The Manager by AK Wilson: 

The Manager looks and feels like the kind of novel you'd read to pass the time in the recycled air of departure lounges; or in latent heat by the pool.  It's a sleek, sexy book and like a swimming pool, deeper than it looks.   

Katy is left jobless after her sexist pig of a boss gets a new post.  She finds employment at Byrsa, which offers cloud computing to the world's most powerful companies and as a result:  wields a tangible, existential power. And as PA to Byrsa's CEO Riley, she's drawn into a dangerous game.  

That's the basic line of the narrative and you would be forgiven that it's glossy, superficial nonsense.  But it's not.  Firstly, Riley and Katy are incredibly well-drawn as characters.  They are both engaging and intriguing at the same time.  There's also a "will they-won't they" romance between them.  Add to that, the background colour of the natural world, with Brysa setting up a data farm in a forest.  Until then their servers are guarded by the kind of piranhas that normally swim through the pages of Ian Fleming novels.  

Hidden in the middle of that though, is three examples of Chekov's gun.  Unlike most of those, these get fired and my jaw dropped and my ears popped when they did.  And yes, if you're shrewd enough like me, you can probably suss them.  But that doesn't detract from the enjoyment of the novel.  Once they happen, the book becomes pacy with a car chase, a hostage and an embittered sociopath who uses guns as a form of interior design.   

Even then though, the focus is still on Riley and Katy.  By this point, you will have realised that both of them are neither really who they say they are.  And the novel makes the point lightly, but in depth: how does your online presence really represent who you are?  And also: how much do women change their behaviour to compete with men... and why should they do that?  Plus, as well the misogynistic idiocy that when women have to act like men to compete with them... and if they do, they are perceived as aggressive.   

So, the proverbial pleasant surprise.  Something well-crafted, nourishing and thought provoking.  I've already mentally cast Jodie Comer as Katy and Maxine Peake as Riley.  However, I reckon I've given you enough reasons to pack a copy before everyone starts talking about it.  Take up the offer and be ahead of the game for a proper page-tuner. 

 Seasider:

The train pulls into the station, I am generally the only one on it and in these tarnished days of death, stupidity and corruption I am the only one wearing a mask.  I unplug the EarPods, my middle-aged brain, humming from the human warmth of Shaun Keavney's podcast.  

I slide along the edge of the platform, into the street. Make the necessary purchases in a shop I haven't physically been in for nearly two years.  A Pandemic tends to do that, to both re-wire and replace your habits.  

It's a high street chain, but this seaside town is generally populated by shops selling tat or greasy food.  Some of whom are shut for the Winter.  I gaze at the pensioner's menu in the chippy and wonder if I am old enough for it (£5.95 cod and chips and cup of tea, 55p extra for gravy or curry sauce). 

I walk along the coastal road, away from the holidaymakers and the Christmas shoppers.  The road is getting quieter and it is only the clacking of my roller suitcase's wheels that keeps me company. I am approaching three days of rest and writing, in a room that (once I have mastered the heating) will be womb-like.  I set up a desk, with a laptop next to a kettle.  I decorate it the next day with two ornaments of gnomes I have bought as a present for my wife. 

It's hardly Woolfian, but it suits me and my personality fine.  I'm more familiar with that quote than her work. My literary heroes are Iain Banks, William Gibson, Marian Keyes, David Mitchell... I think of writing as a liquid, evolving universe that as you swim in; you discover another layer. I chat to writers a lot on Twitter, the vast majority are pleasant, polite and friendly.  

And so, I hit on a schedule, the following morning.  Write, in roughly 500wds chunks. Break for a cuppa, break for Popmaster (the finest quiz on the radio, I am still honoured to have appeared on it just over a year ago).  Repeat four times, go for a very long walk.

The route is up the coast, into the town centre.  Past the railway station, sometimes waiting patiently at the level crossing.  This almost seems a leveller of people's character.  There are those of us (I am in this category) who wait patiently, some are too busy for all that kind of nonsense and go over the bridge.  

There is a tattoo parlour at the level crossing.  Painted on the wall outside, in elegant, flowing script and various typefaces is the legend:  

"Blessed are the weird people.  The poets and misfits, the artists and the writers and music makers, the dreamers and the outsiders - for they force us to see the world differently."   

This, cheers me every time I see it. It makes me feel a member of an elite club, an unsung group of superheroes who, in their small, significant heroism make the world slightly more palatable. Writing is a lonely occupation at the best of times.  Not well paid and involving long periods of being alone and wondering if it all actually means anything.  

Having been a writer since I was ten years old, I am considering it far too late to back out now. I am determined, in my own, small, obstinate way to carry on till I am somewhere else.

The seaside town itself, is one of fading Victorian grandeur.  It still has elegance and grace and history, but the theatre where Pirates of Penzance premiered in now a branch of Poundland. Like most places in Devon, it is represented by a Tory MP.  And myself, a lifelong socialist is mystified by this.  

It exists with a much more genteel, cultured, pale blue town up the road.  Here, there is a drug abuse, homelessness, teenage pregnancy.  Up there is a theatre which has seen shows ranging from Puppetry of the Penis to An Evening with Nigel Farage.  Perhaps, there is little difference between the two.      

And yet, I feel more comfortable here than I would there. I am from Scouse, working-class stock, Irish on both sides. Even here.  I am not English - if English means ignorance, an acceptance of poverty, misery and stupidity, then count me out.  

Along the level crossing is a Nepalese restaurant I recognise from the local news.  It suffers anti-social behaviour from teenagers.  It co-exists with a hipster coffee shop, offering Beef and Boursin toasties at a fiver each.    

And there, in brick and food is the great contradiction of this country.  We want to appear cultured, sophisticated and hungry... but at the same time, a lie has been both carelessly and callously cultivated that anyone who isn't white are the problem.  Plus, the factor that it is been compressed and curled into the DNA of another generation makes me want to emigrate.

There's a lot of Panglossian talk about the next generation being better.  I'm personally not convinced.  There is this great, hopeful myth that we're raising children that are going to solve the problems of global warming, sexism and fascism.  

I walk through the park facing the beach.  A wall is being installed to stop the town flooding due to global warming.  People are protesting against it, complaining at the lack of consultation. The plans from the council have counter-protest posters stuck all over it.

And as we're still in the midst of an endless pandemic, even that is sending people to the furthest edges of their sanity.  A sticker, alongside the Covid restrictions for the park says, in a strident, macho, tinfoil-hatted voice: "My freedom does not end where your fear begins."

It's all about time.  And I realise then, it's a fluid, liquid energy.  It can be measured, but not stopped.  It can be marked, but not frozen.  Things remind me of things - places, emotions, times.  Sitting in a Subway shop on a late Winter afternoon, with a Tiger Pig Sub reminds me of so many things.  And I am comfortable with that.  

And then, a few days later a young girl will be stabbed to death in my native Liverpool, whilst Christmas shopping.  It's an echo of so many events: Hillsborough, Jamie Bulger, Rhys Jones... not named, but always remembered: the death of a young lad I played out with as a child.  He died in an accident (an accident, of all things) in the First Gulf War.  

I am immensely proud of my Scouse roots.  I will defend the city to the hilt, with the last drop of my red blood. Those who condemn Liverpool have generally never been there.  The jokes about stolen cars and foodbanks can be told as easily elsewhere.  The writers of comedy panel shows and part-time fans of football clubs, funded by bank notes, stained with blood or oil should turn their snark or ire in the right direction.  

Back in the hotel, in a writing break I watch Boris Johnson give a live speech.  He loses his place halfway through and begins waxing lyrical about Peppa Pig.  He does this on a day, where the future of care in this country is being voted on.  It's too easy to dismiss this as a dead cat.  This, is a public act of prime stupidity.  Not eccentricity, or maverick genius. But pure, unadulterated idiocy.  

Johnson's whole life has been defined by what he can get in the next five minutes.  And, now the whole country has to suffer for that.  Britain is irrevocably broken, not just because of him - there are far too many reasons for that - but he sits on the wreckage of eleven years, gradually and systematically making things worse.  He is the village idiot who turns up as your house catches alight with a nice, big can of petrol. 

We need a revolution in this country.  Not necessarily one with guns and show trials. Not angry Frenchmen in HiVis vests.  Not even the funky one triggered by Valentine Strasser in Sierra Leone, with Ain't No Stopping Us Now by McFadden and Whitehead as the anthem.  

I'm talking about a revolution of the soul.  True acceptance of anyone who is different to us, coupled with compassion for people who need our help.  A few tins for the food bank, a donation to charity, a kind word or a clap isn't enough anymore. The things that send people over the edge - a black family in advert - shouldn't.   To paraphrase Victoria Wood, "There wouldn't be a revolution in this country unless they banned car boot sales."

I come home a few days later.  Pleased with my productivity (5,000wds a day) and breaking out of the habits of alternating writing with walking.  Back into my old habits of caring for my wife and trying to relate to my teenage stepson.  

The train is relativity empty to start off with, it fills to about halfway as we get nearer to the big city. Most people aren't wearing masks and a few days later, a new variant of Covid; given a name like a 1970's Doctor Who villain is the new anti-Santa.

I am back at the beginning, a masked man listening to a podcast.  I am loved in this life, but at the same time: wary, angry, hungry.  Fighting for attention from my brothers, pushing myself to the front of a queue of writers.  At my desk with a pen in my hand, or a laptop in front of me.  Walking an endless beach.

 Hiraeth:

I’ve been feeling homesick recently.  Considering I have lived in Mid-Devon for four years, you’d think this would have happened a long time ago.  But no, It’s more of a recent thing.  

A few things built up, those small pebbles of life that make a mountain.  Firstly, my parents health needs some attention. Nothing much to worry about.  However, the other side of that balances out with the fact he is an old man.  Then again, there is always the thought that when The Sun engulfs The Solar System in five billion years, it’ll be him, Keith Richards and the cockroaches enjoying the most expensive fireworks display in history.

On a less flippant note, two people from my past have died.  One, from a college course in mid-twenties.  The other, someone I would have considered my best friend over thirty years ago.  But the converse of this is, I’ve had no contact with him for seven of them.

These two people, characters from my own personal play died in completely different ways.  I felt, two tiny moments of sadness – one longer than the other.  And yet, I expected to feel something.  In a way, I questioned why I didn’t.  

I suppose, it all links in this great Panglossian myth.  As we’re still in the middle of a pandemic, still trying to work how long the middle actually is.  It keeps coming, dripping across tweets, posts and local news.  That we should “reach out to an old friend” or “be nicer to each other.” Or, the biggest pile of mawkish bullshit: “kindness always”.  

Some people are with you, as the phrase says: for a reason, a season or a lifetime.  I am unable scientifically or spiritually, to trace the twist of collagen and calcium phosphate to find if they remembered me as they died.  That’s impossible.

The people who are with me now, are meant to be.  Included in that group, a friend.  I would consider him my best friend.  We don’t see other much, but I know if either of needed a chat, either of us would appear on each other’s What’s App.   

And yet, I still feel like a stranger in a strange land.  I wear one of my nine Liverpool shirts on matchdays.  I’ll make Scouse on the darkest and lowest of Winter mornings.    Liverpool is my cultural identity.  And on the days, I need to belong anywhere, it is at Anfield, watching Mo Salah score.  it is walking down William Brown Street to either The World Museum, Central Library or The Walker Art Gallery.  It is anywhere within earshot of an elongated vowel. 

And yes, there is a word for it.  Hiraeth is a Welsh word that has no simple meaning.  It’s not one of the two Welsh words in the English language.  Those are Corgi and Penguin – put that in your next Zoom pub quiz.  Hiraeth is loosely described as “homesickness, tinged with loss and sadness over the departed; especially in the context of Wales and Welsh culture.”

And on the day, I found out about someone’s passing; I did not shed a tear.  I was off to see Blood Brothers with my family.  And you could dismiss it as mawkish.  But it’s a musical about class, destiny and the continuing inequity at the heart of being English.  But above all, living in/being from Liverpool.  

I’ve seen it a number of times.  I mean, it’s part of being Scouse.  And I always cry at the end, alternating between weeping and singing along.  And seeing it in Plymouth, a week after a man both alienated and radicalised murdered five people; you’d have to possess a heart of stone not to feel moved.  

The next day, I lay on the couch.  Chased the Wist away with some podcasts.  And as I did that, Swifts swarmed and chased each other on a late summer afternoon.  I’ve been fascinated by them since I read about them in Helen Macdonald’s book Vesper Flights.  Birds that are innately restless, flying from the moment they hatch.  Feeding, sleeping, even mating on the wing.  Only stopping when they nest.  

And I decided then that home is where you are.  Where the people that you love live.  Your culture is an internal thing, twisted like string round your DNA and threaded through the soul.  Homesickness is, merely one fact of what a great man called “the thousand natural shocks”. It is a temporary, transitory sickness.  Accept the small fact of its existence, but don’t spend your life there.

Book Review - The Slow Road to Tehran by Rebecca Lowe:

 

In 2015, Rebecca Lowe spent 11 months cycling from London to Iran on what was part fact-finder, part act of Stakhanovite endurance.  She's a journalist with extensive experience in The Middle East.  And probably, here this is the first in many points of exploration. At different times, different empires have defined the spot at where Europe ends and what we know as The Middle East (first used in 1900 by Thomas Edward Gordon) begins.  

And Lowe is honest about the misgivings and both family and fixers.  She eats where she can, but drinking is possibly more important in 44-degree heat. You can almost taste that, as much as the metre-long kebabs.  Her panniers include GPS, a mobile phone and a laptop.  Thankfully, she leaves the ukulele. She's reliant on the kindness of strangers and is at constant threat of either assault or harassment by some of them.   

That is the real key to this book's enjoyability.  Lowe comes across as an engaging, knowledgeable guide to countries that are frequently viewed by us as rogue states where religion is weaponised in acts of hatred. What she finds is that most people just want to be safe, happy and free. And she's absolutely right in saying: we created all that for political power, an illusory form of safety and cheap oil. It's a human book, with a granular, sand-coloured level of research. 

 

However, it's the characters in this book that stand out.  The Egyptian medical students who use English textbooks as they're easier to understand, the bisexual Iranian woman who campaigns for gay rights and the sadly numerous people at constant threat of arrest and torture for merely speaking out against their own government.  

I should also mention the other character in this book.  Her bike Maud (named after a female traveller).  You'll gasp as Maud sends Rebecca into a ditch.  You'll wince as she crashes, crushing a pint of milk against her laptop.  Slow punctures are written with the tension of painful conversations and a week-long wait for a vital part for a bike chain is tense, gorgeous and ultimately satisfying. 

Those seven days are spent secretly partying with Iranian youth, attending a wedding, before ultimately finding out it is rude to immediately accept an invitation; unless someone waives your obligation to refuse three times.

In short though, Lowe has created a book which could have been a leaden, two-wheeled slog.  She's instead created something with kindness, propelled by human energy and literary skill. Accept her invitation to travel.