Book Tour Pt 2

Mavis at Harper Collins has marked out on my itinerary for which appearances I should be drunk. Generally, as part of her continuing ‘Drunken Public Appearances’ plan, anything to be broadcast after nine pm has a D next to it. Some events with a liberal attitude have a DD meaning that I should be totally beyond my own control and will still probably avoid arrest. Mavis doesn’t seem to understand that once I start, the consumption of alcohol is already beyond my control, rendering the concept of regulating my level of intoxication laughable.

Last night's radio interview was a DD and yet, as I remember it, the DJ was delighted with my condition and, after baiting me into spouting ludicrous slurs against people of various races and religions, joined me with his own bottle of…Absinthe perhaps.

The session concluded at two am with the presenter actually snorting lines from the mixing desk and babbling like a madman about being the new king of Shock Jocks.

This morning I look online for any local or national stories about the incident but there is no trace of it anywhere, not even in the dregs of the blogs, and I feel, not for the first time, invisible.

Since the BBC has, in the last few years, reacted to minor scandals with a maniacal martyrdom, gleefully ripping its shirt off and flogging itself in the town square while sobbing and begging for more, cutting itself and firing anyone that happened to be in the office that day, comparing rash decisions made by stressed PAs to the atrocities carried out under Stalin and Hitler, offering to accept responsibility for every sin committed throughout history and generally declaring itself unfit for existence, it has been decided that all BBC interviews should be conducted whilst sober.

Mavis, though, as someone who probably thinks being drunk is giggling once or twice over an evening, hasn’t factored in the time required to sober up from such extreme intoxication, and I have to drive to Doncaster Radio at seven am covering one eye.

An ugly PA greets me at the door and I try to smile but just manage a pained grimace. She takes me to the green room. “Can I get you some breakfast?”

I start to shake my head, then stop, closing my eyes. “No solids.”

“Oh. Some tea then?”

“No liquids either.”

“Nothing then?”

“Can you make it tomorrow already?”

“Don’t wish your life away,” the nineteen year-old urges me.



The DJ is yet another bland early middle-aged man wearing an uncomfortable-looking jumper. I sit opposite him, trying to keep my head upright.

He introduces me. “Welcome to Doncaster.”

“Thank you,” I say, picking up on some irony in his greeting that isn’t actually there. “The AIDS capital of Great Britain.”

His smile drops. “I don’t think…” He falters.

“Luckily, I’ve already got it.”

He just stares at me.

“I haven’t really,” I say. “I’m not…involved in any of that sort of thing.”

“This is the BBC,” the presenter says.

“It’s alright,” I say. “It’s not… I mean, somewhere has to be, doesn’t it? I’m just saying.”

“I actually think that’s a myth started by spreaders of hate,” he rages, red-faced and spitting.

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s not get bogged down in it.”

He looks at his notes, then back at me with a sneer. “How’s the tour going?”

“Fine.”

“Really? Pleased with sales so far?”

“I…think so.”

He gives a surprised snort. “Interesting.”

“I haven’t actually seen them.”

“Perhaps you’d like me to inform you on air?”

I panic. “AIDS capital.”

He reddens again. “How can it be the AIDS capital when there’re all those gays in Brighton?”

There is a suitable amount of dead air before a record is played.



I call Mavis on my way to Lincoln. “How many copies have I sold?”

Mavis sighs. “I don’t have that information right now.”

“Then find it. I know you’re in the office.”

“Christopher…”

“I want to know.”

“It’s not important right now.”

“Tell me now,” I say, and she sighs again and clicks her computer mouse.

“Erm… Two hundred and twelve.”

“Two hundred and twelve…thousand?”

“No. Two hundred and twelve copies.”

“Right. That’s not great, is it?”

“Early days,” she says. Then, “Sorry, got to go, James Hardy’s on the other line.”



At the next Travelodge later that morning, a bottle of J&B Scotch sits with a plastic cup wrapped in cellophane on my bedside table. With it, a printed note from Mavis:

‘An early DD this afternoon. Get stuck in!’

I groan and sit on the bed and then crack open the bottle. The fumes make me wretch. Nethertheless, I force the whisky down and after a few shots it starts to smooth out my hangover. Then, a third of the bottle through, I’m kneeling in front of the toilet watching streams of brown liquid force their way out of my stomach.

When I regain control, I sit on the bathroom floor, wiping tears away and moaning. Then I look at the bottle that for some reason I brought in with me, take a few deep breaths, and begin again.



The taxi takes me under a sign that has the word School on it but it barely registers because I’m slumped in the back, forcing the last of the whisky down my throat. I shove the empty bottle into my bag.

The headmistress and teachers are clearly disturbed by my condition but with the last of my lucidity I manage to avoid any challenges. “We want to encourage the children in their creative writing by hearing from someone who has made it into a career,” the headmistress says.

“You have progressive children,” I say, and she nods, confused.

The possibility that Mavis has mixed up the schedule leaves my mind along with the last fragments of my sanity as I stumble onto the stage and spend the first two minutes trying to open my book at the page with the large bookmark. “This is the live autopsy scene,” I say.

“‘Harris picked up a scalpel and leant forward over the patient. Holding the blade at face height, he looked for a moment at Reece. The agent’s eyes were rolling like marbles in a glass, and a low growl began to form in his throat, coupled with a gurgling, strangled gasping.

“‘Scully put a hand on the man’s brow, a gentle look in her eyes, as Harris moved the blade from the chest to the pubic bone, sending a fine arc of blood onto his gloves and arm. The Y-shape complete, Harris then pushed his fingers into the incision and peeled back the skin in three huge flaps, exposing the steel ribs and wasting muscles. Reece’s groan turned into a whistling, whining moan that made Scott want to cover his ears. He turned and saw that Wilson’s mouth was curved downwards in distaste. Only Owen remained impassive. In fact, Scott noticed, he was watching intently.

“’Harris strummed his fingers over the blood-flecked ribs, seemingly oblivious to Reece’s cries.’”

I pause for a moment, taking a few deep breaths to ward of the whisky nausea. There is a general murmuring among the adults, and a few of the children are crying. “Shut up,” I say, which makes them cry louder. I continue anyway.

“’A scalpel was used to make a fresh incision from behind one ear around the back of the skull to the other. As the cutting began, Reece’s face froze into a shocked stare and his eyes blinked stupidly. Harris remained in front of him, watching.

“’Reece’s scalp was then pulled up and inverted over the head, exposing the skull and mercifully, Scott thought, covering his face from view. His low moans were muffled now by his own flesh and hair.

“’One of the techs used the drill to unscrew the back of Reece’s skull, and then using a lever, he popped the top and lifted the bone clear, revealing the brain. Harris leaned over and prodded it, pushing his fingers into the cortex. Under his hand, Reece shook against the paralysis drug, and emitted a shrill shriek. Scully and her assistants first looked on in distaste, then turned away as Harris slid his fingers into the oozing pink organ up to the first knuckle.’”

I can’t find the section about pornography that I have been ending my adult readings with but I lunge into my post-reading routine without a bridge.

“Talking of pornography, I’ve never enjoyed watching it because circumcised cocks look so painful.”

The audience is restless now, and I jerk my head from side-to-side, vaguely noticing how young these children are.

“Do you think porn stars have porn collections?” I say, continuing the routine I’ve been considering taking into the comedy clubs. “And, hey, at what point do you think porn stars tell their kids what they do? ‘Err…I’m an actress.’ ‘Wow, mummy, can I watch one of your movies?’ ‘Well, I’d rather you didn’t. Mummy has no clothes on and several men who aren’t your daddy are jizzing all over her…’”

A teacher jumps on stage and runs at me, swinging his fists. I stumble backwards and am bundled out of the hall and into my cab.



By the time I regain consciousness in my Travelodge room Mavis has drafted an apology letter to the school and the tour is finally over.