LIKE TO REVIEW?

Anyone like to review an early 19thC crime story, WINTER HUNT by Allen Makepeace (that's me, folks!)?  You can sample it on Amazon: if you wish to continue, contact me via http://www.johnniejohnson.co.uk/ where it's featured and I'll send you a pdf

And that's all this time.

A REALLY GOOD READ IN SPITE OF...

I’ll tell you what I was going to say when I finished this book, my first Martina Cole gangland novel. I had it in mind to muse on the fact that she is a best-selling author, that she certainly knows the world of crime and criminals and that she is without any doubt a compelling story teller. Dangerous Lady absolutely zips along and the reader is drawn into a gripping crime story, a crime saga, dealing as it does with the Ryans, an East End criminal family, over a period of thirty years. It’s a tale of protection rackets, grubby London clubs, gold bullion robberies, violent characters, brutal killings and a most determined and ruthless woman who might never have turned to crime had it not been for sad chance.

Then, having told you what a splendid tale-teller Ms Cole is, I was going to say that she’s not a great writer. Can that be so? Does it make sense? I think it does. Her prose style is clumsy, undeveloped, and her dialogue is wooden. And yet, despite these drawbacks, her story is undeniably riveting.

Well, that’s what I was going to say (yes, I know, I’ve said it) until I thought I’d just check up some background details and I discovered that this was her first book,  written when she was only twenty, that she finished it and locked it away in a cupboard for a couple of years. Then, it seems, that quite by chance she came across it and decided to send it to an agent. Seems an unconvincing tale, a bit too romantic and totally unconvincing, but that’s where she set off on her path to fame and the book was an instant best-seller. And more best sellers followed, four of them made into outstanding television serials.

So, I think I ought to hold back in my judgement and read more of Ms Cole’s work. And I have to say that I’m really looking forward to doing so.  

 In the meantime, I’m looking in the cupboard at home because I fancy I put a really great story in there several years ago.

Review of Cat's Cradle - Kurt Vonnegut

I wish that I'd been able to finish this story. It's always a problem when you face a book that is acknowledged as a significant work and then find that you somehow cannot get into it. 
I couldn't identify with any of the characters but if the plot had been plausible it might have carried me along. But alas it wasn't so. At least not to me.
It's times like this when I have considered going with the flow rather than be branded a yahoo. I don't know: do other readers feel under some pressure to admire or to claim to enjoy highly praised books? Do other readers sometimes ask themselves, What's wrong with me that I cannot appreciate a work which so highly regarded? Are my literary taste buds less refined than others'? Maybe that's it.
Try as I might I really have found this book totally unappealing.

Review of In the Shadow of the Sword: The Birth of Islam and the Rise of the Global Arab Empire

You might liken Tom Holland’s book to a great canvas of dark landscapes on which great swathes of lightning reveal grim images of slaughter; here, 10,000 corpses butchered in Samaria and 20,000 dead at another place and yet another time, 50,000; a bishop burns in a fire of martyrs’ bones; a Persian king humiliates a Roman emperor, using him as a mounting block before despatching him; elsewhere the newly slaughtered are covered with carpet to serve as a gruesome banqueting table. It is painted, this portrait, in blood for these are the convulsions of two nations. The Western Roman Empire, in barbarian hands, is ailing though the world still bears such wonderful cities as Alexandria and Antioch, Damascus and Constantinople.

But if the two great empires, the Persian and the Roman, had made their mark on the Ancient World they were by the 7^th century tired out by incessant warring, by famine, by plague.

And why all this war? Was it all about belief? About the worship of pagan gods? Or the Jewish god? Or that strange god who was his own father, his own son, and at the same time a joint Holy Spirit? Oh, the struggles in the various communities to work out the nature of their god. The scholars, Christians, Jews, Zoroastrians, arguing, cajoling, persuading and the emperors knew not what to make of it until Constantine came along.

Emperor Constantine could not make up his mind about whom to acknowledge as the true god – should it be Apollo or the god of the Christians? – until he had a vision (or did he toss a coin?) At a stroke, Rome – centred now in Constantinople - was declared a Christian state. Not that the declaration was accepted universally.  It took more years and another emperor to brutally enforce the state religion upon the diverse peoples of the declining empire.

And then along came Mohammed and his followers, quite out of the blue it seems. And within half a dozen decades the Arabs, many of whom who had learned their trade as mercenaries in the armies of Rome or Persia, had conquered vast territories. And it seems as if in no time they came out of their deserts and had shed their pagan gods in favour of a new monotheistic belief. But it does seem at times to have been borrowed in part from the old Greek myths as well as from the writings of the Jews and the Christians. Holland points out how little is known of Mohammed until almost two hundred years after his death and certainly there is little of Islam’s early years to help the historian unravel its development. Here, the author is asking the pertinent question: how much are we to believe of what we are told about that period, those crucial missing years?

What a hotch-potch. What a difficult story to tame with its roots in rumour mills and propaganda, in unsubstantiated declarations and self-serving claims. Yet Tom Holland keeps the tale going, interpreting and of course guessing as all historians must when faced with such variety of not always reliable evidence. It’s great read but one that is not easy for the detail at times is both overwhelming and vague. There are gaps, not of the author’s making, but because of history’s silence.

A BOOK REVIEW - DEVIL'S CHIMNEY

Devil’s Chimney, an e-book by Tim Larrick
A murder-mystery

Published by The Obscure Cranny Press

Available on Amazon - $2.40 or £1.53

There are some disadvantages to being a writer. For instance, it makes you excessively critical as a reader. You’re constantly raising questions about the way the author is going about his task. Isn’t that piece of dialogue a bit clunky?  Would that really happen? Why doesn’t the story flow better? So it goes on, always pick, pick, picking away, endlessly asking questions, suggesting improvements instead of just enjoying the tale. And though I can’t speak for others, at the end I often find myself asking, Could I have written that story? Would it have been better if I had? And then comes the big question, Do I wish I had written it?

And so how does Tin Larrick’s murder-mystery story, Devil’s Chimney, measure up? The story is set in Eastbourne where I live so not surprisingly I was attracted to it. It’s jam-packed with places I know, the seafront and the beach, pubs and coffee shops, the police station and the Wish Tower, Sovereign Harbour and the Belle Tout lighthouse, now a private house high up on Beachy Head. And the body of a savagely murdered woman is found in a hotel not five minutes’ walk from where I live. And another body is later found in a seafront shelter fifteen minutes away.

Caution: do not be misled. Just because it mentions locales known to you, the reader, your judgment of the story must not be distorted. I told myself that I must not be beguiled by the familiarity of such scenes, that I must judge the description of the town by the way in which they might appeal to readers who do not know it. Well, Tin Larrick has interpreted the place so vividly. His clear descriptions of the town are apt. By day, it has many charms. At night, this elegant town has another face.

They do say ‘Write about what you know.’ This is a police procedural and Larrick is a former policeman. No more to be said. He knows his stuff.

I very much liked the central character, the young, novice detective constable, Chalvington Barnes, a man clearly destined for the top. As for the back-story, he and his wife being unable to conceive, that was absolutely convincing and moving too. And I thought his ambitious young woman reporter made quite an impact. I hope that we shall meet her again.

And of course, Larrick knows his low-lifes. He has them to a tee. You can recognise them. They are believable. They aren’t just Eastbourne manifestations. You see them everywhere. Worse luck!

This is a really enjoyable story, very well structured, with some heart-thumping situations.

If I had a reservation it was that there was little humour in the account. Maybe even at the worst times, in fact especially at the worst times, I should have expected some wry police station humour. But that is a small quibble.

As to my question: Could I have written this book? No. I couldn’t. But I wish I could have done.

I ought to add perhaps that I bought the book and that I have had no contact with Tin Larrick of whom I had not heard until four days ago.

A VIRGIN IN THE PHILIPPINES

We are talking about going back to the Philippines this coming winter. In fact we’re already making some preparations. There is , you see, the business of the ‘pasalubong,’ the gifts that visitors are expected to take with them when they go back home.

This gift-giving is normal and is expected. These charming and kindly people have no hesitation in asking if you have a ‘pasalubong’ for them. This is not scrounging: it is an expectation. So Fay is hunting round the charity shops for good quality stuff and I’m contributing my old computer and its monitor. We’ll pack boxes which will collected from home for shipment to our house in the Philippines where they’ll be waiting for us when we arrive.

The above is to explain in part what followed one Sunday.

[Extract begins here]

When Fay came back from church, she announced that we were going out to a cousin's house for lunch. It's a fiesta (of what or of whom I cannot make out but apparently it's only in one part of the town) so I get into the car and find five ladies, Church members, who chatter away and speak to me in English. 'How old are you, Sir JJ?' one of them asks very politely and I tell her. The ladies exchange comments and then one of them announces that I look no more than seventy. I’m pleased with that assessment even though it may be flattery! Ah, ladies, I smile, wagging a finger at them.

We arrive unannounced at the cousin's house - a very pleasant bungalow - where there is a fine spread of food - meats, fish, salads and fruit salad and soft drinks. I've already loaded my plate and am preparing to take the first mouthful when Fay nudges me. My party has been hovering around the table for ages and are now preparing to break into a sung grace. I'm saved at the last minute from committing an unpardonable social error.

There is more talk about me as we chew away and get up from our seats for second and third platefuls. Is he an actor? Fay is asked. Apparently my English is so clear that they can easily understand what I am saying.

The ladies speak so highly of Fay and say how she is much missed at the church where earlier in the morning she has dispensed generous 'pasalubongs'. I make the usual comments, expressing my appreciation of her but they like it when I tell them that I am less than enthusiastic about her driving. At first they laugh and exchange quiet comment but then female self-interest comes into play and they spring to her defence because she used always to drive them to Cabanatuan or Gapan or whatever other local hotspot. And who knows, she may do so again. They look at me presumably assessing how I look in health terms and no doubt wondering how long it will be until the widowed Ate Fay returns with her driving licence. They mustn't jeopardise the future.

[After lunch we returned home.]

At home the six ladies stayed only twenty minutes, enough time to work their way through more handbags, dresses, shoes, holding them up to the light, inspecting, comparing and rejecting, until finally most were satisfied though one never did get a nice big handbag to take on a forthcoming visit to her daughter in Manila. Another took a pink dress of Fay's for her daughter who had some or other function to attend.

These ladies selecting their 'pasalubongs' do not have the appearance of poor women. They are smart, in decent print dresses, and you might imagine them as Women's Institute or Mothers Union members on an outing but boy, did they show some energy in finding a good present for themselves and they were not afraid to turn up their noses at anything which did not meet their requirements.

After they went, Fay was a little miffed. It was all very well but only two of the ladies were relatives and the other four should have taken their pick at the earlier distribution in church!

And if you haven't run out of patience, do have a look at my reviews on Amazon. And no, they not all from fromfriends an relatives!!

A VIRGIN IN THE PHILIPPINES

Just as if it was yesterday, it’s all ice-clear in my mind. A dark, dank, drizzling winter’s afternoon in the town and there was this great procession coming along the road and my Uncle Bob was at the head of it. Right at the front he was, looking so important in his top hat, his frock coat and his striped trousers and carrying a silver-topped cane. The way he walked you’d think he was the most important person there, more important than the chauffeur of the fine car with the wooden box inside, more important than any of the straggle of people shuffling along behind in their damp clothes, not one of them looking as grand as my Uncle Bob who looked to be the only person there on whom the rain wasn’t falling.

You’ve no idea how proud I felt. He was leading this great crowd of people. It was so wonderful. ‘Uncle Bob! Hello, Uncle Bob,’ I shouted but he never looked over in my direction, just kept up the proud peacock strut, his head high, his shoulders straight.

I thought I might go over to him, to ask what he was doing because I’d never seen him in such a fancy outfit before and I was just about to step off the pavement and into the road when my mother snatched my hand. ‘Behave yourself,’ she whispered, her other hand shaking my shoulder.

‘It’s Uncle Bob,’ I told her. Perhaps she hadn’t realised that he was the one leading the procession. Perhaps she didn’t know he was so important.

‘Come along,’ she said, putting on her angry mother’s face. ‘Fancy shouting in the street like that.’ She dragged me away along the road. ‘Such behaviour,’ she said.

And that’s the first memory I have of seeing a funeral. It’s about 80 years ago now but it’s still sharp in my mind. Of course the mourners in those days didn’t have cars to take them to the cemetery so most walked behind the hearse, often a hundred or more of them, all of them proclaiming their grief with a black band or a diamond of cloth sewn on the sleeves of their coats. Many close relatives of the dead would continue wearing sober clothing with the black bands for perhaps a year.

In the Philippines I’ve been reminded so much of those old funerals that people like my Uncle Bob directed. There is still the sense of occasion in that country that our funerals used to project, still the solemn procession but of course with certain differences.

In my book, A VIRGIN IN THE PHILIPPINES, I describe some of the funerals which passed our house.  

‘What a lot of funerals I've seen here. What a send-off the dead get. We've had two today and I have such a fine view from upstairs. I dash up to the terrace every time I hear the music of the brass band.

Today the procession was headed by about thirty slow-moving tricycles. Then came half a dozen men in baseball caps and green T-shirts. Next we had the usual leggy drum majorettes, short skirts, high boots and all looking as if they were on loan from a Fourth of July parade so many thousands of miles away.

Today's brass band - one of the fifteen which the town boasts - wore glossy purple jackets and white trousers. In the last two months I must have seen pretty well every band, each with its own garish outfit, tootling their clarinets, puffing down or up their Sousaphones, blowing at their trombones and beating hell out of their drums.

After this came the hearse, a big white affair topped as ever with white balloons and a photograph of the dear departed and bearing a coffin, this time oak or what looked like oak. As ever, the mourners walked behind, the women with their brightly coloured umbrellas showing up like some extravagant mobile flower bed.’

Some similarities and some differences to what I saw all those long years ago.

And by the way, the family undertaking business started by my grandfather in the late-1800s still exists in South Shields but it has undergone quite enormous changes, just as our lives have done.

The book, A VIRGIN IN THE PHILIPPINES, is on Amazon and Smashwords now - 40,000 words by WH Johnson for peanuts (77p)! And it’s worth every peanut for Leonardo Malgapo’s cover and illustrations alone.

Find the book on Amazon at

http://www.amazon.com/author/whjohnson
or on Smashwords on
http://smashwords.com/books/view/152237
Website: http://johnniejohnson.co.uk

There’s a FREE copy to anyone willing to forward the details of the book to at least 40 of their email/Facebook friends. Just let me know via the email address on my website. Tell me if you want it to your computer screen or your ereader and I’ll send you a copy.