The Blog of Stuart MacBride

The Crimplemas Entropy Fairy Strikes!

Some people think that inanimate objects are inert. They have no soul. No sense of self. No sense of timing or irony. Bollocks. If that’s the case, how come computers always die when you really, really need them? You know, when you’re trying to hack into Dr McEvil’s mainframe to stop him turning all the worlds oceans into chocolate pudding*, or when you’ve got to concoct a personalised birthday card from someone’s photo and stuff that’s been downloaded from RubberFetishGerbil.com, or (and this is slightly closer to home) when you’re in the middle of editing Book Number The Sixth. But…

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Cobwebs

OK, so it’s been a while since I posted anything. “Ah,” I can hear you thinking – probably because you’re not wearing that fetching tinfoil helmet you’ve normally got on – “You’ve been all boring and stuff, haven’t you?” Well, no. I’ve been all windswept and interesting in such varied and exiting locals as Shetland, Guildford, London, Aberdeen, Fife, Glasgow, Inverness, and Frankfurt. International Man Of Beardy Write-istry, that’s me. What I’ve also been is Deadline’s bitch. But that has now passed. Yes, that’s right my little tinfoil-less friends, Book Number The Sixth (AKA: Dark Blood) is in for editing…

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There’s blood everywhere…

I suppose it’s really about time I said something about Halfhead, you know, what with it being published tomorrow. Well, I say ‘published’, what I mean is that it’s the official publication date, which means the book itself’s probably been on sale for about a week or so already. But tomorrow is it’s official birthday, so cake and party hats for everyone. You know, the big pointy ones, where the elastic’s never big enough to around your chin and ends up either snapping and putting your eye out, or getting wedged under your nose. Making you look a bit like…

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Jet … … … … … … … … … … lag…

Home! Hahahahahahahahhahahahahah! I am finally, at long, long last, back in my own home. My own bed! With my own stuff all about me, and my own cat to cuddle. And my own kitchen. Oh, the joy of eating stuff you’ve cooked yourself, rather than whatever’s come out of some hotel’s cockroach-infested kitchen*. Oh, and my wife. Yes. Nice to be home with She Who Must Not Be Forgotten In Any Blog Post Thing On Pain Of The Stapling Of Delicate Parts. And I wish to formally state that I’m not typing that under any form of coercion, threat, or…

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Timmy’s fallen down the well?

Tuesday started, as days down under always seem to for me, far too early and with a vague feeling that someone’s stolen the sentient part of my brain and replaced it with some sort of delicious nougaty goo. I tried to get the thinking back with a warm-ish shower in a freezing cold room, followed by a nice cup of tea and setting the fire alarm off. Ah, the joys of toast. I’d flown down from Sydney the day before, on a wee plane full of coughs and sniffles. Which is always reassuring when you’re heading into the Swine Flu…

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Manly men don’t surf

Opera House hunting started bright and early at five in the morning when the alarm on my phone went off. Stupid phone. It had forgotten we were now on Australian time, not New Zealand time. So it was two hours earlier than it thought. Oh, how embarrassed the phone was when I pointed out it’s mistake, in short, angry, sweary words… Opera House hunting started again four hours later, after more bleary swearing, a shower, an overpriced breakfast full of noisy tourist people*, and a lot of fumbling with the hotel’s courtesy map. In the end I found it hiding…

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Yeeee-haw…

A lot of people think the Fourth of July is a purely American holiday – one where they celebrate getting rid of the steeeeenky British Aristocracy and it’s crapulantly corrupt parliament* – but it’s also an important day in the New Zealand calendar. Yes, the Fourth of July is officially ‘Try To Drown A Scotsman Day’. But they don’t do it in a hands-on fashion. No bag over the head, concrete block round the ankles and into the nearest harbour for the Kiwis – oh no, no, no. Everything in New Zealand has to be environmentally friendly these days, so…

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Just like the Hulk, only shorter and less green…

Friday morning dawned about three and a bit hours after we finally got to bed in Christchurch. Bloody dawn. Bloody damn drunken hoons… I had to be up and sensible* for a live telephone interview, pimping Blind Eye to the unsuspecting Kiwi audience, with a bit of extra event-related pimpage thrown in for later in the evening. For this was to be my inaugural event on the Bearded Wonder Down Under tour: Penny’s Bookstore, Hamilton. Now that Russell and I had survived not only the snowy battle through the mountain passes, but a whole week in the car together, the…

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Damn Drunken Hoons…

Thursday morning failed to dawn. We’d been staying a slightly more swanky motel than normal, one with a couch and a microwave and a kettle and stuff. And, as an added bonus, just because Russell and I were so damn manly, they threw in a power cut. Now that doesn’t sound too bad, does it? Little power cut. OK, so we couldn’t use the microwave, or the kettle, or the shower, or the heating*, or anything else powered by the magical electric pixies, but we still had the couch, right? We could sit on that to our heart’s content. And…

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Glacier Mints and a small resurrection…

I have come to the unlikely conclusion that Russell Kirkpatrick* is a pocket genius. When I say ‘pocket genius’ I don’t mean that he does new and exciting things in his trouser pockets. That would be unwholesome, especially whilst driving. But there’s certainly a whiff of the clever about the man** — remember my iPod died the death of a thousand swearwords yesterday? Well Russell managed to bring it back from the dead with a small amount of fiddling with the buttons. Also known as a ‘reset’. I didn’t even know you could do something like that with an iPod…

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