Gary Davison

Calm down, he has nothing to do with the Inland Revenue. This here is John Le Carre, the prolific literary writer of thriller \ spy novels. At this year’s Oxford Literary Festival, he will receive the Sunday Times Award for Literary Excellence.

I’ve only read, and not quite finished, one of his novels. I came across it by chance when we were staying in the South of France a few years ago. The villa we were renting was still furnished with the person’s personnel stuff and the back wall of the living room had shelves, top-to-bottom, full of books.

At night, when the kids were asleep and the others were watching the TV, I would stand, glass of  red wine in hand, browsing the collection. There were some great classic books there, and one, The Catcher in The Rye by J.D, was actually signed by the man himself.

We were staying in Juan Les Pins, just up from Cannes, and it was on the back of that thirty week French Speaking holiday course, so the ham and cheese sandwiches were getting ordered with considerable ease.

So, the way I looked at it, was that if this place was being rented to us, then it was up to us to have a good time and respect everything in the place. The books, if they were mine and I was renting the place out, I wouldn’t mind someone reading them, as long as they were put back in the same place, in the same condition.

I started reading Absolute Friends (I think, I’m not 100% it was this novel, I’ll investigate further) at night. A few pages here and there, and when I finished reading for the night, I put it back in its position on the shelf. During the day I read my own supply of books on the beach, bending the spine, ramming them into THE BAG, before being more delicate again at night. I’ve got to say, despite John Le Carre’s genre not being one of my favourites, I was thoroughly enjoying this book. The writing was top class. Unfortunately time ran out before I could finish it, and I left it tucked up with several other of his books in the villa. I need to get round to buying it and giving it another go.

So, why am I writing about JLC?

I was reading an article about the festival, and in particular a piece about him, and he does something I do, when forming characters for a book. Here’s how he formed the main character in The Spy Who Came in from the Cold :

I was sitting at the bar in the departure lounge in London airport - flights were delayed - when an Englishman of about 40 with a drained, travelled face appeared beside me and ordered himself a large Scotch, neat, no ice. Spotty fawn raincoat, scuffed suede shoes, a bronzed, beat-up face, dog-tired, dark Celtic eyes. It wasn’t until he came to pay for the Scotch, that I knew I’d found him. He dug a hand in his pocket, slammed a bunch of loose change on the counter and barked ‘help yourself’ like a challenge to the barman.

How good is that? And there he has the man to lead his story. Whenever I see someone unusual, or I meet someone that is unusual or even very regular, I don’t know what it is about them, there’s just something, I make a note in a back of a book I have. I don’t know when I’ll use them, if ever, but they’re there, all the faces, the strange attitude, the tattoo on the back of the neck or ear, the gap in the front teeth, the none stop chattering. Cafes, bars, queues, all the characters are there, then you just take them and run with them, put them in situations, see what they get up to. I’ve got one in there at the moment, I saw him cross the road, and he looks like a lollipop. I’m itching to get him somewhere as a brother or boyfriend, you’ve seen nothing like a face so flat and big and shoulders so narrow. He’s a dream character sketch.

I’m pricing jobs this afternoon, and I’m way behind. Nothing to do with the cheeky 18 holes I slipped in this morning (should have come off after eight) when I should have been hard at it.

Anyways, I’m pricing a huge job here, 15 000 m2 of granite paving - right up our street, a real too-good-to-be-true tender - then I spot the estimator that sent me it, and I’m wondering what’s going on. The estimator is called William Shakespeare.

I checked his spelling and as you would expect, it was pretty decent.

With the main character in the current novel being a priest, I’m noticing priests and what they’re up.

After all, mine is no ordinary priest, which is a good job, as it could turn this story from a fun-soft porn-rom.com \ mystery into something more sinister.

After reading about the bishop who smokes, drinks, eats MacDonalds and parties with old women, I read at the weekend about another bishop who was asking his parish if they wouldn’t mind chipping in with the running of the church. More specifically, he wanted - and this is separate to any Sunday collection plate - for his people to come together and start paying the legal fees and out of court settlements for priests who had been - how can I put this? - charged or accused of abusing children.

I couldn’t believe what I was reading. I want to believe that these priests are in the minority, but when a senior figure in the church comes out with such shit that sounds like he is backing these fuckers, it feels like their vices of abuse to minors is acceptable. Not even our society can condone this. Heavy subject, I know, but haway man, as us Geordies say, this is too much. I would love to see what these low life give up for lent.

 I’m loving this. I don’t know what it is about Houellebecq’s style that sits so well with me, but it just does. I don’t care how long the book is, where it’s going, I’m just happy to be along for the ride.

And it’s not his chosen subject of sex, S&M and partner-swapping. Honestly, I haven’t even got into that yet. It’s the style of writing, every situation real, seemingly going nowhere, but it does, either in that scene or collectively later on. This could be headed into my famous top five of all time along with Atomised.

I was doing an interview yesterday by email and one of the questions was something like, … and what effect do you think this had on……

For some reason the word ‘effect’ got stuck somewhere in the front of my brain.

Effect - change or result caused by someone or something.

Affect - act on, influence; move (someone) emotionally.

For some reason, I can’t get this out of my mind. I don’t recall ever using the word, Affect. And now I’m spotting it everywhere.

So would it be right to say I’ve been affected by effect? If so, then how many others have been touched the same way. Must be a few, because if none of the editors at paperbooks or myself have highlighted this affliction, (or is it effliction?), then they are also infected, and if they are not, then it doesn’t exist. Mmmm, going to have to think this one through. No doubt the Banker will be hitting the dictionary tonight and trying to bet me on this.

 For the past couple of months I haven’t been buying any mags. I’ve fell out of love with them. The Big Issue has lost its zest, not even the stories at the back can keep me interested.

Boxing monthly can kiss my arse. After nearly twenty years of buying it, I wouldn’t use it as toilet paper now. The only decent thing left in boxing is David Haye, who Karen and I are going to see in April. Should be a good tear-up.

Men’s mags, like FHM, never liked them, but have had a flick when they’ve been knocking about in waiting rooms. There’re only so many pictures of ruptured testicles or split fingers, you can take.

Golf mags - less said on that score at the minute, the better. With no toilet reading available on the shelves, I’ve ended up getting into a few other good reads.

The Times Magazine is a beauty. What are you doing buying The Times, Mr Davison? Newcastle United slipped into The Championship and are no longer featured in The Sun, so I’ve ended up with The Times. Not mad on the long stories, more into the little block stories on the side.

This weekend Banksy was featured, with his film about street art coming out.

There was also a piece on a Bishop, who was gay, smoked, ate McDonalds, and in his words, ‘And the old lady would stand there and see how much I could take.’ Slightly out of context, but an interesting article.

The paper itself, I read about a half. A little bit of the business section, news, although I find myself more interested in the News Review. Shorter and snappier, more to the point.

Another mag I’ve got into is this free issue from NatWest. You would have seen it in the branches, and like me thought, Nah, they’re trying to flog me something. They probably are, but it’s a great read, and especially interesting if you’re in business yourself. This month features Max Clifford, Big Duncan Bannatyne is in there, Jacqueline Gold, MD of Ann Summers and daughter of West Ham owner David, and loads of other success stories. Stories you can relate to. They’re not all Plc shit beyond reach. I love reading about success stories, and it gives you inspiration to kick on, try something new. I remember buying all the writing magazines just to read about the breaking deals and who was getting signed up and how they started out. It’s true what they say, that the journey getting there is better than being there. Do THEY actually say that, or have I just made that up?

No matter, both well worth a read.

You know I haven’t got a spell check on here. I remember telling you all about it and disclaiming any future mithtakes. In the past few weeks I’ve had no less than three emails, telling me the error of my ways.

One this morning, telling me about a major one last week, involving ALOUD and allowed. What is a man to do?

I can either buck my ideas up and sort a spell checker, or, take it on the chin. I’ll have a think about it, because I’m a better speller than I am with computers.

Talking of emails, I also got asked for a couple of interviews, which is always great. One for A Tale of two Halves, and the other on the art of streaking. Looking forward to doing both.

Where do I start? Or what do I tell?

First up, the didn’ts.

I didn’t win - stone last in fact.

I didn’t get deported.

I didn’t get thrown out of the hotel.

The dids

I did get completely wasted for the four days. I think it was a mixture of nerves, sun, rain, golf, and Vodka Redbull. Lethal combo and I paid the price heavily when it came to trying to play.

I was trying some outrageous shots - some of which actually came of. I can remember both of them, but will save you the details.

I remember saying to one of the lads I play golf with, that the key to having a good golfing holiday for me, will be staying out of the bars and concentrating on golf. I even took a book to read and my PJs. None of which were used, and by the end of the holiday, I could only fully remember the last golf club we played at.

Here’s me leaving the 18th at Victoria. It was my round at the bar and I wanted to get there sharpish, whilst also advertising my book, and it all came together in my completely focused mind what to do.

When we got to the airport, they took one look at us and switched us onto a different plane, for the safety of others.

Unfortunately for two nice ladies, Valerie and Joan, they were not moved far enough way, and Val (first name terms at this stage - poor soul) and me started discussing her girlie-mag, and the story I found most interesting was, How To Make Condoms More Sexy. Can you believe one of the suggestions was to open them one handed? How the hell can you open it one handed, hold your can and smoke your fag? Totally unrealistic. Val said she knew of a much better way, and we had hoot from there.

And finally. The best part of all. I left Newcastle with one friend and came back with seven. Seven super blokes that were a laugh a minute. We never seemed to stop laughing all day and night, until we parted company. Steve (who, despite everything is still my mate!), Mark, Ken, Warren, Andrew, Sid, John (who acquired the best tan in Britain by purely eating bacon and chips) - thanks for the memories boys, it was one of the best ever.

Well, I’m edging back to reality. Back to writing Monday, work tomorrow for a few hours and there’s a couple of competitions landed whilst I’ve been away. I’ll get onto them Monday and post them up, one of which is a blogging comp. Enjoy the rest of your weekend.

In Portugal. I’ve even taken my golf clubs to make it look really convincing. See you soon.

 No, not duck watching, although I do think that one there is a mallard.

And why am I putting this photo of my secretary up on a Friday? Because she is a saucy minx and sends me snaps when she’s on holiday with her lesbian lover? Seriously, I didn’t have a clue what a double-intruder was until she came back from Ibiza. No, it’s because I’m away on Sunday and didn’t want to leave it up - the picture, behave - all week  after Saturday. And on top of that, not that, just, that, this has been a clean site for a good while. Yes it has, stop being so picky. What is it with women this week? Talk about swimming against the tide.

I’ve been slinking around town buying dodgy looking golf swag and giving fliers out for my writing pal, Gary Murning.

Gazza is always up to some promotional activity and I’m on his team this week and have the job of dishing out fliers around Newcastle.

First up was the cookie shop in Monument Mal. ‘No bother, love, stick a couple on there.’ ‘You’re a gem, cheers.’

Next up on the hit list was the earring place at the end of Monument Mal. No one around, so I slipped a few on the counter, and made my escape, feeling very Bansky like.

After that, I thought I best get some in a book shop, like he told me to do. This was a secret mission and I was improvising - leaflet dropper on the edge.

Into waterstone at the heart of the books in Newcastle centre, where I was met with open arms, showed through to the executive lounge and given a cup of coffee, meal, signed autographs, and the New York girls were in, so… Hardly. Here’s how it went,

‘Hiya, you alright?’

‘Very well, thanks. How can I help you?’

Out come the leaflets. ‘My mate’s wrote a book, you stock it here, and he’s after a bit of promotion, is there any chance…’

Shakes her little head and it drops off. I hand her her head back and she continues. ‘Sorry, I don’t think we’re aloud..’

‘Read it. It’s a good story, and he can’t get around the stores himself. It’s only five or six copies.’

Over to the manager, who I recognise from when we launched Streakers and took over the place. Does he recognise me? What do you think? YES! It’s that twat that keeps turning his books face out over every time he comes in. Yip, it’s me, and I’m not leaving until I drop these leaflets.

‘I’m sorry, we can only put stuff out produced by Waterstones.’

‘Five copies. Come on, have a look at it.’

We settled on having them spread about the staff room, and I daringly left one on top of the 3for2 pile. Absolute rebel.

 Next stop, TK Max. The security guard stops me at the door. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

‘I’m going in there.’

Grabs me by the scruff of the neck. ‘You’re neither two foot one or seven foot, and from what I can see your arms are the same length. Therefore there is nothing in here for you.’

I sneaked back in and tried some well dodgy t-shirts on for my golf trip to Portugal. Colour blind doesn’t come into it. I keep telling everyone, forget the fact it’s purple or illuminous, it’s the texture of the cloth on the skin. That’s what counts. Looking a twat, means nothing.

I left a leaflet in the changing room.

Finally, with my trump card, I thought: Big Issue Seller. At this rate I could be on the next episode of The Apprentice. Get to the seller, slip him an extra 50p when I buy a copy and give him some fliers. Bought the copy, reached in my pocket - no fliers left.

Not to worry, it wasn’t  too shabby.

Oh, I nearly forgot. The wide-boy trying to get me to sign up to giving a monthly donation to charity for kids. What a laugh. He was giving me his leaflet and I was trying to give him mine and he was moving his hand away like I was handing him a piece of shit. In the end he took mine and i took his and we went our separate ways. He was git, I could tell.

Have a nice weekend everyone and get Gazza’s book bought if you haven’t already done so, it’s a sound read.