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A Last (?) Short Season

My 2016 MSF/MMSC training season appears to be pretty much indicative of the motorcycle training business in general. Due to a physical problem, last year’s fairly normal season got cut short around late July. Since 2001, I’ve been doing 15-25 Basic and (recently renamed) Intermediate classes a year along with the occasional Skills Retest and Maintenance class. Last year, I’d signed up for 16 classes and managed to teach a dozen before my right foot turned into a pain generator and I had to bail out of the last portion of my season. I hadn’t missed a class in 14 years before that season.

This year, I decided to downsize my participation to the minimum 4 classes.Honestly, I didn’t have much fun last season and have been wondering if I’m near the point where teaching anything to anyone has lost its appeal. I have been doing some sort of education function for almost 40 years; either as a corporate trainer or a college instructor. My father was a high school math and accounting teacher and I never imagined myself following in his career footsteps, but I did; sort of. My tolerance for fools has never been well developed, but it appears to be vanishing altogether in my cranky old age. I can put up with miles of inexperience, but I can’t move and inch to fix deliberate stupidity. When I first started training technicians, in the mid-70’s, I was ruthless when it came to putting up with a tech who wanted the planet to revolve in his direction. Several of my employers moved asshole employees into my departments because they didn’t have the balls or personal organization and disipline to fire them. I have always believed in saying (and documenting) what I am going to do and doing what I say I will do. If I say, “Screw up three times and you’re fired,” you should assume that when you’re at two strikes you better not swing at a bad pitch.

Part of what convinced me to quit my college teaching gig was that my ability to make the classroom rules and enforce them had vanished. Probably the worst thing about activities like for-profit education, healthcare, resource management, and like things is that management can rarely remember the purpose of the organization, beyond providing large salaries to management, for any length of time. When the rules for an activity are changed to keep the income steady for mismanagement, the rules no long exist and neither does the purpose of the activity. And so it went for my college teaching career.

The rules for motorcycle safety instruction have never been designed toward improving motorcycle safety. The MSF is OWNED by the MIC, which is all about putting butts with credit or cash on motorcycle seats. “Safety” is just the smokescreen used to justify avoiding the sort of government regulations that motorcycling’s awful safety record would warrant. Any other activity that would cost the nation’s taxpayers a good bit over $16B per year while providing little-to-no valuable utility (except guns and “financial services”) would see the regulation hammer drop like a brick on an ant. Like most for-profit organizations, the MIC has no strong reason to care if its customers die shortly after handing over their cash or the dealers sell the loans to some TBTF bank. It’s not like motorcycling has a long future in sight for these folks or that their execs have a financial motivation to provide for the future of the companies they mismanage.

In fact, the MSF program carefully orders instructors and program managers not to make claims about the MSF’s training having any effect on motorcycle safety. And that’s because it doesn’t. Not only does the MSF know that training doesn’t do what it’s supposed to do, it doesn’t appear to work anywhere. One of the attractions to teaching is the feedback an instructor gets when people learn a skill and begin on a path toward mastering it. Trust me, it’s not about the money. Take away the hope there was a reason for spending a hot summer weekend on a parking lot walking 11-miles-per-day putting down and picking up cones, avoiding and preventing injury from a runaway motorcycle and motorcyclist or ten, and listening to people whine when they manage to fail the grossly-easy “skills test” at the end and you kill a lot of instructor motivation. 

Teaching the “Intermediate Safety Course” (IRC) is often way less fun or advanced than the “Basic” course. Overcoming the myths and objections of so-called experienced riders is wearing. I’ve dealth with two-year-olds who were more informed than the majority of over-50 Harley riders; especially the “club” characters who are just making the motions toward motorcycle safety to justify their gang patches and pirate parades.

One of the main consumers of the IRC has been Polaris, with a requirement that employees must obtain a motorcycle license and take both the BRC and IRC before they can  “check out” bikes from the company’s reverse-engineering inventory and Indian/Victory loaners. To accomodate those wannabe “motorcyclists” who want to ride but don’t want to have to actually buy a motorcycle, we ran an experiment a couple of years ago with allowing IRC customers to use the BRC bikes along with taking the MSF’s IRC test at the end. The results were pretty good, but the outcome was that we’re now allowing IRC students to use the small bikes but we’re blowing off the test. If there was ever evidence that we are not serious about providing actual results from motorcycle training, it was this for me.

So, at the end of this season I’m going to be spending the winter contemplating my motorcycle safety training “career.” Like most teaching gigs in the US, I think the average length of a motorcycle trainer’s career is less than 3 years. You’d think getting to play with motorcycles for fun and profit would be a better gig, but it isn’t in most states. Again, it’s the feedback reinforcement that overcomes the downsides to teaching and they aren’t there.

#126 What Are You Afraid Of?

caveman

All Rights Reserved © 2013 Thomas W. Day

A while back, one of our contributors listed a few of the things he was afraid of. One of the things he listed was flying. Another was helmet claustrophobia. I think spiders, snakes, girls, and clowns probably made the list, too.

Psychologists argue that the absence of fear is mental illness. The other possibility is physical or genetic damage to the portion of the brain called the "amygdala," which is the section of the brain that generates the emotion we describe as fear. I have yet to meet a psychologist/psychiatrist who I would call "courageous," so I'm only sort of buying into this analysis and classification. These are the same characters who invented a disease (AADD) to explain a lack of focus and poor self-discipline and who can't convince 65% of the public that human beings have predictable animalistic responses to fight-or-flight situations or social pressures.

Personally, I despise all of my own phobias (and I have a list). While a fear factor might be a wonderful survival tactic, it is definitely a buzz-kill. Standing at the edge of a bridge strapped to a harness and 100' bungee cable is a disgusting time to start evaluating your entertainment options. As a Kizinti (the alien species George Lucas ripped off, renamed "Wookie," and domesticated in Star Bores) told Louis Wu, "All that is needed is to scream and leap." After all, that's how we invest in the stock market, housing, higher education, and it's definitely how we choose our political "leaders." Important stuff like that requires no more thought than we put into "would you like fries with that?" So, why do we hesitate to fling our bodies into the void, especially with a perfectly good motorcycle under us and well-maintained roads to travel? It's not like indecision is going to add anything valuable to your steering plans at the apex of a curve or when the motorcycle leaves the ground at the top of a whoop or a small hill. Do it. Scream and leap. Set your hair on fire and give it your best shot. These days, if you really screw it up you'll probably end up a YouTube superstar. A small price to pay for your 1.5 seconds of excitement and 15 minutes, dead minimum, of fame.

Seriously, I do believe that fears are meant to be overcome. Catering to phobias and cowardice  is what makes you old before your time. If you give in to that crap, the next thing you know you'll be voting Republican and jabbering nonsense about "job creators" and "Obama is a socialist" and all of your friends will have sub-100-point IQs and you'll delude yourself into believing that Leno and Letterman are funny and Fox actually does "news." Man up, dude, before it's too late. Accepting fear is a choice and you can either get it up and get over it or shrivel into a timid little person who never has a moment on YouTube to relish. [Yes, I have several, although "relish" is probably not the word that first comes to mind.]

I like the tactic of facing fears until they are beaten back into my subconscious. Heights, for example. I suspect that most of us are a little shy about stepping on to a 20' roof or out on to the Grand Canyon's Infinity Bridge. We all, however, know that with reasonable caution there is very little about either of those "adventures" that qualifies as dangerous. So, most of us get on with the job and it doesn't take long before altitude fades into the background. I used to do a little rock climbing and it always amazed me that on Day One I might find myself frozen 15' above flat ground and a few days later I will be walking along the edge of a 300' cliff without the slightest nervousness. Speed is another sensation we can adapt to fairly quickly. I'm not sure that is a good thing, but it is true. When I take off for a long trip, sticking with freeway traffic sometimes seems like walking a knife edge. Two weeks later and I'm impatient when someone is "parked" in front of me a few miles-per-hour above the speed limit. [Not that I would ever, ever exceed the federally mandated speed limits when everyone else is doing their best to do multiples of that velocity.]

Fear is like guilt. Sometimes those emotions can keep us from doing things other people disapprove, but neither emotion produces a positive result. I can be made to conform to society's low expectations, but I will resent it and that will come out in odd acts of rebellion that help me maintain a balance of control. Fear will tell me to chicken out at the worst possible time, when going forward is almost guaranteed to be the right decision.

My favorite motorcycling example is when I screw up and enter a corner too hot. Unless there is a lot of run-out room, there is no place for braking in that situation. Once the bike is in a slide, there are even fewer options available. On dirt or gravel, this is where the fun begins. I'm less comfortable sliding on concrete or asphalt, but that's due to cowardice and inexperience, not common sense. So that's the fear I'm working on this summer, fear of sliding on paved surfaces. I'll let you know how that works out, assuming I survive.







INTERVIEW: J.G. CLAY: PART ONE

Welcome to Part One of Confessions of a Reviewer’s interview with an author who will probably be new to a lot of you out there, J.G. Clay.

Mr Clay came to my attention in a strange sort of a way. My wife, Jo, noticed he had a new book out and suggested to him that he send it to me for review. He very kindly did, and it snowballed from there into this week long feature on him. When you read the interview, review and indeed, his latest book, Tales of Blood and Sulphur, you will realise exactly why it snowballed and why I think this gentleman’s writing should be on everyone’s shelf!

In Part One, tonight, J.G. talks about himself and his writing in general. Candid, honest, funny and modest are words I would use to describe how this man talks about himself and when you read this, entertaining is another word that you will be thinking of.

Part Two, tomorrow night, features chat all about the new book, some more general stuff and of course The Ten Confessions where it turns out Mr Clay is a bit of a cad.

Wednesday sees the Confessions review of Tales of Blood and Sulphur followed by showing it off on Thursday.

Nothing left to say at this point other than go grab some nibbles and a drink and sit back, and most of all……enjoy!




CoaR - So tell everyone a bit about yourself? Who is J.G. Clay and what is he about?

JGC - Glad this is the first one so we can get the boring stuff out of the way. J.G. is a Halloween born, Midland British-Sikh child of the 70’s and 80’s with an interest in the dark, the macabre and the decidedly gooey side of horror. He’s an author dedicated to the art of producing genre-mashing quality horror, fully loaded with pop culture references, some social commentary and a sly dark humour. He’s a bit of a lad as well, but without all the boorish, sexist, bigoted baggage that comes with the label.


CoaR - Why use a pen name instead of just going with Pardip?

JGC - It was always my intention before I’d even set pen to paper. I just couldn’t see my real name on the front cover of a book. Also, I think I was a bit wary of reader perceptions at the time. Like it or not, people do tend to run with stereotypes and with a name as ethnic as mine, I was concerned that readers wouldn’t take horror written by a Brit-Indian seriously. Conventional literary wisdom, (especially in the highly charged, identity politics ridden atmosphere pervading the arts these days), holds that if you’re descended from South Asian immigrants, you should be writing arty little pieces about the immigrant experience in the UK and all that bobbins. That’s not my scene at all.

It took a good year or so to come up with the name. I’d been mulling over a few and not really getting anywhere, (including Stephen Singh. I thought it was hilarious at the time until my wife pointed out that no one would take me seriously. At best.), and I was nearly at the point of thinking “bugger it, I’ll use my own name”, when Clay popped up in a thunderbolt realisation moment. The name’s from the 2000AD comic Harlem Heroes. I read that comic religiously every week, often incurring the wrath of my parents for “reading that rubbish”. Harlem Heroes was a stand-out strip for me and one of the heroes was a guy called John ‘Giant’ Clay. I had a lightbulb moment and from there, J.G. was born.

I had planned to make him as separate from me as possible; no glasses, ‘Mexican Bandit’ type moustache, surly ‘Gallagher brothers’ attitude, a complete departure from normal ‘every-day’ me. Then my wife pointed out that I’d have to get contact lenses, switch personalities and grow the moustache back every time I did a book signing or a convention, so that idea was quickly and very quietly dropped. My wife’s the practical, pragmatic one. I’m the dreamy, anarchic idiot with the mad ideas.


CoaR - Do you have a boring pay the bills day job?

JGC - I do, although I would like to point out that it’s not boring, by any means. I mooch around a hospital delivering drips and things of that nature to the wards. It’s a great little job, my colleagues are pretty cool and I get left alone for most of the day to plot and plan the Clay stuff. As an aside, not only does the job help pay the bills, but it’s made me fit. I was a bit of chubby knacker when I started. Now, I’m lean and trim.

Before the current job, I was in Customer Services/Call Centre work, chained to a desk and eating bag after bag of crisps and drinking loads of beer at night because I hated the job so much. I ended being stuck in that line of work for about sixteen years because I didn’t know what to do with myself and that was the safe option, stick with what you know. Never doing that again. I loathe that kind of work and what it does to people.




CoaR - Why writing? Why decide on that as a career?

JGC - I’ve loved the written word for as long as I can remember. As a kid, you could always find me in the corner buried in a book or a comic. From reading to writing was an easy progression. I used to write short stories for my own amusement or to take my mind off whatever was going on at the time. I had school notebooks full of rip-offs of whoever I was reading at the time. One day I might drag them out, have a look and see what I can polish up and release. Looking back, I don’t think they were that good to be honest but we all start from humble beginnings.

Becoming a professional writer has been on my mind for a long time but life and a bit of laziness always got in the way. It’s only in the last five years where I’ve become disciplined enough to give this thing a go and now I’ve started, I can’t stop. The writer’s life is definitely for me.


CoaR - Take us through your process for a story. How do you start it and follow it through to the final product?

JGC - I tend to follow the same process for shorts, novellas and novels. An idea will sprout up, I write down the bare bones, think on it for a little while then I’ll plan it all down to the last detail – character profiles, plot, back story, history of the world I’m trying to create etc. Again, that’s a pretty recent development. I used to be a ‘pantster’ (think that’s the correct phrase). Charge headlong into a story without a clue where it was going and nine times out of ten, I’d come to a plot roadblock or something that wasn’t working, then I’d give up and go for a pint or two. That approach works for some of my author colleagues but not for me. I like to have an idea of where the story’s going, even if the final product diverges from the plan.

I’m a three draft kind of guy, but backwards, if that makes sense. The first draft is the bare bones of the story, very direct, no-frills or flourishes. It gives me an idea of pace and structure. The real meat of the story gets slapped and stitched on from the second draft onwards. Once the third is done and dusted, I’ll give it a ‘pass and polish’ then off it goes to the editor/proof reader and I’ll start something else. I’m sure there’s some people reading this and throwing their hands up in horror at my approach but it works for me. Or at least it seems to be working.


CoaR - Brit Pop. Is that the correct term to use for it? What is it with your love of it or is it just The Stone Roses?

JGC - I hate to be pedantic…but I’m going to be. Britpop came after the Roses from about ’94 onwards. The Stone Roses were lumped into the ‘Madchester/Baggy’ thing at the end of the 80’s beginning of the 90’s haha.


CoaR – I only listen to decent music so wouldn’t have known this!


JGC - I guess, for me anyway, both ‘scenes’ came at the right time. I was about fifteen when the Roses, Happy Mondays, Inspiral Carpets etc. broke. At the time, England was just dragging itself out of the grey soulless Age of the Yuppie, The Conservative Government were battering people left, right and centre and music had become quite twee and dressed up in expensive suits. It was a bit of a horrid time, especially when you’re on the cusp of adulthood. Then along comes these four lads from Manchester dressed the same as the older lads around town, singing about the Paris student riots, MP’s tripping on glue and wanting to be adored. For a mid-teens lad, this was mind-blowing stuff. I’m kind of guessing that the moment I heard the Stone Roses album for the first time must have been akin to people hearing Sergeant Pepper, Never Mind the Bollocksor Nevermind – that spine tingling, raised hairs on the back of your neck, revelatory moment. I had exactly the same thing when I heard Oasis’s debut, Definitely Maybe a few years after. Again, a bunch of council estate scruffs with big tunes, the right sort of clothes and that ‘Last Gang in Town’ mentality. They were good days and I had the time of my life during those years.

It’s a shame that there’s nothing comparable to those music scenes. I’m lucky enough to remember Two-Tone, Baggy and Britpop and all of those scenes arrived at a time when the world was shit, the state of the country was shit and everything in general was, funnily enough, shit. Now, we’re in a similar position, what with Brexit, thieving, trouble making politicians, fundamentalist religious idiots pushing their nasty agendas and uber-dull pop music acts lifted from reality TV shows. No one’s saying anything or unashamedly being themselves, because they’re too scared of being lynched by the ‘Social Media Worthy Mob’.

Sad times, my friends. Sad times indeed.




CoaR - Do you ever appear in a photograph where you aren’t smiling?

JGC - There are a few knocking about from my younger days. I was a miserable sod when I was younger. Miserable and moody. Now, I’m pretty happy go lucky. I can be moody still, a bit belligerent and temperamental at times but those occasions are very rare. Cruising past forty has mellowed me out a lot. In real life anyway.

On the page, I’m still quite vicious.


CoaR - How do you keep track of your ideas? Do you carry a notebook with you everywhere or write stuff on the back of your hand?

JGC - The wondrous iPhone takes care of that little dilemma. Ideas, story titles, even characters’ names are noted down in my phone and then fleshed out when I get home. It beats carrying a notebook around. Thank you for that, Mr Jobs. Much appreciated.


CoaR - Do you ever appear in a photograph where you don’t have a fag in your hand?

JGC - Only if I’m around my younger nephews and nieces. I don’t like smoking near them. Other than that, all bets are off. I know it’s bad for me and it’s not a pleasant habit and I will give it up at some point. When I decide though, not when people try to browbeat me into it. I’m really good at switching off when I get lectured about something. Once the lecture’s done, I’ll spark up because I didn’t catch anything that was said.




CoaR - Can you tell us if any of the characters in your stories are based on people you have come across in your life or maybe even yourself?

JGC - In part, yes. I never do it blatantly though. A lot of characters are composites of people I know rather than one person. That way, you don’t get people moaning about the way they’ve been portrayed. The only exception to that rule is people who’ve annoyed and upset me in some way. They usually end up getting eaten, absorbed or disembowelled. It’s considered bad form to those things for real, so doing it on the page is the next best thing

I’ve appeared a few time myself, doing a ‘Hitchcock’ as it were. On The Beach and LLTC from Tales of Blood and Sulphur spring to mind. I tried to mimic the way I speak throughout both of those stories. Whether I pulled it off or not is something that you’ll have to ask people who have read the book and met me.




CoaR - Do you ever appear in a photograph where you don’t have a pint in your hand?

JGC - Every now and then. I’m a drinker. Always have been since my mid-teens (funnily enough, around the time I discovered the Roses). I grew up around the pub culture thing and it’s always been a part of my life. That was what we used to do. The weekend started on Thursday night for me and my mates. Thursday and Friday was the warm up, Saturdays tended to be all-dayers during the football season (start at half eleven and go right through to 3am next morning), and Sundays were the ‘back to normality so let’s have a few beers to take of the edge’ day. I couldn’t do that now though. The last all-day drinking bout I had was in June. Me and my best mate went to see the Stone Roses (again, that band) and we’d made a pact to take it easy. And we did. Until we finished the first can of Stella on the train. It all went downhill from there. Great weekend though. It did take about a week to recover though.

I always write sober though. That’s a hard and fast rule. I tried writing drunk once and it was utter gibberish.


CoaR - Who would be the authors you would give the credit of being your influences and who do you just not “get”?

JGC - Easy. King, Barker, the late great James Herbert, Ramsey Campbell, Graham Masterton, Robert R. McCammon and my fellow Midlander, Guy N. Smith. These are the guys I’ve spent my hard earned pennies on since forever and these are the guys that I owe an enormous amount of gratitude to. If any of you are reading this, thank you, fellas.

As for writers I don’t get, I’ll have to venture out of horror. As you might have guessed, I’m an avid reader, not just in horror but most genres. I like to consider myself a well-read kind of guy so I dabble in as many different forms. Unfortunately, that curiosity lead me to Arundhati Roy’s The God of Small Things, and I’ll be brutally honest, I hated it. In the interests of balance, I tried some of her other books. Hated them too. From what I’ve seen of her in interviews, I don’t particularly like her as a person either. She comes across as really smug and patronising. If you’re reading this Arundhati…..let’s just leave it at that.


CoaR - What’s the most difficult part of writing for you?

JGC - Starting something new. After all the planning’s been done, the idea’s firmly in place and it’s just me, a blank document and a flashing cursor, that’s the scariest loneliest time to be a writer. I agonise more over the first sentence than I do over the rest of the piece. It’s not enjoyable, at all.




CoaR - What would your ultimate wish be with your writing?

JGC - Putting it bluntly, the wish is to be big, massive, huge. I’m not embarrassed to say it and I won’t apologise for it either. That’s what I want. It’s got to be done in the right way though, with a bit of honour and integrity. I won’t screw over, belittle or over-criticise other writers just to get ahead. That’s not me at all. By the same token, I won’t be a suck up to anyone just to get ahead because it’s not the right thing to do.

If I can get to where I want to be without belittling, hurting or screwing over any of my fellow authors, then I’ll be happy.


CoaR - What do you like to do when you’re not writing?

JGC - Drinking beer, smoking cigarettes, reading lots, watching Doctor Who and horror films and listening to the Stone Roses and Oasis haha.

In all seriousness, I do a fair bit when I’m not being Clay. I like to spend time with my family and friends, although that time’s a little limited at the minute, due to the amount of time I put into the writing and because I have a huge family.

Being a funky kind of guy, I’m also a bass player, entirely self-taught. I can’t read music, I can almost decipher bass tablature but a lot of it has come from listening to a tune, picking out the bass part and giving it a go. I’m fairly decent at rhythm guitar as well but not lead. Ideally, I’ve always wanted to play the drums but my parents nixed that idea pretty early on and I’m pretty sure that my wife and stepdaughter aren’t mad on the idea, so I’ll be sticking with the guitars for the foreseeable future.

Whenever I can, I go to the football (that’s soccer to you American folks) but considering the way my team, Birmingham City, are playing at the minute, it’s a rare occasion.

And that’s it. I’m a staggeringly ordinary guy beyond the author thing.




Well, unfortunately, that is it for Part One of the interview. Remember to come back tomorrow night for Part Two when Mr Clay will tell you all about his new book and he will confess all!

And remember to tell your friends!


J.G Clay is definitely a Man of Horror. There can be no doubt. Putting aside the reverence he has for the horror greats, such as King, Barker, Herbert, Carpenter, Romero and Argento, there is another fact that defines his claim for the title of the 'Duke of Spook'. He was born on Halloween night. By a quirk fate, it was also a full moon that night. Co-incidence?

Here at Clay Towers, we don't believe in coincidences.

The 41-year-old hails from the Midlands in the United Kingdom, is married with one step child and two dogs that bear a strong resemblance to Ewoks. Beyond the page and the written word, he is music mad and can hold down a tune on a bass guitar pretty well. He is an avid reader and also has an enduring love of British sci-fi, from the pages of the '2000A.D' comic to the televised wanderings of Gallifrey's most famous physician. Clay is also a long-time fan of the mighty Birmingham City Football Club and endures a lot of flak from his friends for it.

And for more about J.G. visit his site, or find him on social media:

Website – Facebook – Twitter - Goodreads – Amazon Page

GUEST POST: Confessions of my Past, Present and Future #45 - J.G. Clay


Confessions of my Past, Present and Future


by


J.G. Clay



The Testimony of Clay


Confession is a heavy word, isn’t it? It invokes police interviews, courtroom dramas and, for the religious amongst you, unburdening weekly sins to a virtual stranger through a wooden lattice. Well, you won’t be getting any of those shenanigans here, my friends. As per Mr Murray’s invite, we’re talking books; shiny new books, books battered by age and constant reading, books that haven’t even seen the light of day. So, enough preamble. Grab yourself a cup of tea, a glass of beer or a bottle of methylated spirits (if that’s your poison). We’re off on a little tour.

First stop, the Eighties, a decade replete with bright fashion, not so bright wallpaper and grim politics. It’s not one of my favourite decades. I remember it as a dismal foggy time, punctuated by football hooligans going absolutely mental on the terraces and streets, the skinheads of the British Movement and the National Front terrorising the UK immigrant population and the ‘yuppies’ being the proto-corporatists dickwads that they’d always been. Aside from a few bands doing the business, there were few saving graces to that decade, at least the first half of it anyway. Then I discovered a love that would stay with me for the rest of my days. Horror came gambolling into my life and the little bastard hasn’t left since. Here’s what happened:





The Past


The Eighties: Into The Valley


I have to say before starting off, that I won’t be banging on about Salem’s Lot by Stephen King. I’ve written a lot about that particular book. I’m a bit bored of talking about it now. As much as I love Lot, I can’t face writing another word about it. Instead, I’ve searched through the memory banks, sifted through years of rubbish and come up with THE book that started me down the ‘Dark Path’.
I’m surprised that I’d forgotten about it, but then it was a long time ago.

I can’t remember exactly what age I was when I discovered this little gem, in all its hideous ‘reptilian monster on the cover’ glory, but I remember being bowled away by it. And I found it in my Junior School library of all places! This is the Eighties we’re in now, folks. None of that ‘safe-space, trigger warning’ bollocks so prevalent, these days. We were a hardier bunch back then. Another selling point of this book (for a nerd like me that is), was the title. I remember finding this book next to the Target novelisation of Doctor Who: Destiny of The Daleks and, looking back, it makes perfect sense. The book in question was the mighty Jon Pertwee Book of Monsters.

Yes, Doctor Who himself endorsed this book, as well as writing the introduction plus little intros for all of the short stories within (constantly referencing his good friend, The Doctor). What more could a Doctor Who loving, 2000AD reading shy stammering kid ask for?

The monsters of the title were an eclectic and frightening bunch. Pertwee (and the writers) gave us carnivorous monster cacti that hunted by vibration, a legendary worm terrorising 16th Century Durham, frogspawn that killed with electric shocks, alien eyes hypnotising the nation, a bizarre transparent slug like creature that digested all in its path, even a baby dragon called Ming who had a nice line in incinerating bullies. This book terrified and grossed me out, in equal measure.

There’s a sequence in the story Night of the Sand Wolf that had me sleeping with the light on for a few weeks. The protagonist, an escaped convict, bedding down for the night in an odd house with an even odder owner, is awoken by a strange gelid noise. Switching the light on, he finds that the walls no longer have wallpaper; they are now a quivering pink mass, oozing caustic yellow liquid. To add to the poor guy’s trauma, the room is shrinking rapidly, the ooze is flowing freely and the walls are slobbering. I can’t remember how Mr Convict escaped, but the revelation at the end (his host lives inside a giant carnivorous cactus and his room was trying to digest him), thrilled a little version of me as well as planting a gelid oozing seed in my impressionable mind.

Likewise, the image of the ‘Glendale Monster’ wrapping pseudopods around its victims and dragging them into its transparent body, its victim’s death agonies apparent for all to see, induced repulsion and fascination in equal measure. As if all this goriness wasn’t enough, the book even had lovingly rendered drawings of key passages contained within. The one for the Night of the Sand Wolf is excruciating in its detail; a screaming man being impaled on a giant cactus, it’s thorns ripping through his prone body. How my school librarian (a very stern and bookish woman) let this book through, I’ll never know? I’m eternally grateful to her for this little gem, however. 

Sadly, Jon Pertwee’s Book of Monsters is no longer available. I had a look whilst writing this. Nada, nish, no show. It’s gone, perhaps forever, lost in the mists of antiquity and Eighties school libraries. Maybe, one day, I’ll get lucky and unearth a copy. Until then, I’ll have to rely on the memories of a boy trying to sleep with one eye open, convinced that his room is going eat him.






The Present


There We Were, Now Here We Are


It’s a good time for the Horror genre; so many authors, so many books. Amazon’s control quality notwithstanding, there’s so much to choose from. So much that I’m only going to drop a few names (otherwise we’ll be here for at least a year. I’d love to stick around but I’ve got books to write myself and a bedroom to check before sleeping. There’s still an echo of that whole ‘room trying to eat me’ thing going on. Anyway, back to the Here and Now.

The old Masters (King, Masterton, Campbell, Barker) are still kicking about, releasing great new material. And yes, I WILL include The Scarlet Gospels by Clive Barker in that catch all phrase. I think it’s a good book. Not a great book, not the one I was expecting but still a cracking read. My opinion, my article. Then we have the Young Turks of the mid to late 80’s/90’s, your Ray Gartons, your Edward Lees (totally sick bastard, that one).  Flash forward to now and the names Burke, Ralston, Hickman, Lennon, Keane and Sowder pop up (not just in the list but also on my shelves and Kindle).

I’m going to hone in one dude whose work has pretty much gripped me from the off: Mr Kealan Patrick-Burke. I love his work. From the twisted psycho bastard inbreds of Kinto the saga of Timothy Quinn, Burke displays a deft touch with characters that, as a reader has me shaking my head in wonder and, as an author, has me shaking my head in jealousy. He knows how to portray the downtrodden and courageous nature as well as the pure evil of human beings. It’s the characters that make his fiction. Without them, the plots would fall flat. I’ve read a lot of his work, but Kin sticks out in my mind. Maybe it’s because that was the first book of his that I read. Maybe it’s that first scene with a grievously wounded girl -blood-soaked and battered with a mutilated eye -that did it. Either way, it’s a seriously tense piece of work that bowls along at a maniac pace, gleefully slinging blood, gore and backwoods lunatics about with abandon.

No sequel yet though. Kealan, if you’re reading this, get a shuffle on and get a sequel out. This horror writer needs to know what happened next. Speaking of what happens next, hang onto your hats:






The Future


Drinking Beer and Creating Fear


The future: vast, unknowable, a little dark. Much like my adopted hometown on a Friday night but with less vomit and discarded kebabs. Thinking about the far future isn’t a trait I’m known for. Forward planning only stretches out to next week. Some questions need to be asked apparently. What will I be writing? Will I EVEN be writing? Will my reading tastes change? My answers?

I think I’ll always read and write horror. It’s been a part of my life for so long so far that to abandon it would be like changing my football team (an unforgivable sin). As far as the writing goes, I’ll probably still be peddling the same phantasmagorical horror/sci-fi/cosmic mash up that I’ve started off with. There’s something about writing ‘not so straight forward’ tales of terror that appeals to me. I’d also like to think that I’ll have my shot of my favourite TV show in the future. I’m not going to name it. I’ve mentioned it a few times now. If you don’t know what that is, you’d better scroll back and re-read. Maybe I’d ditch the horror element for that particular gig, knowing what a bunch of colossal wusses the BBC are.

Whatever happens, I’ll always be writing and reading. It’s my thing. J.G. Clay without those two activities ceases to exist, on all counts. No reading equals no inspiration. No inspiration equals no writing. And no writing equals no J.G.

After all, I’m only a pen name.

You see, I don’t really exist.






You can buy Tales of Blood and Sulphur here:

Amazon US

Amazon UK


If you would like to help support Confessions of a Reviewer, then please consider using the links below to buy any of the books mentioned in this feature. This not only supports me but also lets me know how many people actually like to buy books after reading Confessions.

Thanks.

Amazon US

Amazon UK


J.G Clay is definitely a Man of Horror. There can be no doubt. Putting aside the reverence he has for the horror greats, such as King, Barker, Herbert, Carpenter, Romero and Argento, there is another fact that defines his claim for the title of the 'Duke of Spook'. He was born on Halloween night. By a quirk fate, it was also a full moon that night. Co-incidence?

Here at Clay Towers, we don't believe in coincidences.

The 41-year-old hails from the Midlands in the United Kingdom, is married with one step child and two dogs that bear a strong resemblance to Ewoks. Beyond the page and the written word, he is music mad and can hold down a tune on a bass guitar pretty well. He is an avid reader and also has an enduring love of British sci-fi, from the pages of the '2000A.D' comic to the televised wanderings of Gallifrey's most famous physician. Clay is also a long-time fan of the mighty Birmingham City Football Club and endures a lot of flak from his friends for it.

And for more about J.G. visit his site, or find him on social media:

Website – Facebook – Twitter - Goodreads – Amazon Page

Holy Crap!

My wife and I made a run for Northfield on Friday in the pickup because we were planning on blowing a boatload of money on trees at Knecht’s Nursery. About five miles east of Northfield on Highway 19, a westbound pickup was turning right into a farm house driveway. A nutjob on a big cruiser pulling a trailer was tailgating the pickup and, apparently, didn’t see the turn signal or notice the pickup was slowing for the turn. We were about 100 yards behind a delivery truck in the eastbound lane.

The biker nutjob decided to split the space between the pickup in front of him and the delivery truck, with a foot of space on either side. I shit you not, the idiot was dragging his fucking FEET to slow down while he slithered between the two vehicles! He had to have been going at least 60 mph and didn’t make the slightest effort to even roll off the throttle. I know because we could hear his POS exhaust going full bore when he past us.

Motorcycle Head Count

Sometimes I like to generate my own statistics, just to see of the published data bears any resemblence to actual highway experience. This afternoon, I rode from Red Wing to Rosemount and back, mostly because I screwed up and didn’t see the email yesterday rescheduling the MMSC coaches’ night at DCTC to next week. Oh well. While I’m riding my overly nimble WR250X on relatively boring county and state roads, I like to count the number of cars between motorcycles. Today, the sequence went like this:

  • 125 (Red Wing to Hastings, where I spotted the first motorcycle of the day)
  • 800+ (Hastings to Aldis in Rosemount where I stopped and quit counting before buying groceries)
  • 146 (post-grocery shopping in Rosemount, a commuter)
  • 78 (between Rosemount and Hastings, another commuter)
  • 366 (a parked motorcycle at the Hastings dairy)
  • 571 (all the way home from Hastings to Red Wing, not a single bike on the road)

When I’m doing my numbers, I don’t count groups of motorcycles as anything more than one rider. If it’s a pack of slow-moving pirates, I don’t count them at all. That kind of riding is just conspicuous consumption and has nothing to do with transportation. However, on this trip I didn’t even see a pirate parade around Treasure Island. I suspect most of the biker crowd have put up their chrome toys for the season.

Let’s add ‘em up, four motorcycles over 2086 cages or about 0.2% of highway traffic on a perfect motorcycle day in September at and around rush hour. That is one seriously dismal statistic. It absolutely justifies my estimate (from Craig’s List motorcycle want ads) that the average motorcycle is ridden barely 1,000 miles per year.

Now, let’s look at last year’s crash stats. There were 61 motorcyclists killed in Minnesota last year and, oddly, 67 people were also killed in pickup crashes. Combining two types of cages, SUVs and vans, a total of 41 people died in those vehicles’ crashes. So, if you believe there is any legitimate comparison to be made between the miles travelled by pickups or SUVs and vans and motorcycles, I’m all ears. Make me laugh.

On my mid-summer’s trip to Colorado, I went into overload on a couple of long stretches where the count was in the several thousand vehicles per motorcycle. Around Ft. Collins, the stats were more encouraging, but a couple dozen miles west into the mountains and, once the racer boyz were on their way back to the dorm, motorcycles vanished and I didn’t see another bike until Steamboat.

We’re a vanishing breed folks.

CONFESSIONS IS BACK WITH A BANG!!

Well, after a well-earned (I think) rest, Confessions is going to be coming back at you next week. Instead of working you in gently, we are coming at you with a week full of interviews, reviews and guest posts. In other words, a normal week for Confessions!

We will be kicking off our Autumn collection with J.G. Clay week next week.




Who, I hear you ask? Well you know what? A couple of months ago I would have asked the same question. After reading his book which is going to feature next week, Tales of Blood and Sulphur, I am making it my mission in life to get this man’s name on more people’s tongues.




This book is an absolute gem and deserves to be on everybody’s shelf and hopefully after next week, you will agree.

It all kicks off on Sunday with his Past, Present and Future confession. Monday and Tuesday will see parts One and Two of an in-depth interview with the man himself. Wednesday night is the review and Thursday is me showing off the latest parcel to drop through my door and give you an idea of what to expect when you buy!

Make sure you all come back next week, and don’t forget to tell your friends!

Thanks again for visiting Confessions of a Reviewer.

Nev.


J.G Clay is definitely a Man of Horror. There can be no doubt. Putting aside the reverence he has for the horror greats, such as King, Barker, Herbert, Carpenter, Romero and Argento, there is another fact that defines his claim for the title of the 'Duke of Spook'. He was born on Halloween night. By a quirk fate, it was also a full moon that night. Co-incidence?

Here at Clay Towers, we don't believe in coincidences.

The 41-year-old hails from the Midlands in the United Kingdom, is married with one step child and two dogs that bear a strong resemblance to Ewoks. Beyond the page and the written word, he is music mad and can hold down a tune on a bass guitar pretty well. He is an avid reader and also has an enduring love of British sci-fi, from the pages of the '2000A.D' comic to the televised wanderings of Gallifrey's most famous physician. Clay is also a long-time fan of the mighty Birmingham City Football Club and endures a lot of flak from his friends for it.

And for more about J.G. visit his site, or find him on social media:


Big Leaps vs. the Status Quo

For about 40 years, I had at least some of my fingers into some area of mid-to-high-tech every day. When I moved from engineering into academia, I was pretty much down to one finger on the edge of what was going on in technology. Retirement put an end to that connection in any practical sense. One of the few ways I have left to stay in touch with what is going on in the tech world is my subscription to “Design News.” This month, Design News had a few articles that should be interesting to a motorcyclist.

In this month’s review of the magazine’s past home gadget builder projects, “Gadget Freak Case #235: Ignition Control Unit for Harley Davidson Panhead Engine” described how one gearhead tried to resolve the problem of getting an old Harley to start reliably. There isn’t much follow-up in the article, so I don’t know (or care) how it all worked out. Reading the story of his analysis and design solution was interesting, though.

In case you are still suffering the delusion that autonomous cars are in the distant future, "Hope or Hype? Big Automakers Look to Autonomous Vehicles" should relieve you of that false hope. You might know how I think autonomous vehicles are going to affect street legal motorcycling, so read it and weep. "Ford president and CEO Mark Fields made it clear that the giant automaker is not settling for half-measures in its effort and is going straight to self-driving cars by 2021. ‘That means there’s going to be no steering wheel. There’s not going to be a gas pedal. There’s not going to be a brake pedal and, of course, a driver is not going to be required,’ he said."

As for the noise, pollution, energy inefficiency of internal combustion engines, "6 Automakers Will Lead the Way to EV Battery Growth" describes how “Six big automakers will carry the electric vehicle (EV) battery market to a five-fold sales increase by 2020, a new study says . . .Tesla, General Motors (GM), Renault-Nissan, Volkswagen, BMW, and BYD will account for 90% of the electric car battery sales during those five years, mostly on the strength of bigger battery packs.” By “bigger” the article is not talking about physicial size, later this year Chevy will be hyping a “60-kWh battery in the all-electric Chevy Bolt.” The number of electric cars on the road is going to change, too. Tesla is planning for “annual sales of 500,000 of the affordable Model 3 vehicles by 2018.” There is some debate over how much of the cage market electric vehicles will be in the next few years, but I think the end of the Age of Oil is in sight and if I were a younger motorcyclist I’d be really interested in how that will play out on two wheels.