The Hyperglycæmic Birthday Cake

The Christmas Throwaway by R.J. Scott

My rating: 1 of 5 stars


I was in two minds whether I'd ever admit to anybody that I'd gone and bought this book. It would be giving in to teenage crushes, which have never really left me. An incurable romantic, I'd just ventured out into the big brave world of futuristic cyberpunk*. Reading this story of futuristic techno macho men (and even more macho women), I'd swum in the rough-and-tumble of waters I hate and found that, despite myself, I'd been shaken, bounced and depressed, sent on a bad acid trip and rattled to the bones. Yet not entirely put off, for the author had pampered me with my favourite chemical tipple: 10 ml of Brompton Cocktail† and I fancied I saw light at the end of the tunnel, for I really loved the hero by this time and looked forward to the time when I'd become strong enough to read the next volume in the series.

But shame on me! This review isn't about the young Richard Morgan and his creations, the spotlight has to be on Mr (?Mrs ?Miss ?Ms) RJ Scott, the author of an 'unwanted present in the toecap of an Xmas stocking' (the book under review). The reason I bought it was I wanted a delicious and indulgent dessert after my wickedly spicy first course of Altered Carbon as I felt I needed pampering, pleasuring, massaging and being touched up in the nice as well as the naughty places, because I had fallen out of my wheelchair when I was ten years old and been picked up (before hitting the ground) by a policeman in shiny uniform and lovely gleaming buttons and things. He'd held me tightly and affectionately, implanting a fetish within my psyche which had embedded itself into the genetic make-up of my being, imbuing me with a delightful malady which I've no intention of attempting to cure. So imagine that the clock had wound its way on so that I was a teenager again and the wheelchair had been replaced by a park bench and I was sleeping rough on it and been woken by a dashing 24 year-old copper who asked me to move on.

This copper, Ben, feels all protective and things towards this shivering chilled waif (whilst the seeds of desire swell) and the waif has a big chip on his shoulder which he wants to remove by throwing it at the copper; however once he's thawed out in the copper's mother's house, he discards the chip in favour of Mum's Christmas baking and bon-femmie. Warmed by the moisture of the homely grub, his own hormone-enriched seeds begin to swell and sprout and he starts to fancy Ben's pants and uniform, as long as he keeps them on.

Meanwhile, the dashing policeman develops the hots for the lad, especial if he can get his pants are off. Well the boy's 17, but with his 18th birthday at the stroke of midnight on December 27th, both parties can just about manage to hold their love-tanks in reserve until that date. What's more, they show admirable self-control, merely cuddling on the sofa at 11 pm on the night of the 26th and are so enwrapt snoozing and snogging that they don't open the release valve of their mutual passions at the stroke of midnight: they wait a whole two hours more before they have their wicked way with one another.

And that... is that. The cake looked lovely while it was on the stand in the shop, but it was altogether too sickly-sweet. My worry now is what I'm going to read for my dessert to Broken Angels‡ after reading it. I'd had the vague plan of taking it to the bathroom with me to flagellate the bishop over the Christmas Throwaway story, but the occasion just didn't rise to it. The one who was thumped was me, on the back by my friend when I choked on apple. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time and I wasn't even in the right fairy tale.

* Altered Carbon by Richard Morgan
† Brompton Cocktail: Interpret according to your proclivities.
‡ Broken Angels will be the second book in the Trilogy which began with Altered Carbon



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James Bond on Empathic Methedrine

Altered Carbon by Richard K. Morgan

My rating: 4 of 5 stars


Typing limitations urge me to try reviewing this in Q/A format:

Did it linger or stay in Mind?
Did You Dream About It?
Very much so.

Did it have "Got-to-Get-Backness?"
I used every spare moment I had to switch on my Kindle, even to the extent of letting friends decide which food I'd probably like to eat.

Did it Tweak Deep Past Memories?
Yes. Ancient composted memories stirred up their fine tilth.

Did it have "I-don't-want-it-to-End"-ability?
Yes, I wished it wouldn't.

Glad you read it?
Definitely.

Did it go "soggy" in the middle?
A little bit. I rushed through the Innenin and italicized Jimmy de Soto bits, feeling it was stronger without them.

Did you get lost in it?
Indeed I did.

Would I want to read another one of his?
Definitely, but not yet.

If it was an eBook, was it it well formatted? Were there chapter divisions?
Well formatted, well indexed and only a few typos.

Was it swamped by/did it swamp another book & if so which one?
Yes, it squished The Eyre Affair by Jasper Fforde, which was beginning to irk me. I've been to University and got Eng Lit Degree and all that jazz too. It was a bit like know-all students playing literary consequences. I look forward to returning to it, however.

Anything Else?
I hate tough-guy macho violent books, preferring gentler, deeper strings of my harp to be played, so I was surprised when I found myself being magnetised by it despite myself. Takeshi Kovacs [hero], you're a tough brutal thug, but I can see your thinking and I sense that there's something loving buried deep inside you. You'd never admit it, of course.

Now, Richard Morgan, please let me clear you out of my head for a month or so while I look for something Completely Different.



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The Frozen Sky ~ Needs Thawing and Proper Cooking

The Frozen Sky by Jeff Carlson

My rating: 1 of 5 stars


This book sparked a lot of interest for me. Apparently, Europa, one of Jupiter's moons, has the potential for supporting Life, particularly in the light thrown by the discovery that tube worms and various clams can and do thrive in deep oceanic geothermal vents. In the story, this is a given and I was heartened to find that our heroine Vonnie is spurred on by ecology and outreaching rather than pulling out your laser and blasting everything that moves (although as I recall, there is some blasting and splatting as well). I also liked it that I could dredge up my schoolboy memories of chemistry, and go out on the net and investigate and find out fascinating details such as the poisonous hydrogen sulphide (bad egg gas) being a potential 'messenger molecule' between brain cells and elsewhere in the body. All in all, a fascinating bundle of things for me to go out and investigate and learn from.

And that strength was for me the inherent weakness of the 'book': although I thoroughly enjoyed my explorations, I had to remind myself that this was a 'novel' and not a research project given to me by my biochemistry master. If it had been that, I'd have grasped the project with aplomb, gophered some essential data, showed him the draft of draft of my 'story' and waited to see what Sir thought. If Sir had given me a pat on the back and told me it was a splendid start, but please flesh out the story more (if I intended to lengthen it) and to cut out some of the clutter (if I was going to keep it short) I'd have been heartened and begin to make my plans.

However, this is quite dreadful as it stands. It was a "fascinating bundle of things for me to go out and investigate" indeed, but I had to go out and do the investigating which I loved doing, but I was reading it on my Kindle, and can press buttons and things which go out and investigate for me. But supposing I hadn't got a Kindle or a good net connection?. What then? I would be well and truly stumped, stymied, painted and snookered into my corner! My dinner was supposed to be presented to me on a plate. Admittedly it was tasty chicken drum-sticks on the bone, but they weren't even thoroughly cooked. I had to finish them off in the oven myself and go to find tissues I could clean my fingers with!


More can be read on the Jupiter Project which is purported to be happening in 2020.

On the Europa Jupiter System Mission: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Europa_Jupi...



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The Manual That Crept

Containment by Christian Cantrell

My rating: 2 of 5 stars


While reading this story which has received some rather enthusiastic reviews, I kept on having the feeling that I was reading a technical manual — and I rather liked it. Of course it wouldn't be everybody's cup of tea, or plate of coils and chips, but I was after all, reading Science Fiction.

Science Fiction has surely to be fiction with a lot of science in it. Switch them round and you'd have fictitious science, which simply wouldn't work at all. So without further ado, I read the fiction that goes into the science within it. And I could mostly keep up with the science, although at times it was slightly beyond me, but I don't have a problem with that. Not being a true scientist I can't attest to the authenticity of the science, but it seemed OK as far as I knew, at least at the beginning.

There's a loose story with a lot of particular detail in it and I found myself being particularly interested in the delicate matter of the interface between the biological workings of the brain and the implant inserted into it, along with the problems that can occur as the tissue begins to harden in the presence of conductive metals, even if they're sensitively aligned and harmonised.

Little by little the background atmosphere of the technical manual began to fade as the story welled up from its damp pages like an exotic fungus. This was going to suck me right in, I felt, and I settled myself in good and snug, to have a Good Read.

The story inched its way along. I didn't have a particular problem with that because inching is by and large the story of my life. It kept on reminding me of 2001 ~ A Space Odyssey, and I'm sure that part of its DNA at least was founded in that root-stock. I felt quite pleased when I sniffed out the odd red herring (but does the author really have to lecture the reader on what a red herring is?), however my sense of smell grew far too confused along the way: our hero Arik may well have become hypoxic and disoriented himself in the narrative, but does the reader really have to feel oxygen-starved as well?

I liked it in parts, I was really gripped at certain points, but my attention did keep falling apart, particularly towards the end, and the silly spelling mistakes at key points didn't help.

I ended up desperately wanting it to end, and now, with the penning of this brief review, that job is done and dusted.



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Game For A Laugh??

 T r a n s l i t e r a t i o n:

A    Grand

E X H I B I T I O N

  Of the Effects Produced by INHALING

Nitrous Oxide, Exhilerating, OR

L A U G H I N G   G A S  !!

Will be Given At         The Masonic Hall

Saturday  E V E N I N G,   15th

&   ^   &   ^   &   ^   &   ^   &

30   G A L L O N S    O F    G A S

w i l l   be

p r e p a r e d     a n d    a d m i n i s t e r e d

t o    a l l     i n    t h e     a u d i e n c e  

w h o     d  e  s  i  r  e      t o     i n h a l e   it.

MEN will be invited from the audience, to protect
those under the influence of the Gas from in-
juring themselves or others. This course Is adopted
that no Apprehension of danger may be entertained.
Probably no one will attempt to fight.

THE EFFECT OF THE GAS  is to make those who Inhale it

LAUGH, SING, DANCE, SPEAK OR FIGHT, &c, &c according to the leading trait of their character. They seem to retain consciousness
enough not to say or do that which they would have occasion
to regret.

N.B. The Gas will be administered only to gentle-
men of the first respectability. The Object is to make
the Entertainment in every Respect, a Gentle Affair.

&   ^   &   ^   &   ^   &   ^   &   ^   &   ^   &

Those Who Inhale the Gas once, are always anxious to inhale it a second time. There is not
an Exception to this Rule.
No language can describe the Delightful Sensation produced. Robert Southey, (poet) once said
that "the atmosphere of the highest of all heavens must be composed of this Gas."

For a Full account of the Effect upon some of the most Distinguished Men of Europe,
see Hooper's Medical Dictionary, under the head of NITROGEN.

A foil-wrapped refresher

The Fire Gospel by Michel Faber

My rating: 4 of 5 stars


I purchased this over the Christmas period as a present to myself, after liking the review, and because it was going for such a bargain price. As soon as I'd done that, I squirreled it away in the archives and forgot all about it.
I'd previously been reading my way through The Diviner's Tale by Bradford Morrow, and was feeling soggy and saturated by the time I'd reached the end and as I was looking for something short and cheery I felt this Fire Gospel might just be the thing to dry me out and warm me up a bit.
Except that by the time I'd started to read it I'd completely forgotten what the story was supposed to be about. Therefore, as books have always been a serious matter for me, that's the way I took it.
Seriously.
It would doubtless come as no surprise to seasoned readers to discover that I found myself splurting and coughing not long after starting the book, but it came as a considerable surprise to a greenhorn like me. It happened to me one morning when all-of-a-sudden I  sneezed over my morning cuppa, spraying a mist of tea and Canderel Sweetener all over my Kindle screen. Oh dear!

Yet it was a nice surprise to be expecting a cold sandwich, only to find that the dish had been flambéd by the waiter, right in front of my eyes and at no extra cost. The book set off a sequence of small explosions in my psyche which danced like jumping jacks - cracking and leaping and yet hopping back to snigger at you when you thought the show was over.

Theo (our hero) had wanted (and won) fame and fortune, having landed himself a gorgeous, slim and highly seductive lady who now manages his affairs as well as acting as his care-giver who gives him as much sex as he wants; she's also a highly successful literary agent who can pleasure him with a spare eye glued to her wristwatch whilst monitoring total sales volumes. One hand pleasures him (sexually), and the other one acts as nanny and mouth mopper:
"Jennifer, still talking, jammed her cellphone between her jaw and shoulder, and extracted a small item from her jacket pocket. She handed him what at first appeared to be a condom foil but proved, when torn open, to contain a moist towelette."

At one point the selfsame "wife" must needs produce a gun to protect her charge. It appears as if from nowhere from her slender person before slickly returning to its source: "She had already returned her weapon to wherever she’d concealed it before. Theo couldn’t imagine a cavity in her snugly tailored clothing where a hunk of steel could be stashed away without causing a bulge, but it was done."

Yet for me the killer chapter was the one where the Amazon reviews are scanned by our hero, giving delightful examples of pig-ignorant attitudes to books and reading:

"If you read the King James (per) version you won’t see the name Yahweh and if you don’t see it you can’t call it and therefore can’t be saved. Clever! So, in conclusion, read this book for the information but beware the traps and pitfalls. Satan’s hand is all over it."

and the one which creased me up until my chest ached and I was left gasping:

"I haven't read this book yet but I can't wait to read it so I am reviewing it early. The other people on Amazon who say don't read it are brainwashed stooges of the Catholic religion, which has been sexually abusing children for 100's of years. Who needs it? I already LOVE this book."

Left breathless, I can only add gaspingly: "If this book jaundices your opinion about Amazon reviews, give thanks you're not reading this review on it"

Wackily delightful, I award it five stars.
But not to amazon because they've got 16 of them already.



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Everybody Sees My Green Light!"

These past few months people have been seing my green chat light on in Gmail.
Green means "online and available to chat".
Theoretically it means I'm "here".
Even when I'm not, apparently.
Apparently I'm here even when I'm switched off.
Even when I'm lurking with intent in the the seedy back alleys of Tiruvannamalai, a little bell will tingle and throb by my hip pocket. I'll cuss and pull it out and a message will say "Hi" and, "Uh, uh... sorry to disturb, I see you're busy"
I don't know whether this is pleasing or disconcerting to be always "here".
Where that might be I know not, except that I am always Here these days, it seems.
Even when I'm Not.

It's all down to the New God who's in our lives these days.
The Google God in the persona of Android.

Oh Android! Please don't start to make me Paranoid.
Let me switch off once in in a while to recharge my emotional batteries!

Hari Om!