Deep & Meaningless

“Writing is like everything else: the more you do it the better you get. Don’t try to perfect as you go along, just get to the end of the damn thing. Accept imperfections. Get it finished and then you can go back. If you try to polish every sentence, there’s a chance you’ll never get past the first chapter.” ― Iain Banks

Welcome to my story. Written entirely by me, not by some other person, some legendary author or novelist, just me. And while this is a book by me, it is not necessarily about me. It is a tale of growing up. It is a tale of realisation and understanding. It is an odyssey that will take you beyond the stars, as well as to one or two salubrious bars.

I attempt to convey nothing and the little I do might resonate or it might not. I make no promises. I am merely the delivery mechanism, the conduit for the narrative. I make no bones about that. As you can see, it has a beginning. It also has a middle, if you get that far. But I won’t necessarily promise an ending. Or at least not one you will like.

That, though, is not to say it won’t end. It will. At around or about 130,000 words. Now if, like me, you are a bit geeky about these things, 130,000 words is too long for a mere holiday page turner and too short for your classic science fiction or fantasy novel. Lord of the Rings comes in at a hefty 455,125 words for instance and many of them are made up.

My dad wrote books that long.

He’s the famous one in the family.

Me, I’m not much of anybody. Or at least that’s what I’m starting to realise.

I used to think that, like my father, I would be a famous novelist one day – scoop a Nebula, Booker or even a Pulitzer. But the reality is a little different, as the 130,000-odd words you are about to read will tell you. If you have the patience that is.

You see this book isn’t about me becoming the next Dan Brown, or EL James, it’s about me writing the book I want. As a good friend once said to me, “it’s about being true to your art, not about selling records”. Ok, he was talking about music, but you get my drift.

So here it is. I might not be too direct; I might take detours on the way. Provide little anecdotes to frame what I’ve been doing in these 42 years of my life. But, for me, that will be hard work. I’m not sure if, across his 17 or so novels, dad ever found it tough. I never asked him. And we’re not on speaking terms anymore, for reasons beyond my control and that I am not going to give away before you even get stuck in.

So what can I promise? Space, battles, war, unrest. As well as the usual love, loss, good times and bad. A few quotes from famous movies and excerpts from books that you might not have read. That and a few good pubs.

Pint one. The Old Anchor.

“So how much then?” Iain asked, putting two pints of beer on the table and stepping over his bar stool like an Olympic hurdler. He lowered his mouth to his pint and supped some foam from the top.

“About £50k after agent fees I think,” I said sipping what looked like a suspiciously badly pulled pint. I winced slightly at the moldy taste. “I think this is off.”

“Well you insisted on coming here”, said Iain.

We weren’t in our usual post work boozer which was cordoned off as a crime scene. Two policemen had been shot outside the previous night, the suspects were on the run. So while The Old Anchor was a compromise in terms of good beer, it wasn’t something to grumble about.

“Look around you,” I said, sweeping an arm around the unglamorous and pretty soulless London boozer. It was 5.45pm on a Wednesday evening and the pub was busy with post-work drinkers.

“What do you mean?” Iain laughed looking around himself.

“Well, I’ll give you a clue. There are three over at that table and I’m convinced one keeps looking this way,” I said.

“You and women. You are such a teenager Mickey. You fall in love at least three times a night,” he laughed, then pulled a face as he tasted his pint.

“At least,” I said, taking another cautious sip.

“You want me to take it back?” Iain asked.

“Only if yours is poor too. Did you have the same?”

“Yep, the Pride. Only beer on,” he said.

“I thought I saw Pitchfork, or some other strange beast.”

“Pipes are being cleaned apparently, or a new barrel – something like that.”

“Wish they had cleaned the pipes on the Pride. This stuff’s horrible.”

“Mine too, I’ll take it back. You want a lager?”

“Only if there’s something German. Otherwise a Guinness.”

Iain loped off back to the bar. It was a bright May evening, the British summer time was kicking in and hadn’t reached that stage where the rain set in. It had been a hot week so far, which had people out and about. And here I was, a 40-something year old guy ogling women almost half my age.

Pint two. Still in the Anchor

“Sorry mate, Guinness it is.”

“No problem. Look they’re leaving.”

Iain takes a sneaky peek over his shoulder. “Shame. We could’ve skipped these and gone somewhere else,” he said.

“Where were you thinking of?”

“The Dog & Duck probably. They’ve got a shedload of ales.”

“Right, after these we’ll head to the Dog. Bit of an old man’s boozer though,” I complained.

“And how old are you?”

“Cheeky fuck, I’m 41. Alright, Dog it is.”

“So when’s it coming out?”

“Hmm?” I said, enjoying the first sip of the black stuff.

“End of next year probably. It’s in pre-production. Still going over the script and that, still casting. And just to put you straight, the script is hardly a masterpiece compared with what my dad wrote,” I said. “I’m trying to get them to get rid of some of the more outrageous changes, but you know Hollywood.”

“I don’t actually,” Iain chided. “But don’t shout too loudly, it’s your bread and butter isn’t it?”

“Unoriginal crap, but yes,” I said.

“And what about your book, how’s that coming?”

“Under revision – again. Liz doesn’t like the tone. Too violent apparently.”

Liz is my agent and old family friend; Iain has met her a few times. They seem to have good ‘bants’, as the kids would say. Banter to you and me.

“Is she right?” He asked idly playing with a lock of his long black hair. I used to have long hair, back in the day, back in ’Nam – Cheltenham.

“Probably, but it’s hard to write about aliens harvesting neanderthals for body parts without getting a little graphic.”

“And the humans are the heroes right?” Iain asked. He was a bigger geek than me, probably. I didn’t let him read anything I wrote though; unless you count Visions of Aurora, but dad wrote that, I just added a forward.

“Homo sapiens, yes. They are the alien’s slaves at the start of it, but the alien overlords become more and more decadent over the course of the book and are eventually overthrown by them.”

“Sounds a bit L Ron Hubbard to me,” Iain said. I winced internally and took another sip of Guinness.

“A bit maybe. Liz said the same,” I said. “But if it sells a few million copies to that lot then who cares. Hubbard had some funny ideas, but his books were pretty entertaining.”

“C’mon, drink up,” said Iain, “I want to get a real pint.”

Pint three. The Rose & Crown

“I thought you wanted to go to the Dog?” I asked, as we headed into the brass and mirrors of the Rose & Crown. “A bit touristy in here.”

“So what,” said Iain. “They do a good pint and it’s on the way to the Dog.”

“Yes lads,” said the barman.

“What do you want mate?” I asked. The Rose & Crown is a good real ale pub, nestled on the corner of Wardour Street and St Anne’s Court in Soho and a bit of regular stop off when we drank in this part of town, which was most of the time.

“I’ll have a Sheep,” Iain said. Black Sheep, an award-winning beer from Marsham in North Yorkshire. The pint in the Rose & Crown usually travelled well.

“I’m going to try the Rutland Intruder,” I said to the barman. “And a Black Sheep please.”

The barman headed off to pull the pints.

“Get some nuts will you,” Iain said, eying the place for a seat

“You could’ve said when he was in front of me,” I chided.

“Just occurred, sorry,” he said, shrugging. He’s a gangly six feet five, enhanced by an almost new leather jacket.

“Here you go,” said the barman, delivering two well-pulled pints. “£8.20 please.”

It’s my turn to roll my eyes. “And two packets of dry roasted please,” I added, passing Iain his pint. “Typical that we come to the really expensive pub when it’s my round. And peanuts too,” I said acting hurt.

“Shut yer whinging, you just made £50k by being the son of a famous author.”

“True,” I conceded. “Here’s to living in my father’s shadow,” I said raising my glass.

Iain raises his glass.

“£11.80 thanks,” added the barman.

Pint four. The Galleon

“Bit crowded in here,” I said, slowly elbowing my way through the crowd to towards the bar.”

“S’a band on at the Forum,” said Iain. He always began to slur after a couple of pints.

We had abandoned Soho and hopped on tube to Camden, the Dog would have to wait until another time.

“Then it’ll thin out soon. Go get ’em son,” I said shoving as best I could his mighty bulk towards the bar.

I spied a tall table with no stools but space to stand and headed for it. “Excuse me, mind your backs,” I warned.

A lone female, a bit gothy, stood by the table. I smiled at her as I approached. I got a brief smile in return but she turned back. Oh well.

My friends might disagree, but in a good light I’m probably a seven and, when I’m not tongue-tied, I can be quite a funny charming guy. But goth girl didn’t bother to find out, or indeed wait for me to stand in a good light.

I spotted Iain, looming back from the bar, bag of crisps in his mouth and a pint and a shot in each of his hands. I raised an arm and he nodded, cleaving a path to me.

He dropped the crisps and nodded slightly at the goth while looking at me. I smiled and gave a brief shrug.

“So d’ye get credits on this one?” He asked. He had switched back to the movie on the Tube.

“I think so. Thanks for the chaser, always welcome,” I said.

“Well you were whining in the last one, thought I’d better sort you out,” Iain said.

“Sorry mate,” I said patting his shoulder. “I just want to be recognized for what I can do. I’m a bloody great writer!”

I felt a bit merry once the whisky kicked in, and a packet of Nobby’s and half a packet of crisps does not make a dinner.

“I know mate,” said Iain. “But most of us would give our back teeth t’have a steady income like you.”

“Yeah, I shouldn’t whine, I know,” I conceded. “I just want to get out of freelancing. Magazines are dull and boring.”

“Thanks mate, that’s all I’ve got,” Iain said.

“S’not true man, you’ve got your band. What are you called again? Schrodinger’s Spats?”

“That was the last one. We split up.”

“Shit, sorry,” I said. I felt like a wanker. I often forget how lucky I was.

“S’alright man, got a new one.”

“So, there, you see – you’ve got something else, a creative route I mean,” I said, desperate to cling on to something.

“Maybe,” Iain said.

“So what’s this one called?”

“Fractal Landing,” Iain said, without a trace of irony.

“Nice,” I said.

“Y’think so? Not sure I like it myself,” he said.

“What were the alternatives?” I asked. In the ten years I’ve known Iain he’s been in probably ten or 15 bands.

“Silk Litter came close,” he said.

“Ok, I like that. What was that other one you used to be in, About the Dogs or something?” I said.

“Nah, you mean Canine Hero and the Independent Edge,” he said.

“Right, that’s it. Whatever happened to the Canine Hero?” I asked.

“Disappeared. Up his own arse probably,” he said.

“Probably for the best,” I said. “He was a bit of a poser.”

Pint five. Still the Galleon

“You should go solo man,” we were outside puffing on Iain’s rollies. I ‘gave up’ a few months ago, but when I drink I can’t help myself. Still smoke weed too, but not when I’m drinking. Actually, giving up is probably an exaggeration. I still smoke at work sometimes too. Almost given up.

“Solo’s for famous bands,” Iain said.

“But you’re kinda well known aren’t you?”

“If I was well known I wouldn’t be working at II would I?” Iain said. II – Insurance Investor – is the magazine we work on.

“But you know people right?”

“Not really,” Iain said. “Not enough anyway. And not the right people. Sure bands I’ve been in have had an EPs and some gigs, but that’s it. And besides I’m a bassist.”

I took a squinty look at Iain. His (now slightly mulleted) long hair and crooked nose don’t really make for an album cover.

“What about the composing?” I asked.

“S’not enough of it and it doesn’t pay.”

“Here,” I said, reaching into my pocket and pulling out a tatty card along with about £3 in change. “You should call this guy.”

Iain eyed the card suspiciously, rollie hanging out of his mouth. “Who is it?”

“Some sort of exec producer at the studio making the film. He might be able to set you up for some film score or whatever.”

“Thanks man, you gotta start somewhere I suppose”, said Iain shoving the card in his pocket.

He held his half empty glass in front of him swaying slightly. He examined it for a few seconds then downed it. “One for the road?”

“Why not. My round.” I headed back in.

My phone was ringing. Back in Black by AC/DC, dragging me back to consciousness after my night out with Iain. I’m sorry, I’m a bit of a geek as you may have noticed and Iron Man is a very good film. That and I do like a bit of metal. Not that I’m a metal head or anything.

I reached for my phone. Caller ID said it is Big Rossi. Ross McKendrick, my dealer since high school, my friend from 5 years old. His nickname is his own, but the Big is really just his own ego, he is, in fact, just over 5’2”; though he claims he’s 5’4” – and skinny, almost wiry these days.

I answered: “Rossi, how you doing.”

My head hurt, I was hungry too. Glad I wasn’t working today.

Rossi was quiet for a few seconds, then… “Well you know.”

He’s a man of few words on the phone.

“I was thinking of popping round later,” I said. I take a regular quarter off him once a month. Too busy these days for serious smoking.

More of a pause.

“Yeah that would be good,” he said. “Come round about two.”

“Might be a bit later,” I said. “I have to see Liz at 11am and that usually means lunch.”

“Sound,” he said and hung up. Not one for goodbyes is Rossi.

Rossi is an odd fellow. As I said, I’ve known him since I was five, back in the ’Nam. Well technically Bishops Cleeve, but never mind.

We were in primary school when we first met and travelled up the years together, primary, middle school, then high school at Cleeve. We were in the same classes in our third year, but when it came to GCSE options we got split up. I don’t like to blow my own trumpet, but Rossi isn’t the brightest spark. Funny, and sometimes fairly sharp, but he is no MENSA candidate.

I say I’ve known him. To be fair, we used to knock around as little kids and again as teenagers, but he got much more into his drugs than me. I’ve always liked a smoke (less now that you can only get stupid strength skunk), but after dabbling a little with acid and more so with E (who didn’t – it was the 1990s), I kind of realised that beer and pubs was much more my thing.

Sure we hung out with him a lot in the Cheltenham beer gardens on hot days and he was a friend for sure, but he was always skinning up under the tables and sloping off to smoke, while the rest of us chatted in the sun.

I would sometimes join him, but being stoned absolutely destroys my ability to talk to strangers, especially women – or girls as they were then.

When I went to uni in Nottingham, I would only see Rossi when I ran dry and headed back to top up. He came up once, but despite turning over a fair deal of cash, he always seemed to be skint. Then I found my own local source and realized that mine and Rossi’s friendship had become no more than dealer-customer.

In fact, I had almost forgotten all about him until in 2007 I ran into him one Friday night between Christmas and New Year in Soho.

The Dog & Duck, December 2007 – Pint 7

I had spent Christmas up in Nam, staying with mum, a very pregnant Jessie and her husband Danny in mum’s two-bed flat on Montpellier. But after three nights on a sofa bed I longed for the comfort of home. I called Iain from train to arrange a pint.

We had been to see the surprisingly good I Am Legend at the big Odeon on Leicester Square. The showing was early, so we naturally drifted to the boozers of Soho afterwards.

We were a few pints in when we reached the Dog & Duck.

The Dog & Duck is one of many London boozers that claims to be London’s smallest pub and it is pretty bloody small, especially in that interstitial time of Christmas to New Year.

Iain was at the bar and I was cramped in a corner by the front door, considering Iain’s golumesque form at the bar. I don’t mean Gollum, from Tolkein’s mythos, but more as a humanoid creature made of some sort of inanimate mineral and brought to life through magic. I was trying to work out what mineral Iain was created from when I heard my name.

“Mickey.” I turned.

“Mickey.. Mickey.. Pincent,” the bloke in front of me said. He seemed familiar, but as I said I was several pints in.

“It’s me ya twat, Ross. Rossi!,” the guy said.

15 years fell off the figure in front of me. Hair spiked, but short. Super Dry jacket, not a leather, but Rossi it was.

“Fuck me, Ross, long time no see. What you doing in London?” I exclaimed giving him a hug.

“Working mate.” He was beaming from ear to ear. So was I. “I live in Camden.”

“Cool, what are you doing?” I asked.

“I run a bar. Live music and that. You should come up,” Rossi said, clearly animated.

“Cool, what’s it called?” I couldn’t believe I’ve randomly run into Ross bloody McKendrick in Soho, the chances!

“The Apocalypse Lounge, do you know it?” Rossi said.

“Think so, goth bar right?” I asked. I knew the place, it was underneath the railway arches just across the road from the market.

“That’s right,” he said. “I’m well in with the owner.”

Rossi’s in Camden, I lived in High Barnet. I wasn’t sure I wanted to live that close to him.

“You should come up,” Rossi said.

“I will. This is Iain,” I said as he wobbled back through the crowd with our beers.

Iain nodded. He was properly swaying. Rossi looked up at Iain then back to me. “Sound,” he said, nodding back.

“Listen, Mickey, me and me mates,” he gestured to three people cramped at the other end of the bar, “Are heading for Koko. Do you and this man mountain want to come? Some banging tunes and I’ve got some snoochies if you know what I mean.”

“So you still in that business too?” I asked.

“Yep. Hey c’mon it’s been ages,” he said.

I looked at Iain, who kind of shrugged – he was well past clubbing, I thought, I should get him on a train.

“Maybe some other time mate. Listen, give me your number we’ll catch up for a smoke or something,” I said.

“Cool,” he said. I think with a hint of relief. “Give me yours and I’ll put it in my phone now.”

He produced an iPhone, the first I’d seen. I was immediately jealous. I had been thinking about getting one but my contract hadn’t run out yet, sure I could’ve paid my way out of it, but it was the principle. If Rossi had one, then I’d have to get one. My Nokia was a bit past it.

We duly exchanged numbers.

“Right, er sound. I’ll give you a bell,” he said and was off.

“Hoos was zat?” Iain slurred.

“Big Rossi,” I said, still a little shocked by running into him.

“Big?” said Iain. “Didn’t look big to me.”

“He wouldn’t. One for the road?”

Iain nodded, finishing his pint.

So that was Big Rossi and that was me sorted for domestic comestibles.