Soft Top Hard Shoulder (1992)

 

Prick Up Your Ears: The Biography of Joe Orton by John Lahr (Open Road Media 1978)

 

'I used to write false blurbs on the inside of Gollancz books,”Orton remembered. ‘Because I discovered that Gollancz books had blank yellow flaps and I used to type false blurbs on the inside.’ Halliwell told the police: ‘I saw Orton typing on the covers of books. I read what he typed, and I considered it a criticism of what the books contained.’ The target for most of this mischief was Dorothy. Sayers’s Lord Peter Wimsey whodunits:

When little Betty Macdree says that she has been interfered with, her mother at first laughs [Orton wrote on the flap for Clouds of Witness]. It is only something that the kiddy had picked up off television. But when sorting through the laundry, Mrs Macdree discovers that a new pair of knickers are missing she thinks again. On being questioned, Betty bursts into tears. Mrs Macdree takes her to the police station and to everyone’s surprise the little girl identifies P.C. Brenda Coolidge as her attacker. Brenda, a new recruit, denies the charge. A search is made of the Women’s Police Barracks. What is found there is a seven inch phallus and a pair of knickers of the kind used by Betty. All looks black for kindly P.C. Coolidge…What can she do? This is one of the most enthralling stories ever written by Miss Sayers.

It is the only one in which the murder weapon is concealed, not for reasons of fear but for reasons of decency!

READ THIS BEHIND CLOSED DOORS. And have a good shit while you are reading!

'My blurbs were mildly obscene,’ Orton admitted. ‘Even at the trial they said they were only mildly obscene. When I put the plastic covers back over the jackets you couldn’t tell that the blurbs weren’t printed. I used to stand in corners after I’d smuggled the doctored books back into the library and then watch the people read them. It was very funny, very interesting.'

My Old School (2023)

 

Bullet Train (2022)

 

The Greatest Show on Earth: The Inside Story of the Legendary 1970 World Cup by Andrew Downie (Arena Sport 2021)

 

Gordon Banks (England): . . . The moment the ball left his head I heard Pelé shout ‘Golo!’

Carlos Alberto (Brazil): When Pelé prepared to jump and head the ball I think we all thought that it would be a goal.

Gordon Banks (England): Faced with a situation like that your mind becomes clear. All your experience and technique take over. One thing did flash through my mind: if I do make contact, I’ll not hold this. The ball hit the deck two yards in front of me. My immediate concern was how high it would bounce. It left the turf and headed towards my right-hand corner, but I managed to make contact with the finger of my gloved right hand. It was the first time I’d worn these particular gloves. I’d noticed that the Mexican and South American goalkeepers wore gloves that were larger than their British counterparts, with palms covered in dimpled rubber. I’d been so impressed with this innovation that I’d invested in two pairs. Those little rubber dimples did their stuff: the bouncing ball didn’t immediately glanceoff my hand and I was able to scoop it high into the air. But another thought flashed through my mind. In directing the ball upwards, I might only succeed in flicking it up into the roof of the net. So I rolled my right hand, slightly, using the third and fourth fingers as leverage. I landed crumpled against the inner side netting of the goal, and my first reaction was to look at Pelé. I hadn’t a clue where the ball was. He’d ground to a halt, head clasped between his hands, and I knew then all that I needed to know. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred Pelé’s shout of ‘Golo!’ would have been justified, but on that day I was equal to the task. It was really just about being in the right place at the right time – one of those rare occasions when years of hard work and practice combine in one perfect moment. As Pelé positioned himself for the resulting corner he turned to me and smiled. He told me he thought that he’d scored. So did I – and I told him as much. ‘Great save . . . mate,’ he said. At a critical stage of the game, it was 0–0, if the ball had gone in at that particular stage I think the heads would have gone down.

The Faculty (1998)

 

The Nice Guys (2016)

 

Just in . . .

Just found some old Ian Walker New Society articles that were hiding in an email folder, which were previously not posted on the blog. Watch this space . . . 

. . . If you cannot be arsed watching this space, checkout the Ian Walker New Society articles that are already on the blog.

Hopefully the others will be posted on the blog in the next couple of days.

Note to self:

Reread Zoo Station. It's been a while.

Update.

I finally got round to adding those promised Ian Walker articles. Click on the link.

Quick Change by Jay Cronley (Doubleday 1981)

 

Grimm didn’t feel like a clown, but he handed the kid a balloon, anyway.

“Is that a light bulb on your nose?” the kid asked.

“Get lost,” Grimm said.

“That doesn’t sound like clown talk to me.”

“You want the balloon or not?”

“You’re the meanest clown I ever met.”

“Listen, kid. You’re getting on my nerves.”

The suit was hot and the makeup smelled like turpentine, and wearing tennis rackets would have been easier than the floppy shoes, but a plan is a plan.

One thing Grimm hadn’t particularly counted on was the number of greedy children following him along the sidewalk. You can't think of everything. The children couldn’t follow him into the bank, that was for sure.

“Hey mister clown, stand on one finger.”

Grimm took some change out of his front pocket and threw it in the grass in front of the bank; so much for the children, they zeroed in on the money.

He walked into the bank, exactly the way it had been drawn on the practice paper.

You just don’t rob a bank. You try that, without a well-conceived plan, and they'll gun you down—that is, if you aren’t electrocuted first. In the modem bank, there are wires hooked to plants, and cameras behind clocks.

The plan is what separates the pros from the cons.

And whereas the plan might be that you rob the bank of millions of dollars and live happily ever after, there are many sub-plans that determine whether you will have to give the money back, or live happily ever after in jail.

Grimm knew about a guy who lost a button on his pants at a very bad time—when he was stealing some money. This guy reaches down and his mask slips off and the next thing he knows he is banging a tin cup on the bars, asking for more swill.

A plan is equal to the sum of its parts. Somebody stubs his toe at the wrong time, and this triggers an electronic device that drops the bars around you.

For example, you have to start somewhere, like with the mask.

It's obvious a man has to wear a mask so his face won’t be on the evening news. Money is no fun if you have to spend it down in the sewer or somewhere as dark. You don't put a burglar's mask on and walk three blocks to the bank. Somebody might say, “That guy is going to rob the bank.” You don’t put the mask on right outside the bank, either. This attracts attention, and you might be clubbed by the guard. So whereas a mask sounds like a simple proposition, it isn’t. You have to think it out.

It was Grimm’s idea to go as a clown. Clowns don’t rob banks.

“Hi there, mister clown,” the guard said.

“What’s your name?” Grimm asked.

“Hugh,” the guard said. “Hugh Estes.”

“Have a balloon, Hugh.”

“Thanks.”

There was some doubt whether Hugh Estes could draw his gun inside five minutes. And if he could get it out of his holster, he would have to figure some way to get it over his gut. A bank guard’s primary responsibility is to keep rich old women from bumping into the window's.

“Hugh,” Grimm said. “I have terrible news for you.”

He frowned. “I don’t get to keep the balloon?”

“Worse than that. Come over here.”

Hugh Estes got up from his desk. Grimm put his arm around the old fellow and led him toward the door. “How’s your heart, Hugh?”

“Never better. You with Easter Seals?”

“No.”

“United Way?”

“Hugh,” Grimm said. “I’m a criminal. I’m robbing this bank”

Grimm had his left arm tightly around the guard’s neck. “That’s funny,” Hugh Estes said. “You’re one of the best clowns I ever saw.”

“I’m no clown. Clowns don’t talk. Underneath this calm is a guy who’s getting a little nervous. I’ve got dynamite taped all over me, Hugh, so if you don’t want all these people blown to bits, just do what I say.”

Hugh Estes thought. They had taught him about this sort of thing in bank guard’s school. One out of approximately 475 people who say they are loaded with explosives actually detonates himself or herself.

“I’ve got a terminal illness,” Grimm said. “So it doesn’t matter what happens to me.”

That was the one who blows himself up!

Hugh Estes was getting real nervous real fast.

This would look very bad on his resume.

“Lock the door,” Grimm said.

Hugh Estes looked back at his desk, where the alarm button was. “You can’t rob this bank. There’s only one way out. This bank has never been robbed. It’s foolproof.”

“Yeah, but I’m no fool,” Grimm said.

Drowned Hopes by Donald E. Westlake (Mysterious Press 1990)

 

Dortmunder said, “How long were you in, Tom, all in all?”

“All in all?” Tom made that sound again. “All my life, all in all. Twenty-three years, this last time. It was supposed to be for good, you know. I’m habitual.”

“I remember that about you,” Dortmunder said.

“Well, the answer is,” Tom said, “while I been eating regular meals and getting regular exercise and a good night’s sleep all these years on the inside, the world’s managed to get worse without me. Maybe I’m not the one they should of been protecting society from all along.”

“How do you mean, Tom?”

“The reason I’m out,” Tom said. “Inflation, plus budget cuts, plus the rising inmate population. All on its own, Al, without any help from yours truly, society has raised up a generation of inmates. Sloppy ones, too, Al, fourth-rates you and me wouldn’t use to hold the door open.”

“There is a lot of that around,” Dortmunder agreed.

“These are people,” Tom went on, “that don’t know a blueprint from a candy wrapper. And to pull a job with a plan? When these bozos take a step forward with the right foot, they have no really clear idea what they figure to do with the left.”

“They’re out there, all right,” Dortmunder said, nodding. “I see them sometimes, asleep on fire escapes, with their head on a television set. They do kinda muddy the water for the rest of us.”

“They take all the fun outta prison, I can tell you that,” Tom said. “And the worst of it is, their motivation’s no damn good. Now, Al, you and me know, if a man goes into a bank with a gun in his hand and says gimme the money and a five-minute start, there’s only two good reasons for it. Either his family’s poor and sick and needs an operation and shoes and schoolbooks and meat for dinner more than once a week, or the fella wants to take a lady friend to Miami and party. One or the other. Am I right?”

“That’s the usual way,” Dortmunder agreed. “Except it’s mostly Las Vegas now.”

“Well, these clowns can’t even get that much right,” Tom said. “The fact is, what they steal for is to feed their veins, and they go right on feeding their veins inside, they buy it off guards and trusties and visitors and each other and probly even the chaplain, but if you ask them why they ignored the career counselor and took up this life of crime for which they are so shit-poor fitted, they’ll tell you it’s political. They’ll tell you they’re the victims.”

Dortmunder nodded. “I’ve heard that one,” he said. “It’s useful in the sentencing sometimes, I think. And in the parole.”

“It’s a crock, Al,” Tom insisted.

Gently, Dortmunder said, “Tom, you and I’ve told the authorities a couple fibs in our time, too.”

“Okay,” Tom said. “Granted. Anyway, the result is, inflation makes it cost more to feed and house a fella in the pen in the manner to which we’ve all become accustomed, and budget cuts—Did you know, Al,” he interrupted himself, “that health-wise, long-term cons are the healthiest people in America?”

“I didn’t know that,” Dortmunder admitted.

“Well, it’s the truth,” Tom said. “It’s the regularity of the life, the lack of stress, the sameness of the food intake, the handiness of the free medical care, and the organized exercise program. Your lifers are the longest-lived people in the society. Any insurance company will tell you so.”

“Well,” Dortmunder said; “that must be some kind of consolation, I guess.”

The Hot Rock (1972)

 

Intermission (2003)

 

The Hot Rock by Donald E. Westlake ( Simon and Schuster 1970)

 

Dortmunder blew his nose. “Warden,” he said, “you don’t know how much I appreciate the personal attention you been paying me.” There wasn’t anything for him to do with the Kleenex, so he just held it balled up in his fist.

Warden Outes gave him a brisk smile, got up from behind his desk, walked around to Dortmunder’s side, patted him on the arm, and said, “It’s the ones I can save that give me the most pleasure.” He was a latter–day Civil Service type — college–trained, athletic, energetic, reformistic, idealistic, and chummy. Dortmunder hated him.

The warden said, “I’ll walk you to the gate, Dortmunder.”

“You don’t have to do that, Warden,” Dortmunder said. The Kleenex was cold and gooey against his palm.

Good Behavior by Donald E. Westlake (Mysterious Press 1985)

 

That produced the comfortable laugh of the professional thinking about amateurs, which Pickens ended, in his carefully paced presentation, by balling up the Guerreran flag, hurling it offstage in the same direction as the rifle, and showing another assault rifle lying on the card table. He picked this one up, held it out in front of him, and said, “Gentlemen, the Valmet.”

“That’s that Finnish fucker!” cried a voice.

“Very good,” Pickens told him, grinning as though he didn’t at all mind having his surprise spoiled. “That’s just what this is, the Finnish M-60 Valmet. Essentially, this is the design of the AK-47 adapted to the needs of Finland. It’s like an AK-47, but it isn’t an AK-47, so it isn’t as familiar as you might think, and if you don’t keep the differences in mind, the head you blow off may be your own.”

He had their attention now. Weapons, travel and money were the only things these fellows cared about, probably in that order. Holding the Valmet out, pointing to its features, Pickens said, “In the first place, you’ll notice it’s all metal, much of it plastic-coated, it doesn’t have the AK’s wooden stock or handguard. That’s fine in a cold country like Finland, but we’re going to a hot country, so keep this thing in the shade. The other thing, you’ll notice it doesn’t have any trigger guard, just this little piece of metal out in front here and nothing down under the trigger at all. The later model, the M-62, they added a skimpy little guard on the bottom, and some of you’ll have those, but mostly we’ve got the original, the M-60. And you see also there’s almost no curve to the trigger itself. Now, the reason for all that is, the Finnish troops have to be able to fire this thing with big heavy mittens on, because of the cold you got up there in Finland. And what it means to you is, you don’t have that guard there where you’re used to it, to protect you if your mind wanders. And your finger wanders.”

A voice from the auditorium called out, “Why the fuck are we taking some fucking North Pole fucking weapon to the fucking tropics?”  A lot of other voices growled agreement with the sentiment.

“Well, now, that’s The People Upstairs,” Pickens said. “They make the decisions, I just implement them. They didn’t want to use Warsaw Bloc weaponry because they don’t want anybody saying the revolution’s Cuban supplied. And they didn’t want to use NATO weapons because they don’t want anybody saying we’re fronting the CIA. And maybe they got a price on these Valmets, I don’t know.”

“It’s always the same fucking thing,” cried a disgusted voice. “They want us to fight the wrong fucking war with the wrong fucking weapons on the wrong fucking terrain at the wrong fucking time of the year.”

“You’re goddamn right!” several voices cried, with variants. More and more of them got into the thing, some rising in their places to make their points, shaking their fists, yelling out their professional opinions.

It was becoming bedlam out there. Pickens hunched his head down into his shoulders, and waited for the storm to subside.

It wasn’t easy, dealing with homicidal maniacs.

My Beautiful Laundrette (1985)

 

Prick Up Your Ears (1987)

 

Happy Valley (2023)

 

Happy Valley (2016)

 

Happy Valley (2014)

 

Flirting (1991)

 

The Man Who Came Uptown by George P. Pelecanos (Mulholland Books 2018)

 

“Lennie was a re-tard,” said the man with the heavy-lidded eyes. “George couldn’t carry him no more.”

“Nah,” said Antonius. “George did that thing for Lennie because Lennie was his boy. ’Cause Curley was gonna string Lennie up and lynch his ass. Or, if Lennie did go to prison for killin that trick, he wouldn’t make it in San Quentin or wherever they’d put him out there in California, back in the old days.”

“Lennie couldn’t jail,” said Larry.

“Exactly,” said Antonius.

“You’re saying,” said Anna, “that George killed Lennie out of friendship.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s what this book is about,” said Michael. “Friendship and brotherhood. Companionship. The author means to say that people together are better than they are alone.”

“Does anyone say that outright in the novel?” said Anna.

“Sure.” Michael opened his book to where he had dog-eared a page. “I marked a spot. It’s in that chapter when Crooks is talking to Lennie in Crooks’s room. Can I read it?”

“Go ahead.”

“Michael squinted as he read. “‘“A guy needs somebody—to be near him. A guy goes nuts if he ain’t got nobody. Don’t make no difference who the guy is, long’s he’s with you. I tell ya,” he cried, “I tell ya a guy gets too lonely an’ he gets sick.”’”

“For a friend, though,” said Antonius, “Lennie be buggin the shit out of George.”

“‘Tell me about the rabbits, George,’” said Donnell, in his idea of Lennie’s voice.

“‘Which way did they go, George, which way did they go?’” said the heavy-lidded one, and then, when no one laughed, embarrassed, he said, “Ain’t none a’ y’all seen that old cartoon?”

“They gonna get a farm,” said Antonius, picking up on the vibe. “‘An’ live off the fatta the lan’!’”

Now many of the inmates laughed.

“All right.” Anna picked up an article that she had printed out down in the workroom. ”

“Let me read something to you that John Steinbeck wrote himself. It might have been from his acceptance speech when he won the Pulitzer Prize, or it might be from his journals. I don’t remember which. I got it off of Wikipedia, to be honest with you. But for me it sort of speaks to this book and his worldview in general.”

“Read it,” said Michael, leaning forward.

“Okay,” said Anna, and she began. “‘In every bit of honest writing in the world there is a base theme. Try to understand men, if you understand each other you will be kind to each other. Knowing a man well never leads to hate and almost always leads to love. There are shorter means, many of them. There is writing promoting social change, writing punishing injustice, writing in celebration of heroism, but always that base theme. Try to understand each other.’”

“What if someone step to you and try to take you for bad?” said Donnell. “What you supposed to do then? Understand their ass?”

“Turn the other cheek,” said Larry. “It’s right there in the Bible.”

“An eye for an eye is in there too,” said Donnell.

“The man is saying, try to do what’s right,” said Michael. “Reach out to other people. Try.”

The conversation drifted to money and fame, as it tended to do.

“Was Steinbeck rich?” said Antonius.

“I’m sure he was,” said Anna. “His books were huge bestsellers. Many of them were made into movies and plays.”

“I bet he got mad respect too,” said Donnell.

“Not from everyone,” said Anna. “Many academics don’t really care for his work. They think it’s too simplistic and obvious.”

“You mean people could relate to it too easy.”

“Well, yes. He was what’s called a populist author. He wrote books that could be read and appreciated by the people he was writing about.”

“This book was deep,” said the soft-spoken man.

“Seriously, that was, like, the best chapter-book you ever gave us,” said Donnell.

“Thank you, Miss Anna.”

“You’re very welcome,” she said.