Category: Blog

I feel like my reading has been disorganised in February. I started a new job. There’s a lot to process but I feel happy there. As my dad said on the phone the other week, it’s been a whirlpool. I thought I would finish the first volume of Peter Guralnick’s Elvis biography Last Train to Memphis this month, but I didn’t. I have read the first two stages of Pip’s expectations in Great Expectations. The start of March might feel like a bit of a hangover. But, bottom line, I read some amazing stuff this month, and I would like to enthuse about it in my slapdash way.

Ghost Signs: Poverty and the Pandemic by Stu Hennigan (2022)

A few days before my flight to China, we were in lockdown for the first time. I was going to teach English as a foreign language in Nanjing. In the weeks leading up to my leaving, I was dismissive towards my girlfriend. Her argument was that my being on a different continent would change our relationship. I was too busy biting my nails. It was such a relief to stay. I was lucky during the lockdowns. I lived with my parents. I did a bit of online teaching, the sort of teaching I might have done in Nanjing, but the lessons were so infrequent. After the last lockdown, I didn’t think about it at all, and the more I think about it now, the more I realise that this forgetting about COVID was a decision. Ghost Signs by Stu Hennigan is a vital reminder. It is Stu’s true account of his time delivering food parcels for Leeds City Council. Before each section, there is a summary of the week in news. And it just makes you remember how insidious Boris Johnson and his cronies were (are). Ghost Signs reminds us how the political is always personal. Stu’s descriptions of the VE Celebrations during the pandemic are particularly good. It reminded me of one of the early chapters from Rule, Nostalgia: A Backwards History of Britain by Hannah Rose. But Stu’s insight, while as sharp, is laced with brilliant invective. From p.98 of Ghost Signs: “It’s supremely ironic that the generation we are told we’re meant to be celebrating are now either isolated at home or stuck in care homes, and until about a week ago the Government weren’t even counting their deaths. It’s ironic that the zealots who are enthusing about VE Day are oblivious to the fact that their own views are heading well in the direction of fascism.” Ghost Signs also reminded me of Ashes to Admin: Tales from the Caseload of a Council Funeral Officer by Evie King, another brilliant account of council work. In March, I’m hoping to read Stu’s new novel Keshed, which has been getting knockout reviews.

The Weird and the Eerie by Mark Fisher (2016)

In a weird (not by Fisher’s definition but still) coincidence, Stu quotes from Capitalist Realism: Is There No Alternative? by Mark Fisher in Ghost Signs. I read Capitalist Realism last year and found it informative and instructive. I have been listening to Mark Fisher for years now: there is a wealth of lectures on YouTube. His thinking seems to have permeated the work of people I really admire, like Stu Hennigan and also Robin Allender, who brought up Fisher’s definition of the weird and the eerie on a recent episode of The Allender Calendar with Ben Pester. I really enjoyed this book, particularly the chapters on The Fall and Christopher Nolan’s Interstellar. Fisher remains influential and his writing continues to capture the current mood. This book (along with To Rise in the Dark by Nick J Brown) was my proper introduction to Mark E Smith: no bad thing.

Experience by Martin Amis (2000)

I found Experience completely overwhelming. On p.317, I broke into tears and dropped the book onto the floor. It landed with a definitive thud. It was a strange, singular moment. I haven’t been moved like that for a long time. “And I hugged him again.” That’s what did it for me. I hugged him again. Fucking good book, as young Martin Amis might have said.

Helen of Nowhere by Makenna Goodman (2025)

I bought this novel in a spur of the moment after seeing Jonathan Gibbs’ mini-review on Bluesky. His currently reading thread is excellent, if you’re not already following him. I read Helen of Nowhere over one evening, home alone. By the end of the book I felt sort of spaced out, and I look forward to approaching it again at a slower pace. I liked the boldness of its middle section, as Goodman takes us deeper into the witching hour. It’s barking mad.

Strong Female Character by Fern Brady (2023)

I would love to read a novel by Fern Brady. Her writing is so rich, and her characters are right there in the room. But this is her life, not a novel. It’s her account of being diagnosed with autism as an adult with a focus on what it means to be diagnosed as a woman with autism. She is told early in the book that she can’t be autistic because she has a boyfriend and is able to hold eye contact. We then go back to the beginning, as it were, and follow Fern from childhood to starting stand up in her twenties. It’s such a strong piece of work. It’s particularly powerful on parents. I felt a strange echo after just finishing Experience by Martin Amis. If Amis’ book is about his dad, Brady’s book is about her mum – that’s how she finds her ending. It’s a brilliantly told story and I really hope there’s another Fern Brady book in the works.

Watchmen by Alan Moore & Dave Gibbons (1987)

I read Watchmen when I was in college and hated it. I hated its ending – stupid – and I, in my infinite wisdom, labelled it too pretentious, nay portentous, for its own good. But really, despite all its splatter and skimp, this is not a book for teenagers. And in a way, it’s probably easier to sniff at Watchmen than appreciate it for what it is. Like From Hell, Watchmen is a meditation on the 20th Century. From Hell is a more sophisticated and in my opinion better overall book, but there is a certain verve to Watchmen that makes it irresistible. I am so pleased I decided to go back to it. When I first read it, I doubt I even knew America lost in Vietnam, that Nixon was not in fact president in 1985, or the significance of the nomenclature Dr Manhattan. And the ending is fantastic, and like From Hell and V For Vendetta at once apocalyptic and feverishly optimistic.

She’s Always Hungry by Eliza Clark (2024)

I love Eliza Clark’s work for lots of reasons, but the main reason is my partner (the girlfriend mentioned above – now fiancée) loves her work too. This was our book club book. That’s something to cherish. If you haven’t read Eliza Clark’s novel Penance, read it. Despite the occasional clumsiness of its framing device, Penance has something to say about how young people live now, and it says it in a thoroughly entertaining way. She’s Always Hungry is a collection of short stories released in 2024, after Penance. My favourite stories are ‘Goth GF’ (particularly funny line about the narrator wanking himself to death), ‘The Shadow Over Little Chitaly’, and ‘The King’. I have read the collection twice through now. I don’t think I’ll come back to it again. I am excited to read Clark’s new novel. My hunch is it’ll be SF (I have always said sci-fi, but I read somewhere recently that the correct term is SF). I think Eliza Clark’s next novel will take us into the future.

Great Expectations by Charles Dickens (1861)

I haven’t finished Great Expectations yet, I am two thirds of the way through. I might finish it before the end of this month, but maybe not. There is no rush. Dickens isn’t going anywhere. Great Expectations is my current bus book. I.e. the bus I’m reading on the book. Wait, other way round. I’m enjoying making my way through the book in small chunks like this. And I’m sure you don’t need me telling you, but it’s fucking great, man. We’re adopting two cats soon and I’m erring on the side of Estella. What always knocks me out about Dickens is the surprising slow burn. I have just reached the moment when Pip receives a missive telling him that his sister, who brought him up by hand, has died. It was an absolute gut punch. How does Dickens achieve this? Or is it the reader – do we not give ourselves enough credit? What I know now is, I could spend another month in Pip’s world. I could spend the rest of 2026 waiting outside Miss Havisham’s room. I’m in no rush.

Flesh by David Szalay (2025)

I enjoyed Flesh, but I often felt I had nothing to hang on to, that what I was reading was not registering in my imagination. Perhaps I wasn’t bringing enough to it. Things I liked: the opening section with teenage István. I liked everything with Mervyn and was surprised when he exited so swiftly. Ultimately, it felt flat to me. But that is partly the point. Booker winning examination of the male psyche told in ‘stark’ prose. It’s not Szalay’s fault it won the Booker. It’s unfair to even bring that into the equation when thinking about how you liked the novel. But there you go. Szalay makes a strange decision at the midpoint of straying from István’s close third-person narration. This shift lasts for a few chapters. That decision felt uncharacteristically sloppy. I enjoyed large parts of Flesh. It goes down very easily. I now feel (and this is could be an appropriate response) neutral about it.

Pulp’s This is Hardcore by Jane Savidge (2024)

This was a very fun read. I thought it was particularly interesting on the Jarvis ‘mooning’ Michael Jackson debacle. Debacle might be too pejorative. Without that spur of the moment at the Brits, Savidge argues, Pulp’s next album would have been very different. Instead of Different Class 2.0, they finally made This is Hardcore. Savidge’s perspective on the end of Britpop is fascinating. It’s punchy, it’s opinionated, and I enjoyed learning more about one of my favourite albums.

Sweet Home by Wendy Erskine (2018)

There’s a cafe on the way into town called the Fellowship Cafe, attached to a church. I walked past last Saturday and was stopped by the smell of a Full English. There are worse things to be stopped by. I was immediately reminded of ‘The Last Supper’ by Wendy Erskine, one of the best stories from Sweet Home. It’s the careful building up of details in these stories; the way we’re drawn into these bedrooms, classrooms, cafes, parks. My favourite story is ‘Observation’. I listened to a podcast with Wendy Erskine recently, hosted by songwriter Neil Brogan. I was struck by the discussion on time in her stories. We often start in the middle then splinter off into past and present. ‘Observation’ is more traditional time-wise, and is cleverly bookended, but we see some of that splintering. I felt so involved with its four central characters, I think because Erskine is able to create personal histories in very few words. We are what we think, and we rarely think in the present.

The Marriage Portrait by Maggie O’Farrell (2022)

This book will always be special to me, because it was the first book chosen for our very exclusive two-person book club. The Marriage Portrait was my partner’s pick. She read Hamnet a couple of years ago, and while she had her reservations, I think she loved it overall. She was less enamoured by The Marriage Portrait, and I felt the same. To me, it felt quite thin. I found myself wondering why it was that many pages (432), which is never a good sign. However, there were moments of brilliance. Lucrezia and the tiger: strong stuff. In fact, I was totally with the novel up until the marriage, which is just about the halfway point. The ending did not work for me at all. Because we were reading this for our book club, I did make some notes, which I have included below.

Confessions by Catherine Airey (2025)

Confessions was a real tonic on January mornings. It took me five days to read, which is unusually speedy for me. As a debut novel, it’s wildly ambitious, and while I don’t think it all comes together at the end, there were sections which were absolutely superb. In particular, the opening section which follows teenage Coraline from the murder of her father during 9/11 to the day she leaves to live with her aunt in Ireland. The section which follows Coraline’s mother, Máire, during her time in New York in the 1980s was the other highlight. The Thanksgiving sequence was especially good. It all gets a bit tangled towards the end, and although that’s partly the point (and the use of different prose forms is impressive), I found myself having to think hard about where we were and what had happened up to that point. But, in conclusion: this is a blockbuster novel, really fun, with a fine engine. I’m excited to see what Catherine Airey does next.

Reality, and Other Stories by John Lanchester (2020)

This was the definition of a hit and miss collection for me. There were three standout stories: ‘Signal’, ‘We Happy Few’, and ‘Cold Call’. ‘Signal’ features some excellent examples of hyperbole, which genuinely make me LOL, e.g.: “The driveway of Michael’s big house was so long that even after we got there it took a while to get there.” The story’s twist is so predictable as not to be a twist, but that goes for ‘Cold Call’ too, which I liked for its family drama as much as its chilling denouement. ‘We Happy Few’ is heavy on the dialogue, but it’s good dialogue, and it zips along very effectively. I was impressed by Lanchester’s use of dialogue throughout, really. I picked this up from the library, and while I enjoyed it, it’s not a collection I feel I need to own, necessarily.

Britain’s Motorways by Mark Chatterton (2022)

I asked on Bluesky if anyone could point me in the direction of books about Britain’s motorways, and someone suggested this. It’s great. One interesting fact, which you probably already know: the M6 Toll is made from pulped paperbacks. I was also struck by the description of the M1 closing for Diana’s funeral. There are other interesting motorway stories in this book, but I think I’ll save them. One of the reasons I wanted to read this book is because I want to write about the motorway. I would suggest picking this up if you’re also interested in the subject. If anyone knows of any fiction on the motorway, give me a shout.

Last Train to Memphis: The Rise of Elvis Presley by Peter Guralnick (1994)

This book is magic. I am about halfway through with it. The first LP is in the works. Elvis is a star but he’s about to become something more. Guralnick is careful with his foreshadowing. It’s a very carefully structured book, but the writing is bold when it needs to be. I read a biography of Elvis a few years ago by Albert Goldman, which was quite anti-Elvis, quite mean spirited. Guralnick doesn’t show his cards in that way. His biography is better described as a history, really. Here are two quotes from the book which have stuck with me. This is the Elvis dichotomy. Lee Denson (taught Elvis his first guitar chords): “The difference between me and him was I went for it… And he fell into the shithole and came up with the gold watch and chain.” Roy Orbison: “His energy was incredible, his instinct was just amazing… Actually it affected me exactly the same way as when I first saw that David Lynch film (Blue Velvet). I just didn’t know what to make of it. There was just no reference point in the culture to compare it.” Of course, both statements ring true.

AOB

Thanks for reading this January round-up. I’d love to know what you’ve been reading. Feel free to comment below. You can find me on Bluesky, too. I’m posting this a week before the end of January, but that feels right to me. I think for the rest of this month, I’ll be reading more of Last Train to Memphis, although I imagine I’ll take that into February. I want to catch up on some short stories next week, too, because I feel like I miss a lot of work published online – something I want to change in 2026. I have published two stories on this blog since the start of the year: ‘Numb Beyond Her Last of Sense’ and ‘The Eligibility of Different Homes and the Households that Occupy Them’. If you want to check them out, I’d really appreciate it. Keep on trucking, all.

It is that time of year. It’s cold. But there’s lots to be excited about. Next year will be my last year as an unmarried man. I’ve already met and proposed to my future wife, this isn’t just wishful thinking. Although I suppose it was. I have also read books this year which I will remember for a long time. These are my ten favourite reads from July to now. My January to June post is here. I hope everyone has a good rest this December, and I look forward to seeing your ‘best of’ lists.

Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro (2005)

I read this quite soon after The Unconsoled by the same author. I think that book changed my brain chemistry. Never Let Me Go is more conventional, but the way Ishiguro reveals his world is so idiosyncratic and engaging. It has more in common with The Remains of the Day than I expected. Same story, different skin. I look forward to reading Kathy H. again, I won’t forget her easily.

Eastmouth and Other Stories by Alison Moore (2022)

I have strong memories of reading this collection in a shelter looking at the gap between Lytham and Southport, on my lunch break. There are too many favourite stories to list. But this was a collection that felt tailor made for my tastes. I can see myself going back to it for inspiration and motivation.

Little Scratch by Rebecca Watson (2020)

I read this novel after listening to an interview with Rebecca Watson on Robin Allender’s podcast, The Allender Calendar. They discuss if the novel is in fact experimental. Maybe it’s not. Either way, it’s a brilliant read in which the ‘experimental’ element (sentences run concurrently on the page, often to mirror the ‘real’ action against the thoughts of the narrator) feels absolutely necessary.

Poor Ghost by Gabriel Flynn (2025)

I read this book in Pendle on a weekend away. I love the way Flynn weaves the two narratives together. When a novel is constructed like this, I’m usually waiting to get back to the more interesting half. But I was just as interested in Luca’s ups and downs (mostly downs) in America, as I was in his return to Manchester. Andy is such a finely written character and the dynamic between him and his ghost writer Luca is brilliantly realised.

Dark Tales by Shirley Jackson (2016)

I think I resisted Shirley Jackson for a long time because I was scared her work would not live up to its reputation, but the work is totally peerless. The writing is so clear, and the ideas so immediate. I will be looking out for more of her work next year (very, very late to the party). My favourite stories from this collection were ‘Louisa, Please Come Home’, ‘Jack the Ripper’, and ‘The Bus’.

Cold Hand in Mine by Robert Aickman (1975)

Again, a writer I had been putting off for a while. And again, these stories are now burned into me. They are on the longer side, but they never feel too long. Not every writer can pull that off. Some short stories drag more heavily than novels. I think Aickman is a genius. It’s the double of ‘Pages from a Young Girl’s Journal’ and ‘The Hospice’ that sold me when I was reading Cold Hand in Mine. There’s real power here. There’s magic.

Municipal Gothic: Thirteen Ghost Stories by Ray Newman (2022)

A fantastic collection by Ray Newman which I read over Halloween. I was struck by the sheer variety of stories. We’re in the world of hauntings. But the hauntings are so various and the styles so numerous that it’s never dull. If I had to pick a story, it would be ‘Director’s Cut’, or possibly ‘Who Took Mary Cook?’. But then there’s the first story, ‘The Curse Follows the Seed’, which reminded me of the best episodes of Inside Number 9.

The Proof of My Innocence by Jonathan Coe (2024)

This was my first Jonathan Coe. I wanted to see a take on cosy crime after sitting through the Thursday Murder Club film on Netflix, which was (in my humble opinion) shite. While this novel delivers on that front, it turns into something else, and then into something else again. Inventive and very readable. Also, it’s one of the few books this year that I read with my partner. I read it first. As a fan of Friends, she got something else out of it. It’s nice when that happens. (Addendum: I don’t mean to come across as anti-cosy. I don’t think you should dismiss books outright based on genre. If a book is good, it’s good. I’m currently reading The Christmas Clue by Nicola Upson, almost the definition of cosy crime, and I’m loving it.)

The Building Inspector by Myriam Frey (2025)

A collection of short stories from Nightjar Press. I hope the first of many, because this is an excellent book by Myriam Frey. I read it in one sitting, in the dead of night (basically by candlelight). Scary, sharp stories. Instead of being weighed down by the ongoing story of the inspector, the collection lives by its central character. At once terrifying, infuriating, and all too real. Pick this up.

Best British Short Stories 2025 ed. Nicholas Royle (2025)

I finished the latest Best British from Salt last week. I think it’s the best one I’ve read so far. I said in my little read-by-read on Bluesky that Ian Critchley’s ‘Ghost Walks’ was my favourite in the anthology, and I’ll stand by that. I think it’s the most fun I’ve had with a story all year. Other highlights for me include ‘The Headteacher’ by Okechukwu Nzelu, ‘Fabrication’ by Imogen Reid, and ‘Flatten the Curve’ by Naomi Wood. But there’s not a dud in this book.

In 2023, I set myself the challenge of reading a hundred books in one year. In no way did reading a hundred books in 2023 make me feel more at ease with the passage of time, but it is something I have kept up. I don’t think it’s necessarily a useful, healthy, or admirable thing to do. I might make 2025 my last year of aiming for the arbitrary hundred. In the meantime, these are my favourite reads from January to the end of June.

Porn: An Oral History by Polly Barton (2023)

I was completely taken in by the formalism, and then it was fascinating to read a series of conversations about the unspoken, and like the best books, I was thinking about Porn when I wasn’t reading it.

The Mystery of Edwin Drood by Charles Dickens (1870)

I have an app on my phone for tracking the books I read. Appropriately, the ending to my notes on Drood are missing, and I can’t remember what I was going to say, or had said in January.

The Coiled Serpent by Camilla Grudova (2021)

Each story its own brilliant piece of invective. Strange, lurid, scatological. Balls to the wall weird. Written clearly and with intent.

Soldier Sailor by Claire Kilroy (2023)

It took me a while to get into the rhythm of this novel, but I was fully in by the end. Hard to write about books you love in a brief paragraph, but needless to say, I laughed, I cried, I was sad when it was over.

Ghostland: In Search of a Haunted Country by Edward Parnell (2019)

I wrote another post about reading Ghostland in Whitby, and how it sort of saved my sanity when things got a bit spooky at our hotel. A great book about memory and ghosts – the older I get, the more I think all great books are about memory.

Shadow Lines: Searching for the Book Beyond the Shelf by Nicholas Royle (2024)

I could read Nicholas Royle write the telephone book. Enjoyed this book as much as White Spines, if not a little bit more. A very generous reading experience, which encourages more reading. Eagerly anticipating the next entry in this planned trilogy.

The Earth, Thy Great Exchequer, Ready Lies by Jo Lloyd (2021)

There is a deep sense of mystery in these stories, especially in the title story, which might be my favourite. I found it challenging and rewarding, and it was unlike a lot of collections I’ve read recently. Elliptical, liminal universes.

That’s Your Lot by Limmy (2017)

Limmy’s second collection feels more assured than his first, and I really hope he writes another book, although I am also a fan of his improvised stories on Twitch. There was a story in this book, ‘The Daysnatcher’, which made me cry in public, and that wasn’t something I was necessarily expecting from Limmy.

The Unconsoled by Kazuo Ishiguro (1995)

This novel took over my life for a while. I was happy to let it take over. It is genuinely unlike anything I have read, and it hit me emotionally in ways I didn’t expect. Ishiguro probably is the best writer I’ve read, and I look forward to reading more of his work in 2025. Number nine… number nine… number nine.

The Benefactors by Wendy Erskine (2025)

Wendy Erskine’s debut novel was an absolute pleasure to read. I usually think it’s bullshit when the marketing for a book is like, “This book is devastating, but also very funny,” as if humour is an added bonus. But The Benefactors is laugh out loud funny. It is also a gripping drama. It isn’t bullshit. It’s probably the best novel published so far this year (that I’ve read, obviously). Short story writers do it best.

In February, my partner booked a stay for us in Whitby. In the mornings, we walked the mile into town. On our second morning at the inn, our room door contracted due to the cold, and we couldn’t leave. There was a small casement window, through which we spoke to the maintenance manager. It was a problem door, he explained. Eventually, we got out and then about, but our feelings towards the inn had changed, and at the end of the day I was slightly reluctant to return. We had a new room, because of the problem door. It felt like we weren’t supposed to be there, and possibly that was true.

That night, someone came into our room. I heard the sound of a keycard unlocking the door. My partner leant over the bed. ‘Hello?’ But the figure was leaving, closing the door behind them. In my memory, they left slowly, walking backwards, retracing their steps into the courtyard. The sensor light came on a couple of times, but I saw no one outside. It was two in the morning.

We called the emergency number on the inn’s website. The lady on the other side assured us that if the intruder tried the door again, she was only next door. This added to the strangeness. She was next door. It was somehow less than reassuring. I made a coffee. The silver kettle was awkward. The cord was too short. I spilt a few drops of boiled water onto my wrist. I took the unfamiliar mug back to bed. I sat on top of the covers, trousers on. I started reading Edward Parnell’s Ghostland: In Search of a Haunted Country, which I had bought from the Whitby Bookshop. I was drawn in by Richard Wells’ cover illustration. But then I started reading, and I felt a huge sense of relief. The book was more than good; it was just what I needed. I made another cup of coffee. I was at ease with the kettle. The mug didn’t seem that different to my favourite mug at home. The book had done its job. I felt calmer, despite the Nescafé.

Ghostland is both a memoir and a selective history of the British ghost story, with a particular focus on M.R James, but that description isn’t quite right. The book it reminded me most of was All the Devils Are Here by David Seabrook. It’s a book with ginnels. If you want to get lost in its pages, that’s easy to do. Parnell writes about the power of family, how our immediate family shapes us, even when they’re no longer with us. There is a great sense of loss in Ghostland, but also love; Parnell’s love for his parents and brother, but also his passion for the writers he explores in the text.

I was primed to like Ghostland. (As the kids say, I’m well into this hauntological shit.) But it still had an infectious quality. Since reading, I thought again about the M.R James stories I read last October. I took on the challenge of reading all of his ghost stories. As October dragged on, and Halloween came and went, the challenge became more profound. I was sick of his voice in my ear. Maybe the trick to M.R James and his uncanny stories was to eat them slowly. Shortly after finishing Ghostland, I treated myself to the BFI boxsets of the BBC’s A Ghost Story for Christmas strand. I spaced them out over about six weeks and loved every one, and I wouldn’t have made the effort if it wasn’t for Ghostland.

On the drive home from Whitby, I read more of Ghostland. I fell asleep with the book in my lap, and it dropped into the footwell as my partner accelerated onto the motorway. I had weird dreams about the fens, ghosts, henges, and hooded figures. There is something special about dreaming a book. At home, I finished Ghostland in a couple of days, which is quite speedy for me. I read one long chapter in bed, holding the book up above, straining my arms. I hadn’t done that since I was twelve, working my way through Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier, or various Beatles books. The book has become a part of my personal history. Whenever I think about it, I will remember our stay in Whitby, our intruder in the dead of night.