Wednesday, 18 October 2017

The Magrs Chronicles - my lecture for the Edinburgh Book Festival 2017

In August I gave a lecture at the Edinburgh Book Festival about Ray Bradbury's The Martian Chronicles, and more broadly about my becoming a reader of science fiction as a kid. Along the way, it's also an essay about using libraries and the way that parents can influence a child's reading. 

The whole text is available on my Patreon page as of today -

and here is a taster... please do and go subscribe to my Patreon to read the rest...!


When I was a kid everything was science fiction and the reason I’ve always loved the stories of Ray Bradbury is that I think he felt the same.

This essay / lecture is about the fact that I believe the rockets and outer space and travelling to Mars were always some kind of sideshow and a pretext and a pretence that the future and science fiction itself all happened on other planets. It didn’t. It was happening here, all the time.

I was a nineteen-seventies kid. Elton John sang about doing a 9 to 5 job ferrying passengers to Mars and he wore moon boots, jumpsuits and giant glasses. Everyone was covered in glittery make-up and astronauts arrayed themselves like David Bowie did, in punky space-age drag.

In the 1970s all the aliens came from Earth – Zygons, Silurians and bodysnatchers of every stripe had always been here, we learned. The Von Daniken ‘Chariots of the Gods’ idea, that pyramids were space ships and cryptic marks on desert floors were motorway maps of the stars. Invasions came to earth during the sun-baked summer holidays of the mid-Seventies and they came in the form of monsters brandishing kitchen appliances – deadly egg whisks and sink plungers.

Our food was science fiction. Impossible, unfeasible, almost inedible, with its e-numbers and preservatives and artificial colorants. If you looked inside us – kids from that era – we glow with phosphorescent hues. We ate so much specially-modified frozen food all our insides are dyed the amazing shades of the space-time vortex.

I grew up in the North East of England, coming to consciousness just as colour tellies were all the rage and people were starting to be able to afford them. My first TV memories are to do with Alice in Wonderland, the Wizard of Oz, Yellow Submarine – and also Jon Pertwee with a brilliant meringue of a hairdo, and an electric blue velvet jacket, being blasted with radiation on the Planet of the Spiders.

Travel to other planets was achieved through Buddhist meditation, the intervention of wicked arachnids and battered blue Police Boxes. The first science fiction I was aware of was utterly strange, utterly everyday and enchanting.

We lived on a council estate of blocky black-bricked buildings all designed by incredibly clever Swedish architects. A husband and wife team who dressed in matching mackintoshes and rain hats, who built their sleek dream home in the middle of our New Town, in acres of neglected grounds. We’d see them walking about the Council Estates they had doodled into being, holding hands, traipsing around like Bill and Ben – looking highly pleased by the elegant curves and the fact that no two streets in our town were the same. You could get lost forever in our social housing labyrinth.

As kids we played on the building sites, in the deep yellow pools of mud and sandpits and gravel heaps. Mucking about with detritus, finding mica nuggets and glossy tarmac chunks and hunks of plaster chalk. And we played down the Burn, which was the remaining strip of wilderness at the heart of our industrial town. A Brazilian jungle thicket into which we’d disappear for whole days at a time, fishing miniscule tiddlers out of the stream and hanging from the trees and making dens where we could read our library books and comics.

Our town was all concrete minimalist brutalism. To us kids it was space-age and we loved it. Ramps and walkways and vast concourses of cement and paving slabs. Smooth and wonderfully slippery when wet. Fantastic and deadly in ice and snow. A city made for robots and mechanical men. For androids and housewives on valium pushing trolleys up and down the soft lino of supermarket aisles.

Wednesday, 11 October 2017

My blog went a bit viral...!

The past week has been a bit strange... what with that last blog post of mine, the story about Bowie and the autistic boy suddenly going viral. It was retweeted by all kinds of people - by Iman and Duncan Jones themselves, and then Amanda Palmer and Neil Gaiman... and thousands upon thousands of readers all over the world. And as of this afternoon it's had just about 160 thousand readers just on this blog alone. That's not counting, of course, all the tumblrs and other sites that shared it. 

160 thousand readers...!  Like my friend Simon said - imagine if all those readers paid a quid!

Which reminds me... I *do* have a Patreon page, where I publish new short stories and pieces weekly, and where you're invited to help support an impoverished writer to keep on going!  It's right here!

I think the piece I published here last week strikes a chord. I love the comments from people with autism, and parents with autistic children. I love the way people are talking and thinking about shyness and masks and the particular kind of magic that David did in that moment with the magic mask. I also love the fact that people have said that the story feels a bit like having David Bowie with us again, for just a few moments. I love it when people say they can hear him actually saying those words. 

Since last week I've been working and writing and channelling and fictionalising the real life material into a fully-fledged short story. It’s become a story set at Christmas, filled with magic and frost and flickering movies… and music, too. I’m calling it ‘Stardust and Snow’, and I’m hoping to publish it. I always wanted to publish a short Christmas book... a perfect Christmas story - like Truman Capote's 'A Christmas Memory', maybe. 

While I was in Scotland I sat in cafes writing and drawing – in both Glasgow and Perth. Here are some drawings from those damp, sunny October days, of people drinking coffee and eating cakes and working on laptops, just as I was, working on my story...

Tuesday, 3 October 2017

'Fancy Believing in the Goblin King'

‘Fancy Believing in the Goblin King’

My friend told me a story he hadn’t told anyone for years. When he used to tell it years ago people would laugh and say, ‘Who’d believe that? How can that be true? That’s daft.’ So he didn’t tell it again for ages. But for some reason, last night, he knew it would be just the kind of story I would love.

When he was a kid, he said, they didn’t use the word autism, they just said ‘shy’, or ‘isn’t very good at being around strangers or lots of people.’ But that’s what he was, and is, and he doesn’t mind telling anyone. It’s just a matter of fact with him, and sometimes it makes him sound a little and act different, but that’s okay.

Anyway, when he was a kid it was the middle of the 1980s and they were still saying ‘shy’ or ‘withdrawn’ rather than ‘autistic’. He went to London with his mother to see a special screening of a new film he really loved. He must have won a competition or something, I think. Some of the details he can’t quite remember, but he thinks it must have been London they went to, and the film…! Well, the film is one of my all-time favourites, too. It’s a dark, mysterious fantasy movie. Every single frame is crammed with puppets and goblins. There are silly songs and a goblin king who wears clingy silver tights and who kidnaps a baby and this is what kickstarts the whole adventure.

It was ‘Labyrinth’, of course, and the star was David Bowie, and he was there to meet the children who had come to see this special screening.

‘I met David Bowie once,’ was the thing that my friend said, that caught my attention.

‘You did? When was this?’ I was amazed, and surprised, too, at the casual way he brought this revelation out. Almost anyone else I know would have told the tale a million times already.

He seemed surprised I would want to know, and he told me the whole thing, all out of order, and I eked the details out of him.

He told the story as if it was he’d been on an adventure back then, and he wasn’t quite allowed to tell the story. Like there was a pact, or a magic spell surrounding it. As if something profound and peculiar would occur if he broke the confidence.

It was thirty years ago and all us kids who’d loved Labyrinth then, and who still love it now, are all middle-aged. Saddest of all, the Goblin King is dead. Does the magic still exist?

I asked him what happened on his adventure.

‘I was withdrawn, more withdrawn than the other kids. We all got a signed poster. Because I was so shy, they put me in a separate room, to one side, and so I got to meet him alone. He’d heard I was shy and it was his idea. He spent thirty minutes with me.

‘He gave me this mask. This one. Look.

‘He said: ‘This is an invisible mask, you see?

‘He took it off his own face and looked around like he was scared and uncomfortable all of a sudden. He passed me his invisible mask. ‘Put it on,’ he told me. ‘It’s magic.’

‘And so I did.

‘Then he told me, ‘I always feel afraid, just the same as you. But I wear this mask every single day. And it doesn’t take the fear away, but it makes it feel a bit better. I feel brave enough then to face the whole world and all the people. And now you will, too.

‘I sat there in his magic mask, looking through the eyes at David Bowie and it was true, I did feel better.

‘Then I watched as he made another magic mask. He spun it out of thin air, out of nothing at all. He finished it and smiled and then he put it on. And he looked so relieved and pleased. He smiled at me.

‘'Now we’ve both got invisible masks. We can both see through them perfectly well and no one would know we’re even wearing them,' he said.

‘So, I felt incredibly comfortable. It was the first time I felt safe in my whole life.

‘It was magic. He was a wizard. He was a goblin king, grinning at me.

‘I still keep the mask, of course. This is it, now. Look.’

I kept asking my friend questions, amazed by his story. I loved it and wanted all the details. How many other kids? Did they have puppets from the film there, as well? What was David Bowie wearing? I imagined him in his lilac suit from Live Aid. Or maybe he was dressed as the Goblin King in lacy ruffles and cobwebs and glitter.

What was the last thing he said to you, when you had to say goodbye?

‘David Bowie said, ‘I’m always afraid as well. But this is how you can feel brave in the world.’ And then it was over. I’ve never forgotten it. And years later I cried when I heard he had passed.’

My friend was surprised I was delighted by this tale.

‘The normal reaction is: that’s just a stupid story. Fancy believing in an invisible mask.’

But I do. I really believe in it.

And it’s the best story I’ve heard all year.


Note. I'm amazed that over 160 thousand readers have read this piece!  If you'd like to read further, exclusive stories and essays by me, I update my Patreon page with new material every week. Please do subscribe -

Tuesday, 26 September 2017

Paperbacks from Hell by Grady Hendrix

I've spent the week slowly reading Grady Hendrix's wonderful non-fiction book, 'Paperbacks from Hell.' Anyone who knows me and my wide and varied reading tastes will know that I have huge soft spot for really schlocky paperback horror. This book delves into the ghastly 70s and 80s and brings out some astonishing gems. I now want to spend the Hallowe'en season reading about killer mutant sharks and towns filled with clowns, evil incestuous skeletons, bigfeet, serial killing aliens and jellyfish from hell. The whole book is a lurid, wittily-written and fabulously illustrated tribute to that most idiotically lovable genre, horror.

Monday, 11 September 2017

'Haddon Hall' by Nejib - reviewed on 'Writers Review'

Writers Review is a lovely blog run by three novelists, Linda Newberry,Adele Geras, and Celia Rees. They ask novelists to review novels they've loved recently... and today it's my turn, talking about 'Haddon Hall' by Nejib
'One of the reasons I love graphic novels is that they feel like someone has taken hold of a conventional novel and given it a bloody good shake. All the redundant words and phrases and padding and fluff and – especially – all the descriptions have simply fallen out. Leaving lots of lovely empty space.
'In ‘Haddon Hall’ – a fabular, fabulous account of David Bowie’s rise to fame as Ziggy Stardust by French-Tunisian artist, Nejib – there’s lots of that lovely space...'  (continues here...)

Thursday, 7 September 2017

autumnal cat drawings

i love going through out sketchbooks. These drawings are all from exactly two years ago... when Bernard Socks was called in to pose for some cartoons. I've realised I like these scratchy early versions better than the eventual finished things...!

Friday, 1 September 2017

Our literary pilgrimage to the Rue Broca

Something I was determined to do while we were on holiday in Paris was make a small pilgrimage to the Rue Broca, where Pierre Gripari lived and wrote his wonderful fairy tales. Earlier in the summer, you may remember, I happened upon ‘The Witch in the Broom Cupboard’, a splendidly anarchic collection of tales from the 1960s, but only recently published in the UK by Pushkin Press. I adored these stories (as you’ll gather from my review – here) and one of the things that made me very happy was learning that Gripari had sat in a café in a small, shabby, tucked-away street, and took all his best ideas from the kids who hung around the café owned by Papa Sayeed. That’s how his stories are all so authentically odd – with their talking guitars and potatoes, rubber jewels and strange witches.

I loved discovering that Rue Broca is only a matter of steps away from Rue Mouffetard and Place de la Contrascarpe (more or less the setting of Puccini’s La Boheme) – places very much on our itinerary when we go to Paris. Rue Mouffetard slopes down from the university and the Latin Quarter, down to the mosque and the Natural History Museum (with its crazy stuffed animal parade…) and its gorgeous botanical gardens. Rue Mouffetard jostles with fruit shops and bistros and toyshops and, on certain Sundays, there is a band and a swarm of dancers in the market place. It’s just the kind of eccentric spot you could imagine Pierre Gripari setting down his stories.

Well, when we visited, I was chuffed to see that the bookshop halfway up the hill featured a copy of his book, along with a witch doll. This made me think of the line in his afterword about how no one on the Rue Broca believed M. Pierre was really a writer, for no one had ever seen his books in the book shop. Writers always obsess about finding their own books in shops…

We wandered about and eventually found our way off the beaten track. Gripari’s own directions are quite complicated, since he starts whiffling on about rifts in the time/space continuum… as a way of explaining how you have to go through an underpass…

But soon we found our way to Rue Broca and, eventually, number 69 and the café. It’s still there. It’s a greasy spoon now. It was deserted and the boy at the counter told us that we could only have fruit juice. There was no more coffee: ‘Coffee is finished.’

We sat in the doorway (with Panda, of course) and thought about Gripari and those kids bustling round him, shoving in and shouting their ideas at him. The mansion blocks are squeezed together. We’re in a strange kind of dell, with more respectable streets rising high above the underpass. This is a hidden little enclave. It makes me think of Gripari as a kind of urban Hans Christian Andersen: his world a somewhat grubbier one, and a more multi-cultural one. I read some of the afterword aloud to Jeremy, telling the tale of how M. Pierre ran out of formal fairy tales and was forced to create new ones, from the strands of stories that the children ravelled up for him. It was sunny and we drank juice and then we wandered off, and found the famous Paris mosque, where we sat in the busy courtyard and sipped hot mint tea from orange glasses and scoffed baklava stiff with honey.

I never really go on writerly pilgrimages. They’re usually so commercial and overdone. Wordsworth and the Brontes and all that gang. I wondered if anyone had ever visited Pierre Gripari’s home and local café yet? It’s just over fifty years since he was down the Rue Broca, and becoming famous because of the stories he wrote there. Maybe there should be a plaque? Or a little sign beside the broom cupboard with a warning about the witch..?

Wednesday, 30 August 2017


I'm really going to miss August 2017. With the Edinburgh Book Festival, our Parisian jaunt and then Manchester Pride, it's been absolutely brilliant. 

September means getting back down to work. I've some big Doctor Who-related commissions to do, and some adaptation work... and then it'll be about getting down to a new novel project, which I've got outlined and ready to go... 

And there are some new things coming out in the autumn too, to which I've contributed - such as Terry Molloy's book about his bear Monty, for which i've drawn all the pictures - which you can order here. And there's Puffin books' 'Doctor Who - Tales of Terror', which features two stories by me - including my first-ever story about the Daleks! (My second-ever story about the Daleks will be in 'The Dalek Book' from BBC books in October.

Also in October we'll have the launch of 'Baker's End' part four on CD and download from Bafflegab - with Colin Baker making his debut inside the furry onesie of the King of Cats...! 

Lots going on... i really love Autumn. But I'm so going to miss August.