You can listen to this on YouTube.
One will openly admit that one much prefers to read literature that has stood the test of time over that which is, so to say, fly-by-night literature from origins suspect and with no listed publisher willing to put their name on the colophon. One speaks, of course, of that dubious fraternity the ‘indie authorhood’.
But, one hears a baffled disciple murmur in perplexed tones, did not you, dear mentor, belong to that brave band of scribes who carve their own initials in the hall of publishing fame?
Ah, yes, indeed that is so. But one needs to be clear about the difference between one’s own sterling achievements and those who simply upload whatever dross they may have vomited over their keyboards in grunge ridden attics, whilst no doubt intoxicated by substances which one would struggle to pronounce as chemical formulae. The average ‘indie author’, dear reader who writes, is not worth the time of day. It is only the elite, the creme-de-la-best, such as your beloved pedagogue oneself, who shine brightly out from the pallid throng and thus are worthy of consideration as serious producers of literature.
So you may imagine one’s consternation when Mumsie returned from a holiday in some distant corner of darkest America, clutching a tome she had signed by some random author having purchased it at a garage sale or some such from all one could fathom. She seemed keener to discuss the beer she had been offered (Widmer Brothers drop top amber ale) and which she vowed went well with the Pernod and advocaat she always carries in her hip flask, than the author who proffered both beer and book.
“Read this,” she snapped and thrust the volume in ones face so one was confronted by a pair of glowing eyes. Not hers, these were on the cover of the book.”It puts the tosh you write in real perspective.”
Of course, one could not refuse such a challenge and so I did read.
My Review of Hunting Darkness by Ian Bristow
A police officer has a mental breakdown which explains why he sees things and believes the deluded young lady he encounters can work magic. A lot of people die and the policeman takes ever further leave of his senses. If one had been his superior one would have definitely fired him!
The best part is a brief glimpse inside the British Museum.
Three stars. One for the book and two for the cover with those dangerous-looking glowing eyes which was perfect for terrorising Mumsie, when lit from below and left on a table as she came in drunk. One can still hear the shriek in fond memory.
(Contrary to the opinion expressed by that moronic son of mine Moons here, Hunting Darkness is a tense, supernatural thriller by Ian Bristow and that beer was very good. Cheers, Ian! – Ed. Jacintha Farquhar)