When I was chugging down the Tyne with Val McDermid a couple of months ago, we were, over a few bottles of red, putting the world to rights. Needless to say, Hazel Blears came up in the conversation. I reckoned that Blears would have been brilliant in the Nazi High Command. Val just looked at me. An explanation beckoned. Blears, I said, was the kind of person who would do well in any political administration, whether it was New Labour, Old Labour or even the Third Reich. Because her job was to be a cheerleader for that administration no matter what it was or what it stood for and she was bloody good at her job. Val saw my point.

And, if I needed even more ammunition against that dreadful woman (Blears, not Val) she was on Newsnight saying it was a writer's duty (or wordsmith's, as she patronisingly referred to us) not to offend anyone at all. Is that right, Blears? Not offend anyone? Even a squirrel-faced, twat-brained, punchable midget like yourself? There. That's better. Not that she'll be reading this. But still . . .

Which brings me to Torchwood. Or Torchwood:Children of Earth, to give it its full title. Because that's what my week seems to have consisted of or revolved round. And absolutely bloody brilliant it was too. I must confess, I've always had a soft spot for Torchwood. Even the first series when it was being loudly derided had its moments. The second series was damn good television. But this third one . . . I don't think I'll see a better piece of TV all year. To tell a story that has as its themes love and sacrifice, specifically the lengths you'd go to in the latter to protect the former, and how easy it is for a society to slip into fascism and anarchy, was brilliant. And to tell it all in an unashamedly science fiction format on prime time TV was nothing short of genius.

By the end of the week (or by the end of Thursday's episode, really) I was in tears. Either it was exceptionally moving or I'm emotionally fragile at the moment. But it was damned good stuff. The scenes in Number 10 with the cabinet deciding just which children should be sacrificed was chilling. No other word for it. Because you can imagine it happening. In fact, it already has. Records exist of a similar meeting of Nazi middle managers to decide what to do about the Jewish problem. They sat round a table discussing the most efficient and cost effective way of processing units (thats herding human beings into gas chambers to you and me) and came up with the concentration camps. Episode four of Torchwood echoed that very strongly. And yes, there was a Hazel Blears figure right in the middle of it, cheerleading. In fact, her character's rationalisation of the whole thing, of which children to sacrifice and why was brilliant, excruciating drama. And I wanted to punch her in the face.

But there was so much more to commend it. Peter Capaldi was, as always, stunning. As was Nicholas Farrell. And the regular Torchwood team were, possibly for the last time, wonderful. Especially Eve Myles who can do no wrong.

Anyway, if anyone's reading this I'm sorry for banging on about it. It's nothing to do with crime fiction or any of the stuff I usually bleat on about but it's not often I see a piece of drama - in any format, TV, theatre, cinema, whatever - that moves me the way this has done. It's a Quatermass for the 21st Century, it's serious political issues delivered in a popular format, it's proper big sci-fi, it's drama that maps out the deficiencies and wonder of the human heart, it's brilliant. I can't praise it enough and I hope they bring it back.

But Russell T Davis has moved on now. Wonder if they want a new writer for it . . .

Well I said I'd be putting a new post on a week or so after the last one. But time, as any Doctor Who fan will tell you, is a wibbly wobbly, timey-wimey thing. So of course it's nearly two months.

Still, I'm here now. Here's all the things I meant to blog about:

My trip down the Tyne with Val McDermid. South Tyneside and North Tynside libraries wanted to do a joint event but couldn't think of a venue - hence a boat on the Tyne, right in the middle. And what a grand day it was too. I couldn't have wished for better company but I could have wished for a better microphone - the one I had would have made Norman Collier sound good. Still, great fun. And thank you to all those who took the time to come along. I thoroughly enjoyed it.

And while I was there I managed to spend a great afternoon with Ray Banks, who is not only one of the finest crime writers this country has, but also a truly great bloke. I hope we have many more such afternoons. And evenings. And days.

I've also been to Harrogate. This was a little warm up for the Festival in July as I went round lots of libraries in North Yorkshire giving talks and hosting Q & A sessions on Raymond Chandler's The Big Sleep. And my stuff, of course. Again, great fun and I hope I didn't bore Erica, the Festival Maven, too much as we sped round in her Mini, trying to think up awful puns.

I'm now back home and working on my new book. As I always am. But more importantly, I've just been to see one of the best gigs in my life. Neil Young at Hyde Park. Incredible. Like witnessing a huge sonic attack aimed directly at your emotions by Mount Rushmore. Fantastic. I've seen a few good gigs in my time (Flaming Lips, David Byrne, Elvis Costello when he still had the Attractions) but this one may have topped them all. Stunning. I was cheering, laughing, crying . . . and so was everyone around me. Yes, he did guitar solos that ended up as deconstructional avant garde composition and sometimes his songs were so long they crossed several time zones but he also did Cinnamon Girl and Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere and made them sound like they had been written last week and not forty years ago. And a stunning version of Rockin' In The Free World. And Unknown Legend. And Needle And The Damage Done. And loads more . . . And when Paul McCartney came to join him onstage for an encore of Day In The Life . . . well, I've never been a fan of his before and I may not be in the future, but that was something special. Really special.

And Michael Jackson died. Can't say much about that. His music never really meant anything to me. I bought Thriller to see what all the fuss was about and I don't think I even played it all the way through. Boring and soulless. May as well have been listening to Queen or Phil Collins. But people keep telling me he was a genius so I have to believe it. Anyway, as my wife says, you just had to look at him to see he would never make old bones. But I'm sure it won't be long before the Church Of Saint Michael Jackson is founded. People will see him in visions. They'll pray to him for guidance and he'll speak to them personally. And if they're really lucky, he'll interfere with their kids. Actually, let's think about that - asexual deity who suffered for being misunderstood, venerated mother and angry, vengeful father, not to mention child abuse . . . isn't that the Catholic Church?

Oh well, I'm off. I've got a book to write, a dog to walk and lots of Neil Young to listen to. Again.

And just in case you're interested - this week I've been reading House Dick by E Howard Hunt. Another lost gem from the fantastic Hard Case Crime. And listening to Neil Young. Did I mention that?

Well I'm back from Minehead, and back from the dead in some respects, as this is the first post in nearly a year and a half.  Not bad going for someone who said he would do this once a week.  Still, not sure if anyone wants to read my ramblings here (as apart from my novels which are paid ramblings) but here we go.

Minehead was fun. In case you don't know, All Tomorrow's Parties, the brilliant indier than thou music festival, takes place at Butlins there.  It now sprawls over two weekends, with The Breeders curating next weekend's stuff.  I was on last weekend, Sunday afternoon to be precise as part of the spoken word events curated by my old mate Lydia Lunch.  And a cracking line up it was too - poet John Tottenham, the brilliant Cathi Unsworth, ex-Warhol superstar and film-maker Bibbe Hanssen, Jake Arnott, Lydia and me.  John, Lydia and Bibbe had flown in from the States to take part, three of us from less exotic climes.  But we put on a great show.  Even if I say so myself.  There was a very sizeable crowd in the Crazy Horse bar (named, I assumed, after the legendary Native American chief rather than the even more legendarily cack-handed backing band of Neil Young's) a venue as authentically Midwestern as I am.  We all read different stuff but it somehow seemed to be thematically linked in some way.  Probably because we'd all had the same instruction from Lydia - read the nastiest fuckin' shit you got.  I obliged.

I read my award-nominated short story 'Love' which originally appeared in the London Noir anthology.  It's quite an uncompromising piece, being about a young BNP skinhead in Dagenham, but very prescient given the upcoming elections.  Still, I hope I did my bit to put people off voting for them.

Afterwards I posed for photos and signed an autograph for a fan of mine.  Hi Chris, if you're reading.  It was a real pleasure to meet you.  I hope you didn't come down from Barnard Castle just for me though.  There were plenty of other distractions over the weekend.  Not that I saw many of them, though.  I seemed to time it wrong for arriving when the bands I wanted to see were on, but I did manage to catch The Acorn who I had seen supporting Fleet Foxes at the Roundhouse earlier this year and was well impressed by.  They didn't disappoint and played a blinder.  The only other band I managed to see were The Jesus Lizard who were headlining on Saturday night.  I must admit, atonal thrash from metalised noise merchants isn't really my thing and I missed out on them first time round and doubt I'll ever buy any of their records, but they were a great live band.  David Yow, their hugely charismatic frontman, is touching fifty and recovering from a collapsed lung last year but stage-dived and crowd-surfed stripped to the waist in a manner that would shame anyone half his age.  Beat that, Jonas Brothers.

As for the rest of the weekend . . . most of it was spent in the swimming pool going very fast down various slides.  Or sending inedible food back to the kitchens in Butlins restaurants.  Or telling pissed up wankers to fuck off for knocking on my window at four in the morning.  Or complaining about the state of the toilet in the chalet.  But apart from that . . . Yeah.  I'd go back if they asked me.   Good fun.

Next weekend I'm going down the Tyne with Val McDermid.  I'll keep you posted.    

This week Martyn read The Corner by David Simon and Ed Burns (I think this one will be around for a few weeks) and listened to Kingdom of Rust by Doves and Glory Hope Mountain by The Acorn.

The Obligatory Round Up And Pointless Best Of List For 2007

Yes, it's that time of year again when people with too much time on their hands make lists of what they've done in the forlorn hope that someone else will be the slightest bit interested. Not that anyone will be - this is my list and I'm not all that bothered.

So here we go. First up, books.

I seem to have read lots this year but managed to avoid most of the books people talked about loudly at parties. I've been mostly reading and re-reading British stuff. Julian Maclaren Ross, Patrick Hamilton, Graham Greene (including letters and Norman Sherry's forest-devastating three volume biography) and, more recently, David Peace's Red Riding Quartet. As usual, Hard Case Crime kept up their usual high standards, notably Charles Ardai's own Songs of Innocence. Ray Banks' Donkey Punch was quite a belter, as was Allan Guthrie's Hard Man. And it was brilliant to see him win the Theakstons Waterstones Best Novel prize in July. The right guy won for once.

Cathi Unsworth's The Singer was, I thought, one of the literay events of the year. And if it didn't get the exposure it deserved, I reckon that was done down to sexism on the part of lots of reviewers. What's the matter boys, scared that a girl knows more than you do about music? And can express it better? The other book that rocked my world was James Lee Burke's The Tin Roof Blowdown. Yes, I know I'm biased and that when he's going less than full throttle he's better than 90% of writers (crime and otherwise) currently operating. But he was at the top of his game for this one. Come the awards next year, he's going to be sweeping the board. And deservedly so.

But I never got round to some of the stuff I wanted to read. David Peace's new one is still sitting there, as is Joseph Wamburgh's Hollywood Station. I'm also trying to work my way through Christopher Booker's The Seven Basic Plots - Why We Tell Stories. A brilliant book but since it took him thirty four years to write it's not the kind of thing you can just skip through one weekend.

And I never read On Chesil Beach. But then neither did anyone else, apparently. They just bought it and didn't get round to it. I didn't even buy it.

TV. Apart from Doctor Who I didn't watch much. But that didn't matter - DW had some of the best stuff I've seen on TV in ages this year. Blink and Human Nature were fantastic, Blink in particular. I was completely in awe of Steven Moffat's writing. Bastard.

I tried to get into Heroes but was away during the summer so got hopelessly lost off. I'm persevering though - I've bought the boxset and will while away the winter with that. Speaking of boxsets, they seemed to be the only way of keeping up with the shows I love. I loved both The Wire and The Shield. If anything they got better. The Sopranos finished, completely unmourned in this house. I long since gave up on it when they tried to get the characters to jump through every decreasingly interesting hoops.

Film. Didn't go. Saw nothing. Apart from Harry Potter, and wished I hadn't. That's the trouble with living out in the sticks. No decent cinema.

Music. Went on a massive Scott Walker kick which is never a bad thing. Re-listened to everything and was once again dazzled by Scott 4 and scared by The Drift. He's the only artist who makes me wish I had synatheasia because his songs sound like colour-filled soundscapes. And I bet I've spelt that wrong.

Listened to tons this year. Really wanted to love Richmond Fontaine's new album, ending up just liking it a lot. Did love Bruce Springsteen's new one (and suprised myself in the process). A real return to form. Hasn't sounded this good for years. And Radio Nowhere was the best song of the year. Apart from Biffy Clyro's Machines, that is. Jim White's new one was a little disappointing although I hope it may be a grower. Richard Hawley came up with another belter but not a good one for listening to in the car - too soporific. Live, CSS were fantastic and erased everyone else I saw from memory. And, although I know it wasn't a 2007 album, the Trials of Van Occupanther was my most played album of the year. Fantastic.


So there you go. Another pointless list. Happy New Year, everyone.

A New Cover . . . At Last . . .

Yes, those of you who've checked my site will have noticed a new cover for White Riot. And it's not even out yet. Well, yes, I must admit I like this one better. I liked the old one too, even though I did have reservations as to whether having a big fist with 'HATE' written on it was alienating the female readership somewhat. I was assured that the female readership would not be alienated by that. Well apparently they were, because we now have a sinister staircase instead. I don't know where this staircase is going from or to, but I must admit it looks rather nice. Apparently there was some research done and it was decided that a sense of location was needed. Although I'm not sure how specific that location was meant to be. I thought they meant something with Newcastle on it but to be honest, most of the shots you see of the city are there to entice the tourists so not very appropriate. So we've got the staircase. Which in actual fact does remind me of Newcastle. In fact it reminds me of the entrance hall to my old girlfriend's flat in Benwell, Newcastle (Google it - they were selling whole streets for twenty five quid there in the Nineties) after a party where someone tried to set fire to the place while we were upstairs in bed. I'm sure if you look hard enough you can see the incinerated Bryan Ferry poster. Ah, happy memories.

This week I read: The Gorse Trilogy by Patrick Hamilton; Fear And Loathing in Fitzrovia - a biography of Julian Maclaren Ross by Paul Willetts

This week I listened to: Lady's Bridge by Richard Hawley; These Were The Earlies by The Earlies

Well my website is finally up and running. What should have taken a couple of months has taken the best part of a year and involved much losing of temper and patience on my part but since it's finally here I'm not going to dwell on that. Much.

So anyway, the story so far . . .

This is the first entry in the blog of Martyn Waites. I shouldn't really be doing this as A) I can't think that anyone would want to read this rubbish and B) I'm supposed to be working on a new novel. Because that's what I do. I'm a writer (novelist mainly but also short stories, journalism, film scripts - anything in fact, as long as I get paid), primarily working in the field of crime. I've written eight novels, the latest being White Riot which is due out January 2008. I've done a bit of blogging before on Sarah Weinman's excellent site and thought I would give it a go on my own. Obviously I want to talk about the stuff I'm writing but I should imagine I'll also be mouthing off about anything that takes my fancy. Other books, films, TV, what's happening in the world, Newcastle United Football Club . . . whatever. I'll try to keep this weekly but we'll see how it goes. This could be the first and last one. A collector's item! Get it while it's hot!

Big news for me at the moment is that the trailer for White Riot is finished and it looks quite spectacular. Trailer? I'll tell you. I was watching TV over the summer and kept seeing (almost on a continuous loop) the trailer for The Bourne Ultimatum. This got me thinking: wouldn't it be a great idea to do something like that to promote an upcoming book? Particularly mine? So, undeterred by the fact that I didn't have a film to accompany it that scenes could be pulled from, a mulit-million dollar Hollywood budget or Matt Damon (actually that may have been a blessing) I set about doing it. I contacted an old mate of mine, Bob Horwell, award-winning actor and director, and told him the idea. Armed with a budget from Simon and Schuster and several well known TV actors (including Mark Wingett who played Jim Carver in The Bill for twenty odd years as Joe Donovan) we set off filming. And the result with chase scenes, exploding cars and gratuitous damage to my mobile phone, is really rather good indeed, even if I say so myself.

The response so far has been overwhelmingly positive which we've been very pleased about. Not to mention relieved. I think it's the first time anything like this has been attempted in this country on this scale and with this brashness. I know there have been tentative attempts before but I think most of them have failed because they haven't managed to transpose one medium to another. Now I'm not saying what we've done is perfect but we've gone for it, so much so that people are now asking when the film is coming out. So are we . . .

So when and where will it be shown? Some time in the next month or two. Probably here, on my website too, FaceBook, CrimeSpace, YouTube and some other places we're still in negotiation with. Plenty of places, in fact. You'll probably be sick of it. But I doubt I will be. Bob and I think we're on to something with this. So much so that we've set up a company, Red Harvest Films, to make (amongst other things) promos for other writers and publishers. Anyone want one?

Still, it's all done now and I should be concentrating on the new Joe Donovan novel, Murdered Sons. (Anyone know where that title comes from? Yes, like the others it's a song, or rather a performance piece/prose poem. Clue: she's playing live in London in October.) I should be, but film making is fun and more addictive than eBaying when you're drunk. So I think we'll be out there with the camera again very soon . . .

And, because apparently this is the kind of thing people want to see, or expect to see, on blogs though god knows why:

This week Martyn read: Songs of Innocence by Richard Aleas. Solid noir and totally involving - One of the best books I've read all year.
And listened to: Scott Walker 1 - 4 (again). Can't get enough, the man's a genius. Especially Scott 4, Boy Child in particular. Music really doesn't get any better than this.