My Book Shelves (7): 'The Inimitable Jeeves,' by P.G.Wodehouse [15 Nov 2022]

 OK. So we need to talk about P.G.Wodehouse. In particular we need to talk about Jeeves and Wooster. I’m going to make the perfectly reasonable claim that the Jeeves novels (and short stories) represent the epitome of comic fiction. Never been bettered. Never likely to be. Oh, and please don’t try to disagree with me – it will only make me upset. And yes, I know I made almost the same assertion about Damon Runyon, (see my Book Shelves (2)) but I can quite comfortably hold two contradictory views – especially where writing is concerned, and on this I’m indisputably correct – they were both the best. (Curious isn’t it, that Wodehouse and Runyon were contemporaries writing comic fiction during the depression. And a century later no one comes near them.)

Anyway. Jeeves and Wooster. You know who they are. The genius begins with the invention of these two central characters – perhaps the best yin-and-yang contrast in fiction – Bertie Wooster the utterly idiotic, upper-class, put-upon (but generally benign) single man-about-town; and Jeeves the cool-headed, supernaturally intelligent, never to be out-smarted valet. There is a definite bromance going on – a friendship of unequals, that lends itself perfectly to the farcical situation comedies that unravel in the stories. But the second, and greater genius, is Wodehouse’s decision to make Bertie the narrator. Everything is told in Bertie’s voice – and what a voice. It’s a jovial, colloquial, laddish style, wholly belonging to the 1930s (or thereabouts), immediately redolent of the privilege and class of the era, and yet laden with comic potential.

Here are the opening paragraphs of ‘The Inimitable Jeeves.’

Morning, Jeeves," I said.

"Good morning, sir," said Jeeves.

He put the good old cup of tea softly on the table by my bed, and I took a refreshing sip. Just right, as usual. Not too hot, not too sweet, not too weak, not too strong, not too much milk, and not a drop spilled in the saucer. A most amazing cove, Jeeves. So dashed competent in every respect. I've said it before, and I'll say it again. I mean to say, take just one small instance. Every other valet I've ever had used to barge into my room in the morning while I was still asleep, causing much misery; but Jeeves seems to know when I'm awake by a sort of telepathy. He always floats in with the cup exactly two minutes after I come to life. Makes a deuce of a lot of difference to a fellow's day.

"How's the weather, Jeeves?"

"Exceptionally clement, sir."

"Anything in the papers?"

"Some slight friction threatening in the Balkans, sir. Otherwise, nothing."

"I say, Jeeves, a man I met at the club last night told me to put my shirt on Privateer for the two o'clock race this afternoon. How about it?"

"I should not advocate it, sir. The stable is not sanguine."

That was enough for me. Jeeves knows. How, I couldn't say, but he knows. There was a time when I would laugh lightly, and go ahead, and lose my little all against his advice, but not now.

"Talking of shirts," I said, "have those mauve ones I ordered arrived yet?"

"Yes, sir. I sent them back."

"Sent them back?"

"Yes, sir. They would not have become you."

I think it’s this blustery Wooster prose that makes TV and film adaptations of the stories slightly disappointing. Of course the screenwriter can give Bertie dialogue in the appropriate style, but you can’t tell the story that way. So don’t waste time with screen versions. You need to go back to the books. Settle down in a corner and try to make sure no one is in earshot  (your laughter will annoy them). And give the books a go. Any one will do. Here is some more from the same chapter:

"You were absolutely right about the weather. It is a juicy morning."

"Decidedly, sir."

"Spring and all that."

"Yes, sir."

"In the spring, Jeeves, a livelier iris gleams upon the burnished dove."

"So I have been informed, sir."

"Right ho! Then bring me my whangee, my yellowest shoes, and the old green Homburg. I'm going into the Park to do pastoral dances."

I don't know if you know that sort of feeling you get on these days round about the end of April and the beginning of May, when the sky's a light blue, with cotton-wool clouds, and there's a bit of a breeze blowing from the west? Kind of uplifted feeling. Romantic, if you know what I mean. I'm not much of a ladies' man, but on this particular morning it seemed to me that what I really wanted was some charming girl to buzz up and ask me to save her from assassins or something. So that it was a bit of an anti-climax when I merely ran into young Bingo Little, looking perfectly foul in a crimson satin tie decorated with horseshoes.  

Here (below) are just a few of the Jeeves and Wooster books for you to be getting on with. They are all five star novels. And there are plenty more. 

Please check out my website for more information on my books. https://www.johnironmonger.com 

My Book Shelves (6): 'Mother Tongue,' by Bill Bryson [2nd Nov 2022]

Is there any subject whatsoever that couldn’t be made a thousand times more interesting by getting Bill Bryson to write a book about it? Truly this man has an awesome talent for taking a mundane – even dull – topic, and crafting it into something fascinating. You find yourself 

trapped within the pages of a Bryson book, as engrossed as if it was a Donna Tartt novel. And you feel as bereft at the end. I hardly ever read travel books, and yet I devoured ‘Notes from a Small Island,’ (travels in Britain), ‘Neither Here nor There,’ (Europe), ‘Down Under,’ (Down Under), ‘The Lost Continent,’ (USA), and ‘The Road to Little Dribbling,’ (Britain again) and I’ve even read some of them twice. And ‘A Walk in the Woods,’ the chronicle of Bryson’s failed attempt to conquer the Appalachian Trail is a modern classic. Give the man a subject and he’ll come back at you with a best-selling book; and, damn him,  I will probably buy the book while it is still in hardback because I simply won’t be able to wait for the softback. Thus – the human body (‘The Body’), Domesticity (‘At Home’), America in 1927 (‘One Summer’) Shakespeare (‘Shakespeare’) and American English (‘Made in America.’) Oh – and the whole history of science (‘A Short History of Nearly Everything.’) I want to tell you that every one of these is an absolute five-star gem, and I admire the heck out of them.

How does he do it? What is Bryson’s secret recipe? I wish I knew. He comes upon every subject from an oblique angle, and introduces us to odd characters, and follows up with quirky anecdotes, and writes in a folksy style. But he never patronises us. Or belittles his subject. He writes with a delicate balance of respect and irreverence – never quite crossing the line either way. The man is a master of his craft. I have a shelf of his books to prove my devotion.

But I need to pick one; one Bryson book for this blog. And, as it happens, this is an easy task. I pick ‘Mother Tongue.’ It’s quite simply the best exploration of the English language you will ever read. Every page is packed with gems. It’s a travel book of a kind, touring the world’s use of it’s widest spoken language, from ancient Britons to modern creoles via cockney rhymes, swearing, and word origins. It is utterly delicious. 

Here's a flavour:

"In the country inns of a small corner of northern Germany, in the spur of land connecting Schleswig-Holstein to Denmark, you can sometimes hear people talking in what sounds eerily like a lost dialect of English. Occasional snatches of it even make sense, as when they say that the “veather ist cold” or inquire of the time by asking, “What ist de clock?” According to Professor Hubertus Menke, head of the German Department at Kiel University, the language is “very close to the way people spoke in Britain more than 1,000 years ago."

Or this: 

Some cultures don't swear at all. The Finns, lacking the sort of words you need to describe your feelings when you stub your toe getting up to answer a wrongh number at 2:00 am rather oddly adopted the word 'ravintolassa.'  It means 'in the restaurant.'

The dog eared copy in the photo is my own dog-eared copy. I couldn't find an image to steal off Amazon and it worries me that this book might be going out of print. Scour the bookshops. Get yourself a copy. You'll thank me. 

Please check out my website for more information on my books. https://www.johnironmonger.com 

   

A new cover is announced: Der Eisbar und die Hoffnung auf morgen (The Wager and the Bear) [24 Oct 2022]

 

A gorgeous new cover from those brilliant people at Fischer Verlag. Ready to pre-order. Out on midsummer's day (I think). 

Please check out my website for more information on my books. https://www.johnironmonger.com 

My Book Shelves (5): 'Slaughterhouse 5,' by Kurt Vonnegut [22nd Oct 2022]

 Slaughterhouse 5 by Kurt Vonnegut: *****

I was eighteen when I first read Slaughterhouse 5. At the time I was reading nothing but science fiction. I had an insatiable appetite for sci fi novels – especially American ones; I could read three or four in a week. And I did. And so, when Slaughterhouse-5 came along I bought the paperback and added it to my pile along with unread Asimovs and Bradburys unaware that this book would change my reading habits forever.

I think I knew the book was about the firebombing of Dresden. But I didn’t give that much thought. It was also about a time traveller and abduction by aliens – so that was all right. Or so I thought.

But right away this was clearly a different book. It starts with this unusual introduction.

So Vonnegut had been there for the fire-bombing as a prisoner of war. Well. I read on.

The first chapter begins:

ALL OF THIS HAPPENED, more or less. The war parts anyway are pretty much true. One guy I knew really was shot in Dresden for taking a teapot that wasn’t his. Another guy I knew really did threaten to have his personal enemies killed by hired gunmen after the war. And so on. I’ve changed all the names.  

An odd blurring of fiction and truth then. And right away Vonnegut himself becomes a presence in the story – there as the writer setting this all down, offering us his own wry observations about life, and politics, and the state of the world. Later in that first chapter, Vonnegut tells us he found it hard to write about his experiences in Dresden.

“I thought it would be easy for me to write about the destruction of Dresden, since all I would have to do would be to report what I had seen. And I thought too that it would be a masterpiece or at least make me a lot of money, since the subject was so big. But not many words about Dresden came from my mind… And not many words come now either.”

Slaughterhouse 5 then, appears to be Vonnegut’s way of making amends with his memory. Writing about a night when 45 thousand people (or more) were killed was simply too painful. Instead, he gives us a science fiction tale – the story of Billy Pilgrim – an optometrist - who has become unstuck in time after being abducted by aliens from the planet Tralfamadore. Time for these aliens is a fluid concept, and so it has become for Pilgrim. And so he visits incidents in his own life, like a mosaic, randomly discovering himself in old age, and then again in youth, and then again in Dresden. It is easy to argue that Vonnegut robbed the story of some of its force with this narrative device; but he also sets it into perspective – the perspective of a whole life with its highs and lows and dreadful mistakes.  

Perhaps the most revolutionary thing about Slaughterhouse 5 is not the content, but the style. Vonnegut speaks to us directly. He gives us short paragraphs. Short sentences. Vignettes of a scene. Asides. Sometimes paragraphs end with the writer’s own resignation of defeat – ‘So it goes.’

I’ve read a lot more Vonnegut since. Nothing else is as good. Most of the titles I barely remember. But Slaughterhouse 5 was, if not the last pulp sci fi novel I read, certainly the reason I drifted away from the genre in my twenties. I found something in this book that made me want more than fanciful ideas and aliens. Slaughterhouse 5 didn't make me a writer. But it did make me a reader. 

Please check out my website for more information on my books. https://www.johnironmonger.com 

My Book Shelves (4): 'Address Unknown,' by Katherine Kressmann Taylor [22 Oct 2022]

'Address Unknown' by Katherine Kressmann Taylor: ***** 

'Address Unknown’ is an exquisite and deeply moving piece of writing. It is the profoundly intimate and troubling exploration of a friendship torn apart by the cult-like power of nationalism; an excoriating and unsettling unravelling of human nature... but with just about the best ending you will ever encounter in literature. Whenever I visit a book-club, this is always the book I recommend for the group to read next. People have written to thank me. Imagine that.

Address Unknown *****

It’s a novella. Only 64 pages. So short you can read it all in one sitting. And the only essential thing you need to know is that it was written in 1935 – four years before World War II, which makes it frighteningly prophetic. I don’t want to tell you too much more. But if I had to force you to read one book from my library this would be it.

I don’t know much about Katherine Kressman Taylor beyond the bare details of her life from Wikipedia. She was born in 1903 in Portland Oregon. She died in Minnesota in 1996. She only wrote one other book. (I haven’t read it.)  But with ‘Address Unknown’ she sealed her immortality.

Please check out my website for more information on my books. https://www.johnironmonger.com 

My Book Shelves (3): 'The Goldfinch,' by Donna Tartt [21 Oct 2022]

 The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt *****

 Thirty years have passed since Donna Tartt’s jaw-dropping debut, ‘The Secret History,’ in which a seductively erudite group of Latin scholars at an ivy league university conspire to conceal a murder. The novel was smartly marketed in Britain (and possibly elsewhere) by wrapping it in a paper sleeve you would have to rip away before opening the book, strongly suggesting that secrets lay within that should not be allowed to escape. But the novel was even better than its marketing. It was a book so measured in its construction, so skilfully assembled and so beautifully written, it was destined from day one to become a modern classic. Which it duly became.  

And so we waited for another Donna Tartt novel. We had to wait ten years. When ‘The Little Friend,’ launched in 2002 it was almost an anti-climax. Yes, it was good. It was very good. But was it good enough? I notice that ‘The Secret History,’ earns 4.16 stars on Goodreads.com (it deserves better but, hey, Goodreads is famously brutal) while ‘The Little Friend’ only scores 3.47. That is perhaps a fair reflection of the disappointment.

Eleven years went by. In 2013 we were rewarded for our patience, and our reward was ‘The Goldfinch.’

 'The Goldfinch.' *****

I suppose for completeness I should say that ‘The Goldfinch’ scores 3.93 on Goodreads. I would give it five stars. But it is a demanding read – and the 11% of readers who hated it (and whose ratings bring down the total) probably struggled to get through its 770 pages. For me, it is an almost perfect book. I calculated once that Donna Tartt’s writing pace seems to be around 70 words a day. I’m not suggesting that she sits down and bashes out seventy words and then takes the rest of the day off. No writer works like that. But I am suggesting that she crafts her words with a kind of absolute precision, as if she was a jeweller working on a ruby rather than a painter working on a house. You get the sense that every word has been examined and every sentence weighed so you can tap them like a wine glass and hear them hum.

I like life stories in fiction. (See My Book List no 2 on John Irving). It is wonderful to watch a character develop from innocence into adulthood, a journey always laden with narrative potential. Tartt gives us the coming of age of Theo Decker who loses his mother in a terrorist bombing at a New York gallery, but who remarkably ends up rescuing and concealing a painting from the ruins. The painting is “The Goldfinch” by Carel Fabritius. We follow Theo’s life from here, to a soulless estate outside Las Vegas, to New York society, to the underworld of Amsterdam. It’s a love story. It’s a tale of personal loss and self-destruction. It’s a story of redemption. Of a sort. Perhaps it is a little too long (see also John Irving). Perhaps the ending is a little too Hollywood. But it feels right nonetheless. I loved it.    

And once you finish reading, I suggest we pencil 2025 into the calendar to start looking for the next Donna Tartt novel. I hope.

Please check out my website for more information on my books. https://www.johnironmonger.com 

'The Secret History.' *****

'The Little Friend.' ****

My Book Shelves (2): 'On Broadway,' by Damon Runyon. [20th Oct 2022]

 Runyon On Broadway: *****

OK - I’m a realist. I know I won’t convince you to pick up a book of Damon Runyon stories unless you’re already a fan. Why would you? These were comic tales written in the 1930s. They’re not terribly relevant to the world of 2022. They are written in a curiously unique style which takes some getting used to, and they employ a vocabulary of jargon that is never adequately translated. They may even be out of print. So I get it. However much I twist your metaphorical arm you’ll find something else to read first. But let me tell you, please, what you’re missing.   

"On Broadway." *****

These stories are masterpieces of literature.  Each one is an exercise in perfection. Damon Runyon was a newspaperman in New York during the prohibition years. He wrote around 100 short stories during this time. They are not long. An average story is about twelve pages. But in those pages Runyon creates rich comic characters and extraordinary situations, and every story resolves itself with a gratifying (if occasionally murderous) twist.  Various collections of his ‘Broadway’ stories were published – but today the cream of the cream appear in two volumes – ‘On Broadway’ with around 45 stories, and ‘From First to Last,’ which includes 33. The stories unravel among the low life hoodlums and criminal fraternity of New York, all struggling to make ends meet in the depression. They, (the characters who inhabit this world) generally assemble in the speakeasies and illegal hooch dens around Broadway, or at Mindy’s restaurant, or at one horse racetrack or another. Every story is written in the first person, from the perspective of a narrator who is never named, who claims absolute innocence of any offence and who feigns distaste for lawbreaking or alcohol, but who inexplicably seems to be on friendly terms with every suspicious character in the city, and who rails against the quality of the whisky at Good Time Charley’s . And every story is written in the present tense in a spoken vernacular where all men are ‘guys’ and all women are ‘dolls’ (hence the movie ‘Guys and Dolls,’) and no one goes by an ordinary name. The kind of people you might meet in Mindy’s could include Little Isadore, Spanish John, Harry the Horse, or the Lemon Drop Kid. Or Bookie Bob, or Benny South Street, or Dave the Dude, or The Seldom Seen Kid, or Joe the Joker. They will all be up to no good.

Let me give you the opening lines of some of the stories:

Off or on I know Feet Samuels a matter of eight or ten years up and down Broadway, and in and out, but I never have much truck with him because he is a guy I consider no dice.

(A Very Honourable Guy)

One night The Brain is walking me up and down outside Mindy’s restaurant, and speaking of this and that, when along comes a redheaded raggedy doll selling apples at five cents per copy.

(The Brain goes Home)

One cold winter afternoon I am standing at the bar in Good Time Charley’s little drum in West Forty-Ninth Street, partaking of a mixture of rock candy and rye whisky, and this is a most surprising thing for me to be doing as I am by no means a rum pot, and very seldom engage in any alcoholic beverages in any way … when the door opens and who comes in but a guy by the name of Blondy Swanson.

(The Three Wise Guys)

One morning along about four bells , I am standing in front of Mindy’s restaurant on Broadway with a guy by the name of Regret, who has this name because it seems he wins a very large bet the year the Whitney filly, Regret, grabs the Kentucky Derby, and can never forget it.

That's how they begin. Our innocent narrator is standing around minding his own business when who should drop by with a story but ... 

Runyon’s Broadway stories bristle with wit and humanity. If you want to dip in and try a couple (maybe they’re available online somewhere) – try ‘Little Miss Marker,’ or ‘Sense of Humor,’ or ‘The Lily of St Pierre.’ 

 

“The race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, but that's how the smart money bets”

Please check out my website for more information on my books. https://www.johnironmonger.com 

"From First to Last." *****

My Book Shelves. (1) ‘The World According to Garp,’ by John Irving

I’ve always been a pretty avid reader. And I do so love books. When we moved home in 2017, from Shropshire into Cheshire, we brought with us 52 boxes of my books, much to the dismay of the removal men. But it could have been worse. Before we moved, in an effort to down-size my library, I gave 27 boxes of books to charity shops and, gulp, threw 12 boxes away. And over the years I have probably lent, given away, or simply lost almost as many books as I now possess. But that’s the thing with books. They are curious possessions. I rarely read a book twice (unless it’s a very special book) – so why do I keep them? If you were to steal a book a day from my shelves, I probably wouldn’t notice. Not for quite a while. And yet I love them all. They feel, to me, as if they are part of my memory – a kind of off-line archive – a record of who I am and what I’ve read for more than half a century.

I don’t want to turn this blog into a book-blog. There are book bloggers who do a really good job and I’ll never compete.  But what I thought I might do is to share some of my favourite books and authors. In no particular order, you understand. So, without further ado, let’s unchain the first contender. I give you, ‘The World According to Garp.’

 The World According to Garp by John Irving *****

My rather well-read copy of 'Garp.' 

This is the book that made me want to be a writer. It was, I think, the first time I truly understood the extraordinary power and poetry of good writing. There is a scene, early in the novel, when Garp and his mother, Jenny Fields, visit the school gymnasium on a mission to find young Garp a sport. They settle on wrestling. But the scene the novel gives us is so vivid and multidimensional, the emotions so strong, the images so striking, that I found myself as a young man re-reading these pages over and over to try and figure out how Irving had done it.

Is this John Irving’s best book? Perhaps not. It is clearly the work of a young writer (Irving was in his early thirties when he wrote it) and it ranges rather loosely over a shopping-list of issues (single motherhood, writing, bereavement, feminism, mutilation) in a way that risks losing focus. Its hippy vibe may not have aged well. It was made into a rather mediocre film. It deals with tropes that have rather been left behind by contemporary novelists. The conceit of a strong single woman arranging her own insemination and raising her son to manhood is not especially radical these days. But. But. But. Irving has somehow created a character with such depth, and painted a landscape with such detail, we cannot help but be drawn in to Garp’s odd world and the curious cast of characters that surround him. There is something deliciously experimental about the novel. Garp is finding his voice as a writer and Irving shares with us whole tracts of his (Garp’s) writing. ‘The Pension Grillparzer,’ (very much like Irving’s later novel – ‘The Hotel New Hampshire,’) and ‘The World According to Bensenhaver,’ an angry piece of work – not unlike, er, ‘The World According to Garp.’ I can’t imagine a publisher these days letting all this through.  And I can’t imagine the older Irving toying with his readers like this. ‘The World According to Bensenhaver,’ is almost 40 pages long and it drops plumb into the manuscript at such a crucial point in Garp’s life you start by begging it to wind up and let you back into the story. Until it too has you in its clutches. If I was to lend you an Irving I would probably go for ‘The Hotel New Hampshire’ or ‘The Cider House Rules,’ or even the super-heavy ‘Until I Find You.’ But I have an enormous soft spot for Garp. 

If you've never read John Irving you've missed a real treat. There is something about his use of language - like Turner's use of paint - that enchants you. He's a fan of the semi colon, and italicised words. He writes with rhythm. He is unafraid of repetition. He digs deep into character. All those are good qualities. There are negatives too. He writes long. Probably too long. I suspect that no editor now would dare trim his work which is a shame because it needs it. My copy of 'Until I Find You,' is 820 pages. I love it, but I might have loved it more at 400 pages. 

I have yet to read Irving's latest 'The Last Chairlift.' (912 pages). But until I do, here are my other John Irving recommendations - with my star ratings.

Please check out my website for more information on my books. https://www.johnironmonger.com 

'A Prayer for Owen Meany.' *****

'The Hotel New Hampshire.' *****

'The Cider House Rules,' *****

'A Son of the Circus.' ***

'A Widow for One Year.' ***

'Last Night in Twisted River.' ****

'Setting Free the Bears.' **

'The 158lb Marriage.' ***

'The Fourth Hand.' **

'The Water Method Man.' ***

'Until I Find You.' *****

'In One Person.' **

'Avenue of Mysteries.' ***

 

Greenland - and 'The Wager and the Bear:' The Video [28 Aug 2022]

 

This is the video that Jon made of our visit to Kangerlussuac in preparation for 'The Bear at the End of the World' (The Wager and the Bear). 

Please check out my website for more information on my books. https://www.johnironmonger.com 

The Greenland Ice Sheet (Point 660: My Map Pins 38) and ‘The Wager and the Bear.’ May 2022

Point 660

They call this place Point 660. I never figured out why. Our guide Daniel Jonssen (thanks Daniel) didn’t know, and he knew everything. It’s probably a map reference. Or something. Anyway, this is a quick blog about our (carbon neutral) visit there last week  (me and Jon), and it's a shameless plug for a new novel. More about that in a moment. 

It’s a five hour round trip from Kangerlussuaq to Point 660 (if you go via the Russell Glacier and you really should). You’ll need a good 4x4 and a guide who frankly isn’t bothered if he bends the vehicle in half. That’s because the route is rough. You will see reindeer, musk ox, and even arctic hares. If you're lucky (we were) you'll see chunks of ice calving from the glacier. Some intrepid adventurers trek this journey on foot and camp overnight, and I rather envy them. Maybe next time. 

The Russell Glacier

If you look at the map of Greenland you’ll spot a swathe of green down the west coast, and roughly where this landscape is at its widest, you’ll find the village of Kangerlussuaq (population 450) (pronounce it kang ul schwua). Remarkably there is a road to nowhere that leads east from here for 26 kilometres. The road was apparently built by Volkswagen to test cars on the ice. It is the longest road in Greenland (unsurfaced of course) and it winds steadily upwards along the desolate glacial valley alongside the Sandflugtsdal meltwater river, through sandy desert, hills, and utterly breath-taking landscapes, past frozen lakes and glaciers, and then it ends abruptly when it meets the Greenland Ice Cap. This is Point 660. You won’t have passed a living soul for almost two hours. You leave the ‘comfort’ of the 4x4 and you trek on foot over a rocky moraine – like the spill from a gravel quarry – and after a while, you find yourself on the ice sheet. And here you draw a very deep breath. 

The Greenland ice sheet is one of the great natural wonders of our planet. It is colossal. From Point 660 you’d need to walk 600 km in a straight line over ice to reach the west coast. The walk to the northernmost point would be 1,000 km, and it’s 800 km south until you run out of ice. That is a seriously big lump of ice. And it’s deep. Really deep. Most of it goes down more than 2 km. That’s well over a mile for English readers. And while we might idly imagine that Greenland could lose a little ice and still have plenty to spare, it might be helpful to consider the impact this immense block of ice has on the globe. A lucky accident of geography has plonked it right at the top of the Atlantic, where it acts as a global air conditioner, keeping the world from heating up too much by cooling down winds and reflecting away a lot of sunlight. It also holds a heck of a lot of freshwater. If (or maybe when) it all melts it would raise sea levels all around the world by 7 metres. 

My new novel for 2023, 'The Wager and the Bear,' features the Greenland ice sheet.  (The title may be subject to change of course.) The story unfolds in the fictional village of St Piran in Cornwall, and it begins with a very public altercation between two villagers – one a climate activist and the other an ambitious politician. The argument concludes with a dangerous wager that only one man should be able to survive. Events spiral out of control and somehow both men find themselves alone on the Greenland ice sheet, and then adrift on a giant iceberg, floating down Baffin Bay. It does make sense I promise. It is a novel about climate change, but it is also about enduring love, friendship, and community. Watch this space – or follow #thewagerandthebear on Instagram or Twitter and I’ll let you know when it is available for pre-order. 

So back to Point 660. It is an awesome destination. Desolate and beautiful. It made me feel quite emotional to walk out and stand on the ice. I hope it stays, pristine and forever frozen. I fear that it won’t. The what3words link below takes you there.

https://w3w.co/superhero.spelled.crooned

Please check out my website for more information on my books. https://www.johnironmonger.com 

Dogs (11 May 2022)

 

Poppy

On 4^th March this year we lost our beautiful golden-retriever, Poppy. She was fourteen years old -  not far off fifteen. Which is old for a retriever. And of course we knew the day was coming. We could see her health failing. She had been stone-deaf for over a year (which meant she never had to come when anyone called her, and this suited her just fine). Her back legs were weak and getting progressively weaker, and she had small cancerous growths on her belly. But she still enjoyed a walk right up to the end, and she never lost her appetite. We still couldn’t leave food out in the kitchen without returning to find it had mysteriously disappeared while Poppy gave us her ‘who - me?’ innocent-face. But knowing that the day was coming doesn’t make it easier when it does come. You may need to be a dog-owner yourself to appreciate how heart breaking it is to lose a family dog. Losing Poppy was hard.

Rosie

Why do we have dogs? I often ask myself this question. Why do we burden ourselves with the inconvenience, and costs, and grief? Why, quite frankly, do we willing submit ourselves to chewed shoes, destroyed carpets, disturbed nights, damaged flowerbeds, stolen food, dealing with poo bags, unwelcome bodily fluids, lingering dog hairs, unpleasant smells, and all of the other miscreant activities and proclivities of dogs? Why indeed? The PDSA estimates that a medium sized dog will cost its owners around £27,000 over its lifetime. Madness! We must be out of our minds to even consider such a commitment. Surely only a complete fool would have one.

Rosie

So, with all that in mind, may I introduce Rosie. She’s an eight-and-a-half week old Welsh collie. And she’s adorable. She has already given us two sleepless nights and our kitchen floor is covered with wee-mats. And we couldn’t be happier. Dogs eh!

Please check out my website for more information on my books. https://www.johnironmonger.com 

Driving the Plymouth to Banjul Rally (2007): (Posted in April 2022)

Here’s how it all came about. Some of this might be apocryphal. You will need to decide. Once upon a time (so the legend goes) a London banker called Julian Nowill thought it might be fun to drive the Paris-Dakar rally. But when he looked into it, he discovered that a realistic entry could cost anything up to a quarter of a million pounds – once you’ve paid for several high-performance cars, a huge support team, a trailer load of spare tyres, and salaries and expenses for a retinue of mechanics and PR people and film crews and hairdressers and cooks. So he decided to set up a rival rally. This would go from Nowill’s hometown of Plymouth to Banjul in the Gambia, following a similar compass setting to the Paris-Dakar. The difference would be that cars should generally cost less than £100, teams should try not to spend more than £15 on preparations, and the whole event would lack organisation or support. Now admit it. That sounds a whole lot more fun. And to top it off, cars (or what was left of them) would be auctioned off at the end and the proceeds would go to Gambian charities.

It is fifteen years since Mike Taylor and I drove the Plymouth-Banjul Challenge. Dozens of cars set off on the same day and teams broadly choose their own routes, and you meet up from time to time along the way. Or you don’t. It’s all a bit random but that’s kind-of how it works. There were six of us, in three cars. Mike and I drove a 1988 Renault 5 we bought from a scrapyard in Brest. (The car costs us €200 so we had already broken the rules. But no one really cares, which is part of the charm of this rally.) My mate Graham Ibbotson (who appears from time to time in this blog) drove a big old Renault (I can’t recall the model) along with his son Tom. And Tom’s mates Adam Flowerday and Don Howarth drove some kind of Fiat Panda rip-off. (I don’t know what it was). Anyway, there you have our little convoy, and on the way, we grew to include two farmers in a little hatchback, two prison officers in a huge van, three guys in an unreliable Ford Modeo and a pair of Portuguese teenagers in an ancient Hillman Humber. (One of the two wasn’t old enough to drive, apparently).

It is an absolutely madcap rally. Bonkers. It isn’t a race (thank goodness). It’s a kind of test of endurance for man and machine. It rattles through eight countries (UK, France, Spain, Morocco, Western Sahara, Mauritania, Senegal, Gambia), has three ferry crossings (the Channel, the Straits of Gibraltar, and the Gambia River), and it includes one serious mountain range (the Atlas), one active minefield (see my blog on Guelta Zemmur), hundreds of miles of appalling roads, and around 350 miles of open desert sand. Which is AWESOME!

I would recommend this event to anyone with a sense of adventure. It takes three weeks – which is a lot of driving – but it is never, ever boring. There are days off in Gibraltar, Marrakech, Daklha and St Louis. The camaraderie is amazing. The adventures come thick and fast. I won’t regale you with stories because once I start I really won’t know where to stop. But trust me. The stories are good. Our little Renault barely made it. None of the dashboard dials worked. Ever. Which was a relief because we didn’t have any warning lights to worry us. We trashed the gears in the desert when we hit a massive rock so we did most of the second half of the rally with only third gear (the only gear that worked). And we bent the car so badly in Mauritania that afterwards the doors wouldn’t properly close. But hey. We kept going, we made it to Banjul, and we raised a shed load of cash for Kid’s Action.

As well as being an adventure, the experience was also pretty humbling. Mauritania is one of the world’s poorest countries. Senegal and Gambia have their challenges too. We are used to thinking that problems like these are somewhere on the other side of the world. We don’t imagine them as close enough to drive to. We all learned a lot on this trip. We grew up a lot. We are all linked. We all live on the same road. Literally. I still find it helpful to think of humanity this way. All of us just different numbers on the same road.   

My what3words link takes you to the beach. (Did I mention that you drive along 200 miles of beach! That’s 200 miles of BEACH!)

Please check out my website for more information on my books. https://www.johnironmonger.com 

You can find some of the video that Tom took on YouTube. Here are the links:

Plymouth Banjul Rally 2007 Part One - YouTube

Plymouth Banjul Rally 2007 Part Two - YouTube

Plymouth Banjul Rally 2007 Part Three - YouTube

 

 what3words /// The simplest way to talk about location

My Map Pins 37: Grenada (21st April 2022)

My sister Lorraine lives in Grenada. She farms bell peppers on the windward side of the island (the East coast) along with my nephew Shaun, and Shaun's son Grahame. Their farm is right by the sea. So, you see, we had a perfect excuse to visit. But here's the thing. No one should need an excuse to visit Grenada.  It's the original spice island, a jewel in the Caribbean, and it's a truly tropical island - a lush rainforest, mountainous and green, with perfect beaches and a genuine, laid-back, reggae-music-infused-West-Indies vibe. It may not have the brand identity of Barbados, or the huge tourist infrastructure of St Lucia, but it has charm, and it feels curiously undiscovered, and I love it. 

Here are the stats. Grenada is one of the smallest countries in the world. It ranks 179th (out of 195) by population (113,000 people), and 185th by land area (just 133 sq kilometers). This makes it marginally larger than Malta but only three fifths of the size of the Isle of Man. It's a dot on the map, basically. And it feels like it. You're never far from the sea, and you're never more than around 15 miles from anywhere else on the island (although slow winding roads mean those 15 miles could take you an hour to drive).

They really don't know how to do tourism in Grenada (apart from wham-bang ferrying around of passengers from the cruise liners).  We hired a car (pretty much essential) and we criss-crossed the island until we felt we knew it all. Almost. Driving is easy. The roads aren't busy. Just slow. 

Sandy Island

Signposts are rare (or non existent). Google maps reception is patchy. You need to navigate with the one rather unhelpful map provided by the island authorities. But it's ok. You can't get too lost. And anyway, exploring is fun. The Grand Etang rainforest park in the centre of the island is the must-see location. But my what3words map pin today is Sandy Island - an uninhabited paradise island a couple of miles off the North East coast. You pay a chap in a boat to take you there and maroon you for most of the day. It's the place where they filmed the Bounty Ad back in the day ( https://youtu.be/h8S7B8lnOL4 ) and it is still utterly unspoiled and lovely.

what3words /// The simplest way to talk about location

What3words: decisions.trickled.deeply

Please check out my website for more information on my books. https://www.johnironmonger.com 

Grand Anse Beach

Grand Etang

The view from my sister's farm. Yes, really!

Out today for COP26 ... 'The Year of the Dugong.' (1st November 2021)

 

My novella for COP26, 'The Year of the Dugong,' is now available in English as a Kindle Novella. I should dearly love you to read it. I would especially love you to read it during COP26. It isn't a long read. It's about one quarter the length of a full novel. But I hope it packs a serious punch all the same.  Here is the link: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B09KQRY62C/ref=cm_sw_em_r_mt_dp_S30JFFM17SMMND320K9V

I wrote this as a short story to highlight issues around climate change and extinction. If you like it, and if it moves you at all, do please let me know. 

The story has been published exclusively as a hardback novella in German by S Fischer Verlag - as 'Das Jahr des Dugong.' 

Please check out my website for more information on my books. https://www.johnironmonger.com 

Why I’m retiring (but not from writing) (23rd July 2021)

 

The overwhelming response when I’ve told people I’m retiring from full-time paid employment has been, ‘what kept you?’ ‘You should have retired when your first novel came out and devoted yourself to writing,’ one friend told me. Others are astonished that I’ve still been working all this time. ‘What!’ they exclaim. ‘You’re still working!’ As if this was somehow a sin.

A lot of novelists never give up the day job of course. Anthony Trollope wrote ten novels while working for the post office.  Conan Doyle was a doctor. Kafka was an insurance clerk. T.S. Eliot was a publisher. Nabokov was a lepidopterist (I bet you never knew that). Most of the writers I know still do a nine-to-five of some kind. Personally, I never wanted to give up the day job. Not really. I have always rather enjoyed working. I like the people I work with. I get carried along with the projects we’re doing and the ambitions we have. It’s fun. I have worked in my industry (healthcare computing) for so long that I’ve become something of a sage. There are very few of us left who recall the early days. I remember one of the first computer systems I was involved with (a lab system at a London hospital). It had 512KB of memory. Half a megabyte. It seemed a lot at the time. I remember the clunky green screens and the colossal monitors and the achingly slow response times. I remember learning BASIC programming on a Commodore PET.  And all those things that might now be hard to explain. Queuing for the photocopier. The telex machine. Memorising phone numbers. Carbon copies. The tea trolley. Circulation envelopes. Treasury ties. Ties! Fax paper. Floppy discs…

… and now, like a very-slow-motion movie, the decades have passed, and I’ve watched things change. The kind of systems we’re installing today would have been extraordinary science-fiction to my twenty five-year-old self. The almost limitless power of mobile tech, and the coming of AI are transforming this space beyond recognition.

I have been incredibly lucky.  I’ve visited hospitals in ten US states, in UAE, Australia, Saudi Arabia, Qatar, and Kuwait and most of Europe. I’ve worked on deals in South Africa and Malta and Nigeria and Scotland and Ireland and too many other places to mention. It has been a blast.

I am, however, now in my, er, mid-sixties. And here is the truth. I’ve become a bit of a dinosaur. I didn’t see it coming. But perhaps we aren’t supposed to. Maybe it takes everybody by surprise. You wake up one morning and you realise, with a start, that your time has come. There is the door, there is your coat, what’s your hurry? This is what happened to me. I can escape it no longer.  I am no longer a programme manager.    

But I am still a novelist.

I won’t ever give up writing. I couldn’t. It is what I do. So I am doubly lucky – to have had a first career I enjoyed, and a second to keep me going. Thank you to all the amazing, fascinating, brilliant people I have met and worked with for so many years. I will miss you guys a lot. Do, please, stay in touch. Keep on making the world a better place. I want to read about your great successes. And, by the way, if you fancy, just occasionally, putting your feet up with a good book – ask in any good bookshop or check out my page on Amazon.  

Please check out my website for more information on my books. https://www.johnironmonger.com