It’s a difficult task to get a reader immersed in a story, rip it away from them mid-flow, replacing it with a completely different story, set in another period, told in another voice. But Mitchell doesn’t just manage this, he repeats the trick four times, before reversing the process in the second half of the book to bring the stories to their conclusions. The stories are supposed to be linked, but the connections are slight and each story could stand alone, without reference to the others. What keeps the page turning is the spellbinding quality of the prose, and Mitchell’s mastery of language.

It’s not flawless, many of the characters are familiar, almost archetypes. In the first story, a naïve traveller in the mid 19th Century, in the second a straight out of Waugh, inter-war dissolute gentleman, in the third an idealistic journalist in the 1970s, trying to be worthy of her dad. The stories also verge towards cliché at times. The third story goes from excruciating tension to a Hollywood style farrago of coincidence, improbable good fortune and unlikely plot twists. The fourth story, set in contemporary Britain has three principle scenes, each of them over the top. Initially a standard lament at the state of modern society, it progresses to a nightmarish incarceration in a retirement home before a frankly ludicrous (albeit entertaining) denouement.

For all its exaggeration though, the middle section is a very effective evocation of the catch 22 of being detained unfairly when every act to free yourself only confirms to your captors that you do belong there. In Victorian times, it might be a lunatic asylum (for example Sarah Waters’ Fingersmith), now it is a retirement home which has to deal with the problems inherent with a society where people live far longer than they can be assimilated within the wider community.

The fifth and sixth stories are set in the future, one in a technological corpocracy where humans are slaves to the corporations, while themselves enslaving a sentient underclass of fabricants. The scenario is plausible, the central character sympathetic but this was the story I engaged with least. Finally, the last story is set in a post-holocaust situation (Z for Zachary?) where humanity has been largely returned to pre-industrial tribal society and the narrative echoes the history that underpinned the first story.

The flaws in plotting and characterisation are almost entirely absent from Mitchell’s writing, which is frankly brilliant and the main reason for reading this book – and why I’ll be trying to track down his other novels.

Ben Goldacre’s year review.

I read this book on the 12 hour trip back from Edinburgh, and it was the ideal read for that sort of situation. A proper door stop example of the Victorian novel, with a genuinely gripping storyline.

In some ways it represents a Victorian era Sense and Sensibility, with two sisters incarnating those values suddenly plunged out of their position in society and responding in vary different ways. There are some striking parallels in what happens to them subsequently, particularly the younger one, who falls for a handsome but worthless young man before subsequently being nursed from a serious illness by a much older man. I suspect that the similarities were conscious ones, given that the names in No Name echo those in Austen: Norah and Magdalen for Elinor and Marianne.

There are significant differences though. While Elinor and Marianne were merely reduced to genteel poverty, Norah and Magdalen were ostracised completely from polite society. In addition to this, while the Dashwoods largely were forced to await events that would change their situation – a trip to London was the extent of their positive action, Magdalen is far more enterprising and boldly sets out to correct the situation on her own account.

Magdalen’s activities lead to the big difference between the two novels. Sense and Sensibility remains a human drama concerned with relationships and emotions. No Name becomes a thriller, with the brilliantly described battle of wits between Captain Wragge and Mrs Lecount as surrogates for Magdalen and Noah Vanstone as the highpoint.

The two drawbacks to the book are in its ending and its lack of humour. Collins makes plenty of incisive observations on society but hasn’t Austen’s waspish irony and if Mrs Wragge is intended as a comic character she fails in that task utterly, with Captain Wragge’s continued cruelty to her undercutting the authors attempt to humanise him through Magdalen.

As for the ending, from the moment of the marriage the book loses its way. Magdalen’s activities would be shocking even to a modern audience, to a Victorian one they were clearly beyond the pale and the rest of the book makes a desperate and transparent attempt to rescue her moral character, leaving a narrative which is not only implausible in itself, but also offers no explanation for what she did intend on having achieved the change to Noah’s will. Given how carefully thought out her plans had been to that point it seems unlikely she had no thoughts as to what would occur next. That these flaws do little to detract from the overall enjoyment of the novel indicates its significant strengths.

…I’m going with “No” here, I reckon.

Bunty for Girls, Summer Special (1972)

This came free with the Guardian a while back. While I wasn’t imagining a modern feminist progressive perspective, it was a bit shocking to see the expectations for women born only a few years before me.

The cover depicted a girl relaxing in a hammock, reading a book and listening to the radio. Her punishment for this frivolity was a goat sneaking though a hole in her garden fence to scoff her picnic.

The first major story was Tommy the Tomboy featuring a middle-aged battleaxe from the “Feminine Freedom Fighters”. Far from fighting for femininity however, she claimed that they sought equality by bringing up women the same as men. Her daughter, Tommy, who was about 13, was to be so educated as a pioneer of the movement. Tommy (real name Thomasina!) was unenthusiastic but obedient.

The female teacher entrusted with the task started off with the basics of a boy’s education: boxing, marching, shovelling coal and digging ditches. After some progress with this curriculum, Tommy’s mother returned in great agitation with the news that the girl’s great uncle had died and left them his fortune – providing she had brought up in a feminine manner. A solicitor was en route to check Tommy out. They had just enough time to change her out of jeans and into a nice floral dress before he arrived, but the malign influence of her unnatural education had made their mark. Scandalously she gave the solicitor a firm handshake, before offering him a light for his “fag”.

All seemed ruined, until the teacher cleverly released a mouse into the room. All the social conditioning couldn’t prevent Thomasina’s natural female reaction of screaming and jumping onto her chair. The solicitor was reassured that she was what he liked: “an old-fashioned girl who needs masculine protection.” The mother was hugely relieved.

Next up was The Four Marys, about four friends, all called Mary, who were about 15 studying in the St Elmo’s School for Girls. As you’d expect in such an institution they weren’t wasting their time with fancy maths or science classes. No, they were having housecraft lessons, trying to look after a cottage. Suddenly, disaster struck when ghastly snobs Veronica and Mabel were put on their team. These poshos haughtily refused to lower themselves to do any cleaning, which was fit only for char women, or maybe Mary Simpson who was “of the lower classes”. Their bad nature was apparent instantly, as unlike the pretty Marys they were rather unfeminine looking. Mabel looked remarkably like Kenneth Williams, Veronica like a lock forward. They soon went beyond mere indolence and began sabotaging the hard work of the Marys.

But Mary Simpson had a cunning wheeze, getting some kids introduced in the house. This confounded Veronica and Mabel, used to having nannies deal with little brats, but Mary Simpson was able to rely on her working class upbringing that required women to look after children while undertaking household chores. In the end, the Marys won a special treat – a spiffing trip to the Ideal Homes Exhibition!

Nowadays of course children have to be kept indoors because of paedophiles lurking on every corner. In the 1970s, DC Thompson had to find a different way to terrify kids into staying indoors and reading their comics rather than going out and making their own entertainment. A quiz asked the reader to identify “some of the dangers you may encounter [on a] quiet stroll in the country”. As well as the reasonable – wasps, thistles and nettles for instance – the quiz also suggested that you might plausibly be menaced by eagles, wildcats, vipers and jellyfish!

The one positive thing in the comic was that although the heroines were restricted to very traditional occupations, within those limits they were independent and self-reliant, rather than constantly requiring men to help them out. You go, girls.

It’s been craftily released just in time for the Christmas rush, but perhaps shortsightedly after the polls for album of the year, hell, albums of the decade, have concluded.

Yes, it is Wayward Buskers by Ian Cockburn and the Whole World. 15 slice of lo-fi pop awesomeness from the talented brother, at a very modest price of £4. To get your copy, either contact Ian directly or put in an order with me.

I dislike encouraging independent thought on this blog, but if you are unwilling to take my word for it (perhaps you may think I’m biased or something) then some of the tracks can be heard at myspace

Estimated release date for the first Seven Inches album: 2017.

Edinburgh is, I have no doubt, the loveliest city in the UK. Admittedly I’ve never been to Hull, but I’m willing to stick my neck out on the issue. The centre of the city is almost entirely made up of beautiful buildings with the Old Town and the Georgian New Town complementing each other perfectly. Neither the international shopping chains nor the plethora of tartan tourist traps can outweigh its appeal.

It also has the huge benefit of hills, which make all the difference. The castle rises gloriously in the centre of the city, other impressive buildings on the north east side offer another great vista, while on the south east side is the magnificent Arthur’s Seat. Like Montjuif in Barcelona, this fulfils a dual role, both as an impressive view and vantage point but also an easy opportunity to move from urban modernity to the beauties of nature.

If the exterior attractions of the city are unmatched in the UK (and very rarely equalled across Europe) the things to do are less stellar. The castle is hugely impressive as a monument, but inside its walls it’s less interesting. With the exception of the Dynamic Earth building (interesting) and the new Scottish Parliament building (a bit silly) there is little interesting modern architecture. This probably enhances the appeal of the centre, but a bit of variety elsewhere would do no harm. The Palace of Holyrood is OK, but given that the royal family built it with the blood and tears of the working man, it could have been a bit more impressive.

There are lots of galleries – the major ones all free, one of the few unquestionably positive innovations of this government – but they are undermined by a lack of a solid basis of exceptional Scottish art to draw on, so the highlights come from the greats of European art. Inevitably this means that there are rarely more than one or two pieces from these artists, and all the drawbacks that entails. One exception is the significant number of Titian’s in the National Gallery, but the highlights there are Velazquez – Old Woman Cooking Eggs and El Greco’s Allegory. The Modern Art Museum and the Dean gallery were both substantially affected by re-hanging, indeed there were only 2 rooms open in the Dean. Fortunately, one of them was a really excellent collection of surrealist and Dadaist work from Magritte to Tanguy. My favourite was Dali’s l’oiseau. One interesting aside, a significant number of the works in Edinburgh had been accepted in lieu of inheritance tax. While I don’t particularly object to the rich swanning about in yachts and private jets I do have very strong feelings about great are being locked away in private residences and the loss of this way of recovering for public view the glories of European civilisation is (yet another) reason to object to the Tories plan to all but eliminate inheritance tax. The bastards. One other thing that struck me was that all the information about the paintings is in English. Given how obviously aware Edinburgh is of being a tourist attraction, some translations in French and/or Spanish surely is merited.

My uncle had generously allowed me to stay in his very smart and modern flat while I was there. In fact, so stylish was it that my appearance was clearly below the standard the residents were used to and I was generally looked at askance. Inside the flat was fine of course with, bliss, a fabulous shower. There was one modernist touch I didn’t appreciate though, there were 5 different sets of lights in the kitchen/living room (at least, I’d not be at all surprised if I missed some) and even with them all on it was still too dark to read on the sofa.

Nearby the flat was a church, which produced the latest instalment in the ever lengthening series of Really Minor Things That Irritate Me Disproportionately. They had a sign up at the front noting the names of “celebrities” buried in its cemetery. It’s not that I find advertising graves as a tourist attraction particularly distasteful more that “celebrities” is such an inappropriate word, with its inevitable overtones of the publicity hounds that infest our TV schedules. Probably there were a few people who were genuine celebrities before television (the likes of Byron, Wilde, Houdini, Lindbergh and so on) I don’t think that Adam Smith was, and he was by some distance the most notable name there. This isn’t to denigrate Smith, who was a very important thinker, more to object on his behalf and his fellow “celebrities” that there very real achievements were being reduced to equivalence with any half-wit who manages to make page 17 of Heat.

One of the reasons why people don’t properly appreciate Scotland is the weather, which is perceived as being cold and wet almost the whole year round. As I quite like the cold, and have been used to Cardiff’s level of rainfall, neither of them bothered me overmuch. However, I don’t smoke and I did have some sympathy for those people forced outside pubs and clubs to smoke on bitter December nights with the rain teeming down – and especially the girls in their party dresses. It made me wonder whether there are some places that are so cold that they simply can’t introduce a public places smoking ban because people would die from exposure if you forced them outside in their clubbing gear.

Haruki Murukami – Dance Dance Dance

Murukami usually arouses contradictory feelings in me. I love his writing style, but I hate stories where impossible events happen. I have no problem with unlikely or improbable plot twists, (indeed many of my favourite authors depend on them) or sci-fi/fantasy books that from the start posit a different reality. But I dislike following a realistic narrative only for something extraordinary to be mixed in. And Murakami likes to do that, a great deal.

But although such elements are present in Dance Dance Dance, they don’t affect the storyline. Which is an engrossing one, with engaging characters. None of the characters or their relationships with each other really convince but it doesn’t really matter; while the traditional whodunit element is undermined by the main character fundamentally not caring who did it, beyond the extent to which it effects himself. This is a common pose in detective story anti-heroes, but its refreshing to see it being stuck to, rather than being undermined by better instincts or love.

P.G. Wodehouse – The Girl in Blue

Although Wodehouse was amazingly consistent in quality over a very lengthy career, his milieu of the idle rich worked better in their untroubled pre-World War 2 idyll. After that, with their stately homes only kept up for Americans to rent and good domestic staff hard to find, his inconsequential froth begins to jar slightly against reality.

So, finding that the heroine in this story is an air hostess is a disappointment. Air travel should have no part in Wodehouse’s world. He’s also guilty of pinching jokes from earlier works (the joke about arriving slowly because of needing spikes and running shoes was also in Do Butlers Burgle Banks).

Despite this, reading Wodehouse is never hard work, and anyone who doesn’t get a warm fuzzy feeling from passages like this…

“Hullo! Is there something wrong, darling? You look like a startled codfish. Suits you, of course. Very becoming. But it gives me the idea that something has happened to upset you.”

…is missing out

In the last week or so I’ve had a Facebook stalker who on three occasions has sent me messages about my appearance on my profile photo. Not particularly complimentary, so I think I can write off any chances of them having fallen obsessively in love with me , but equally not insulting so my self-esteem is, thankfully, intact. But the intimidation factor is such that I can’t face going online at the moment, so I will not be using the internet/updating this blog in the next 2 weeks.

Well, actually, I’m going to stay in a flat that has no internet access, but it comes to much the same thing. I can only hope my stalker has a new obsession by the time I get back online.