the
photos for the middle of the book.
I don’t really think that reading all these
books about war makes me a particularly sunny human being. Or maybe that’s what
draws me to them, confirmation that life can be brutal, short and full of
horrors.
This is WW1 told through the voices of
those who actually lived it, based on oral records at the Imperial War Museum.
It is what you expect, grim. I hope I read a book after this that showed
humanity in a better light. Oh…
Great book about the work of the Stasi in
East Germany, looking at a few individual stories and using them to fill in the
bigger surrounding picture. The Stasi were sometimes grimly comic or utterly
inept but always pretty horrendous.
Second of the Memory, Sorrow, Thorn
quadrology. Things look promising so far, Williams is a master world-builder.
I’m reading Book 3 now as I write this.
Slight story of how a cantankerous man
living on Raasey decided to build his own road, beefed up with some history on
the highland/island clearances. Anyway, here’s a picture of Raasay as seen from
the top of a hill in Skye that Team Allan climbed in October 2013.
Book 5 of the Peter Grant magic copper series
(see previous lists for the other books). Book 4 was great with a genuinely
surprising ending that made me eager for this book to come out. However, it
took far longer than usual to appear on the shelves and this made me wary. Writer’s
block? Run out of ideas? Didn’t know how to build on what happened in the last
book? In the end it appeared that all three may have occurred, as even though
the book was enjoyable it decided to put dealing with what happened in the last
book on hold till the one after this. Which may be building up expectation a
bit too much.
Also, where do we stand on fictional books
– especially frothy ones like this – referencing real-world tragedies? This
book concerns missing children from a countryside setting and then – realising
what many readers will be thinking of – openly brings up the Soham murders of
two children as comparison. I found it a bit awkward, rather pointless and not
particularly appropriate for such a light-hearted series of books.
Dave Gorman writes a book about absolutely
nothing (and recycles large parts of his recent TV series).
As December started - and I found myself
facing 52 books instead of 50 - a trip to Fopp in Manchester resulted in me
picking up several books of less than 200 pages. In the end this is the only
one I read, possibly because it was the shortest. And indeed the easiest to
read. I enjoyed it, and it’s odd for a book written over 40 years ago: some
technology predictions seem remarkably prescient while others are
understandably way wide of the mark.
The death of Rik Mayall in June hit me
hard. Hannah came out to tell me as I was tying up some sweet-peas in the
garden (ask me about my sweet-peas, I’ll print you up a leaflet), I wandered
back into the house, checked the news and became all upset. And two programmes
over Christmas – one a tribute and one with a glaring Rik hole in it – made me
sad again. I’ve had this autobiography since 2005 (it’s signed by the great man
himself) but it is a hard read. Faithful to his spirit it’s over 300 pages of
nonsense, lies, innuendo and stories that don’t go anywhere. I imagine the
audio book being filled with Rik’s maniacal screeching and exhausting the
patience of even the most committed fan by the end of it. The book at times
certainly feels like you’re being battered by Rik for hours on end. But I’m
glad I read it. I felt I should. Miss you big guy.
(see 2 above)
That took fucking forever to type into blogger.
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