Phil Reed

My friend, Phil Reed, is dead and the planet is poorer for it.

He was one of the wittiest people that I’ve ever encountered, so supportive of anything that I did and I can't quite believe that he's gone.

 We bonded over a mutual love of Red Dwarf and Alan Partridge. We never met in person, but emailed each other almost weekly. From thousands of miles apart, we plotted a podcast that neither of us knew how to record, an epistolary novel that we convinced ourselves already existed somewhere and a series of books about underrated art which failed to set Kickstarter alight. I was never disappointed when these things didn’t come to fruition, because there would always be another idea. Until now.

Phil was so modest and interested in people. He used his corner of the internet to review geeky independent publications and interviewed those striving to make their own work, alongside more mainstream fare. He was also incredibly talented, but please don’t just take my word for it. His website is a treasure trove of the best literary criticism that the internet has to offer.

We can all react to a piece of art, but far fewer of us can create another in response to it. Phil elevated criticism. When he wrote about Alf with the same integrity and intention as he did Breaking Bad. I initially thought it was a one off joke, but when he went on to write hundreds of articles about the alien puppet, each funnier than the last and far better than the source material, it became apparent that Phil didn’t just see Alf as a trivial TV footnote, but as a wasted opportunity.

Phil's articles would make you think. He always had an angle that I had never considered, even on a text that I was very familiar with. I didn't agree with him about Alien³, but I really had to think about why. His Fiction Into Film articles on film adaptations and those on the films of Wes Anderson are frankly peerless. He wrote extensively and enthusiastically about computer games that meant nothing to me and I was gratified when Triple Jump hired him to write for them on the subject.

I wrote a handful of articles for his website. I still owe him one about Vineland by Thomas Pynchon. The sense of guilt I feel about that is utterly pointless and yet punishing.

I proofread one of his novels. It was so good. It was an absolute pleasure and a privilege. I presume that the final text is languishing on a hard drive somewhere and I find myself thinking about John Kennedy Toole’s mother.

Over the years he had expressed an interest in coming to the UK, sometimes to visit, sometimes permanently. In recent weeks this had stepped up a gear and I had been researching visas. The reversal of Roe vs Wade had been a turning point for him and although I knew that the grass wasn’t really any greener here, I wanted to help him in any way I could. I knew he was fragile when we talked over zoom and I didn’t imagine he could outrun what was worrying him, but I confess that I thought if he was here the novelty might be a welcome distraction and arrogantly I thought I could help better in person.

 I’m trying to take solace from the fact that in some way this is what he wanted, but it’s much easier said than done. It’s fitting I suppose that someone who lived so much of his life online, would post his suicide note there, but that doesn’t make it any easier to read.

I will miss him. 

http://noiselesschatter.com/

Carruthers Ten Years On: February 2009

February 2009

I'd clearly gotten into a bit of a routine of searching for things that could lead to multiple post and Pursue was no different. An abuse of a Trivial Pursuit card, which wasn't particularly funny and I probably only posted it because I realised I could include upside down text. I would like to take this opportunity to apologise to Phil Reed.

Other than that, it was a pretty lean month, probably because I was waiting for the Rehearsals footage to arrive. I like this one and the title of this one.

Yule Never Leave

Merry Christmas, one and all. What could be more Christmassy than a revisit of another article that I wrote in 2012 for Noiseless Chatter? This time about The League Of Gentlemen's Christmas Special.

In the run up to Christmas in the year 2000, The League Of Gentlemen published A Local Book For Local People and I wanted it. I was pretty certain that I wouldn’t get it for Christmas as my mother was unlikely to buy me a book that purported to be wrapped in human skin. It’s a scrapbook collecting together newspaper articles, leaflets, postcards and letters about, to and from the people of Royston Vasey. It’s fantastic. I can’t recommend it highly enough. Comedy tie-in books are never this good. I bought it as a Christmas present to myself and pored over every page. Nestled towards the back of the book is an illustrated short story called The Curse Of Karrit Poor, which I skipped right over. I looked at the pictures, but I never read a word of it and I can’t explain why.

I eagerly awaited The League Of Gentlemen’s Christmas Special that year and when it finally arrived I was not disappointed. The opening sequence gives us Royston Vasey in the snow, a mutilated robin, yellow snow and a controversial Nietzsche quote on the church noticeboard. It’s a very cinematic sequence in a very cinematic episode of a very cinematic TV show and a step up from some of the other quick gags that opened earlier episodes.

It’s Christmas Eve in Royston Vasey and Bernice Woodall, the town’s vicar, is visited by three characters each seeking solace. Bernice is a fascinating choice to be our guide. The joke that the irreverent Reverend with lipstick on her teeth and a confessional full of cigarettes is presumably an Atheist and possibly the least charitable person in an uncharitable town is one that wouldn’t have sustained her for an hour. We see her character develop here as a result of each of her three Christmas encounters.

Charlie enters the church to deliver a very late and myrrhless nativity scene and takes the opportunity to tell Bernice about a recurring dream he’s been having. We cut to Charlie and Stella line dancing, putting up Christmas decorations and arguing. Charlie and Stella are among my favourite characters and I absolutely love that they get this first vignette. Reece Shearsmith and Steve Pemberton gave their relationship such depth that it always deserved to be explored further. The initial idea of the earlier sketches of the couple arguing for the benefit of a third party grows into to a brilliant short story with a fantastic twist. Liza Tarbuck, the Eyes Wide Shut coven who do voodoo and Stella’s mask are all wonderful, while the slow hand clap is unremittingly bleak.

We return to the church for one of my favourite moments in the entirety of television history: Charlie’s pause and subsequent answer to Bernice asking “In your heart of hearts, do you love your wife?”

Charlie departs and is soon replaced by another storyteller. Andrew Melville is fantastic as the old Matthew Parker, but I must confess that for years I was convinced it was Mark Gatiss in heavy make-up. He takes us back to 1975 in Duisberg in Germany and into the home of Herr Lipp. This is another short tale with another brilliant twist that I certainly didn’t see coming and a raft of sexual innuendo and references to Vampire films. Gatiss and Shearsmith are wonderful as Frau Lipp and young Matthew Parker respectively, but the truly astonishing thing about this segment is that Pemberton manages to take a grotesque character, not to mention a sexual predator, like Herr Lipp and yet give him a genuine sense of pathos all the while being very funny into the bargain.

Herr Lipp: Sometimes the inside of something can be beautiful, even if the package isn’t…well…isn’t.

And later:

Matthew: Leave me alone.
Herr Lipp: I will try.

Out goes Parker and in comes a bloodied Chinnery for our third story as the vet tells the vicar about his great-grandfather.

Bernice: Oh God, it’s getting like bloody Jackanory in here.

The resulting tale is as rich and classy a slice of Victoriana as the BBC has ever produced. Frances Cox, Freddie Jones, Boothby’s bicycle, “next door,” and seeing Chinnery as his own great-grandfather are all great.

Boothby: Now then, lad. Old Majolica sings your praises and that’s good enough for me. I can offer you a hundred a year, food, lodgings and unlimited use of a bicycle. What do you say?
Chinnery: I’d be delighted.
Boothby: Capital! I think we’ll get along well. There is only one other matter, my senior partner, Mr. Purblind, is an invalid. He occupies the last room on the third floor. He never stirs from his bed from dawn till dusk…save to go for a wee.
Chinnery: You wish me to visit him?
Boothby: On no account! Mr. Purblind is a very sick man. The slightest disturbance is abhorrent to him. Do you hear me?
Chinnery: Yes, sir.
Boothby: All my doors are open to you, Chinnery. Except the ones that are closed.

For their part, Shearsmith and Pemberton’s creations Boothby and Majolica are wonderful, with the former’s bicycle obsession and the latter’s evil echo of Series Three’s Dr. Carlton being particular highlights.

Purblind: Touch them and see!
Chinnery: No…no, I…I mustn’t!
Purblind: Feel them! Feel the knackers!

In spite of his warning (and probably because of it), Chinnery later finds himself in Purblind’s room where the old man tells him the story of how he came to be cursed to kill every animal he came into contact with. The effect of Purblind’s story builds through the brilliant use of shadow puppets to the surprising reveal of a unique necklace and via a gleeful moment of Freddie Jones swearing. Chinnery feels the knackers and unwittingly takes Purblind’s curse upon himself, but dismisses the possibility as “cheap mummery.” His return to his London practise and a simple surgical tap that is but “the work of moments” causes an animal massacre of epic proportions.

Majolica: Another vet has touched the monkey’s bollocks. And now you and all your descendants shall suffer the curse of Karrit Poor!

There’s that name again. Every time I watch this I mean to search out my copy of A Local Book For Local People to read about the curse of Karrit Poor in The Curse Of Karrit Poor. I never do. We return to the present day and Bernice convinces Chinnery to get back to work.

Throughout its first two series, the show referenced and alluded to a great many horror films, but uses its Christmas Special to pay tribute to an often overlooked subgenre: the portmanteau film. These are films made up of shorter stories united by framing device. It was a subgenre that I was previously unaware of, but examples include Dr. Terror’s House Of Horrors (1964), The House That Dripped Blood (1970), Tales From The Crypt (1972), New York Stories (1989) and Four Rooms (1995).

The absence of Tubbs and Edward really allows some of the other characters to flourish and the portmanteau sequences allow the Gentlemen to have their cake and eat it too. Did those events happen as described? Will Stella be framed for murder? Is Herr Lipp a Vampire now? Is Chinnery’s inability to keep a patient alive the result of the curse? Possibly, but would it really matter if the only thing that really happened were the sequences set in the church? I don’t think so, because they are arguably the most horrific of all.

The framing story of Bernice has given us flashbacks to her childhood and reveals that her mother was abducted at Christmas when she was eight years old. She is invited by three visitors to reassess her attitude to Christmas and she does mellow as the evening wears on. To the point that she inspires Chinnery, plans to do nice things for her parishioners on Christmas Day and, potentially a first, she apologises to someone. Bernice’s childhood catches up with her as Santa Claus comes to town again and this time he takes her away with him. Papa Lazarou’s fleeting appearance here serves to cement him as one of the most horrifying television monsters. Not only does he steal Christmas, but he undermines everything that has happened to Bernice all night. Even after the life changing visits of Scrooge’s three ghosts, it would probably have brought his new demeanour to a brief conclusion if he had been kidnapped and inserted into an elephant on Christmas Day.

There was a definite shift in style as the series progressed. While the first series could be legitimately described as a sketch show, the second was more of a sitcom. Now with the benefit of hindsight it’s easy to see the Christmas special as the bridge between that and the more comedy drama style of Series Three. Not least because they dropped the laughter track and the funny thing is that you barely notice here

The three onscreen members of The League Of Gentlemen are rightly applauded for their acting abilities, indeed we can all be grateful that three of Britain’s best actors were on screen at the same time, but in complimenting that aspect of the show let’s not ignore the writing and the fourth Gent, Jeremy Dyson.

The genius of The League Of Gentlemen is their juxtaposition of highbrow and lowbrow. They can take a brilliantly intricate and rewarding story about voodoo revenge and dismiss it as a cheese dream. They can take a potentially one note character with pun for a name and single entendre dialogue and play him with complexity and honesty. They can make a sumptuous Victorian horror story full of intrigue and have the entire thing revolve around the cupping of a monkey’s lovespuds. They can take something as potentially sentimental and syrupy as a Christmas special, force its bitter central character through the wringer, make her learn a lesson and then ultimately prove her right all along. They take a central tenet of sitcom, that characters don’t develop, and then they earn it.

Here I am twelve years later and I’ve finally gotten around to reading The Curse Of Karrit Poor in A Local Book. I liked it. Not more than the TV version, but I liked it. The one thing I found most comforting and reassuring was that it also takes both the high road and the low road.

“A story so fantastic that it might seem to have sprung from the ravings of some brain fevered Eastern mystic. Or a twat.”
– From The Curse Of Karrit Poor, being the reminiscences of “Dr Edmund Chinnery R.C.V.S.”

"Ruud Gullit Sitting On A Shed?"

Three years ago, I wrote this for Noiseless Chatter and I'm unashamedly recycling it here. I can't quite believe it was so long ago, but reading it back it still reflects my views on the Father Ted Christmas special.

After two phenomenal series Father Ted was awarded with a feature-length Christmas special, and so on Christmas Eve in the year of our Lord 1996, a fifteen-year-old me sat down in front of the television set to watch Father Ted. I loved it. I still do. I watch it every year and it’s still as great as ever.

I could wax lyrical about all the great things in A Christmassy Ted, and so I’m going to. Dougal versus the Christmas tree lights, Mrs Doyle’s window sill dismounts, “Gifts for husbands, like pipes and slippers,” Dougal’s weird familial one-liners, Priest Chatback, a Glittery Dougal, “So a protestant is better than me!”, Dougal presiding over a funeral, Ted’s list of everyone who’s fecked him over, Larry Duff skiing, Dougal’s matador stuff, “bizarre irregularities in his accounts,” Ted’s speech, “La Marseillaise,” the shots framed with Todd’s anatomy, “I don’t know. It was just going that way,” Dougal hanging up the phone, etc.

Father Dougal: Can I open another window on the Advent calendar?
Father Ted: All right. But remember, only today’s window.
Father Dougal: Oh! A shepherd! Great! Fantastic stuff! Can I not open the other two?
Father Ted: No, Dougal.
Father Dougal: God, I can’t wait to see what’s under tomorrow’s window. I bet it’s a donkey or something.
Father Ted: Really? So, you’ve changed from your initial prediction of… what was it again? “Ruud Gullit sitting on a shed.” God, Dougal, where do you get these ideas from?

In many ways, however, one of the real strengths of this episode is all the things that it doesn’t do. This is a situation comedy that successfully takes the high road, but brilliantly acknowledges the roads less travelled. For once in a sitcom Christmas special, Christmas is simply the sit and not the source of com. It’s a move acknowledged by the baby that isn’t left on their doorstep and therefore deliberately denying us a version of the Nativity filled with Three Men And A Baby-style high jinks.

Father Ted: A nice quiet Christmas with no unusual incidents or strange people turning up, that would suit me down to the ground.

This episode doesn’t take the easy option at any point. It isn’t yet another retelling of A Christmas Carol, the spirit of Christmas isn’t revealed to any of the characters, and they don’t learn anything. Nor does it try and show the inhabitants of Craggy Island undergoing all the same Christmas rituals as their viewers.

Father Todd Unctious: He gives good mass…he really knows how to work the altar. Look at that chalice work.

When it does acknowledge Christmas it does so in explicitly crass ways such as the jingle bells that are practically bolted onto the opening theme tune, showing the priest’s collective reaction to a televised mass or getting the big guest stars out of the way in the shamelessly conspicuous Ballykissangel opening dream scene and then rapidly replacing them with giant peanuts.

Father Dougal: What’s goin’ on?
Father Terry: I think Ted has a plan.
Father Dougal: No, I mean in general.
Father Terry: Oh, we can’t find a way out of the lingerie section.
Father Dougal: Oh, right.

On subject of pop-culture references, the Mission Impossible cat burglar scene came at a time when such a nod was still new, and most notably the idea of eight priests finding themselves in Ireland’s biggest lingerie section played with the same high stakes as being behind enemy lines in a Vietnam War movie is a stroke of unadulterated genius. Any other sitcom would be happy to rest on those laurels, but Ted is different, and takes us into the bizarre Film Noir flashback confession of Father Todd Unctious.

I was very disappointed to discover that Graham Linehan is not a fan of this episode and feels it is too long. I think he’s a bit hard on it. The extended running time broadens the scope of A Christmassy Ted beyond the other episodes. Between the priestly platoon, the opulence of the “strapped for cash” Vatican and the Golden Cleric scenes the Christmas special has the highest number of priests per square inch of any episode, and they each have their own distinct characters, attributes and motivations.

Mrs Doyle: Father Andy Riley?
Unknown Father: No.
Mrs Doyle: Father Desmond Coyne? Father George Byrne? Father David Nicholson? Father Dick Linlidge?
Unknown Father: I’ll give you a clue.
Mrs Doyle: No clues! I’ll get it in a second. Father Ken Sweeney? Father Neil Hannon? Father Keith Cullen? Father kieran Donnelly? Father Mick McAvoy? Father Jack White?…Father Henry Bigbigging? Father Hank Tree? Father Hiroshima Twinkie? Father Stig Bubblecard? Father Johnny Helzapoppin? Father Luke Duke? Father Billy Furley? Father Chewy Louie? Father John Hoop? Father Hairy Cakelinem? Father Rabulah Conundrum? Father Pee-wee Stairmaster? Father Tri-Peglips? Father Jemimah Ractoole? Father Jerry Twig? Father Spodo Komodo? Father Canabramalamer? Father Todd Unctious?
‘Father Todd Unctious’: Yes!

In any other episode the idea of a character “being vaguely unhappy but not being able to figure out exactly why” might go underexplored, but here it gets the attention it deserves. It’s all done without being pious and not a moment is wasted.

Father Ted: And who’s that Todd Unctious? I didn’t invite him, did you? No, I barred you from inviting people over after that tramp stayed a week when I was away.
Father Dougal: That wasn’t a tramp. That was the Prime Minister of France.

The resulting piece of television is fantastic, but that’s not surprising because there are no bad episodes of Father Ted. Any episode of Father Ted shown at Christmas would have felt sufficiently 'special'. A Christmassy Ted is a fantastic episode, but crucially it’s not very Christmassy, and that’s what makes it so great.

Father Ted: Dougal, fantastic news!
Father Dougal: You’re getting married.
Father Ted: No, I’m no…is that a joke?

Kickstunted

So, Arts In Entertainment is not going ahead despite some valiant efforts. The Kickstarter kickstarted well, but couldn't maintain the momentum. I want to thank those of you that contributed, the other authors and Phil Reed in particular.

Phil's own thank you is here.

I'm disappointed, but encouraged by Phil's words. Despite the not do, Arts In Entertainment represents a hell of a lot of can do. I have another writing project that I'll be launching in the next couple of weeks. It won't be a Kickstarter, but it will be incredibly geeky. And I think it's down to Phil and Arts In Entertainment that I'm even more determined to make a success of it.

The Last Day

It's the last day or so for the Arts In Entertainment Kickstarter campaign, and it's come up a little short.

Do any of you have $4,206 you don't need to hang on to? Or do 4,206 of you have $1 you would care to share?

Bad Cover Version

Phil Reed asked me to think of perks to help convince and cajole people into parting with their hard earned. I didn't come up with much of any note. Phil's response was suggest that I offer to sing the Pulp song of choice into a purchaser's answering machine. I assumed he was joking.

I was wrong.

And so when the Kickstarter went live I scrolled down the list of perks and to my horror discovered that for two hundred of your dollars I will sing a Pulp track of your choice into an answering machine of your choice.

This Is Hardcover

How cool is this?

The answer is, obviously, very. This is the current cover art designed by Mishi Hime for the book I am writing for Noiseless Chatter. To quote Phil the artwork is "subject to change before publication. Rest assured, though; it'll be brilliant." The artwork for the album was controversial and it is only right that the artwork for the book follows suit.

But it will all be for nothing if we don't meet our Kickstarter target.

Chattering

I've been interviewed on Noiseless Chatter regarding my book for Arts In Entertainment. The kickstarter is currently a little under a third funded with ten days to go. We can do this.

If you have an interest in Pulp, I'm Still Here, Titus Andronicus, Synecdoche New York, Mystery Science Theater 3000, Hatsune Miku or Streetfighter II then please consider contributing...

Another Day, Another Dollar

Yesterday, I waxed lyrical about how happy I was that the Kickstarter had crested the thousand dollar mark.

I got up this morning and eagerly checked again to see if it had increased. It had, by one dollar.

You might expect me to be disappointed, but I'm really not. One person wasn't worried about receiving a book, but still wanted to support Phil's idea for Arts In Entertainment. I think that's great.

Here's hoping there are 5,346 like-minded individuals out there.

If you would be interested in contributing between $1 and $5,346 to Arts In Entertainment, please check out the Kickstarter link here.

Grand

I went to sleep (it's this thing I do) and when I awoke the Kickstarter was over a thousand dollars. Five more days like that and we're done. Anyone who pledges at least $10 gets an ebook, at least $15 gets a physical book with pages and a warning about paper cuts and no money changes hands unless we hit our target:

The Kickstarter is here

Phil Reed's Braces

Not pictured.

In other news, Phil Reed has offered a warning of things to come.

The next month or so or so is going to be a very busy one, both for Phil and for Noiseless Chatter. He has the Arts In Entertainment Kickstarter to launch, the Alf obsession to satisfy, the Arts In Entertainment Kickstarter to update, a trip to take, the Arts In Entertainment Kickstarter to update some more, Halloween to celebrate somehow and the Arts In Entertainment Kickstarter to conclude*.

In addition, he has made a pitch video:


He has also clarified the descriptions of the books.

* with good news we hope.

Arts In Entertainment

Phil Reed of Noiseless Chatter fame has announced that he is publishing a series of books of arts criticism with a difference. He's called them Arts In Entertainment.

He's asked me to take part and I'm delighted to be contributing a book about the Pulp album This Is Hardcore, the impact it had on me and my surprise at how it failed to change the world.

It's not just me and it's not just Pulp, Zachary Kaplan will be writing about Synecdoche, New York, Catie Osborn's book concerns Titus Andronicus, Nathan Rabin is writing about I'm Still Here, Matt Sainsbury tells us all about Hatsune Miku and Phil himself is writing a book about Mystery Science Theater 3000.

There are more details to come, but in the meantime you can find out more about Arts In Entertainment here.

Reed Reads Discworld

So this is a bit of a first: a guest post. In a moment I'll leave you in the capable hands of Philip J Reed, whose own site Noiseless Chatter you should definitely visit. As part of a little cultural exchange, we sent each other books. I currently owe Phil a piece about Vineland by Thomas Pynchon and he has kindly written this about his experience reading Terry Pratchett:

---

On Reading Pratchett As A Massive Snob
by Philip J Reed, Noiseless Chatter

I'm a big reader. I almost never have less than one book in my docket at any given time, and often I'm juggling two or more. It's obsessive, I know, but few things in life give me anywhere near the pleasure of a great book. I find myself reading literally any time I find a free moment, and sometimes even re-reading the books I love, tracking down alternate versions as well, just for the chance to read through the same story while carrying around something with slightly different cover art. And unless I one day go totally blind, I can't imagine any of this will ever change for me.

But here's the rub: I'm fiercely territorial about my reading.

Because of that, some have referred to me as a snob. They're welcome to. Especially since...well, they're right. But there's a method to my snobbery. After all, reading is an investment. And though people suggest books to me all the time, and I'm also reading all the time, I can't unilaterally take everybody up on their recommendations. There simply isn't enough time.

People recommend films to me all the time as well, and I watch those. They only take around two hours out of my day, so even if I end up disliking them greatly, there was very little time lost to the experience, and at least now I'm able to talk about it. Ditto music...a full album eats up around an hour and obviously a single song is even less. I can afford to take recommendations when it comes to music. At worst I never think about it again, but at best I find my horizons expanded to encompass a whole other branch of the artform I might never have encountered otherwise. I can watch as many films and listen to as many songs as I like before I die.

But books?

No. Books are an investment. If I read quickly, I might be able to finish a novel in a week. If not, or if it's particularly long, it may take me a month. Maybe more.

A life can be measured in minutes or hours of course...but it can much more easily be measured in months. And that means that every book I read, every book I have read, and every book I will read, represents a tangible portion of my life...and I won't be able to get any of that back. There's a very finite number of books I'll be able to read before I die. I don't know what that number is, but I know it's only getting smaller, and if I did know, I'd probably drive myself insane trying to decide what I need to experience before I go.

For all I know, I may not have enough time left to finish all the books I already want to read. And what about the books I want to read again? There are so many I've tried to enjoy, but failed. Should I go back? I did that a few times...picking up old books that left me dry the first time only to have them become, on a revisitation numbered among my all-time favorites. I can't imagine a world in which I didn't go back to give Gravity's Rainbow another whirl...but what else is out there? What books do I need to revisit before I go? What other books do I need to read for the first time, so I can be disappointed by them, in order to have a chance to read them the second time, at which point my life will be changed? I need more time. There are too many books...and not enough time.

So when I decline a book recommendation, it's because I'm being selfish, yes...but I genuinely do think I'm being selfish for the right reasons. I only have a relatively small number of books I can read before I die. I need to make them count.

Terry Pratchett, as readers of this blog well know, is an author Dave touts regularly. He likes Pratchett a great deal. Additionally, I like Dave a great deal, so I give his recommendations at least some more weight than I would most others. He's a funny guy and our tastes align on enough things that I'm happy to defer to his judgment when he assures me I'll like something. (And I do insist on 100% complete assurance.) It's because of him that I've read two Pratchett novels recently...one on his recommendation, and then the other on his dime.

I've tried reading Pratchett before. Around eight or nine years ago I read The Colour Of Magic, more or less on a whim. I was a big fan of Douglas Adams, somebody else I discovered on a whim, and had heard good things about Pratchett as well. Adams was far more of a humorist than a storyteller -- which is no way is intended, nor could I imagine it, to be an insult -- and he was enough of a humorist that his comedy became somehow profound. It helped to inform my worldview every bit as much as any piece of more serious literature ever would, and that's because the enjoyment he must have had in writing every page was almost tangible. He wasn't just telling jokes...he was creating a universe around those jokes, and having a ball doing it. There's a love there that other authors, including those more respected in literary circles than Adams will ever be, simply never attain. For Adams it came naturally. It was a remarkably impressive creativity that seemed to arrive fully formed, with Adams himself giving it only the smallest polish before it was ready to be enjoyed. And my young self enjoyed it quite a lot.

Perhaps because I had Hitchhiker's on the brain, I didn't bother to ask anyone which Pratchett book to start with...I just looked up the first title in the oppressively comprehensive Discworld series and bought that.

And I didn't like it very much. I think the only reason I finished it at all was because I had the book with me during Wheel Of Fortune tryouts, and that took literally all day. (I didn't end up getting picked for the show, but I did win a visor. It wasn't worth it.) I finished the book, and then only started on The Light Fantastic because I bought them both at the same time. I was feeling optimistic, I guess.

I remember The Light Fantastic being much better, but I also remember not feeling particularly gripped. I certainly didn't feel as though I had to go out and buy the next title, whatever that may be, which I demonstrated by not going out to buy the next title, whatever that may have been.

But life went on, and more and more people began to recommend Pratchett. I'd tell them I couldn't get into him, they'd ask me what I read, and I'd name those two titles which always made them shake their heads and say, "No, you need to read..."

(They'd finish that sentence with the title of another book, in case that wasn't clear.)

Dave recommended Night Watch to me last year, a decision based on a novel project he knew I was working on. I read Night Watch because of that, but I'm still not sure what the connection was. Maybe the connection was just that he knew I'd like it...which, truth be told, is a solid enough connection for me.

And this past Christmas, he bought me Small Gods. I opened the package and immediately decided that, in return, I'd write an essay about the book for his site. I'm currently breaking that promise.

Here's the thing: I really did intend to write an essay about Small Gods. And there's a lot I'd be able to say, particularly on issues of faith, and what it means to believe. And what it means to know. And what it means to understand. There's a lot of impressively complicated musing on the nature of humanity and power in that book, and a brilliant central relationship between an actual god and the only human being who believes in Him among a nation of those who just believe they believe.

But I can't write about it, because it's been too long. I blew through it. And the same thing happened with Night Watch before it.

Reading Pratchett is compulsive. Or at least it's proven to be lately. Remember when I said if I read a book quickly it would take me a week? Night Watch and Small Gods took days. Because on the first day I'd read around 10 pages, and enjoy it. On the second day I'd read 50, because all of a sudden it got really good. And on the third day I'd finish it, because how could I not?

They're not perfect books. And they're not the sorts of things that aspire to change lives. They're the sorts of things, rather, that aspire to enrich lives, and that's what they do.

When I read, I tend to choose books that look difficult. That look challenging and complicated. Books that seem as though they will work against me...books that I'll need to out-think, rather than just read. And because of that, I'd been holding off on giving Pratchett another time.

Sure, maybe I'd like him more if I started with better titles...but would it really challenge me?

And the answer is no. But the more important answer is that that shouldn't matter anyway.

Because Pratchett writes with love. He writes with a comic and ethical urgency. In both Night Watch and Small Gods, we're plopped into interesting situations and then almost immediately swept forward by a current toward some large and looming massive conflict. I want to look around. I want to spend more time with these characters and learn about who they are...but we need to keep moving, because the flow of time is strong and these things are destined to happen.

So I get caught up. There isn't time to look around and write essays and pull flowers apart to see what makes them bloom. Because things are happening...and if we don't keep moving, they'll pass us by.

I like reading Pratchett. And I like it because it's such a simple reminder of such a simple truth: there's love in a great book, and there's fun to be had. There's a world of challenge and complexity out there, and if all you seek is some intellectual chess-match then there's a whole wealth of writers who can coldly provide that.

There are relatively few that can elevate warmth and humor to an artform. And for decades, one's been doing it right under my nose. He's not exempt from criticism, but his methods might well be immune to it.

Because he's having fun. And he's causing us to have fun. And I'd prefer not to sully that with an essay.

I prefer instead to celebrate it with a love letter.

Thanks Terry. And thank you Dave.

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No, Phil. Thank you. Once again I urge you to pay Noiseless Chatter a visit and I'll keep you posted on my half of the bargain...

God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen

Over the last few days Zach, Ben, Phil, Ryan, Jacob and Jeff have treated us to articles about Christmassy episodes of The Simpsons, The Office, American Dad!, Seinfeld, Lost and The Partridge Family respectively as part of Noiseless Chatter's 12 Days of Christmas.

I've written another one, this time about The League Of Gentlemen's excellent Christmas Special from 2000.

It's a brilliant piece of television and I hope I've done it justice. You be the judge.

Phil has another four articles about another four Christmas specials coming up over the next four days.

Feck The Halls...

Phil over at Noiseless Chatter is hosting a series of articles that he has called The 12 Days Of Christmas. They are twelve articles about twelve TV Christmas Specials and I was delighted to be asked to write the first of them.

I chose to write about A Christmassy Ted, the yuletide offering from Father Ted. The episode in question is a masterpiece, but don't just take my word for it. Go and watch it, then take my word for it.

I have another article coming up and I'm very much looking forward to seeing what everyone else has decided to write about.

Fox Pops

Wes Anderson Month continues apace over on Phil Reed's site. Phil is obviously a big fan of Anderson's films, except one. For some reason Phil doesn't like Fantastic Mr Fox and as such it has barely featured in his writings about Anderson's films. Until now.

I've written something in defence of the film on Phil's site. It's not up to Phil's usual standard and I apologise accordingly. It's more of a ramble than a reasoned argument.

"Does This Seem Fake?"

Noiseless chatterer / writer / friend (titles in ascending order of importance) Phil Reed is currently celebrating Wes Anderson Month in the run up to the US release of Moonrise Kingdom. This makes him possibly the only person on the planet not talking about The Avengers.

We were discussing Anderson's films and I asked whether the hallmarks that turn a Wes Anderson film into 'a Wes Anderson film' could prevent it from being a great film in its own right. It was a rhetorical question. This is how we roll.

The question angered Phil and then inspired him to write an article: Art From Artifice. It's very good.

You're welcome, Phil.

Birthright

I've been lucky enough to be one of the first people to read Afterbirth by Philip J Reed. I've been mostly fact-checking, slightly proof-reading and barely helping.

A more in-depth write up with actual content will follow when Afterbirth is delivered. By delivered I mean published. That's exactly the kind of insightful hilarity that people want.



I've fraudulently tagged this as Writing since mine is mostly on hold at the moment.