Naming rights

With the birth of child number 3 only weeks away (gulp!) my thoughts have, rather predictably, turned to what we're going to call the little blighter. This is a responsibility I take very seriously. A name is, after all, something you carry with you your entire life (unless your name is Steven Demetre Giorgio / Cat Stevens / Yusuf Islam) and can define at least part of who you are. I, for one, still bear the scars of being one of four James' in my class. In fact, I'm sure it is some latent insecurity from then that still compels me to introduce myself on the phone as "James Twining", convinced that if I just say "James", they'll confuse me with the two hundred other James' that I assume are cluttering their address book. How I envied classmates Lakis Kakouris, Giles Channot and Umair Khan. You don't get two of those to a packet...

We don't know what flavour the baby is yet, so for a boy I'm now thinking "Dante Napoleon Lincoln Twining" and for a girl "Cleopatra CoCo Twining". No-one's going to confuse them with anyone else. No siree! At least that's what I'm telling my wife. You see, when we had our second daughter, we struck a deal that she could name her Jemima on the condition that if we had a third, I would get exclusive naming rights, making me a sort of latter day Rumplestiltkin (now there's a thought...) It's given me hours of pleasure over the last few months to run ever more outlandish suggestions past her, especially ones where she only realises a few days later that the initials spell out a rude word - anyone for Frederick Arthur Robert Twining?

Still, at least all this is a hell of a lot easier than naming a book. I've posted before about the difficulties of settling on The Gilded Seal as a title, but the experience of naming Book IV has been a really painful one. It's certainly not been helped by Harper Collins's sales department, whose ability for lateral thinking should seem them all apply immediately to Mensa.

My first suggestion was The Delian League - a reference to an alliance of city states in Ancient Greece that features in the novel. Their reaction? People might think it's a cookery book! I'm serious. They thought people might seen Delian and assume it had something to do with TV chef Delia Smith. So much for trying to rise above the masses and write a thriller with an intellectual edge!

Undaunted, I reached for my back-up option - The Skeleton Key. Cue sharp intake of breath through teeth. It's good but it just sounds a bit ... morbid; Like it might be a horror book?

Okaaaaay... The Time Lock? Too Science Fiction. The Carravaggio Conspiracy? Too unpronounceable. The Da Vinci Code? Perfect ... Oh wait a minute, I think someone else has had that already.

In desperation, I turned to my Joker: The Ivory Key. Polite cough. Is it about pianos?

In total I suggested 88 different titles. Yes that's right, 88. Don't believe me? See for yourself below - I've copied them at the bottom . Have you any idea how hard it is to come up with 88 titles for the same book, of the strange corners of the mind you have to dig around in? And the winning suggestion, after 8 months of debate?

The Geneva Deception.

Actually, I quite like this, although by the end I would have happily accepted Mr Floppy's Big Banana just to put me out of my misery. Geneva is where a lot of the action happens. The title also hints at the failures in the Swiss legal system that make it a haven for art smuggling and is an interesting play on the familiar Geneva Convention as well as hinting at The French Connection which can't be a bad thing.

So, one naming dilemma solved, which still leaves me with the question of what to call my latest offspring. What about Cosmo Uther Nemo .... Oh do grow up!!

***

The 88 titles!

1 The Vegas Deception 2 The Geneva Deception 3 The Rome Deception 4 The Vatican Deception 5 The Roman Deception 6 The Apollo Deception 7 The Ivory Deception 8 The Merisi Deception 9 The Caravaggio Key 10 The Caravaggio Legacy 11 The Lost Caravaggio 12 The Ivory Mask 13 The Ivory Face 14 The Ivory Key 15 The Ivory Mask 16 The Ivory Face 17 The Ivory God 18 The Lost City 19 The Eternal City 20 The Geneva Connection 21 The Mafia Connection 22 The Twisted Serpents 23 The Serpent's Shadow 24 The Serpent's Tail 25 The Serpent Divided 26 The Serpent's Tomb 27 The Forked Serpent 28 The Serpents' League 29 The Mafia Legacy 30 The Mafia League 31 The Mafia Connection 32 The Mafia Key 33 The Merisi Legacy 34 The Merisi League 35 The Broken League 36 The Fractured League 37 The Hollow Ring 38 The Severed Ring 39 The Sixth Watch 40 The Hidden Tomb 41 The Secret Tomb 42 The Roman Tomb 43 The Carved Face 44 The Carved God 45 The Pale God 46 The Fractured Mask 47 The False Shuffle 48 The True Count 49 The Rider Bet 50 The Cut Card 51 The Burn Card 52 The Split Bet 53 The American Wheel 54 The Combination Bet 55 The Street Bet 56 The Flat Bet 57 The Pair Split 58 The Wild Card 59 The Tomb Robbers 60 The Shadow League 61 The Dark League 62 The League of Shadows 63 The Secret League 64 The Viper League 65 The Veiled League 66 The Vegas Betrayal 67 The Coiled Serpents 68 The Glittering Serpent 69 The Locked Serpent 70 The Dark Serpent 71 The Veiled Serpents 72 The Ivory League73 The Ivory Gambit 74 The Ivory Gamble 75 The Missing Watch 76 The Seventh Watch 77 The Missing Nativity 78 The Lost Watch 79 The Empty Grave 80 The Grave Betrayal 81 The Fractured Grave 82 The Open Tomb 83 The Bare Tomb 84 The Barren Tomb 85 The Floating Lead 86 The Spoils of Death 87 The Looter's Prize 88 The Looter's Charter

20 years on

I read the other day that the most difficult thing about writing a blog is starting a post. There are, apparently, three main approaches: 1. Make a witty observation. 2. Pose a thought-proving question. 3. Go on about about how hard it is to start a post. So here we are...

It's been a while since the last one. Over five months to be precise. Sorry. I missed one week, then another and before I knew it a couple of months had gone by and then it was Christmas and I ate so much chocolate that I could barely get out of my chair. It tastes sooooo good. Anyway New Year, new blog, although I'm sure I said much the same last year).

So here's my big news. We're having another baby. Another mouth to feed as we stumble into the biggest economic crisis since the 1930s. Impeccable timing. It's pretty grim out there now. I'm never entirely sure how recessions affect book sales - do people view books as luxuries and so buy fewer of them, or do they spend more on them, because they end up going out less? One thing's for sure and that's that people are going to be flying a lot less, now that the pound is making the Zimbabwean dollar look like the gold standard, which can't be good news for the old airport thriller sales.

In fact the last time I remember things being this bad was in the late eighties (hence gratuitous Miami Vice pic above). One moment, in particular, from that period stays with me - a school trip up to Liverpool where we were due to give a concert in the Cathedral. In between rehearsals I remember following everyone out to the neighbouring park to read a book. An hour or so later and with the light fading fast, I looked up and realised that everyone else had wandered back inside, leaving me on my own. Well not quite alone. Three "youths" (yobs and ASBOs hadn't been invented back then) spotted me from where they were stamping on a bike frame and surrounded me like hyenas might a wounded zebra. In retrospect, a white shirt, grey mini-me suit and polyester tie wasn't exactly great inner-city camouflage.

"What's that?" One of them pointed out from under his hood.

I looked down and realised that he was pointing at my standard schoolboy issue Parker pen, neatly secured inside my top-pocket with its arrow-shaped clip. It was a birthday present and was very cool (or at least as cool as a Parker roller-ball pen can be to a seventeen year old) with a Rambo inspired camouflage pattern.

"What are you listening to?" The second one asked with one of those feral faces you just wanted to slap. I had a Walkman strapped to my belt - a huge thing the size of toaster that I had borrowed specially for this trip from my friend Faraz, on the condition he could borrow my Sam Fox Penthouse special for a week. Before I could answer he took the headphones from around my neck and put them on and started rolling his shoulders to the beat. (In case you're wondering it was U2, or Duran Duran or something cool like that. It definitely wasn't T'Pau.)

"Nice watch," Another one giggled through his acne, pointing at my wrist. This was my pride and joy - a Casio Databank received the previous Christmas that I had painstakingly loaded up with every conceivable date and phone number I could lay my hands on, including the Samaritans number that I had spotted on the side of a bus, which my mother found rather worrying when she absent-mindedly scrolled through my contacts one day. "Can I try it on?"

Now at the time I wasn't exactly what you might call "street-smart" - an over-protective mother and safe, suburban upbringing had seen to that. But even my blunted instincts could tell this was not good. Alone. In a park. In Liverpool, a city that to my fearful mind might as well have been Kabul. It's getting dark. I'm surrounded. One of of them's wearing my mate's headphones. And now another one wants to try on my watch? Computer says ... shit!

But then I had a brainwave.

"Forget the watch," I said, taking the headphones back. "Look at this."

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a ... flick knife. No I'm not joking. You see when I said I wasn't exactly "street-smart" I was lying. I was actually a complete and utter muppet. I mean, how many people do you know who when finding themselves being mugged would then hand their attackers a knife?

Actually, strictly speaking it was a stiletto - green with a three inch blade that shot up when I pressed the little black button on the side. I'd bought it on a school trip to Boulogne a few years before along with industrial quantities of bangers, and then smuggled it back into the UK in a teddy bear that had a zipped compartment in the back for keeping my pyjamas in. You see - I was knocking on the door of 00 status even then.

My thinking was that if I gave them this, I might be able to somehow distract them from my pen, watch and Walkman and ensure the safe return of my Sam Fox special. But it didn't take me long to realise the scale of my naivety when the eldest grabbed the knife from me.

"Great. We'll have this and everything else you've got," He sneered with the satisfaction of someone who had just seen every stereotype of how stupid, feckless and pathetic all Southerners really were, resoundingly fulfilled. And in retrospect, who can blame him?

By now I was getting desperate, and a little scared, but I spotted my opening. As the two other boys crowded around the knife, the third away so he could have a better look. Clenching my fist, I swung out and punched him in the stomach. In the same instant I started to run, not stopping to look if they were following but convinced they must be, not sure I'd even really hit him. Down the hill, through the park, up through the cathedral gates. Laughing maniacally, although I can't remember whether this was out of fear, or relief that my Sam Fox special was safe.

It was only later, when I was trying to rationalise the whole "hand your attacker a knife" incident as a clever diversionary tactic that I had ruthlessly followed through with a clinical punch to the solar plexus, that I realised they had won after all. My camouflaged Parker pen had gone, slipped from my pocket when I had been distracted. I felt sick.

Of course the poetry of this escapade was lost on me at the time, although I see it clearly now:

I handed them a sword. They took a pen. It's a beautiful thing.

Pole vault

I hope you appreciate the title to this week's (very brief) post. A little topical Olympic reference for all you sports fans out there like me (okay, so I'm shallow!) Not that this post has anything to do with pole vaulting as such. At least not pole vaulting of the long bendy stick variety. Or of the straight stick variety (which would probably be a lot more interesting). In fact there are no sticks involved at all. Or vaults, for that matter. In fact, if I'm honest, it's all a bit tenuous.

But the point is (yes there is a point) that earlier this week I got an email from a (non-vaulting) Pole and I thought I would share it with you:

"Hello. I've recently read your book, The Black Sun. And I wanted to share one thought with you. It's about the Amber Room.

I'm a franciscan friar, a Pole. I live now in X, in a Polish friary, in the northern Poland. In our friary 25 years ago lived a famous friar, Andrzej Klimuszko, a clairvoyant. He was able to locate people (or their bodies) from the photographs, could name the desease of the people looking at them, was famous for his knowledge of the herbs of which was preparing the infusions and so on.

And once he was asked about the Amber Room. What he said was a surprise for many - he said that it didn't exist. It was buried totally. So this is what I wanted to tell you. Of course he never saw any documents nor heard about the "russian mistake".

Regards
Pax et Bonum
fr. Matt"

I have to say, it's not often that I question the wisdom of Trekkie Monster, but in this case I think he had it wrong. The internet wasn't made for porn. It was made for random emails from remote Polish friaries peopled by clairvoyants with a knowledge of "the herbs" and the likely last resting place of the Amber Room! A resting place that, in the best mythical tradition, was taken with the unfortunate friar to his grave.

Brilliant.

Question Marks

Maybe I'm spoilt? Maybe the fact that I didn't grow up counting myself lucky to get a lump of coal and an orange for Christmas has made me soft? Maybe I'm just too old to rough it, like I used to when I was a student? Or maybe, just maybe, there's something about finding a pubic hair on your pillow that makes your stomach turn, however old or hard you are.

Not one of my pubic hair's you understand. Someone else's. On my pillow. In my bed. At the hotel I was staying at in Harrogate at the recent Crime Writing Festival. A big fat hairy question mark, staring me right in the face from the moment I first let myself in the room.

I was actually planning to use this post to write up this year's festival (belatedly I have to admit, but then I am in a frantic race to finish Book IV). But then I thought, screw that. Why bother, when Jake Kerridge has done it already far better than I ever could (see Day 1 and Day 2)? And I didn't get to beat anyone up this year (See Harrogate A-Z), which all in all made for a rather quieter few days. So instead, I thought I'd dedicate this entry to naming and shaming the worst hotel in Britain.

Step forward, The White Hart. (I wish I could do one of those music effects here where the trumpet fanfare falls flat and fades away into a raspberry)

Don't be fooled by its appearance. I fell into the same trap when I was turned away from the Crown and told that I'd been booked in here instead. "Nice from far but far from nice", as my ever sensitive friend James Johnstone used to say of women who had revealed themselves to be, on closer inspection, not quite as attractive as they had first seemed from the other side of the bar. I'm actually struggling to put into words quite how bad this place was once I got up to my room (anyone know a writer?) but if I tell you that it was a cross between a student bedsit (anywhere in Cardiff), the Linton Travel Tavern , and a hospital waiting room, I think you'll get my drift.

The carpet, a swirling mass of brown and orange whorls that I doubt was fashionable in the seventies which is when I'm guessing it was put down, felt sticky underfoot. The chintz-tastic curtain was little more than a thin sheet. There were stains on the sheets. The TV screen looked like something from the Fifties. The furniture was that horrible Hansel and Gretel pine stuff, all knobs and twirly bits and varnished a treacly yellow colour that made it look even dirtier than I suspect it was. And of course, in the corner, the pièce de resistance - the plastic tray loaded with mini-kettle / tea-bag / condensed milk / instant coffee / hot chocolate / cellophane wrapped shortbread. White Hart? More like Black Death.

And you know the best thing of all? The room rates were the same as at the Crown. I felt like I'd been mugged. Mugged and then made to pay for my assailant's taxi home.

Not that I blame the festival organisers. Far from it. Sharon and her team did a great job as always and I think they were as shocked as anyone. But the lesson is clear. If you go to Harrogate, don't stay at the White Hart. It's dirty, ugly and leaves question marks on your pillow rather than chocolates.

***

Okay, so I will say a few words about Harrogate. Generally excellent fun - Simon K had done a masterful job at assembling a good line-up (and me!). Kevin "only gay men wear hair gel" Wignall was on top form as usual and Mark Billingham bought me a drink - see, miracles can happen. (Only joshing Mark old bean). And there were the other usual suspects - too many to list here - although Nick Stone, Alex Barclay and Fiona Cane were missed, except in the quiz where they are all notoriously rubbish. Those lovely boys from Crimesquad were there too and together with Dreda Say Mitchell gave me right tongue lashing - no, not that sort - for being too down about things. I'm a sensitive soul, what can I say? And I overheard someone mumbling something about ghosts and writing and Andy McNab. Don't know what they were saying - maybe he's into fortune telling or weird voodoo shit?

And then of course there was my Bond panel. No panic this time round since I came well prepared - I spent two hours before the panel on Wikipedia reading through the plot summaries. As it turned out, this made me something of an expert compared to the others who had "depth" having read a few actual novels (hey, I've seen the movies. They're basically the same aren't they?) but not my "breadth". Or did we all come across as knowing as little as we did? Either way it was fun, although it was only later that I realised that really I should have done the whole gig in a tux. Last week I said that the best Bond moments happen when no-one's around to see you. Well I was wrong. The best Bond moments happen in your head, long after the moment itself has passed ...

Bond moments

When I was fifteen or so, on a family holiday in Majorca, I befriended a group of local Spanish kids. They were older than me and led by Juan, an eighteen year old whose father was one of the richest men on the island. Juan drove Number Five, a Ferrari red catamaran that his father had co-piloted to third place in the world speedboat championship a few years before. It was a monster.

I mention this because my research trip to Monte Carlo last week (see Toilet Humour), reminded me that for most men, the meaning of life (beyond beer, football and sex) is really the pursuit of as many "Bond moments" as possible. Bond moments like the one where I dived off the rocks in front of the villa where we were staying, swam across to where Juan, his girlfriend and the girl who'd caught my eye down at the harbour were waiting for me on Number Five, twin Lamborghini V12s idling, and then roared away to a hidden inlet where we moored up for the day. Double O-tastic!

Monte Carlo was, of course, the basis for the fictional resort of Royale-Les-Eaux in Casino Royale. And I have to admit our trip (I was with the missus) did start auspiciously enough, as we were whisked away from cattle class on sleazyjet to a waiting helicopter and the five minute dash along the Cote d'Azur. We arrived at the hotel, as you can imagine, shaken but not stirred.

A day at the pool was followed by dinner up in Eze - a beautiful medieval village perched on a rocky outcrop that can only be reached by a bridge. Again things went well - the Maitre D' greeted me with the classic Bond line - "Welcome back, Mr Twining. Your usual table?" He showed us to a small table on a private balcony with an unbelievable view over the sea. The Sommelier even complemented me on my choice of wine - "Excellent choice, Monsieur Twining. The spiciness will offset the richness of the beef perfectly" - as if I was Robert Parker. So far, so Bond.

And then I got the bill.

All 565 Euros of it. That's $895 or £448 in real money. Victoria's bloody caviar had cost 300 Euros. We'd misread the menu and thought it was 10 Euros for ten grams, not 10 Euros a gram. That's almost a street price. Bond, of course would have just won the necessary cash in a bet with a crippled megalomaniac or had it flown in by a busty intern at the Treasury. No such luck for me. Instead I had to play it cool and make it look like this was the sort of bill I regularly fielded. A sort of Monte Carlo equivalent of a trip to the local chippy.

Things got worse when I got back to the hotel to get changed for the casino. Don't forget that this was to be the realisation of a long held ambition to play the tables in the most famous casino in the world. Not to mention adding to the list of Bond locations I've visited (what do you mean that's sad?) Then I realised. I'd forgotten my cuff links. My big Bond moment, and my cuffs were flapping around my wrists like Austin bloody Powers. It was too late to buy any replacements as all the shops were shut. So I had to wear paperclips instead. Double O my ass.

The casino itself was beautiful. Truly amazing. The clientele a little less attractive - the men (mostly Russian) were as old and fat as the women (mostly knockout) were young and thin. But as you can imagine, feeling somewhat self-conscious that everyone would think I was being sponsored by Staples and having seen Victoria hoover down 300 Euros of raw fish eggs, I wasn't exactly feeling like bigging it up on the tables. Even so, we decided to chance our arm and in true Bond fashion, gamble our way out of trouble. We lost a hundred Euros in about two minutes flat. License to lose.

With the gambling not working out, I headed to the toilets to research their layout and complete my original mission. Anyone interested in seeing what they actually look like should click here. I hope you like them, despite having to turn your head sideways - they cost marginally less to produce than the first surface shots of the moon. With the "blueprints" safely stored away for future use, I returned to the table for one last spin of the wheel. But as I placed my pathetic little chip on the table and prayed for a miracle, the man next to me smiled through his cigar smoke and whispered conspiratorially.

"Tiffany?"

This was it. The code word from the Russian sleeper agent I'd been praying for. What was the correct response? Breakfast? Lamp? Then I realised he was looking down at my cuff links.

"Tiffany?" He repeated?

"What these?" I smiled, nonchalantly, then lied. "No I have these made by a man in Vienna."

He nodded wisely.

"Very nice," A pause. "I have a man in Vienna too. He makes my ammunition." He gave the slight bulge under his left arm a longing pat.

I looked around, desperate for someone to have witnessed or overheard a classic Bond exchange. But Victoria was gazing dreamily at the Formula One driver across the room betting the gross domestic product of Liberia on the turn of a card.

But then that's the thing about the best Bond moments. No-one ever gets to see them but you!

P.S. Report from Harrogate and my Bond panel soon!

Toilet Humour

A friend of mine once flew 5750 miles to get laid.

He (obviously only a man would do this) flew the 11.5 hours from London to Rio, did the dirty, then hopped back on the plane and headed home. We (his friends, although he may revise this description if he reads this) didn't even know he'd done it, until we chanced upon his passport one day and noticed the Brazilian stamp and the whole sorry tale came out.

At the time we made fun of him - you sad b*****d - flying to Brazil for a sh*g etc.- but later I came to see that there was something rather romantic about flying half-way around the world to see someone you love, even if the stingy sod did travel as a courier to avoid shelling out. I think he thought it was quite a grand gesture too, although the later revelation that the entire Oxford men's rowing team, who had accompanied the female team to Brazil, had had slightly less far to travel to enjoy similar favours, left a rather bitter taste in his mouth. And quite possibly hers too ...

Anyway, I mention all this because this weekend, I am flying 645 miles to ... go to the toilet. You think I'm joking, but I'm not. You see, there is a scene in my fourth book set in the casino in Monte Carlo. Set in the toilet at the casino at Monte Carlo to be more precise. And never having been to the toilet in the casino in Monte Carlo, I felt I needed to go to make sure I properly captured the mood and smell of the place (the casino that is) as well as the layout and fixtures and fittings of the facilities themselves.

I'm taking the missus, of course - you try having a conversation that starts "Darling, I'm going to Monaco for the weekend" and not end up having to bring your better half too! The whole trip is costing me a bloody fortune. Flights, helicopter transfers, hotels, food, gambling money, cocktails. You probably even have to pay to have a pee. The things I have to go through to in my unselfish drive for authenticity!

- good thriller - £6.99

- holiday and palm tree to read it under - £1000

- knowing that the description of the toilets is 100% accurate - priceless (except for me)

Giving good panel

There's a moment in the first Pirates of the Caribbean movie where Elizabeth Swann invokes the right to "parley" under the Pirate Code, and Captain Barbossa dismisses it as "more of a set of guidelines than actual rules."

Well, much the same could be said for the unwritten agreement that exists between writers invited to speak on a panel together. There are no written rules, more a set of commonly understood basic and principles:

1. Give everyone their fair chance to speak - don't hog the microphone or jump in at every opportunity, especially if some of the other panellists are a little shy
2. Promote but don't sell - don't hijack the session into a sales pitch at other people's expense
3. Humour not humiliation - don't belittle or criticise your fellow panellists to get a cheap laugh
4. Humility rather than smugness - don't batter everyone with your sales figures or the size of your advance (yes, I said advance) or with how clever or funny you are

Or maybe these principles aren't as well understood as they should be. At last weekend's Crimefest, I witnessed numerous instances of mike-hogging and selling, where well-behaved panellists lost out to some of their more vocal and pushy colleagues.

Even in my panel, (See Graveyard Shift), Michael Morley (a TV producer turned novelist who has just published his first novel, Spider) was guilty of reading out two paragraphs of his book at the end of the session. He was trying to illustrate how your imagination can lead to small things running away with themselves and suddenly acquiring a greater significance - a good point, granted. But surely not one that warranted the four other writers, all equally keen and deserving for the opportunity to promote their work, being forced to sit there while he turned the session into a private marketing event. The look on moderator Declan Hughes' face was priceless - the sort of strained smile that losing nominees give on Oscar night.

Maybe I'm just being too sensitive. Michael seemed like a nice guy - family man, successful and interesting TV career. In fact I later went and brought a copy of Spider, because I thought it sounded interesting. So this was probably just him being unthoughtful, rather than showing a deliberate lack of professional courtesy. The same probably couldn't be said for Tony Broadbent, a thriller writer who I shared a panel with a few years ago, who started every reply, interruption and "If I could just build on that ..." comment, with variations on, "Well as you will see in my novel X,..." or "Well when I was writing my novel X."

I think I was asked to sign about twenty books after that session. He had about five.

There is a God.