Will Self is never a cosy read, and The Book of Dave is no exception. Its central conceit is that, in a Britain where the waters rose calamitously centuries ago, the primitive people who inhabit what’s left of England have founded a religion based on the sacred texts of Dave, a depressed cab driver. The text is Dave’s rants about his miserable life, and as a kind of coda, he’s added the “knowledge” which becomes the mantra of all true believers. The novel veers unexpectedly between various dates in the late 20th century and various dates in the 5th century after Dave. What makes this novel noteworthy, though, is the language (Mokni) used by the Hamsters (residents of what was Hampstead) in the future. It’s a bizarre mix of cod cockney and oddly childish chat, the cockney being rendered almost like Dickens with Sam Weller. Self uses an idiosyncratic spelling system, and some strange diacritical marks to render it. The result is at once oddly familiar and rather unsettling. “Ow mennë tymes av Eye erred all vis bollox … iss gotta B a fouzand aw maw”. No wonder the French translator gave up… It’s funny quite often, but more frequently stomach-churning. A graphic slaughter scene in the opening chapter sets the precedent for several other set pieces of visceral violence. The novel to which it clearly owes a large debt is Russell Hoban’s Riddley Walker and it comes as no surprise to discover that Self wrote a preface for the reissue of that book a few years ago. In the end, a clever idea is over-cooked. The book could do with being trimmed, and perhaps it would have been graceful to acknowledge its relation to the Hoban book, even down to the maps which begin both narratives.
I’ve always respected the pig as a very noble beast, but a bit unwieldy for the suburban house. These miniature ones are the answer. If you could epitomise cuteness in a picture, this would be a contender.
Another despatch from the department of the bleeding obvious. In other news: Pope confirms he is Catholic shock; Bears discovered defecating in woods horror.
When I found myself agreeing with what a high court judge said about daytime TV – and in particular Jeremy Kyle- I thought it was probably yet another indication, along with the gammy knee, of advancing years. Turns out it’s worse than the judge thought- and he called it bear-baiting. This account is actually quite shocking. In other news, I’m gearing up to asking a young colleague “who are the Arctic Monkeys?”
I was sent some publicity material by the academic jobs website jobs.ac.uk. One of the items is a calendar, on which is printed a series of patronising “tips”- sample tip for writing CVs: “Don’t use meaningless introductions”. Doh! THAT’s why I never got that vice-chancellor’s job! My favourites, though have to be the number 1 and number 4 top tips for CVs: 1. Don’t apply for a job your not qualified for 4. Don’t forget to check for spelling and typos
To the Royal Exchange on Friday, for the award of the first Edge Hill Short Story prize organised by my friend and colleague Ailsa Cox, and presented by AL Kennedy. It was a very pleasant evening – wine was consumed, canapés eaten, shoulders rubbed with the famous. The prize was awarded to Mothers and Sons by Colm Toibin, who made a witty off the cuff acceptance speech, in the course of which he used the throwaway line, “anyone can write a novel”. Up to a point, I think… The associated conference took place the following day, and went well. Two of the short-listed authors, Tamar Yellin and Nicholas Royle, read from their work in between academic papers and experimental pieces. The rain mostly held off, and the Edge Hill ducks performed well, eliciting coos of delight from visitors.
