The Pen Pusher

Calling all non-doms

2008-05-20T14:26:00.005+01:00

Well, first of all, thanks to everyone who has chipped in so far in our new Sponsor a Page campaign: we only launched it on Friday last, and we’re already covered for more than 11,000 pages of the next issue (only another 51,400 to go!), so we’re rather pleased about that (who knows, maybe we’ll even be able to eat this month). If you’ve somehow managed to avoid our begging letters, there’s more information here: www.penpushermagazine.co.uk/donate

We’re hoping for some media coverage to attract the attention of any billionaires looking to indulge themselves with a little literary philanthropy (well, you never know), but the lovely folks at The Guardian have beat us to it:

“Palmer's jibe about the economic expediencies of book production - literally cutting corners with one book to make the pages of another - is something that still rings true even in the age of the blogosphere. Ask the plucky folk at Pen Pusher magazine. Running a literary journal has always been a bit of a bouquet of barbed wire. But continually turning out a free print version of a literary journal today - ouch! Having established the magazine as a home for "those of you who are interested in words, writing, writers' lives, literary history, philosophy and the odd bit of silliness" in 2006, the financial reality of producing a free magazine of this ilk is beginning to bite. Turned down for an Arts Council grant because of "insufficient priority" (if someone - anyone - can decipher Arts Council speak for me, I will eat my blog), Pen Pusher's editors have gone back to the page. Literally. Rather than whingeing on about the unfairness of it all, Pen Pusher is hoping to raise enough to continue publishing by asking supporters to sponsor a page at tuppence a go. Having done the maths it looks like a feasible option - each edition has a print-run totalling 62,400 pages which adds up to £1,248 in total. Let's face it, there are a lot of two pence pieces in the world and there are far worst ways to spend a penny.”

Let’s hope JK Rowling’s reading …

Audiobooks for cheapskates

2008-03-25T14:37:00.004Z

Long time no write I know, but this is worth the wait. A couple of months ago (in fact, round about the same time I last updated this blog, come to think of it) I finally got round to investigating the availability of audiobooks to brighten my trudge to work, and my slightly sprightlier trudge on the treadmill at the gym, and the slightly mesmeric activity of kneading dough on the rare occasions that I actually bother to make bread, which always seem to coincide with an Archers omnibus. Much to my delight, I found the whole of Vanity Fair on iTunes for free, thanks to the University of South Florida, and despite the (at first irritating) mispronunciations of various places and names (Berkeley Square is perhaps understandable, but I only realised that the enticing sounding “Voss Hall” that Becky and Amelia visit was actually Vauxhall when I was moved to research it, and as for the cla-RAY that Jose is so fond of swigging … but I digress. It is free, and I am grateful) it has entertained me for many long weeks and runs. However, although I have tried to ration myself, the grains of sand are running out for my friends in Russell Square, and so I eagerly logged on to iTunes to find out what else USF had to offer me. Sadly, mostly American classics, it turns out, which I already ploughed through during my US Literature paper. I despaired. I denied myself updates on the situation of the lovely Amelia, I pondered whether I could afford £30 for a reading of War and Peace. And finally I did a Google search for free audiobooks. Praise be, I discovered LibriVox (mission statement: “To make all books in the public domain available, for free, in audio format on the internet.” ) They have a VAST, and increasing number of out of copyright titles available to download, completely free of charge, so I’ve got the first three chapters of Mrs Gaskell’s North and South to look forward to. If I remember, I might even let you know how I get on. And they’re always looking for volunteer readers (all you need is a recordable MP3 player), so if you fancy yourself a bard …

Party ON!

2008-01-28T20:18:00.000Z

If you didn't make it through the flimsy portals of the Pen Pusher Caravan on Thursday evening, the photos are now up on our website for your sniggering delight. From novelists to luminaries of the food and drink world, students to equity traders, we all had a jolly good time (well, at least I think we did. It must have been the unusual lack of posh yet melancholy gin, ditched in favour of common as muck beer, much to Hape's distress). Thanks to all for coming ... and let us know your thoughts on PP8's striking new look and even more striking content.

My Old Man, Said Follow the Van ...

2008-01-22T22:56:00.000Z

Cor blimey guv'nor - it's issue eight! Come and join us at the caravan at Barrio North on the Essex Road, N1 to celebrate, Thursday, 24th January from 7pm, or pick up an issue next week and delve deep into the intimate memoirs of saucy Anaïs Nin, find out what John Hegley's favourite jam is, and make a bit of noise about the London Library.

A Happy New Year From Pen Pusher

2008-01-02T19:53:00.000Z

So - what will 2008 (our third year!) bring? Well, the new issue is currently with our selfless and excellent sub, the lovely Helen, so that should be with us before the month is out, if the printers smile upon us. We're applying to the Arts Council for a little hard cash to help develop the website (our dream includes resources for budding writers, forums where people can discuss their work and that of others, and bags more stories, poems and features) and to fund professional distribution, so we can become a Proper Magazine. Plus we hope to pop up at a few more literary festivals (and you never know, I might even make one this year if you're bored of Hape and Anna's sweet faces).

In other news, I had a bumper crop of Mass Observation-related books for Christmas. Nella Last's diary (that which Victoria Wood based her dramatisation on), "Betty's Wartime Diary" and, most excitingly, an original 1939 Penguin publication from the Mass Observers (which advertises the forthcoming "Why Hitler is Dangerous" in the flyleaf). Bliss. Plus "The Inheritance of Loss", as reviewed in Pen Pusher, which I am already racing through. AND I found "On Chesil Beach" at half price while taking Alistair Campbell's Diaries back (my pa already had them), and Kerry Katona's memoirs for 25p on the bookshelf at the back of the church, so I'm thrifty too.

No, you're not dreaming, this is a new post

2007-12-02T15:40:00.000Z

By popular demand, at least from within the Pen Pusher camp, the blog is back. Illness, overwork (did you know that 147 cases of death by overwork were recorded in Japan last year?) and sheer idleness (people can die from that too) have all contributed to its long absence, so enjoy it while you can - you never know when this deadly combination might strike again.

This week I have been thinking a lot about Christmas Books, it finally being Advent, a time to take stock of one' s life, perform acts of penitence and indulge in an orgy of panicky consumerism and binge drinking in preparation for the Christmas feast. The Guardian has published its annual collection of titles recommended by literary celebrities - Jonathan Franzen suggests The Peanuts Treasury, Antonia Fraser the memoirs of the Duke de Saint Simon, Seamus Heaney PV Glob's The Bog People, all pleasingly esoteric choices, none of which will appeal to any of the people I need to find presents for. From these to suggestions like "Dad will love John Grisham's new one!!!" (my family refuses to fit many of the holes necessary to render the less personalised buyer's guides useful - no one ever seems to say "Dad will love this book on Provencale rock fish cookery!!!"), I'm mildly at my wits end contemplating a trip to Foyles to rake through the shelves of things that aren't on promotion in the hope of finding the perfect book. Last year I bought everything secondhand at the book market on the South Bank, which meant that some people were shoehorned into their gifts, but which left me enough money to make them all some sloe gin to accompany their new dog-eared paperbacks. This year, I'm holding out for a couple of spare hours in an empty bookshop, albeit one that is neither overheated nor replacing its usual stock with 10,000 novelty "gift" books with vaguely rude titles.

That's another thing - who on earth invented the gift book? If you wouldn't buy something for yourself, why inflict it on someone else? I would quite happily shell out for some examples, like the ever dependable Schott's Almanac, which is the best thing to hit the bathroom since the flushing water closet, enabling you to come back to the dinner table armed with an array of fascinating facts guaranteed to kill all other conversation deader than the roast turkey, but can a guide for "naughty girls" by Tara Palmer Tompkinson really do anything but prompt the recipient to sell all their worldly goods and run away to join Medicins Sans Frontieres' work wherever neither you or Tara are sure to find them? Lazy publishing, lazy present buying. Perfect for me then ...

PP Seven Launch Party

2007-10-03T20:49:00.000+01:00

A new season has swept into town, and that can only mean one thing: a brand new issue of Pen Pusher. In deference to the weather, Number Seven is a bumper fiction and poetry extravaganza: just the thing to curl up with in front of the electric two-bar, and to celebrate, we're having a bowling party! Only joking, actually we're having a party at a pub called The Bowler in Bowling Green Lane: white slacks optional. So if the inclement conditions have knocked you for six, come and join us from 7pm on Thursday, 18th October for fizz, nibbles and erudite chit-chat.

The Bowler
32 Bowling Green Lane (just off the Farringdon Road)
London EC1R 0BJ

Nearest tubes: Farringdon 5 mins
Angel 10 mins
Chancery Lane 15 mins

Small Wonder

2007-09-17T13:56:00.000+01:00

Apologies for our absence from what is, I believe, occasionally known somewhat mystifyingly as "the blogosphere" - that is, if any of you have missed us (sob). We have been collectively busy wading through the inundation of submissions for the next issue (out mid-October), and variously feeling the love in Ibiza, getting cross in Kos, and fishing for mackerel off Lyme Regis. Still, the leaves are dropping like flies (although the flies still seems to be around and biting my ankles of an evening), and it is time to settle back and think of things more literary than the airport format paperback. First up, the Small Wonder Short Story Festival in East Sussex this week - 19th to the 23rd September. William Trevor called last year's the best literary festival he's ever been to, and 2007's programme includes everything from practical workshops with the likes of Esther Freud and the Open University, readings from Fay Weldon, Monica Ali and Colm Tóibín, talks and discussions (one of which is going to be recorded for PP favourite Radio 4) and the National Short Story Prize award (I think). Anway, it all looks terrific fun - we're going to be there on Saturday (well, I'm not, but the other two, more diligent, are, for which I am quite jealous) so come down and say hello if you're tempted by an away-day in Lewes ...

Just call me Terry [Eagleton, that is]

2007-08-06T14:40:00.000+01:00

Somehow, this blog has so far resisted all mention of the awesome power that is The Book of the Face. Now I’m not going to wax lyrical about its potential for pleasurable light stalking, or forming groups to chat about the various merits of different sorts of biscuits or the turgid prose of JK Rowling – but it does have an intriguing little feature amongst all the useless add-ons that clutter up the screen (build your own aquarium, throw a sheep at someone, that sort of rubbish): a personal book review function. So people logging on to my page to covertly smirk at photographs of me on the beach can also find out that I’ve just powered through 'Le Grand Meaulnes' and am currently easing myself into my very first Margaret Drabble. It forces you to give books a mark out of five, which leaves me giving everything a judicious three (except Naipaul’s 'A Turn in the South', which merited four), and leaves you sounding a wee bit pompous, admittedly, but basically it’s a great way to show off how clever you are to all and sundry. Well, serves them right for looking, doesn’t it?

Sunday Sunday Here Again ...

2007-07-27T11:51:00.000+01:00

The weather’s looking predictably bletcherous on Sunday so, if you’re tired of endless re-runs of Grand Designs on E4, why not get down with the cool kids and come and see us at the Publish And Be Damned annual fair in Shoreditch? Last year’s event (our very first) was a jolly affair, stuffed full of bijou little publications from around the country, from wordy affairs like our own fair mag to huge arty creations overflowing with etchings of crows and the like; very sociable and a great place to pick up a piece of the new David Shrigley … as well as make us look even more popular (and pick up a copy of issue six, if you haven’t already got one). For more details, check out www.publishandbedamned.org.uk …

On the trail of Mr Holmes

2007-07-15T20:14:00.000+01:00

Having finally finished VS Naipaul's excellent A Turn in the South, last week I allowed myself a little light relief in the form of a Sherlock Holmes box set I purchased at some absurd knock-down price at WH Smith in Edinburgh last Christmas while the rest of my family were busy trying to exchange their presents. After taking a couple of months to finish VS, as the state of the paperback will testify (my handbag is a dangerous place), I zipped through two in as many days: A Study in Scarlet and The Sign of Four. Their modest size made them ideal fodder for a trip on the number 19 at rush hour, although, not having read a detective novel for some time, I kept rushing ahead through important chunks of Holmesian logic and missing details entirely.

Gulping down two in succession reminded me of something I noticed during my degree: if one overdoses on any writer, however skilfull, instead of reading their work at decent intervals, as it was published, then one starts to pick up on little literary tics and repeated devices which, although perfectly innocuous on their own, begin to become a bit of a bore en masse. Obviously Conan Dolyle wished to remind his readers afresh each time of Holmes' amazing powers of logical deduction, and found it convenient to employ Watson as a Doubting Thomas figure in this regard, but reading about this testing process even twice spoiled my enjoyment of it a little. So I shall give CD a break for a month or so for fairness' sake, despite wishing to plunge in anew tomorrow morning.

The Self-Styled Water Poet

2007-07-02T13:24:00.000+01:00

The next Pen Pusher party, to mark the launch of the auspicious issue six, is at a public house called The Water Poet, in Spitalfields. Basically, we were seduced by the name (and a certain someone's claim that it was, as a rule, "full of brasses" - and not of the horsey sort neither), but in my never-ending quest for knowledge, and a desire to entice people in with literary trivia, I decided to find out more about this fella.

According to my old mucker Wikipedia, John Taylor (1578-1653) was, by profession, a Thames waterman, meaning that he ferried people across the river in the days before the Millenium bridge. In his spare time, and perhaps during many hours gazing out upon the murky waves, he wrote verse, often by subscription, a method which is wonderfully at odds with the modern idea of the artist as independent from the commercial world - he'd propose an idea, and if he gathered enough advance subscriptions, he'd write it. His work seems to have mainly dwelt upon Watermen's Issues, like their dispute with the theatres when they all moved across to the north bank in 1612, depriving the ferrymen of traffic (I can't remember why they relocated - anyone?), but he also produced the wonderful sounding 'The Pennylesse Pilgrimage; or, the Moneylesse Perambulation of John Taylor, alias the Kings Magesties Water-Poet; How He TRAVAILED on Foot from London to Edenborough in Scotland, Not Carrying any Money To or Fro, Neither Begging, Borrowing, or Asking Meate, Drinke, or Lodging' in 1618, for which he had over sixteen hundred subscribers.

I leave you with this piece. The title, I think, is self-explanatory - Thos Parr is alleged to have lived to the ripe old age of 152. According my in-depth research, the old goat attributed his longevity to a vegetarian diet, and an affair to celebrate his centenary, which produced an illegitimate kid.

The Olde, Olde, very Olde Man; or The Age and Long Life of Thomas Parr

Good wholesome labour was his exercise,
Down with the lamb, and with the lark would rise:
In mire and toiling sweat he spent the day,
And to his team he whistled time away:
The cock his night-clock, and till day was done,
His watch and chief sun-dial was the sun.
He was of old Pythagoras' opinion,
That green cheese was most wholesome with an onion;
Coarse meslin bread, and for his daily swig,
Milk, butter-milk, and water, whey and whig:
Sometimes metheglin, and by fortune happy,
He sometimes sipped a cup of ale most nappy,
Cycler or perry, when he did repair
T' Whitson ale, wake, wedding, or a fair;
Or when in Christmas-time he was a guest
At his good landlord's house amongst the rest:
Else he had little leisure-time to waste,
Or at the ale-house huff-cap ale to taste;
His physic was good butter, which the soil
Of Salop yields, more sweet than candy oil;
And garlick he esteemed above the rate
Of Venice treacle, or best mithridate.
He entertained no gout, no ache he felt,
The air was good and temperate where he dwelt;
While mavisses and sweet-tongued nightingales
Did chant him roundelays and madrigals.
Thus living within bounds of nature's laws,
Of his long-lasting life may be some cause.

Sundowners in Hongkers

2007-06-22T11:39:00.000+01:00

While you've all been enjoying your footloose and fancy free weeks at work (some of you must work, right?) I have been polishing that lustrous pearl in the feathered cap of the Orient, Hong Kong in the hope that it may reveal to me wonderous tales of the Mystic East suitable for blogging. In almost absurd humidity too. You can all buy me an appropriately glamorous cocktail at the next PP party to thank me if you wish (although I do only drink those topped with nitrogen foam now).

HK is not what I would describe as a literary city. Bookshops are relatively rare (it seems entirely probable there may be more Louis Vuitton stores than bookshops) and the only ones I've seen people reading are in comic form (not to say these aren't Literature, but it shows a certain narrowness of taste). I asked my old friend A, who works for the South China Morning Post out here, and entertained me every week for three years with his essays on fellatio metaphors in the Pearl poet and so on back in our heady student days, about the "literary scene" (forgive me, I had knocked back a fair few Sidecars by this point, it being Ladies Night). "Simple" he replied. "There isn't one." In fact, he seemed quite concerned that the lack of a cultural scene would ultimately prevent Hong Kong from ever being the world city the government boasts it already is. A city cannot live by finance alone. He did, however, mention a trend amongst HK authors for identity-crisis fiction ("am I Chinese, am I American ... or am I just a Hong Konger?" type of thing), and recommended a writer named Xu Xi, who I hope to hunt down at some point.

This afternoon, still reeling from this revelation (and perhaps Ladies Night), I popped into Dymocks, a chain of English language bookshops, and, along with Jan Morris's excellent book on the handover, purchased a book of letters from Hong Kong spanning the ten years before it returned to Chinese hands, "Watching the Flag Come Down" by a former expat and women's historian and activist, and "Being Eurasian: Memories Across Racial Divides", which looks absolutely fascinating, and far less dryly academic than the title suggests. And a card with pugs on for good measure.

Fame at last. In Hungary.

2007-06-15T14:03:00.000+01:00

Lovely young author, bon viveur and general friend of PP, Iain Hollingshead (long term readers may recall we interviewed him way back in issue two to mark the publication of his debut novel, 'Twentysomething'. More fickle visitors can read the piece here) has been in contact to inform us that our razor-sharp brand of literary criticism has gone GLOBAL. 'Twentysomething' has just been translated in Hungarian, and, on its lurid jacket, 'Douazeci si ceva' features a quote from your very own favourite pundits, sandwiched between the thoughts of the Evening Standard and The Bookseller. 'Cartea asta e atat de buna, incat iti vine sa-ti dai palme ca nu te-ai gandit tu primul s-o scrii' we trumpet, whatever that means. (www.humanitas.ro)

Elsewhere, another friend of the mag, the delightful Helen, has been busy with a super-duper modern publication of her own, the Champagne Socialist. She writes:

Champagnesocialist.co.uk has just been updated with a selection of COMPLETELY TRUE FACTS. However, it needs your help to become even better. I'm looking for articles/short fiction of 1,000 - 2,000 words and reviews of 600 words to beef it up.

Have you written anything you'd like recorded on the internet? Had an idea that's too controversial/trifling for a 'proper' publication? Then look no further than Champagne Socialist. All the news that fits, we print!

Check the site out - it's ace.

I'm still reeling ...

2007-06-08T12:26:00.000+01:00

... from the experience of hearing my name on Radio 4 last night. Anna did us proud with a remarkably collected, articulate explanation (I would surely have descended into high pitched giggles) of why exactly we've started a print journal in an increasingly electronic world, and why we think the world needs more people like us (or, perhaps, why the world needs more people willing to sponsor and support us). I'll try and get a transcript up at some point, but in the meantime, here's the link:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio4/arts/frontrow

Click on Thursday's programme, and fast forward to 22.24 minutes in, unless you're interested in Keith Allen and the Royal Festival Hall (which you might quite reasonably be). I don't think it will be up for long though, so hurry!

News Flash!

2007-06-05T00:01:00.000+01:00

In an exciting development, I can exclusively reveal that Pen Pusher will be appearing on BBC Radio 4's Front Row this Thursday evening at 7.15. Well, not all of us. Just Anna. And it was her idea in the first place. So I'm not bitter.

We all just love Radio 4. We wake up (separately) to the Today programme (so much for rock chicks hmm Anna?). We adore Open Book on Sundays, when we're recovering from our wild n' crazy Saturday nights. We like to fall asleep to their endless plays. So, basically, we're all thrilled. It's like being asked to supper by Virginia Woolf. (Actually, scrap that, she had eating issues, despite the Bar and Grill that bear her name on Russell Square. More like going for a drink at the Drones Club with Bertie Wooster perhaps.)

The progamme, aptly, is going to be on literary magazines and fanzines. Find out, or listen afterwards here, or tune in (93.5FM, in London at least) on Thursday. As an added incentive, there's even The Archers on first ... and things are hotting up in The Village Cup!

Sad News

2007-05-28T23:16:00.000+01:00

I finally got round to visiting the Mass Observation website this evening (www.massobs.org.uk). Frustratingly, it seems they are besieged by the scribblings of females from southern Britain; the recruitment page states:

Due to high demand we are currently only recruiting male writers who are aged 16-44, living in all regions of the UK except the South East and South West. We do accept applications from people who meet two of the three criteria (for example, we would accept female writers aged between 16-44, living in the North), but due to limited resources we are sadly unable to accept all applicants. Please do not apply unless you meet at least two of the three criteria.

So it looks like I shall have to think of some way of satisfying my vanity. Perhaps I'll go back to my original idea of hanging around areas of heavy clay during my final illness in the hope of ending up in a glass case in a thousand years time, accompanied by a flattering artistic impression of my appearance (I shall carry a lock of long blonde hair upon my person to encourage this last). The MO website is very interesting though, despite the stabbing pains of envy that assaulted me as I read the Mass Observers’ current assignment (thoughts on the smoking ban). It turns out they've published all sorts of fascinating things - I like the sound of Woodley, K’s, ""One sherry and I'm anybody's": Women and drink in Mass Observation, 1989' (MA dissertation, University of Sussex, 2004).

This week I also learnt that Ibsen kept a scorpion in a beer glass on his desk to help with writers’ block.

Two exciting things

2007-05-20T21:31:00.000+01:00

A couple of exciting things have happened this week. Firstly, I finally finished my book of extracted diary entries from the Mass Observation Project. This in itself was a cause of sadness, although I am assuming there must be more material available for me to nose at. However, waiting for me at the end was the joyous news that the project is still going on! Yes, I could be a Maggie Joy Blunt (frustrated novelist and slovenly housewife) for our times, with people reading my erudite thoughts on the parlous state of the sewing on Benetton cardigans, the repeated presence of carrots in my organic vegetable box and David Mitchell's lovely chubby face in 2057. How wonderful for them.

Secondly, wandering around central London with a hamper full of Italian meats on Thursday night with time to kill, I popped into a largeish bookshop (shame on me). Thrillingly I was sucked in by two entirely reprehensible displays specifically designed to extract money from me, and came out with a VS Naipaul which had previously passed me by, a travelogue on the Deep South (which along with VS himself, is one of my particular passions), the first novel in Paul Scott's Jewel in the Crown series and a book of American anecdotes, all culled from this one set of gaudy shelves. Yes, the guilt came later, but I am still gorging my way through VS nevertheless.

A soppy Othello

2007-05-14T20:53:00.000+01:00

On Friday evening, I saw Othello at The Globe. Somewhat embarrassingly, despite having lived in London on and off for six years, and having spent a whole sodding term on the Bard (how pleased I am to have found room to refer to him thus) at university AND the remarkable value of the cheapest tickets (not seats, of course), this was my first visit.

Naturally I took advantage of the whole thundery, feet-numbing, beer-swilling, nut-eating (rose and olives just wouldn't have cut the Falstaffian mustard) experience in all its many glories, so I feel well qualified to pass comment. It would have been, I believe, meteorologically impossible for it to to rained more during the three hour performance. This was positive, because it meant that half the lily livered, cagoule clad audience, including several of my party, retired to the pub in the first fifteen minutes, leaving only the hardcore. I did, however, occasionally find it difficult to hear the actors speaking over the tip tap of rain on my hat, and I wonder if those at the top of the theatre, rather than in the pit, would have been able to hear at all (or are there speakers up there?).

Although standing still for so long wasn't entirely comfortable, it did force me to engage more with the stage, rather than settling into a chair in the soporific darkness and allowing my thoughts to wander. Plus, I very much enjoyed the refreshments we collected during the interval to enjoy during the second half, although I was disappointed there weren't more Elizabethan hawkers wandering the tiers with trays full of crispy pigs' ears and such like. The main issue I had was with the very pleasant, but nevertheless rather officious ushers. If you're going to have a load of people standing around watching Shakespeare in a facsimile of his original theatre, and have gone to a great deal of trouble to ensure that that building, and perfomance, is as authentic as possible, then why employ people to shush the crowd in the pit? If it's to help others to hear, fair enough. If people are bringing dancing bears in, then I see their point. But if they're simply clapping, occasionally booing or cat-calling, or whispering to their neighbours, it seems to treat the play in an unreasonably, very un-Shakespearean reverence. Would this even be the case in a comedy I wonder?

Oh, and by the way, the play itself was very good, particularly the excellent high camp perfomance by Roderigo.

My Sunday

2007-04-30T15:04:00.000+01:00

Yesterday I finally sat down and did something I've been meaning to for an embarrassingly long time. No, it wasn't getting my hair cut (although your comments have been noted) or finally reading another Harry Potter book (how could you all, when you haven’t even made it through Anna Karenina yet?), it was sitting down and devouring, in one sitting, a rare copy of the recent reprint of BS Johnson's The Unfortunates. Loyal PP fans may remember Helen's excellent article on Myddelton Square’s most famous ex-resident (counting myself as its most famous overall, given my recent definitive piece on the British tomato industry, currently available from all good newsagents) from the first issue, but those tardy to our fine publication may enjoy it here.

One of our fine and upstanding readers was kind enough, some shameful months ago, to lend me his prized copy of this excitingly unbound tome, which comes in 25 sections, to be arranged as the reader wishes, plus a beginning and an ending. As the preface, by his biographer Jonathan Coe points out, Johnson himself was aware that this was a bit of a cop out – any kind of run-on text, particularly when it runs on for 12 or so pages, imposes a certain narrative structure upon the reader, and I was surprised that the beginning and end were similarly proscribed, but, such carping aside, it was a cracking good read. Allowing myself a slight lapse into wankiness, the 'random' structure successfully evokes the fragmentary and unreliable nature of memory, although I did have a slight problem with regard to this and the overarching narrative (meta-narrative?): I found reading about his plans for lunch some pages after I'd read about him eating it slightly ... if not confusing, then vaguely distracting or perhaps unsettling. Saying this, I'm not quite sure how it could have been avoided.

If you can get hold of a copy (join the British Library or something), then it's a couple of hours well spent; it's the kind of book that reminds you why one OUGHT to read things other than Harry Potter and D Steele (my own personal weakness). Now I just need to find myself one so I can re-read it in a different order ...

National Short Story Prize

2007-04-23T10:24:00.000+01:00

Thank you again to all of you who reeled up to the launch of Pen Pusher Five on Thursday night; it was delightful to see so many new, if slightly blurred, faces (a haze of enthusiasm and champagne has made my memories of the evening rather attractively impressionist). Photos are now up on the site under PP Social. The shame.

Now, I’m rather behind on this one, but, in conjunction with their support for the competition, last week Radio 4 broadcast the shortlisted entries for the National Short Story Prize, alongside interviews with the authors. The winner was announced this morning. Unfortunately, as they were on air mid-afternoon, I missed them, but if you’re quick, you can listen to the shortlist here, before making up your own mind as to the justice of the decision.

Short stories are just about our favourite things ever, and the form deserves more attention in its own right, rather than being dismissed as mini, somewhat inferior novels. Further, more intellectual thoughts on this subject to follow at some point.

En vacances

2007-04-13T13:28:00.000+01:00

While awaiting the return of the shiny new PP5 from the printers, resplendent with dancing hares and all things springlike, two thirds of the Pen Pusher team have quit the country, patience being an elusive virtue for the eager editor. One is schmoozing poets in New York, and no doubt living the Paul Auster dream, and the other is watching the rain in the Var, and thinking that this is definitely not the gospel according to Marcel Pagnol.

For those unfamiliar with (arguably) Provence's most famous literary son (arguably because he came from Marseilles, and also because such luminaries as Voltaire and the Marquis de Sade also hung about the area de temps en temps), he is the creator of the world's second most famous hunchback (after Notre Dame, but before Gillian McKeith), Jean de Florettes (which you may remember from French lessons), as well as some magnificent autobiographical work describing his childhood, and the beginnings of his lifelong passion for the hills of south-east France. Even now, as the rain splatters the olive trees outside, they evoke long dusty days in the aromatic scrub and baking rocks of a Provencale August. If you're new to Pagnol, you can find translations on Amazon, but I'd recommend starting with Yves Robert's two film adaptations of La Gloire de mon Pere and Le Chateau de mon Mere, which are fab. Just the thing to wile away a stormy day, both in France and London.

Drunk Children

2007-03-26T17:13:00.000+01:00

Thanks to all of you who trekked out to the wilds of ’Ackney on Saturday evening (we’re nothing if not edgy) to enjoy the fun and games that was Wise Children. Those of you who didn’t bother missed a virtuoso performance from Mr Tim Wells taking in West London (booo!), Gilbert, George and black pudding smiles (yay!) and the porn-free newsagent (??), plus the occasionally acoustic talents of Yo Zushi (see above) and band with the lovely Ana Silvera on xylophone, Tom Rogerson, jazz pianist extraordinaire and various others whose names were rudely jostled out of my head by gin. A good night was had by all, particularly the 7,000 of you who claimed to be on the guest list.

A wee dram o criticism

2007-03-16T18:03:00.000Z

This week I have mainly been in Scotland, nosing whisky for a less zealously highbrow publication than Pen Pusher. While I like whisky, (not so long ago, I didn't, really, but in truth that was because I had only tried it half a dozen times in unwisely large gulps, so I was about as justified in my dislike as someone who claims not to like literature after trying to start with Conrad), I don't, however, know very much about it, so in a desperate attempt to fake this, I borrowed my intended's copy of Andrew Jefford's Peat, Smoke and Spirit, which told me a little more about whisky, and an awful lot more about Islay. Then, at Helen's excellent Schmooze and Booze event on Tuesday evening (www.schmoozeandbooze.co.uk, if your interest is piqued by either part of the name), I schmoozed my way to another recommendation: Iain Bank's Raw Spirit, which I managed to grab at the airport the next day.

I was once in love with Banks, briefly in about 1997. I started with The Wasp Factory, as we all do, and devoured a whole raft of black and white paperbacks, until I came to one about a cello player, which I was unable to finish. Since then, I have never felt the need to moon over this short lived, yet blazing affair, and when that same delightful Helen told me she was writing a piece on Banks for the latest Pen Pusher, I felt nery a twinge. Reading Raw Spirit, I can see why. It's as if Jeremy Clarkson (coincidentally enough, another of Helen's favourite men) had learned to write. Banks writes very competently indeed, and (surprisingly enough as far as I'm concerned, almost lyrically in places), but the subject matter so far - and to be honest, I'm only 60 pages in - is himself, cars, his friends and family, Scotland, and whisky, in that order. Perhaps, like that other great Jeremy, Jezza Kyle, you either love him or hate him. Now if HE wrote a book about his origins (Reading? South Croydon? hell?), then I'd be interested.

An enjoyable rant

2007-03-04T22:31:00.000Z

This weekend I have been mostly fuming over the creeping glorification of ignorance in this country. Although, given how long this particular beast has been creeping, it ought not to have reduced me to a seething fury, two things happened to bring the subject to my swift-to-chide attention. Firstly, there was Giles Foden wondering in the Guardian Review why ‘literary’ has become a dirty word for the country’s most influential book club. The representative of Richard and Judy’s Book Club quoted explained the term might “put [the readers] off.” But what really annoyed me was her seemingly proud admission, apropos of Martin Amis’ appointment as a professor of creative writing at Manchester University, that she wouldn’t know if he were Britain’s greatest living author because she has “never read one of his books”. Now, while it’s true that there are an awful lot of books in this world, and she can’t be expected to have read them all, it surprises me that someone in such a powerful position has never even dipped into Amis. Perhaps she was too busy ploughing through Feel, a biography of Robbie Williams that seems to have pipped London Fields to the post in the race to be deemed worthy of careful consideration by R&J's millions of devotees.

The second happened this morning, in the gym. Running along, I happened upon a truly inane Sunday morning filler programme which I think was called (nudge nudge), ‘Something For the Weekend’. In an attempt to fill the minutes cheaply, they showed a long extract from an irritating series in which ‘car nut’ James May mocked Oz Clarke around France, dismissing any attempt at informed, interesting commentary with a piercing, childish whistle and a demand for a drink. I think he was meant to represent the ordinary viewer, who, of course has no interest in history, or culture. After the clip finished, the presenter leaned back on his sofa, and drawled, only barely comprehensibly, (and I paraphrase through gritted teeth): “yeah, we had that Oz on last year. Mad! Didn’t understand a thing he said, all about wine and stuff, but top bloke, yeah.” Then he laughed. A lot. Had I had the facility to turn the speed up on the treadmill sufficiently to allow me to run into the screen and punch his grinning face, I would have done.