Free From Fear: The Highlights

Some of the highlights of the Free From Fear gig, which everyone who attended thoroughly enjoyed.

I have absolutely no idea how much money was raised, nor how many people turned out on an August Friday night, but there was a great atmosphere, a fun vibe and the message of hope and support came across loud and clear from the lamp-lit stage.

The gig was in aid of Nottingham Central Womens Aid and if you would like to contribute, all the details are in here - they receive very little, if any, government support.

http://centralwomensaid.btck.co.uk/

Highlights

The Lord Mayor of Nottingham opened proceedings and then I interviewed Aimi McCaffrey and he about the origins of the gig. Apologies for the sneaky finger intrusion on the bottom right hand corner.

Two sets from Mansfield/Nottingham avant garde Indie act, New Apostles, followed. Comprising of Phil Pidluznyj (vocals and keyboards), Andy Whitehurst (lead guitar and support vocals) and Andy Pidluzny (bass), they've been tirelessly gigging their way around the City and beyond in the last two years. 

Big supporters of charity and causes like this, I've seen them many times and tonight, they were at their best.

Here's their Soundcloud

https://soundcloud.com/andrew-whitehurst-384266683

A set from Alice Short followed, a local rapper, who writes about Nottingham, growing up in the small towns around it, with shades of Bukowski and Alan Sillitoe in her lyrics. She's been featured on Radio 1 and had played many venues. She played the Maze first, though. 

Firstly, I interviewed her...then she rapped!

I'm a big fan of Alice and I am sure we shall more of her in the future.

Alice Short Soundcloud which contains the brilliant, "Patti Smith"

Before a final set from the New Apostles, we heard some spoken word from two local authors. 

Here, Nick McCaffrey reads a short story especially written for the event.

Writing in a variety of genres, and a prolific blogger, he's about to release an anthology of short stories so be sure to support that - I shall feature it here on the blog.

Here's his blog - a weekly short story and well worth a read.

http://www.themannwrites.co.uk/blog/holiday-celebration/


The gig was in aid of Nottingham Central Womens Aid and if you would like to contribute, it's all in here - they receive very little, if any, government support.

http://centralwomensaid.btck.co.uk/


I'd like to thank everyone for inviting me and I would be happy to help again. The best of luck everyone.

Mark "Wiz" Barry
_________________________________________

An old school bus

The New Apostles Fan Club: Leicestershire Branch

Mark Barry Retires

Oh, and I read from my best selling novel, "Ultra-Violence" - a dissection of a night out in Nottingham from 1988 entitled "The Fountain"  And believe me, I've tried and tried, and tried and tried, and I've even had lessons, but I simply hate reading aloud, so it's a good job that it never recorded ha ha.

http://greenwizardpublishing.blogspot.co.uk/2015/12/archives-fountain-chapter-8-from-ultra.html

Archives - The Fountain: Chapter 8 from Ultra Violence

Originally published on the Wizard''s Cauldron on May 9th 2012, before that blog became a dedicated author interview site, this is one of my most popular chapters.

From football/football hooligan novel, Ultra Violence,  if you enjoyed a night out in Nottingham in the eighties, you would remember most of these places. Nottingham was once a legendary night out before things changed in the mid-nineties. This chapter attempted to capture the flavour.

Plenty of women have read UV and this and the bullying chapter are two of the reasons. Forest supporters also (generally) enjoy this book, which surprised me.

This was the original cover for UV. There are around fifty paperback copies of this out there. I also wrote the manuscript for this in Courier, which is my favourite font - however, it is completely impractical as a publishing font, sadly.

Anyway, here's to Saturday nights.

Chapter 8: The Fountain

Saturday evening.

You start in the Bench and Bar at the top of the Broad Marsh escalators. When you walk in, the PA is playing Step On by the Happy Mondays and you know that you are in for a good night.

You’ve managed to get the last Football Post from that old boy who has been delivering the paper since the fifties. One day you ought to ask his name.

*

Preece, Clarkson and Breaker are looking at the League tables and discussing the prospects for promotion this year. Neil Warnock is doing the business for Notts and the team are third in the table looking good. The Magpies are hot and getting attention for once. 

Usually, Forest are the media darlings in Fun City, but nowadays they have to share the limelight. Not since Sirrel has there been such a buzz. Notts have some decent players for once and Warnock has them playing like a dream. Draper in midfield. Short and Yates, an iron back line. Bartlett up forward scoring for fun. McParland flying down the wing and lobbing them in. It’s worthwhile taking your eyes off the firms in the away pen for once. You couldn’t often say that about following Notts.

The four of you drink pints of Becks.

You could go home to get changed but you’ve been out the night before and can’t be bothered. You prepared in advance so you look alright anyway, certainly on a par with the present company - a ribbed chocolate-coloured Armani roll neck, faded Levi jeans and jet-black loafers. 

You had only been playing a team of muppets today and sure enough, the muppets didn’t bring more than two hundred, all cloth caps, mongs, shirters and women in big coats.

There were four or five casual wannabes giving it the big one in the Norfolk, but you let some of the Notts drinkers from Bilborough slap them as they walked down the Canal while you and the rest went to the Navigation for a last pint before kick off. Battering them would have been below you and you could have potentially ripped your Armani for no good reason.

*

It’s warm out, for the time of year, and dry. You drain half your pint glass more or less in one gulp and then you feel it, the bulge, as the liquid settles.

You’ve put weight on.

You look a bit like the rest of them now. Not all the way, but you’re getting there. You’ve had to buy new jeans twice in the past two seasons because you’ve expanded from a thirty to a thirty four. On occasion, you can still get into a worn thirty two, but nothing top designer. That lot design for anorexics. 

You looked in the mirror the other day and you noticed the beginnings of a double chin. Your mum has made a comment or two lately, when you go round for your Sunday lunch. Your dad hasn’t noticed you in six months, such are the hours in his new job at the heating plant. Generally, you don't eat like an Ethiopian let loose in McDonalds. The odd curry, the odd pea mix when you can’t be arsed to cook. 

It’s the booze, just the booze. Becks. Red Stripe. Stella. Southern Comfort and lemonade in Zaks or the Arriba.

*

You take another gulp of the cold Becks. You estimate this is your seventh pint of the day. Haxford and Crazy Jack wouldn’t even consider seven pints a dinner time session in the week. They’d go back to work after seven pints and put a shift in. You rub your belly hanging over your crocodile skin Lacoste belt. You think of going to the gym three times a week but with Notts and your travelling job, you’re bolloxed when you get back to your flat and can’t be arsed. 

You don’t look too bad yet. It’s not as if you’re going to need to be fitted with one of those new gastric bands.

Not like some of the lads.

Your quartet sinks the pints and head for the Dog and Bear.

You walk up Bridlesmith Gate, which is empty. Earlier today, it would have been rammed, one of the world’s busiest shopping streets. 

You walk past Wardrobe. A squat meathead in a long black coat stands in front of the shop. Bacchus and his gang of brigands must have been at it again. Meathead’s been there all day, a throwback to a time when most human beings grunted at each other in strange code and avoided sabre-toothed tigers by climbing trees. 

You recognise him. He’s Forest, like all the bouncers round town. When they’re not shagging sixteen-year-old girls from Basford, you can usually find them at the City Ground.

It’s packed inside the Dog and Bear. Forest mostly, some Notts. No women – they generally don’t come out until eight. You stand about while Breaker gets the ale in. The Landlord’s invested in a new Fly’s Eye rack of televisions. At the minute, it’s showing a video of Poison by seventies relic Alice Cooper. That’s been playing a lot lately, along with Simply the Best by sixties suspended animate, Tina Turner. 

You realise that the nightmare which is eighties pop music has some way to go before it fades away. The jolly rock beat livens you up and you are shocked to realise that you are tapping a loafer.

Four pints of Stella appear. The pub is solid with lads and it’s just six thirty. You stand in the doorway and look outside. It’s quiet, but by seven, the place will be full and by eight, heaving, difficult to get served.

More Notts arrive in the pub and you drink up, the echoes of Depeche Mode’s Personal Jesus in the ether, and you head up Bottle Lane to the QEII, a dank fleapit frequented by prehistoric pissheads and Forest. The pub is decorated with bottle green and whipped cream ceramic tiles, which makes the place look like an oversized toilet. It reeks too, but it is tradition to visit the QE, a link with Nottingham’s past.

Too many pubs have shut lately, particularly the Flying Horse, with its ever present smell of steak and its Minos labyrinth of rooms, each framed with ornately carved oak beams and hardwood furniture which was antique fifty years ago.

Gone now.

And the Exchange, a Shipstones pub, minute, almost quaint, until you went inside, the back wall lined with fragrant and alluring tarts, sitting quietly, sipping Babychams, halves of lager and black, squired by ear-ringed pimps with Stanley blade decorated cheekbones.

Visiting there was heady stuff for a kid. The Council turned a blind eye while developers turned those historic pubs into a yuppie-shopping arcade for the Park set. Galleries, couturiers, jewellery shops.

You can see the way the world is going.

It won’t be long before the QEII - with its toilet-influenced décor and permanent reek of piss, fags and bitter-slops - goes the same way.

And the Arriba above it.

*

There are plenty of you now, Notts coming in all the time. Haxford is in there along with Kent and Wykeham and the Skull, who is a Forest fan, a big mate of the Bully’s and now temporarily adopted by Notts. There is no chance of a table, everyone standing, pints in hand. You’re talking about football, the upcoming fixture down at Pompey; the fighting news from around the country; who’s hot, who’s not, who’s rioted, and who’s shat it.

Always football. Always football violence.

You hear that five thousand Birmingham destroyed the resort at Blackpool ensuring that countless civilian holidaymakers from Coventry to Tipton won’t be welcome on the Golden Sands this summer. 

You hear that Millwall battered Leeds at Watford Gap services. You hear that a coachload of Wolves held a copper hostage after a three cornered battle between them, Hull, and Leicester on the M6. Hostage negotiators and armed Police were called. Carlisle’s Border City Firm set light to the away stand at Preston causing an evacuation. Thirty-seven arrests in the ensuing fighting. Burnley and Reading fought a pitched battle in a Westfield Centre…

After a while, it all became wallpaper and yet the wonder never stopped, it was infinitely entertaining talking about fighting, you never tired of it, never became tired of it, you were experts in it, cultural commentators every inch as skilled and knowledgeable as the people on Panorama and World In Action. You knew every firm in the country and you followed every snippet – whether urban myth, radio newsflash, tiny newspaper cutting or rare TV footage – the news disseminated, as if by magic.

You finish your beer and the fifteen or so of you walk out of the pub in a line, walking past fifteen or so Bulwell lads, the fifteen or so Carlton lads, or a fifteen strong stag party from Stamford, all waiting to take your places.

You go up the road to the Lord Nelson, but you don’t stay there long, because it’s a bit shit and Haxford, who generally leads these endless crawls, is talking about crossing it off the list.

It’s always crowded and the DJ still plays New Romantic stuff like the Human League and Tubeway Army and Soft Cell even though it’s a decade too late and you may as well be listening to George Formby and his banjo.

The beer’s rank too, kept in dirty pipes too long. You visit the Nelson out of habit, the round, the round.

*

It’s not even eight thirty and you’re in the Fountain. You walk in, a long line, one after the other, past the bored bouncers who know you, but don’t acknowledge you because they’re too cool for that. Ship of Fools by World Party is on the PA system. The bar isn’t too busy and in any case, the Fountain put plenty on, up to ten bar staff on a Saturday night.

The barmaid you’ve been chatting up for ages is working tonight. She sees you and edges to the Notts side of the bar. Rita her name is and she seems to like you. It’s been nine months since you got any and you’re getting ready to ask her out. Something always stops you though. Not just with Rita. You don’t know what it is.

 You put a big smile on your face, a type of manufactured grin you believe makes you look cool and attractive.

Tonight, Rita is wearing hoop earrings and a cream lambswool v-neck top, which balances a tiny gold crucifix on a golden chain. She’s wearing a denim skirt down to the middle of her thighs and Scholl wooden sandals. There isn’t an ounce of fat on her, with the exception of the beginnings of a lady tyre. That’s quite fetching, you think. But you wouldn’t want the tyre to get any more obvious. That would put you right off. She’s got flawless legs, with no divots and scars, no scabs or veiny trails. Legs are your big thing and she’s got sexy feet too, tonight varnished violet with a gold toe ring bringing out her natural colour.

It’s your round and you order four Becks.

She asks you what town’s like.

You tell her it’s busy. Plenty out.

She asks what you’re up to tonight.

You tell her the usual round. As if she didn’t know.

She asks whether you’ll be back in for last orders.

You nod. Always in the Fountain for last orders.

See you later, she says.

You suppress excitement. It might mean something, it might not. You can’t read women. If you consider something like that an invitation when it isn’t, when you strike, she’ll pull away, asking who you think you are. The whole rejection makes you look a bit of an idiot, especially in front of that lot.

Yet if you don’t strike, she might think you’re not interested: Next thing you know, she has her tongue down the throat of one of the top Forest lads.

The place is buzzing and a queue develops outside, civilians in suits and loads and loads and loads of women looking splendid and up for it. There must be three hundred people in the pub by eight forty five and it soon becomes difficult to get to the bar. Rita is flat to the boards. Haxford is telling you and Tom about a ticket deal he has for Primal Scream at Rock City. You’re only half-interested in Scream. Haxford is the type of entrepreneur who would buy and sell anything. Any ticket you want, for any event, Haxford can usually find you what you need. You know that if Notts ever got to Wembley and it was a sell out, Haxford would have tickets. Not that he would sell them to anyone. He was good like that. He’d always sell to Notts first.

He’s tall, six foot, taller than you. He doesn’t bother dressing up for matches and he rips the piss out of you and Breaker for wasting money. He once referred to you as Gaylord and you weren’t happy, but that’s Haxford, he rips the piss out of everyone. Once, one of the lads in the firm was going out with a much older woman. Her name was Ginny. The gap was fifteen years at least. Coming back from one of the annual Blackpool weekends, Haxford’s coach passes a cemetery. Look. He taps the lad with the older girlfriend on his shoulder. That’s where Ginny lives. The target of his affectionate humour was visibly shaken. There are some vile nicknames going around and most of them emanate from Haxford or Tom who are pitiless in the face of weakness. Still, he’s the type of alpha-male who can get away with this kind of stuff. He even rips the piss out of Older Bully. 
But not Younger Bully. He’s quite mild around him.

It starts to get uncomfortable now in the Fountain with pockets of civilians barging into you and sticking fags in your arm and standing where you usually stand and Haxford decides its time to go up to the Malthouse. You’d much rather go to the Bodega behind it but that’s the price of running with the pack. There are at least twenty of you now and you walk down Bridlesmith Gate mob handed. You’re pleasantly pissed and talking to Clarkson about something and nothing, and he’s talking back to you about something or nothing and you hear snippets of modern sounds from each pub you pass. Gangs of girls ten strong in red high heels and long coats and fresh make up and thirty quid hairdos and twenty quid clasp bags all the colours of the rainbow, smoking, laughing. It all seems to happen in slow motion as they walk past under the streetlights and some of the lads know some of the girls and waves are exchanged and implicit in the waves is an unwritten message of I’ll-See-You-Later-In-The-Fountain. 

The Malthouse DJ plays a Madchester song you don’t recognise – Carpets? Scream? – and Breaker passes you a bottle of Newcastle Brown for some reason. You look round to see if it’s for someone else but there’s no-one, the drink is for you and this is the point of the night where you start hiding pints, giving the lads the impression you can stand your round and hold your drink when in actual fact you’ll be hiding pints behind statues and on the plinth near the toilets, no more than a quarter drunk, because its only just past nine and you’ve got five hours to go at least and you’re not Haxford or Tom who, by a conservative estimate, have already downed fifteen pints since lunch in the Bentinck and you know, like a pair of Terminators, they are never, ever, going to stop.

You leave the Malthouse behind and head to the Bodega and then, after that, you decide to go back to the Fountain for the last hour. By the time you get back, the place is half-full. You’re well experienced in the rhythms of Nottingham’s night life and you know that the ebb and flow of drinkers usually leaves the Fountain free between nine thirty and ten thirty, so you strike, all twenty of you and this time, the bouncers um and ah about letting you in, because you’re all hammered, staggering, loud and boisterous, but Haxford has a word and in you go, your corner free except for five civilians in moustaches, jackets, shirts, ties and trousers who are probably off to Madisons to try and pull. The gang encircles them and the intimidated quintet move further down the pub.

*

Rita comes straight over to serve you and you order two pints and two halves, the latter puff’s duo for you and Preece, victims of far too much ale. She’s definitely smiling now and you know you’re in with a chance. She tells you not to go away and that afterwards, she’ll come out and have a chat and you nod, buy her a drink too, the money for which she puts in the communal tips tray.

You check your wallet. You’ve well overdone it today and you hope Rita doesn’t want a late night curry because you’ll have to borrow money and you hate that. You aren’t paid until Friday and you spent most of last month’s salary on a black leather blouson from Ralph Lauren

You’re in a situation.

You have enough money for a taxi and a couple more rounds in the Arriba Club. There’s no way you’re taking Rita to the Arriba. Not on the first date. She’s far too classy for the Arriba. The lads come over, get their beer, and admonish you for your tardiness. You tell them to fuck off, even though you hardly ever swear. They give it you right back.

*

After last orders, Rita comes over with half a lager and lime and she stands next to you. Before you can even say hello, Tom, Clarkson and Swifty are all over her like fleas on a greyhound. They swamp her and she’s not averse to all the attention, even if it is drunken attention. Clarkson can scarcely breathe, never mind have a conversation.

The air is thick with cigarette smoke and you are tired and irritable. You’ve had far too much to drink and even if Rita wants to take the night further, you’re going to be struggling.

The boys entertain her with pissed flirting communicated in an alien language. Then they spot three women they know by the cigarette machine. Ample breasted blondes in black two-piece suits who look as if they’ve been drinking since last Christmas. They seem to be struggling to remember the sequence involved in lighting cigarettes. One of them, with thighs like a footballer, puts the wrong end of her cigarette in her mouth.

They all laugh.

Like vultures, your friends spot the dead meat lying on the parched Serengeti and soon they’re dive-bombing out of the azure skies.

*

You’re alone with Rita. She’s been to the toilets and dabbed perfume on. You don’t recognise the brand. She asks whether you have a light. You say you don’t smoke and for a moment, everything looks less like the perfect jigsaw you want it to be. Nevertheless, you’ve been out with smokers before and you are sure Rita will have encountered the odd non-smoker in her life so you let the jagged moment pass. She asks a nerdy looking bloke in a blue striped shirt for a light, lights her cigarette, and taps you lightly on the forearm.

What are you doing after this?

I don’t know, you say. I’m a bit pissed. You?

I can see that. Your mates are completely hammered.

Football. It’s all football.

Fancy a club?

Not really, no. I just want to go home to bed.

Oh, I do. I could do with a dance. All your mates are going to the Arriba. They’ve just told me. One of them asked me to go with him.

Who?

I’m not saying.

She winks at you. You’re not bothered. Fun City is a free for all, and like the aftermath of a kicking, or being arrested, it’s every man for himself. You shrug your shoulders and watch Cher strut around an aircraft carrier surrounded by hunky sailors on the TV above you.

Are you going? She asks, probably aware you aren’t going to say anything.

I usually do.

Are you going to take me?

If you want to go. The place is a dump.

I know the Arriba. I’ve been there a couple of times. Full of oldies, she says. She has that welcoming, playful face a woman sometimes gives a man when the two of them have crossed a Rubicon.

They don’t play very good music in there, you say.

I don’t know so much. I enjoyed it when I went. Me and me mates danced all night.

Round your handbag?

Rita moves closer to you. I didn’t take a handbag, but yeh. We might have danced round someone’s handbag.

You look at her and realise once again that she’s a very good-looking woman, everything in proportion, beautiful big brown eyes and a lovely voice. Not much Nottingham in it. She might even be from out of town, you surmise.

Okay, you say, finally. You can come. That’s if you know what you’re letting yourself in for with this lot.

I’ll be alright, as long as you look after me. She puts her hand on your forearm again and the sexual tension between you is palpable, but it might just be the drink talking so you stay impassive.

I’ll try my best, you hear yourself saying.

I have to go and clear the empties and the ashtrays. Don’t go without me. I’ll meet you in twenty minutes.

 *

Later, Rita comes over, a blackcurrant coloured coat, a woollen cherry scarf and a subtle leather clasp bag that clearly cost a few quid.

She slides her arm into yours and the two of you leave for the Arriba Club.

Town is at its most vibrant in the hour between last orders and the long slow walk to the nightclub.

Illuminated by streetlights and the light escaping from pub windows, the place has finally completed its transformation from bustling shopping capital to a party paradise full of people loving the weekend.

There’s no fighting tonight. The vans and Policemen in hi-visibility jackets stand idly near the Council House chatting amiably to uniform groupies and cheerful pissheads. Everywhere there is a smell of melted cheese, fried chicken, piping hot chips, hamburgers and hot chilli kebabs. Invisible cumin clouds rise above the curry houses. Takeaways doing great business from the all day drinkers too hammered to get in Camelots. On a good night, which this is, revellers whoop it up in the streets. Partygoers joke, old lovers cuddle for warmth, and soon-to-be-lovers dance their enigmatic dance of anticipation. It’s comfortably noisy. Music is everywhere, coming from every club doorway. Club queues snake down pedestrianised walkways like animated dominos.

In the black sky above, the moon hovers, watching over proceedings like Old Father Time.

You and Rita walk up Bottle Lane and join the queue for the Arriba.

They’re playing Ride On Time.

You smile and Rita asks you why.

Get your handbag ready, you reply.

__________________________________________________________

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Ultra-Violence-Second-Mark-Barry/dp/1491239484/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8

http://www.closedpubs.co.uk/nottinghamshire/nottingham_fountaininn.html

The Night Porter - An Extract

Dear Team,

I am sending you this memo in preparation for the arrival of the authors in November. I have allocated their rooms on the bookings computer. 

They are here for two weeks all expenses paid by the Arkwright Trust, whom some of you know. 

They are to be treated as VIP guests. Remember the time we had the Qatari royalty to stay? It is that level of service I expect here. I explained why in last week’s staff meeting. 

This is an honour for the hotel, and I would like the Arkwright Trust to return in two years’ time. I have researched the authors on the internet and have combined it with information I received from the Awards Committee to produce a factsheet on each. It is not exhaustive, but it will give you some idea of the people who are coming to stay with us.  Please do not leave this lying about. THIS INFORMATION IS CONFIDENTIAL. Please return to me after reading if in doubt.

1. Mrs Amy Cook

One of the biggest selling authors in the world. Lives in Egham in Surrey. Wife of Major Archie Benson of the Royal Marines. English. Age indeterminate (she hides it jealously, though 53 has been leaked online by school friends.) Bestselling romance novelist who writes under the name Madeline France. Published author of eighteen novels including the massive best sellers ‘Sisters’, ‘Behind the Lace’, ‘Blood Red Roses’ and ‘Love in Vegas’. The third of those was the biggest seller of 2004 and made her financially for life. 

Nine of her books have been turned into films – none especially successful. She’s a winner of nine literary awards, including the Golden Rose of Romance, American Romance Author’s Award, Romance Author’s Author of the Year, le Palme’d’Amour and is the current Arkwright holder for Best Romance. 

She is a leading contender for the Gold Award for Best Writer. Her book, Amelia is a radical departure from her usual romantic fare and has been applauded for its literary nature. 

Amy is a prodigious smoker and smokes in her room regardless of health and safety. I shall speak to you all about this. Writes a regular comment for The Guardian on feminism. Highly intelligent and charming, but can be extremely demanding. She has been known to walk out of hotels without paying because of poor customer service, leaving thousands of pounds of debt. 

2. Jo Marron-Saint 

Writes Young Adult and New Adult fiction. She is single, 21, and from Orange County in California. Popular in the US. Largely unknown in mainstream UK fiction, though this will change. Writes a series about a scatty Succubus who, despite her indoctrination, falls in love with the humans she meets rather than vacuuming their souls to hell. Along with a teenage Werebear, she fights supernatural villains and is wanted by both heaven and hell for many misdemeanours, both intended and unintended. 

The series – Heart and Soul – is a big seller in the US. Arkwright-nominated for Best YA novel for her latest segment, Bloodshot. She is known for writing in a “street” vernacular – with plenty of OMG’s and Stuffs and what are known as irrelevant connectors – e.g. er, like.  This has attracted attacks from critics who accuse her of being childish. This is her first award ceremony, and her visit will be the first time she has left the US. 

Not much else is known about her except she has the reputation for being very nice.

3. Frank Duke 

Is a 56 year old author of thrillers, pure and simple. His books sell by the truckload, and they involve lashings of sex, violence, murder, torture, gunplay, political intrigue, apocalyptic predictions and double crosses. What he lacks in writing ability, he makes up for in explosions. 

His hero, Mungo Hall, is a black ex-CIA agent whose mission is to fight corruption. Based heavily on James Bond, he travels the world, shoots people, cracks jokes, sleeps with beautiful women and escapes from seemingly impossible situations. He is from Chicago and is married (to Harty, who stays in the background). Came to prominence playing lead guitar in a late seventies jazz / funk / rock band who had one hit. He served briefly in Vietnam before that. 

Frank is tall; six foot seven. A diehard Republican, who distrusts foreigners (this is his first visit to England), and he can be unkind to staff. Like Jo, this is his first nomination for any award, Best Thriller, for the book Shakedown in Chicago.

4. Julian Green

Julian, 36, is the first self-published author to be nominated for an Arkwright. He has no established profile, no audience, no distribution deal or any reputation. You will not find his books in shops. Online only. 
The reason for the nomination – in the Best Contemporary Fiction category – is that he has written a book, which the critics have compared to the greats. A fan sent it to The Guardian, who loved it.

However, the independent community doesn’t like the book – one reader said his book is the most depressing book ever written.  He is thirty six and Notes and Fears of a Middle Aged Man is his sixth novel. Compared to the other authors staying here, he writes like Shakespeare, but their earnings dwarf his. 

It has been rumoured that he claims government benefits to enable him to write, though that has never been confirmed. Little else is known about him, except to say he argues with almost everyone he meets online. Rumoured to have drink and drugs issues and several gossip websites mention incidents involving the Police.

I will be on your backs about this. When the authors arrive, they are to be treated with the utmost courtesy. Whatever they want, they get. If in doubt, say yes and tell me later. You will not be disciplined if you act on an unusual request. We aim to make their stay – and the stay of the Arkwright Trust – a memorable and comfortable one. I know I can trust you. Thank you.

Cat xx

And that was the first time I came across the Arkwright awards and the four authors. 
I was excited already. 

I hadn’t read a book in fifteen years  – to be honest, I cannot remember the book, or whether the gap was in fact, longer than fifteen years; that’s just a convenient annuity I use – but still, I felt a charge. 

Authors. Artists. Creators. 

A bit different from the sales reps and travelling carpet fitters I was used to meeting. I was sure it was going to be a most interesting two weeks. 

Craven Cottage. London: Valentines Day : Extract from Hollywood Shakedown

This sample chapter comes from "Hollywood Shakedown" which is the crazy price of 99p and 99c on Kindle, Kindle for PC and IPad etc. 

You can buy it by clicking the title tile to your right. ___________________________>

Many judges consider Hollywood Shakedown to be my best written book. My top friend Clive - a decent judge who reads fifty plus books a year and has a colossal library - definitely considers it so. You can read more about the book here...

http://greenwizardcarla.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/the-great-unread-classic-hollywood.html

In this Chapter, Buddy and Simon, the threatened manuscript hunters, find themselves in London and are persuaded by a collector to go to watch an FA Cup match. The book is written in real time. This is an actual match which took place on Sunday, February 14th, 2010 between Fulham and Notts County. The collector is a Fulham supporter and the text refers to Notts in the second person, though the author is, in fact, a Notts fan. 

Notts County are currently having a terrible season, and any fan who was there will remember how brilliant a day this was.

__________________________________

Chapter XVI

Craven Cottage, London:  Valentine’s Day

The train was packed solid, heading for Putney Bridge.

Three men in winter coats stood balanced – as best they could - by the doors. They were in good spirits, travelling to a football match, an FA Cup fifth round game between Fulham of the English Premier League, and underdogs, Notts County of League Two – English football's bottom tier.  The latter had survived matches against insurmountable odds to arrive at this point, including a tenacious victory away at Premier League Wigan Athletic. 

The newspapers were predicting a close game but the bookmakers – hard-nosed realists one and all – predicted a massacre in the capital. 

So far, the anticipated winter freeze and Baltic snowstorms had held off.  The optimistically named Green and Pleasant Land was covered in a bleak tincture of grey with not a beam of sunlight to be seen penetrating the skies.

In the middle of the magnificent Indian feast at Wingate's house last night, the host had invited Buddy and Simon to a football match. The gesture was connected to the quest. They would be meeting someone at the game who had something they were looking for. 

Last night, Wingate wasn't letting on why, but he revealed that he could only meet his contact at the match. It transpired that he had invited him for dinner on Saturday night but he couldn't make it due to a prior engagement. His contact was, like Wingate, a crazed Fulham supporter and never missed an opportunity to visit Craven Cottage. 

Buddy speculated that a football match was a good place to mix with hundreds of people around where any exchange of documents wouldn't be noticed. Buddy had seen enough episodes of Columbo to know this was standard practice - more hiding in plain sight for Mr. Wingate. Maybe he just wanted to go to the football and wanted to show off the game to his American friends. It was probably as simple as that – the Los Angelinos had nothing else to do that Sunday. 

The men readily agreed. They had enjoyed Wingate's company and he had helped them make a huge breakthrough – in Buddy's case, perhaps, an emotional one - and in a real sense, he had improved their odds of survival. It was clear that he wanted to share his passion for football too. How could they say no?  Indeed, Wingate was confident they would say yes. He had already paid for three tickets and he had said he would come up to Kings Cross to meet them, a mainline station not ten minutes from their hotel. He even paid for their one day travel passes, despite their protestations.

Last night, Wingate had buttonholed Buddy over cognac, a particularly fine vintage.  “Besides, it would be good education for you. You Americans could do with joining in with the sport played by everyone else in the world.  It might win you some friends.”

Though Buddy laughed convivially, Wingate was talking to the wrong man. He had been to just one gridiron match in his life - the Eagles versus the Jets when he was in Philadelphia ten years ago. As far as he was concerned, the world's sport could be yachting and he still wouldn't give a flying shit about whether America joined in or not. 

He didn't mind some sport and followed football on the TV in bars but it wasn't a major passion. He'd hated team sports at college (many considered him a geek, though he was much too hard for them to labour the point), and deliberately found ways to make himself appear less skilled than he actually was so he would be ignored and shunned by phys ed teachers. It worked. By fourteen, he was left out of every team sport at High School and he could not have been happier.  Buddy generally felt that sport was a waste of good reading - and later, drinking time. With the exception of horse racing, which he adored. His dad had taken him to the racetrack when he was a teenager and they'd spent loads of time at Hollywood Park. He didn't once complain about coming today because he was among friends in another country. Besides, this wasn't football. 

This was soccer, a game for Mexicans, crippled kids and little girls, back home. 

Here, they took it seriously. Extremely seriously.

After the curry, back in the hotel room, Simon had told him of a famous quote: 'Football isn't a matter of life and death. It’s more important than that!' 

So much so that his English partner had threatened to refuse to talk to Buddy if he once described the sport as soccer. ('I'll let you get away with it back home, Bud. But not here, mate. Its football. Football. Okay with that?' Its football') 

"I'm not really keen on sports. I prefer something more...interactive," he said to Wingate.

"We might get in a scrap. That will be an interactive experience, Bud. You'll enjoy that."

"A scrap?"

"A punch up. A bingo. An 'off' I hear the kids at the Cottage call it. A fight."  Wingate said.

Buddy guessed that Wingate was kidding. He was at least sixty five. "Well, we'll have to avoid that then," he commented..

"Hope not. Other week I whacked a Pompey fan over the head with my umbrella. Being my age, he can't hit me back."

Simon looked up from his phone. "County got any fighting lads, Wingate?”

Wingate gave a sharp intake of breath. "Hundreds. All police leave cancelled today. Hundreds of the barbarians, mate. They've wrecked pubs, service stations, cafes, football grounds all over the country. They're marauding over Watford Gap in their hundreds. We're going to have to summon the spirit of Boadicea to stop them!"

Buddy had heard about violence at British football matches and part of him was looking forward to seeing it go off.

It sounded fun, rather than the intense, ultra-violent death antics of the LA gangs; the Baseball Furies, the Uzimeisters, the Dalton pickets, the Monsters, the Thai Town Thugees, the Compton Ninjas, the Crips and the Bloods.

He didn't want any part of it though. He was still wound up after Monique's non-appearance on the phone this morning. Valentine’s Day too. He was afraid that he would take it out on someone and sometimes he didn't know his own strength. That scared him. All things considered, he hoped that the match would pass off peaceably.

"Let’s hope we all have a quiet day, huh."

"I went to see the Giants once," Wingate continued. "Everyone mingling, tailgate parties, great atmosphere. Loved it, even if the game was a bit slow. Soon after I got home, I went to see Fulham play a team of tossers called Stoke City. Got my head kicked in near Hammersmith tube station. I played dead under an A-board and when they'd had enough of me, they started on some blacks on the corner going home from church. Hundreds of them. Don't like Stoke City. They’re the Darth Vader of British football. I'll never forget the contrast between that day, and the day I had at the Giants. Incredible. Still, it’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye..."

"I got my head kicked in at the football too, up in Sheffield," contributed Simon. "Mind you, that was only through chatting up the wrong woman in a wine bar after the match.”

The tube train reached Putney Bridge and the carriage emptied. Buddy tensed.

This is it!  Hundreds and hundreds of people milled around the platforms all in black and white scarves. Both teams played in black and white and it was difficult to know who was who without listening to them speak. Cockneys and northerners, the ancient English division. Hawk and drake. They passed through the turnstiles and into bedlam. Outside, spivs and hawkers were in their faces like a cold wind. "Scarves, a fiver, just a fiver, anniversary scarves, woolly hats, come on, come on, get your scarves here, just a fiver...” several men were weaving and bobbing like boxers in and out of the heaving crowds.

"Fancy wearing a scarf, you guys?" Wingate reached for his wallet and grabbed hold of a young beefy with a bonehead and a denim jacket. 'Three Fulham scarves, chief.'

"Fifteen quid, squire."

He handed over a ten and a five and passed a scarf to each man.

“Three Benny hats too..."

Bonehead signaled to a bespectacled pal who rushed over through the scrumming crowds. “These'll keep you warm, chaps,” the tout said cheerfully. “Any tickets for today?”

When Wingate shook his head, the wiry tout walked off into the crowd. Ticket touting was big business in London with a thriving black market for every event. The sky above was a dark accumulation, an upside-down carpet of pregnant grey, ready to burst. "Take these back over to the States, Buddy. Tell the landlord of your bar that you've been to see the mighty Cottagers!"

They tried to get in the Eight Bells on the corner but couldn't. The pub was heaving with Notts County supporters. They were singing loudly and bouncers were having trouble with the snake-like queues outside. The trio had no chance of a pre-match drink and it was two thirty - the match kicked off at three. Buddy had come prepared though. "Here, try some of this." The recently purchased silver hip flask appeared as if by magic. Vodka.

The three took hefty, warming sips as they wrapped the scarves around their necks and mounted the black and white hats.

Putney Bridge is fundamentally an extensive park by the river and Buddy was fascinated as to how green it was. Trees in neat order like tin soldiers. Neatly sculptured hedges and lawns. Flowers dormant, the wildlife hibernating, waiting for the winter to pass (and they had experienced a bad one, the moths and foxes and badgers and voles and dormice of Putney Bridge). 

Somehow, the biting wind made it seem greener, earthier.

The trio integrated with the rubberneckers along the River Thames. There were thousands of them but Wingate's warlike portrayal of the visitors couldn't have been further from the truth. A pleasure cruiser ambled along the centre of the river, the guests on the balcony waving to those on the shore. The water was as murky as the winter sky. Just down the way was the HMS Belfast, the Tower of London, the Houses of Parliament, the Eye and all the great heritage of this maritime nation. Buddy felt a sense of place. Simon tapped him on the shoulder as if detecting his thoughts: "Cook started out here on his way to the South Seas. And the Golden Hind too -  I love the Thames..."

Soon, they arrived at Craven Cottage, the home of Fulham football club.

They had to walk past the hordes of County fans waiting to get in their enclosure surrounded by yellow-jacketed Police. Wingate deliberately bumped into a County fan. "Oh sorry mate," he said, though he was nothing of the sort.

The fan glared, but said nothing. His girlfriend sneered.

Simon grinned. "You'll get our ears clipped."

"We've got Buddy with us, what's the problem. Northern cants."

There were some meaty looking blokes hanging around among the throng, blokes who looked as if they could handle themselves in a fight. One of them looked over and Buddy wasn't sure whether he was looking at Wingate or not. They had mentioned that this was an important Cup game and County were in a different division, the very bottom division and Fulham were at the top. 

They were expecting nearly six thousand County fans to make the journey here from the north and here, amongst them, there seemed double that on the streets of Putney Bridge. A mob of County fans started to sing something and all around them, everyone joined in. A song about a wheelbarrow. Buddy figured it was about their nickname, The Wheelbarrows. He made a note to ask Wingate why they had been saddled with such a nickname.

The three of them reached the Fulham West Stand. “I've got the tickets.” Wingate assured them and they followed him through a small turnstile. They queued up to get themselves three – very expensive – beers and because Buddy hadn't been searched, they followed the beers up with three warming sips from his trusty hip-flask.

Before long, the tannoy announced the arrival of the teams. Wingate led them down to a row of empty seats and he sat next to a man in a smart coat, a long blue coat and a yellow and red scarf. No hooligan he, more like a banker or an architect. The man was talking to someone on a cell phone, which must have been difficult because the noise was deafening, particularly from the end full of Northerners.

Of the four sides of the ground, only one was full – the away stand, and they were in good voice. Wingate applauded the Fulham side in white and acknowledged the man in the coat who put his phone down.

“Excuse me a bit, chaps. I need to have a chat with young Harold here.”

Harold acknowledged the Los Angelinos. “How do.”

The two Londoners went back upstairs leaving Simon and Buddy to the game. 

Buddy had never seen a soccer game before, even on TV, and the speed and intensity of it was a marvel. Crunching tackles, lightning passing, the ball sailing through the air and heading - not something American sport contained much of. 

Three match officials tried to keep a lid on the passion. The organised torrent of singing from the County end was something he hadn't heard before. The Wheelbarrow song, baiting the opposition's lack of vocal support (“Shall we sing a song for YOU!”), abject derision, (“Premiership, you're having a LAFF!”), and more of the wheelbarrow song. 

Clearly, this was their favourite song – a weapon of psychological warfare – to which the West London locals had no answer. The six thousand presented a deafening cacophony of noise. A spectator in glasses and a red wool hat was clearly getting irritated. He stood up behind Buddy. “CAMON, FULHAM – DO THESE NORTHERN FACKERS!! HIT THE CANTS! ON THE BREAK, ON THE BREAK. TO THE BYLINE, THE BYLINE. CANTS, CANTS!” and others joined in with his tirade. 

Seemingly as if responding to the man's taunts of encouragement, Fulham scored, a long range shot into the corner leaving the County keeper no chance. Silence from the away end and pandemonium from the home side. The man in the wool hat jumped on Buddy and tried to hug him. Buddy was filled with the essence of humanity and joy without fully understanding why. 

Ten minutes later, Fulham scored again, the gulf in class obvious between the two sides, one assembled at great expense, the other put together for less than the price of one Fulham player: The British football experience encapsulated in one sentence, 'an allegory of medieval feudalism', Simon said in the hotel last night. 'The rich stealing from the poor to feather their own nests. The British game needs the US draft system...'  Watching the inequalities underpinning this game of football, it was not hard to agree with that assessment.

There was no sign of Wingate. “I'll go and see where he is...” Simon said, leaving Buddy there sitting there watching the game. A wrinkled old man with a grey, wispy beard and wearing a black coat and two Fulham scarves turned to Buddy. “You a Yank, then?”

“Sure,” Buddy said.

“What do you reckon to this caper?”

“It’s great fun,” Buddy replied.

“Fun? Bunch of Northern cants. Glad to shut them up with the brace. Faccers!”

“I'll bet.” Buddy said to the second angry old man he'd met today - something which disconcerted him. The old man wiped his nose and continued.

“I ain't kidding, mate. I faccin hate them Northern cants. Coming down 'ere taking faccin liberties. I wish I was ten years younger.”

“Sure...”

“I'd see em outside on the High Street, I would. Cants...I'll give em faccin Wheelbarrows.”

“Hey, listen, I'm just going to watch the game, pal, okay?”

The old man sniffed and turned back to the game. Stood up and berated the Notts County full back who carried on regardless. 

Simon came and sat back down. “No sign. And he's got all the stuff in that bag of his.”

“You think he's crossed us?” Buddy asked

“I hope not. Mind you, let’s be right. There are a thousand sixty year old blokes in black wool caps here. Wingate could be anywhere... “The referee blew the whistle for half time. “Let’s go get a Bovril.” Simon said.

“What's a Bovril?” Buddy asked.

Simon grinned. “You'll love it. It’s a national institution.”

As they reached the top of the stairs, Wingate reappeared, this time on his own. He'd clearly enjoyed another drink. “Alright chaps. We having another pint?”

Simon put his arm round him as they queued up at the refreshment booth below for half time Bovrils. “Where'd you get to. We thought you'd been kidnapped!”

“Business.” He opened his satchel and showed them a brown envelope. “We'll open this later. I've been in the Directors box with Harold.”

“To do with the manuscript?”

Wingate nodded. “You're not having a Bovril are you?” He asked.

Buddy pulled out the hipflask. “I'd rather have a beer to cool this down.”

Simon, who was next in the queue to be served, assured them both. “You pair of piss heads. I'll get both then, shall I - beer and bloody Bovril.”

“Beer and Bovril, huh. A lethal combination.”

“What is Bovril?” Buddy asked once more, passing over the hipflask.

“You'll see. It’s a national institution.”

“So folks keep saying.”

He didn't have long to wait. A steaming hot plastic cup was passed to him along with a plastic pot of lager. Before he could handle both, he had to put away his hip flask, which was getting toward empty anyway. He had to admit, he was curious to find out about the Bovril.

“Go on then, Budster. Give it a shot,” said Simon. He sipped his and so did Wingate.

“In for a penny...” Buddy said and took a sip. Spat it out spontaneously, reflexively...

“Wow, that's disgusting.” Half a lager went down his throat in an attempt to wash away the taste. “What the hell is that?”

The Englishmen laughed, as did several bystanders. “Bovril. A gravy based drink.”

“It tastes like warmed up piss and shit!”

Simon and Wingate shrugged their shoulders. “You're not far wrong there, Bud. Bovril made our Island the nation it is...it built an Empire to last a thousand years! Here's to Empire building drinks which taste of piss and shit.” The former said, raising his Bovril pot.

“It’s true what we say about you guys after all...gravy, Jeez...”

“Bovril and football go together like Morecambe and Wise, “Wingate commented, sagely.

“Morec....oh don't worry about it.”

“Jellied eels tonight, Bud. Straight from the docks.” Wingate said.

“Jellied eels are a national institution, Buddy.” Simon added.

Buddy put the full cup on a stanchion. “You know what you can do with your national institutions.”

The hipflask made another lightning appearance and the three men emptied it of Vodka. The boys were merry and in good humour when they took their places for the second half.

The County supporters to their left had yet to stop singing and encouraging their team who were patently outclassed in a horrible mismatch.

Soon, the West Londoners found themselves three up.

Rather than pack up and go home in the face of an embarrassing massacre, even as the Fulham team returned the ball to the halfway line, the six thousand strong County army in the away stand stood up as one, raised their arms in the air and started singing...

“I had a wheelBARROW, but the wheel fell off...”

“I had a wheelBARRow, but the wheel fell off...”

...and the sound was deafening. 

Wingate had to admit it was an impressive display of sheer bloody minded defiance in the face of adversity. The Fulham crowd could only applaud their goal in comparative silence unsure at how to respond to this reversal of crowd protocol. 

This pattern was repeated after Fulham scored the fourth and then mercifully, the referee called time on proceedings and blew the whistle.

The three men stood and applauded a cracking afternoon's sport. Buddy had experienced enough on and off the pitch for him to enjoy the afternoon too and he was radiating a warm glow. As they left through the open gates behind the stand, they blended into the crowd. All around the ground fans swarmed, aiming for car, coach, bus and tube.  It was near dark and no-one knew who was who, made worse by the fact both sides played in the same coloured strip. Twin black and white armies pouring through the residential Putney streets. “Let's head to Hammersmith. I know a good pub there called The Night Owl. They serve a good pint of Ruddles that will keep us warm while we talk a final bit of business. Up for it?”

The two men nodded. Buddy whispered: “Borrow your phone, Si?”

Simon flipped over the cell and watched as Buddy called Los Angeles.

Three young men walked past them looking as if they were ready for a punch up and they didn't care who with. Snowflakes began to fall over Putney Bridge and the wind chill began to sharpen. It was dark and the further they walked from the ground, the thinner the crowd became as it dissipated this way and that.

Buddy waited, the cell phone clamped to his ear. When he got through, he discovered that her cell phone had been disconnected. “This number has not been recognized.”

All of a sudden, his warm glow froze in the winter night.

What had happened to Monique?