The Event in the Tent!

This Tuesday, at 6 p.m., the Cheltenham Literature Festival is going to be rocked and rumbled by a reading event unlike any its hosted before.  At the University tent on the Imperial Square site, I will be stepping into the literary ring with my colleague, comrade, and Scottish alter-ego, D.D. Johnston, author of 'Peace, Love, and Petrol Bombs,' and 'The Deconstruction of Professor Thrub' - a stunning text that redefines the definition of the word 'novel'.  He's a true literary heavyweight, but I'm hoping to hold my own against him.  I've been working out - both mentally and physically - and also going for long, thoughtful runs.  Renowned critic Martin Randall has taken on the refereeing duties to ensure it's all legit and on-the-level.  No side-bets, no backing down, and no taking dives.  In that way it will be closer to ice hockey than Johnston's sport of choice - if we can call squash a sport.  So the game is on, and the gloves are off.  Hopefully somebody will bring the smelling salts. 

Best British Fantasy 2013

I'll be heading down to London on Monday (Sept. 30) for the launch of Best British Fantasy 2013, a stunning anthology put together by Salt Press. The event is at 6.30, in Waterstones Piccadilly.  It's also a joint launch held with Best British Stories 2013.  Liquors will be imbibed, stories will be read, and at the end we're going to have a no-holds-barred cage match between the two sides.  Fantasy will clash with reality, and the winning side receives all proceeds from book sales.  Just kidding.  But that would have been awesome.  Also, I have the feeling us fantasists would win.  I mean, we have monsters, killers, and mutant tigers on our side.  What do they got?

Leaving Llanidloes

About fifteen minutes before my reading at the Great Oak, nobody had turned up.  We had wine, and snacks, and stacks of books, but no audience.  I was beginning to think this whole homecoming reading was going to be a dud.  I've had readings like that before.  In Waterstones, in Cardiff, the BYT team read to two people, and each other. 

But this wasn't Cardiff - this was my nearly-still home town.  I should have known better than to doubt it.  As the time approached, the people started to arrive.  There were neighbours from our street, the poet Chris Kinsey from Newtown, our good friends Ian and Danie from Llandrindod, Reg Massey, a reviewer for the local magazine Pencambria, Sion, currently doing his MA in writing at Aberystwyth, a lady who had come to view our house with her friend (it's still up for sale - a great deal, seriously, you should check it out), and another woman who came in looking for a birthday present for her daughter, and ended up buying The Drive.  And others as well.  The local paper sent its photographer, and we all squeezed in there somehow.  The wine got drunk, the nibbles got nibbled.  Afterwards a few of us went up the street to The Stag for a couple pints of Purple Moose Snowdonia Ale.  The sun was out, it was market day, and the town was buzzing. Two weeks before, we had left Llani in a mad blitz of packing and scrambling, and coming back gave me a chance to really appreciate the place we'd lived, and say good-bye.

In a few of the shops in Llani they sell these t-shirts, with an image of the town hall, and the slogan: where on earth is Llanidloes?  I never bought one while I lived there - it would have been pretty bizarre - but I actually want to now.  Just to kinda spread the word about the place.  People will read the slogan and ask me about it and I'll say, 'Llanidloes?  Well, let me tell you about Llanidloes...'  There's nowhere quite like it.