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Order of the Shadow Dragon

**New book news**

I’m delighted to announce a brand new epic fantasy adventure, Order of the Shadow Dragon, Book One of Legacy of Light & Shadow. It takes place in the same world as the Raincatcher’s Ballad, but it’s an independent story with new characters and settings we’ve never seen before. I’ve been working on this one for a while and can’t wait to unleash it – it comes out on November 28th.

In the meantime, check out the stunning cover by Trif Book Design:

Magic is the enemy. When he discovers all is not what it seems, can a young knight survive long enough to protect his kingdom from betrayal?

Adrian Navarro burns for revenge. The lone member of a defunct military sect, the nineteen-year-old can’t shake the horrific nightmare of witnessing his father’s murder by shadowy fiends.

So when a cataclysm devastates a neighbouring kingdom and his superiors blame a powerful sorceress, he gladly agrees to assassinate her to settle the score.

Striking out across another realm’s border, the relentless soldier tracks the evil wielder of the dark arts. But after he’s ambushed by magic-users and captured, he’s shocked to discover his single-minded crusade for vengeance could be built on a stunning lie…

As he’s confronted by soul-shattering truths, can Adrian prevail to embrace his greatest fear?

Order of the Shadow Dragon is the action-packed first book in the Legacy of Light & Shadow epic fantasy series. If you like heroes who grow, fast-paced thrills, and humour along with the danger, then you’ll love Steven McKinnon’s high-stakes adventure.

Book news, and a bit of personal background

The third book in the trilogy. The grand finale. The final verse of the Raincatcher’s Ballad.

On the 31st of August, Serena’s story ends with Choir of the Damned.

It’s a strange feeling.

Gallows, Damien and the rest of the crew have been in my head for 6 years or so (and Serena much longer), yet during the course of each book, they surprised me again and again. Every time I knew where their arc would take them, they’d say or do something that sent them barreling off-course.

And they’d pull me with them! I saw different corners of familiar places, ventured into new realms and explored deeper veins of in-world lore. These characters and their journeys shaped the story in ways I didn’t – couldn’t – foresee; like how the way they spoke to each other highlighted different pieces of their backstory, or how the things they’d laugh at together would reveal hidden similarties. The different facets of this rag-tag group’s personalities reflected things in the Raincatcher’s Ballad universe that I didn’t even know existed.

I’ve learned so much since writing this trilogy – about the craft of writing, about myself. Knowing I won’t embark on any more crazy adventures with these characters people?

Yeah, it’s a strange feeling.

Choir of the Damned took a lot longer to write than I’d planned. It took a lot out of me.

Writing is a great way to retreat from the world, but every once in a while, an author needs to take a break from their own imagination – and the majority of drafting took place amidst the uncertainty of the Covid-19 pandemic.

With the rest of the world closed and nowhere physical to escape to, I have to admit, I struggled. The words did not come easily. Why couldn’t I concentrate? Why were things that I’d meticulously planned and set up in previous books refusing to coalesce? Cue lots of mood swings, word-scrapping and fruitless plot-wrangling.

With not much else to do and my local gym closed, I turned my focus to home workouts and better eating habits (readers familiar with Boldly Going Nowhere will remember my mental health struggles and how I have a tendency to use the gym as a refuge, for better or worse). My diet itself has never been too bad, but Gods above, I did not portion correctly.

After a while, I started working with a personal trainer. For the first time in my life, I tracked exactly what was going into my body. I cut calories, built muscle and worked on problem areas.

Workout apps and long, urban walks became the norm. And – after a few weeks of leaving it smouldering in the corner – the creative furnace roared again. The characters who’d spent more than half a decade living inside my head came back fully armed with new things to say, solutions and good ideas.

From then, the words spilled out faster than I could type them. Plot points resolved, new faces appeared and I uncovered yet more of the world that I swear I created.

Anyway, I guess the point is this: Take the time to look after yourself. It pays back tenfold, and not always in obvious ways. I’m happier, healthier, and Choir of the Damned is all the better for it. I’m immensely proud of it.

See you on August 31st.

Interview with Lee C Conley – Fall Into Fantasy

Lee C Conley is one of a bunch of great authors taking part in the Fall into Fantasy (and SFF) promo this month, where we’ve got together with fellow authors we respect to offer a high-quality selection of free books and samples, running Nov 13th – 30th.

As part of the promo, we’re also hosting interviews to let the world know more about the authors involved, so you readers know exactly what you’re getting yourselves into. Today I’ve got a short interview with Lee C Conley to share. Read on!

What do you write and what have you written?

Hello, my name is Lee and I am the author of The Dead Sagas series. The Dead Sagas is my debut series, and  contains the novels A Ritual of Bone and A Ritual of Flesh. It is a perfect example of my brand of grim fantasy horror. 

What makes something a uniquely Lee C Conley book?

I write a blend of grimdark fantasy and horror. Most of my work is primarily horror in style but the settings are usually very much grimdark fantasy. I also write other fantasy, some sci-fi and contemporary horror also, but the majority of my work is certainly on the darker side.

And tell us a bit about your Fall into Fantasy offer…

I also write short stories, and my offering to this particular promo is an e-book of the short story titled A Promise: Once more into the Dark. It’s the story of a nameless warrior who must overcome a past addiction and return to face the horrors and fiendish monsters that dwell in the darkness once more. Will he survive with his sanity intact to return to the family that saved him?

When you’re writing, who do you like to read?

I predominantly read fantasy, I like it dark and grim, much like my own writing. I also enjoy sci-fi, and horror, and all things in between. I am studying a degree in creative writing so alongside my reading for pleasure I am currently exploring a wide variety of literature, but fantasy would be my biggest genre, it just keeps pulling me back and is the genre I have always loved the most.

Where else can we find you?

Website – www.leeconleyauthor.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/LeeConleyAuthor/

Twitter: @LongswordLee  or  https://twitter.com/LongswordLee

Instagram: @LeeConleyAuthor  or  https://www.instagram.com/leeconleyauthor/

Goodreads: www.goodreads.com/author/show/14649012.Lee_Conley

Reddit: u/LeeConleyAuthor or  https://www.reddit.com/user/LeeConleyAuthor

Amazon link: author.to/LeeCConley

Lee is a musician and writer in Lincolnshire, UK. He lives with his wife Laura and daughters Luna and Anya in the historic cathedral city of Lincoln. Alongside a lifetime of playing guitar and immersing himself in the study of music and history, Lee is also a practitioner and instructor of historic martial arts and swordsmanship. After writing his advanced guitar theory textbook The Guitar Teachers Grimoire, Lee turns his hand to writing fiction. Lee is one of the founders of Bard of the Isles Literary Magazine and is now also studying a degree in creative writing while working on his debut fantasy series The Dead Sagas, which includes the novels A Ritual of Bone and A Ritual of Flesh, as well as also generally writing speculative fiction and horror.

Book review: The Guns Above by Robyn Bennis

The Guns Above is a secondary world military fantasy, kind of like Steampunk meets the Napoleonic wars. There’s no magic here, but it features airships battles, humour, and dialogue that bounces back and forth like a frantic game of table tennis.

It’s not a grimdark story by any means, but the books I thought of the most while reading this were Joe Abercrombie’s First Law novels. Like that series, our protagonists include a tough, experienced war veteran who has a better instinct for war than the army’s inept and arrogant officers, and a preening, shallow fop who’s only interested in himself until he gets a taste of the real world. Archetypes we’ve seen before, but ones that possess a lot of potential to do something fresh with – which the author does.

Captain Josette Dupre shoulders the bulk of the narrative’s weight – as the first female airship captain, she has to contend with institutionalised sexism, skeptical crew members, and an army general who would love nothing more than to see her crash and burn (literally) to prove that women shouldn’t be on the frontlines.

Enter the general’s nephew, Lord Bernat. Initially only concerned with earning more money to fund his lavish and work-free lifestyle, Bernat is seconded to Josette’s crew to provide intelligence to his uncle. Josette sees right through his pretences, but the challenges they face aboard their airship eventually fosters a mutual respect. You can tell where the narrative is going, but seeing each character overcome their flaws and warm to one another is the best part of the story.

The language is clear and easy to connect with, though there’s perhaps slightly too much detail on how airships are held together in the earlier chapters. (That said, during battle scenes, this background knowledge does a good job of making us wince every time we read about a splintering piece of wood or burst water bag). The humour keeps the tone mostly light throughout, but there’s a welcome vein of snarky humour, and a few gruesome descriptions of injuries. This helps keep things grounded and believable.

Are there any negatives? Well, I found much of the supporting cast pretty two-dimensional, primarily the crew members of the Mistral who’re named but not given much of a personality beyond their job descriptions. This is only a minor niggle, as the pace kept me from dwelling on that too much. Additionally, the enemy army isn’t given much in the way of personality or motivation, but this is partly addressed early on when Dupre reels off a list of previous enemies and territories that have changed hands over the course of several years, which serves to underline the theme of war being pointless (who cares who the enemy is if killing ’em nabs you a promotion or a new medal, right?).

The Guns Above is an enjoyable yarn when it gets going, and the battle scenes and banter between its two main characters ensures you won’t get bored. Oh, and I love that cover art.

Disclaimer: Links may be affiliated to Amazon – that doesn’t mean I’ve been compensated for including them here, it just means they’ll send a few pennies my way if you decide to buy something.

The SPFBO

Let’s jump in: SPFBO stands for “Self-Published Fantasy Blog-Off”, a contest spearheaded by fantasy author Mark Lawrence.

How does it work?

300 authors submit their indie-published book, which is then randomly assigned to one of 10 fantasy book review blogs.

I’m with you so far. Then what?

Over the course of many months, each blog will look at their allocation of books (though they won’t necessarily read them from beginning to end, or review them all, just as a literary agent wouldn’t when going through a pile of submissions).

After going through their assigned entries, each blog will put forward a finalist, which will then be reviewed by the 9 remaining blogs. When all finalists are reviewed, whichever title has the highest average score is crowned The Winner. In a contest involving 300 titles, just being among the 10 finalists is an incredible achievement!

Great! So, uh… What does the winner get out of it?

Good question! And the answer’s simple:

The Prize.

And what’s the Prize?

The publicity and exposure of being reviewed on 10 highly regarded fantasy blogs!

And what’s the actual prize?

Meeting people and joining the community!

And what’s actually the actual prize?

That would be the Selfie Stick Award.

This mystical relic bestows upon its wielder all kinds of powerful sorcery, ranging from poking people in the leg to stirring cups of tea:


Behold! Pictured here with Jonathan French’s SPFBO 2016 winner The Grey Bastards
Photo courtesy of Mark Lawrence.

Amazing! Where can I find out more?

A deeper explanation of the contest can be found on Mark Lawrence’s website, and the SPFBO Facebook group is just a click away. If you’re on Twitter, you can keep up to date by searching #SPFBO.

So, there we have it – a run-down of the competition.

Let’s get personal for a moment. Entering Symphony of the Wind into this year’s contest is the best decision I’ve made in my indie career, and that’s an opinion I formed before Fantasy Book Review selected it as its finalist. Hells, it was the best decision I made before the book was a semi-finalist – and that’s all down to the people.

With that in mind, the SPFBO 2018 finalists are going to spend some time over the next few days to talk about our experiences a little, and highlight a few books we’ve picked up along the way. Like any competition, gems slip through the net – especially when 300 books get narrowed down to just 10 – so I hope you find something you like from these chosen few.

Servant of Rage

A. Z. Anthony’s Servant of Rage is a gritty epic. I discovered it when I was scoping out Fantasy Book Review’s crop entrants, and its Abercrombie/Iggulden-style aesthetic leapt out to me. Adam Weller at Fantasy Book Review said: “If the idea of a Highlander movie that takes place in the world of the Dothraki sounds appealing, then you should absolutely read this story. It’s a fast-moving, ultra-violent fight fest.” What’s not to love?

Wondrous

If YA portal fantasy is more your thing, then I urge you to check out Wondrous by Travis M. Riddle. YA isn’t a genre I’m very familiar with, but I bought this one purely through chatting with the author on Twitter, which prompted me to check out his work. (No “BUY MY BOOK!” barrages here; Travis and I have, between us, written 95,000 words on the topic of Final Fantasy in a Twitter chat. He likes IX, I like VII, we both like VIII, and Fran dies a lot in XII.)

Moroda

Speaking of Final Fantasy, L. L. McNeil sent me a signed paperback copy of Moroda. It’s been my “currently reading” entry on Goodreads since forever – I promise I’ll read it when I carve out time to enjoy it properly! – and it’s shaping up to be a fun, airship-laden adventure filled with a ragtag bunch of disparate characters – just like the aforementioned video game series. And after reading so many gritty, grimdark tales recently, I think it’ll be the perfect palate cleanser.

I’d like to extend a thank you to Mark Lawrence for doing this, and a big thank you to every blog and reviewer involved in the competition since 2015 – I don’t envy the volume of work that goes into this undertaking each year, and it’s the bloggers who make the contest the success it’s been.

I’ve been following SPFBO since its second iteration. I’ve also been a member of various writing classes, forums and Facebook groups over the years, and I can say that this is the first time I’ve felt part of a writing community. As I said earlier, that’s the true prize of the competition (Selfie Sticks notwithstanding), regardless of who ends up topping the leader board.

Finally, thank you to all the readers of our books – you’re why we do this, and I sincerely hope you’ve found something to enjoy from this year’s competition. Tomorrow, Megan Crewe will let us know her thoughts and highlights – be sure to tune in!

Steven McKinnon

PS: Amazon links will contain my affiliate information – this means I may get a small payment if you decide to buy anything, but it doesn’t cost you any extra. Pinky promise.

An open letter to fantasy fans everywhere

We are the finalists of the 2018 Self Published Fantasy Blog Off, also known as SPFBO 2018. The contest has brought us together from across the globe and the far-flung corners of our favorite genre to celebrate speculative fiction and the possibilities of self-publishing.

We believe that independent publishing is a force for good in our industry. The direct connection between authors and their fans yields greater choice for readers, drives new business models for writers, and helps create new audiences for books. That’s especially true in fantasy, where new subgenres and tropes are rising up thanks to self-published authors and their fans. Independent authors are working alongside traditional publishers and authors to create a bigger, better, and more inclusive fantasy community.

If you’re looking for evidence of the quality and creativity available from independent authors, look no further than our fellow contestants in SPFBO 2018. Many of the judges this year have remarked on the great quality of books they’ve encountered, and the challenge of whittling down their entries to one finalist. Whether you want something epic or intimate, funny or frightening, grim or uplifting, there’s a fantasy book for you among this year’s SPFBO. We encourage you to find it.

To that end, we will take this time to draw attention to some fantastic books cut from this year’s competition. Over the next week, many of us will highlight some of the deserving fantasy novels of SPFBO 2018. It’s a chance to salute other indie authors who could have easily been signing this letter had the die been cast differently. Please consider giving them a shot, or any other entry that caught your eye. When the genre grows, we all win.

In closing, we’d like to thank the indomitable Mark Lawrence for founding this amazing competition and for his continued efforts to highlight independent fantasy authors. We’d also like to thank the contest organizers and judges for their hard work, thoughtful reviews, and consummate professionalism. And finally, we’d like to thank fantasy readers everywhere, without whom we could not pursue our shared passion. This wonderful community makes it all possible, and for that we are forever grateful.

Signed,

Steven McKinnon

Megan Crewe

Angie Grigaliunas

Barbara Kloss

Patrick LeClerc

Devin Madson

J. Zachary Pike

Craig Schaefer

Mike Shel

Keith Ward

In spas, no-one can hear you scream

Had my first massage treatment in a spa the other day. It was in the Hilton, and I’m not going to lie — I felt like the fanciest bastard who has ever lived (even if the staff, guests and tablecloths could tell I’m a wee goon from Possil).

Don’t know if you’ve ever been to a hotel spa before, but they lure you into their perfumed den and get you relaxed and chilled with cups of spring water, candles — and bowls filled to the brim with wee love heart sweeties.

I mean really, mister Hilton, if you’re going to woo me with Haribo, woo me with wee sour cherries or cola bottles. Even a fried egg ffs.

Once seated on the swankiest yet most uncomfortable seat devised by human hands, they make you fill in a lengthy and comprehensive health questionnaire — because apparently the best way to relax you is by first forcing you to confront your own mortality.

The choices for a massage are “Gentle, Medium, Firm”, and you tick a box if you want your therapist to talk to you as they do it, which I suppose is a bit like having your doctor thumb your prostate at a pressure to your liking and then asking if you want to talk about the weather.

(“Firm, in a clockwise motion” and “only if you call me Sandra”.)

They escort you down to the leisure area and give you a big white housecoat (not “dressing gown”) that is advertised as being as soft as the kiss of an angel on a baby’s cheek but is, in fact, as rough as a Rottweiler’s bark after it’s just wiped its arse with sandpaper.

I mean really, mister Hiltmeister, chuck a wee bit of Lenor in the machine.

It’s around this point that I realise this is the least masculine I have ever been – including the time(s) I drank a strawberry daiquiri.

After you cloak yourself in the Bristly Rash Coat of Jaggy Doom, they escort you to a wee seat by the pool, where you realise the sheer paleness of your skin is probably a legitimate symptom for about 9 different illnesses. But even while you wait, the staff bend over backwards to make sure you’re comfortable — talking to you in a calming whisper, asking if you’re okay, can they get you anything, and you nodding, saying no and hoping they don’t stare at your pale and skinny turkey legs and wonder where the house coat ends and your legs begin.

But even better than excellent customer service is that, for your viewing pleasure, they let guests’ kids run about rampant and deck it on the floor right in front of you!

HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!

So then you’re ferried into a dark room where you need to peel back thirty six inches of towel to get to the bed – only for them to tell you turn around because you’re not supposed to get a back massage by lying on your back. You turn around, managing to move as gracelessly as humanly possible while people watch, and lie on your front. The wee hole in the bed that cradles your face is like having a plunger fused to your chin, a bit like when that auntie you only see once a year kisses you on the cheek, because to her YOU WILL ALWAYS BE SEVEN.

So the massage starts and it’s… Interesting. It’s a woman doing it and I picked “firm” (because if you’re going to get a relaxing massage and dream about strawberry daiquiris, you’re as well doing it in the most masculine way possible) and her fingers knead and poke and prod and it’s… Interesting.

And tickly.

Pre-massage. Look at how relaxed I am!
It did not last.

One touch and my entire being spasms. Pretty sure I managed to elbow my kneecaps via my earlobes, all the while debating whether I should giggle or greet or scream AND MY GOD WHY DIDN’T WE DECIDE ON A SAFE WORD BEFOREHAND?

*Puts sunglasses on* In spas, no-one can hear you scream.

And just as I’m about to shout out for an adult, she switches up and starts karate chopping my back – and it’s absolutely sublime.

HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!

“What are you laughing at?” she says.
The wee guy that decked it. I was laughing at the wee guy that decked it.
“…Nothing.”

And then it’s all over. I walk out tender, spent and a little bit emotional.

I decide to jump into the Jacuzzi — because of course there’s a Jacuzzi — and there’s an old guy with a gold medallion in the Jacuzzi — because of course there’s an old guy with a gold medallion in the Jacuzzi — and I expect him to talk about cigars, Bentleys, investing in the futures market and how the working class don’t know how wonderful they have it, when all I want to do is sit among the bubbles and pretend I’m farting.

But he didn’t, he just said the pool area is reasonably priced for a Hilton, then he gets up and leaves and I realise I didn’t pay to come into the Jacuzzi.

Not going to lie. It’s been a week, and I still feel like a fancy bastard.

Interview with Spectrum Books

Howdy!

Last week I was fortunate enough to chat to Nadine Matheson at Spectrum Books.

Nadine is a writer, lawyer and, like all cool people, graphic novel aficionado. (Her latest book, The Sisters, is available here.) We talked about indie publishing, books, inspirations, favourite fictional characters, comedy, comics, and – most importantly – Batman. You can listen to our chat right here, or download it from iTunes.

Oh – there’s a chance I may have dropped one or two tiny little hints at what I’m currently working on to bring my secret quest to take over the world into Phase III for my next book, so, y’know, there’s that.

As always, thanks for tuning in!

 

 

 

 

I love you.

Comedy, crotch water, and the hubris destroyed by taxi drivers

I was fortunate enough to perform a gig at The Stand Comedy Club two weeks ago. It was their weekly amateur night – ‘Red Raw’ – and tickets had all sold out, so I knew the crowd would be good (and, hopefully, merciful).

So, I’m sitting among the audience with a glass of water. The nerves bubble away but I’ve got everything rehearsed, so I feel like there’s not too much to worry about – as long as I don’t do anything monumentally stupid to screw it up.

AND THEN A BIG GOB OF WATER STEAMS DOWN MY GLASS AND LANDS RIGHT ON MY CROTCH.

Oh. My. Fuck.

I’m about to go onstage in front of 200 people to try and pretend I’m funny…

And I look like I’ve just peed myself.

Before I can do anything to fix it, it’s time. I slip behind the curtain and into the dressing room. My heart starts drumming like a Russian Olympian’s after they’ve OD’d on all of the steroids. Contrary to popular belief, the dressing room is in fact NOT full of topless groupies throwing themselves at people. It’s comedians we’re talking about – the room is full of nervous twitching, scribbling, incomprehensible muttering, awkward glances, and at least one PTSD trauma flashback.

It’s at this time I decide to partake in the first of my six traditional pre-gig shits.

47 minutes later, I step back inside the dressing room and glance down. Yep! The crotch water has dried out! Happy day!

EXCEPT THAT IT’S NOW BEEN REPLACED BY BACKSPLASH FROM THE SINK.

Oh. My. Fuck.

I’m about to go onstage in front of 200 people to try and pretend I’m funny…

And I look like I’ve just peed myself.

Twice.

There’s someone I’ve performed with before in the room, a familiar face among the tense, anxious mumbling – which, I’ve just discovered, is happening exclusively in my head.

“Hello Steven!”

“Hello Dave!” I say, even though her name’s Tricia. Her eyes flick to the other side of the room. “Do you see who’s performing with us tonight?”

I turn to see where she’s looking, and-

Oh.

…It’s Frankie Boyle.

Frankie Boyle – famous Glaswegian comedian and star of Mock the Week – is sitting not six feet away from me!

He nods to me and says hello. I think I nod back, but I can’t be sure because I have given up all bodily control and it’s like I’ve just floated out my head and I’m staring down at myself.

Thankfully, this means I can see that my jeans have dried.

Less reassuring is the fact that I have just looked at the running order and – yep – I AM ON RIGHT BEFORE FRANKIE BOYLE IN FRONT OF A CROWD OF 200 PEOPLE JESUS STEVEN WHY DO YOU DO THIS TO YOURSELF IN WHAT LIFETIME DID YOU THINK THAT ANY OF THIS WAS A GOOD IDEA OMFG JUST RUN AND HIDE UNDER THE COVERS AND HAVE A COMFORTING TOFFEE CRISP OMFGGFGFGGFFFGFFGFFGAAAAAARRR

It’s around this time I decide to take the second of my six traditional pre-gig shits.

And the third, fourth, fifth, six and – because it’s a special occasion – seventh.

I hear the compere call my name. Adrenaline mingles with my nerves. In fact, the adrenaline actively flirts with the nerves, but the nerves don’t have a lot of time on their hands for such nonsense – this is a post-Tinder world after all, so they just look the adrenaline up and down, tell it to get its coat, take it out the back, and pump it to a mutually satisfying conclusion before coming back in to put their feet up and settle into my stomach with a smug grin on their face, because nerves are wee pricks like that, a bit that mate of yours who just invites himself over and you offer him a biscuit and hand him a Digestive and he barges past you to go to the kitchen and grabs one of the Fox’s Crunch Creams you’ve been saving for your wedding day and he doesn’t even eat it, he just smears it over his face and makes you watch and he cackles knowing you’ll need to put up with out of date, soggy Digestives for the rest of the week GOD TREVOR I HATE YOU SO MUCH.

This is the sort of thing that goes through your head during the fortnight’s walk onto a stage as a sea of expectant eyes gaze upon you.

I pick up the microphone, wee Nervey McNervington sitting there with a post-coital glow whispering “they hate you already” in my ear IN GREAT BIG CAPITAL LETTERS – and, for some reason, a French accent.

And I start talking.

And, somehow, the crowd starts laughing.

Time dissolves. Half of my 5 minutes has evaporated in the time it’s taken to write this sentence.

It’s… It’s going better than I could have hoped for. People laugh when I want them to! People say “aw” when I want them to! People are disgusted when I want them to be! Confidence flows through me like… I don’t know, I’ve never done drugs, so, eh, tea. Confidence flows through me like tea. Or water onto an unsuspecting crotch. Anyway, I’m loving every moment of it until…

Oh. My. Fuck.

I’m currently onstage in front of 200 people pretending I’m funny…

Frankie Boyle is waiting in the wings…

And the cable has just disconnected from my microphone.

OH DEAR LORD THE WIRE HAS JUST COME OUT THE MICROPHONE AND ONE THOUSAND PAIRS OF EYES ARE LOOKING STRAIGHT AT ME.

Le coq.

But then the strangest thing happens – the strangest, most beautiful of things.

The crowd applauds. They laugh. I fumble with the wire, stick it back in, regain the volume and crack a joke about it…

And they laugh some more!

Now, I don’t like to say things overly positive of myself because (a) I’m terrified I’ll sound arrogant (b) I’m Glaswegian and we simply Do Not Do That, and (c) the universe might implode.

But – at the risk of ending existence and sending us all into the fiery depths Hades – I think I did Quite Well Actually, Hope That’s Okay, Cheers Thanks Ta.

I’m on a bit of a high for the rest of the night. Even in the taxi home, I don’t just act like I’m on my phone when the driver attempts to speak to me. “I know your face,” he says, in a voice that makes me think he’s going to follow it up with “Any chance I can cut it off and wear it whilst frolicking amidst a frenetic blood orgy in tribute to my deceased mother, whose remains I keep propped up in her old favourite chair, as she gazes at me and whispers lullabies into my head every night as I waltz around the living room wearing the dress she died in?”

Turns out he just recognised me from a pub, but whatever.

Anyway, he asks me what I was up to – so I give him the short version of this story by removing the embarrassing stuff, i.e. 90% of it.

Doesn’t bat an eye lid. At the mere mention of Frankie Boyle, he cuts me off and tells me about how he used to chauffeur Henrik Larsson, Paul Gascoigne and just about every other football player who’s stepped foot in Glasgow, including the custom team I made up in FIFA 99 that had a blue and orange kit and were called “Glasgow Irn-Brunited”.

So that shut me up.

Moral of the story is: Don’t talk to taxi drivers.

(And big thanks The Stand and all the other acts.)