The Blog of Stuart MacBride

Ooh! Ahh! … And the art of buying socks

Determined not to be out done by Russell, this morning I was the one making the unwholesome aromas. Yes. mine weren’t in the same league as his, but I tried, and that’s what’s important. Personally I’m blaming the fish and chips we had last night. I have a love/hate relationship with fish and chips, where I love them and they do horrible things to my insides. But like a fool I always go back for more. And this morning, Russell was the one suffering the collateral-damage-related consequences. Revenge is a dish best served smelly. After we’d done the door-barricading and…

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Biological Warfare meets Lord Of The Rings

Beer doesn’t agree with everyone. Some it makes merry. Some it makes horny. Some it makes sleepy. Some it makes miserable. Some it makes angry. And some end up producing the kind of smells that would make a tub of margarine run for the hills screaming for medical assistance while it’s eyeballs melted. Now, can you guess which kind of person Russell is? Half past six this morning and he’d managed to produce an aroma that peeled off most of the wallpaper in the bathroom. We barricaded the door and sealed it off with duct tape, but still the foetid…

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Penguins, sex, and Pirates

I have important pearls of wisdom to impart to you. 1: Never get Tabasco sauce in your intimate masculine areas. 2: Never trust anyone who says ‘this won’t hurt a bit’*. And 3: Never, EVER eat at any restaurant with a crudely-drawn pirate on the sign. Actually, I’m going to expand Pearl Of Wisdom Number The Third to include any form of nautical doodle, theme, motif, or smell. But mostly pirates. If you see a pirate on the sign, RUN FOR THE HILLS!!! There, all you have to do is run around the hill one way, then tun around and…

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Just like Old Zealand, only newer…

I am now, officially, on the other side of the world. And you know what? It’s sodding pretty out here. Pretty and with more sushi bars than you can shake a fishy sick at. How much more could you want? How about simulated suicide? You see, I now know the answer to that age old question: if you jump off a building, are your eyes open or closed when you hit the ground? Now I have to confess that I’ve never jumped off a building before. The highest thing I’ve ever jumped off was the roof of our childhood home.…

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G’Day

As you can probably tell from the complete lack of postage in recent weeks, things have got a bit hectic at Casa MacBride of late. Partly this is due to getting everything finalised for Halfhead coming out in September, partly it’s down to trying to catch up with Book Number The Sixth (still no word back on the latest possible title), and partly it’s down to the fact I’m jetting off to the Antipodean winter wonderland next Monday, and a whole heap of stuff has to be finished before I clamber onboard the plane. Wow, even typing that is enough…

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Always the blushing bridesmaid?

Yes, it’s time for me to dust off the old purple crimpoline off-the-shoulder number with matching massive floral motif broach thing (that looks like a curtain manufacturer vomited all over it), while the stunning white layered number lays unloved and forlorn in the back of the wardrobe. Then I can spend the whole evening with mascara running down my cheeks, like a melting panda, while I stuff my face with stolen wedding cake. Which is a kinda glass-is-half-empty way of saying that Broken Skin has been honoured with a shortlisting for the great Theakstons Crime Writers Novel of the Year…

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The past leaves fingerprints

There’s a problem inherent with writing a series of books with the same central character – what happens to the past? Does it get forgotten about as soon as the books over, and we start again with a clean slate for the next book? Or do the things that happen leave their grubby fingerprints all over our characters? “But, Stuart,” I here you groan, in that bored way you do, “why would we care? Can’t you just post another picture of a dead mouse and make a couple of knob jokes, instead of writing about … well, writing?” Yes, I…

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Halfway home

I didn’t realise till this weekend what a shite hole Heathrow Terminal 5 was. A shiny, shiny new shite hole. Though I suppose I shouldn’t complain, I did actually make it home with all my luggage, and these days that’s a blessing to be counted. Like bunions on an old man’s foot. Anyway, yes: touring. That’s me officially at the turning point of things. I have Noodled in Nottingham, lurked in Lincoln, ponced about in Piccadilli, and sung silly songs in Streatham. Got some good crowds as well, certainly the forecasts for doom-and-gloom in Piccadilli turned out to be a…

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Just like the Rolling Stones*

Now that Blind Eye has hit the bookshelves like a drunken ex-boyfriend, I’m going to be hitting the road, pimping the books to anyone who’ll listen. And apparently (according to HarperCollins) it might be a good idea to actually tell people where I’m going to be. Never one to rock the boat, or fart in the bath, I have acquiesced to their demands and publish for you here the list of stuff what I’ll be doing over the next couple of weeks (and yes, I have stolen the descriptions from the venues). Mostly it’s going to be me rambling on…

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Happy belated Jesus isn’t dead any more day…

You might not have noticed — unless you’ve been hiding in the bushes on the other side of the road spying on my house like some sort of demented Claudia Schiffer* — but I’ve been away for a while, living the life of Riley in Las Vegas. Only Riley clearly has a pretty crappy life, because Vegas isn’t exactly the nicest place on the planet. Unless you’re fond of cities where everyone’s sole mission in life is to screw you over for every dollar you’ve got. Where was I? Ah yes, Easter. I have to admit that I find organised…

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