Mosquito Blood Diaries

I wasnae gunna share this one, but fuck it...

Adam Gill Mosquito Blood Diaries (2011)
Well, it isn't the worst book I've ever read but is probably somewhere in the top two; although to be fair, as with Randy Henderson's Bigfootloose and Finn Fancy Free, I'm basing this assessment on the first fifty pages. I couldn't manage any more than that.

It was one of those out of the blue things, turning up in the mail without warning or explanation. Then a week later I heard from Peter Jones, with whom I briefly shared a house back in 1985, who said it had been written by his class mate at Dundee - presumably from some video post-production course or something of the kind. It was a nice gesture, possibly undertaken because I'd written a book which was likewise set in Mexico; but I have to say, the thing didn't exactly fill me with enthusiasm.

The back cover promises something about the end of the world as predicted by the Mayan calendar for 2012, which is unfortunate because everything written about the end of the world as predicted by the Mayan calendar for 2012 has been complete bollocks*. Similarly depressing is that I find I have a signed copy, and that it has been embellished thus:

 

Aside from my experiencing a possibly irrational and classist disgust at the thought of anyone being named Jonty, this cheery message somewhat suggests the author would have preferred to have made a movie, and that's coincidentally what the fucker reads like - or at least the first fifty pages do - begging the question, if you didn't want to write a book, why do I have to read it?

Never mind.

Anyway, I tried. It didn't seem too horrible at first, although it felt a little as though boxes were being ticked as part of something learned during a writing class - here's the character, here's what they look like, where they are, followed by some routinely sardonic observation just so we know we're not reading Enid Blyton. After a little while I noticed how each female character is introduced in terms of how cute she is, but she's also fiesty so it's not sexist; and we meet Herbert Tidy, one of the main protagonists.

So, let's see. His Christian name is Herbert and his surname is Tidy, which seems ingeniously Dickensian, wouldn't you say? What sort of person might that be, do you think?

But generally such charitable thoughts occupied only a fraction of his consciousness, the rest of his introspective ponderings were taken up entirely by work and his growing collection of graphic novels, not comics mind you, graphic novels. They were perhaps the only thing that he was passionate about and organising and reorganising them took up most of his spare time.

Nerds! Ha ha!

Later we learn that Herbert has been spending most of his time cataloguing and cross referencing the characters in his graphic novels, which no-one in human history has ever done, no matter how sad, possibly excepting characters from the Big Bang Theory which is - as is hopefully fucking obvious - the sports meathead's idea of what people who read comics are like. Many years ago I tried to read a Ben Elton novel, and this thing reminds me why I failed.

Amazingly, it doesn't get better. I didn't make it so far as the chapters which I presume wheel out various Mayan supernaturals as yet another pantheon of blood hungry monsters jumping up and down whilst chanting oogah-boogah, and this was because the writing began to get in the way. More and more I felt as though I might be watching some wearyingly edgy BBC thriller with a fast car every five minutes and no question denied its due sardonic response, one eyebrow raised so we can see that gosh she really is a fiesty filly!

Naturally Gill succumbs to that thing they all do with the clipped inactive sentences impersonating a brooding voice-over, which people who can't write tend to do in hope of building so powerful a mood as to distract from their being otherwise unable to string a sentence together. Full-stops everywhere. Willy nilly. Like this. You're not. Fooling anybody. Sunshine.

Finally we come to this, whatever the fuck it's supposed to be.

'But that was beyond butchery. That was sacrificial slaughter.' Exclaimed the scientist.

Exclaimed the scientist, doesn't work as a sentence by itself, and yet there it is; and speech is attributed by this same peculiar grammatical tic throughout the book, hence a shitload of sentences beginning with a capitalised Said. Whilst I dispute that there's such a thing as a definitively correct way to write English, it helps to understand at least some of the rules before you start flushing them down the crapper; and persons such as myself who read more than three books a fucking year can nevertheless tell when you don't know what the hell you're doing, no matter. Where you put the fucking. Full-stop.

I looked at the guy's facebook page and felt sorry for him because he's almost certainly a lovely guy. I assume this was his only novel, presumably composed in the belief that writing a novel is simply a matter of method - just like constructing a cabinet - so anyone can do it. It gives me no pleasure to describe Mosquito Blood Diaries as garbage, just as it gave me no pleasure to struggle though the first fifty pages; but garbage is indeed what it would appear to be.

*: Even assuming the Maya indicated the termination of their calendar to be anything apocalyptic - which they didn't so far as I'm aware - the correlation of the big day with the Gregorian 21st of December, 2012 seems to depend upon which elements of the Mayan calendar one takes into account, particularly those details which allowed said calendar to compensate for its falling slightly short of the true solar year. Clearly the Maya employed a system equivalent to that of our own leap year, one which was not formally acknowledged as part of their calendar, yet which must have existed because otherwise their calendar would not have been so accurate as has demonstrably been the case. What this system could have been remains open to debate, and four different Gregorian dates can be seen to correspond with the termination point of the Mayan calendar depending upon what assumptions are made about this mysterious mechanism.

Mussolini: His Part in My Downfall

Spike Milligan Mussolini: His Part in My Downfall (1978)
The fourth of Spike's war journals opens with a slightly testy rebuttal to Clive James having described a previous volume as an unreliable history of the war. Whilst I'm sure it's true that, as Spike claims, he spent a lot of time getting his dates and facts right, Monty was erratic even by Spike's standards with those doubtless correct dates and facts speckled by jokes, comic asides, and absurdist sketches to the point of giving the impression of it having been edited by shoving everything loose into a carrier bag. Mussolini accordingly feels a bit more substantial, striking a fine balance between what happened and how stupid it seemed at the time.

Having read this one before, I recalled it as a harrowing volume concluding with a shell-shocked Spike gibbering away to himself in a secure facility; but my memory is off-kilter here. It's mostly light, or as light as one might reasonably expect under the circumstances, with shell-shock bleaching only the last twenty or so pages of humour.

As is probably obvious from the title, this volume records Spike's posting to Italy in 1943, and the eschewing of comic illustrations in favour of a higher, more thorough word count does well to capture the grinding misery and mundanity of warfare - in this instance, mostly waiting around in the pissing rain, terrible food, not enough sleep, and not much idea what the bigger picture looks like - contrasting wonderfully with the sublime experience of a few days leave in Amalfi, for one example.

Spike gives good account of how it looked from ground level, even expressing genuine sympathy for the occasional deceased German. As with anyone who ever had to get their hands dirty, he doesn't have much time for the bullshit of those higher up; and to hilarious effect when reporting a fire in the officers' mess, with the hated and officious Major Jenkins scrabbling to rescue his possessions from the conflagration, oblivious to a resentful Gunner throwing it all back on again.

There are a few later volumes of these war memoirs that I've never read, but this one seems to have been the best of those published at the time, reading as a proper autobiography beyond it being the work of someone more at home penning radio plays about hurlers of batter pudding. There was always a certain pathos to Spike's humour, even if it wasn't always obvious, and Mussolini is a powerful account in that respect.