Michael Logan

Novelist, Journalist and other things ending in -ist

Pratchett Prize day out

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One week after Apocalypse Cow won the Terry Pratchett Anywhere But Here, Anywhen But Now 1st Novel Prize along with Half Sick of Shadows, by David Logan, I have finally got it into my thick skull that I am going to be a published author.

Now, a measured, intelligent individual would think more carefully about what goes on his blog, as some people other than his wife may eventually start reading it. Not me! I am going to continue to spout utter tosh.

I wasn’t going to bore everybody with the details of last Tuesday, but I’ve had a few requests for more information, so I suppose I must.

First, though, I’d like to categorically deny the many accusations that the ginger Logan mafia stitched up the competition by kidnapping the judges’ family members and holding them at gunpoint in the children’s section of Waterstones Piccadilly. We used knives, and locked them in the basement.
The day of the award was very long, stretched out by the fact I spent the kind of restless night a child has waiting for Santa to squeeze down the chimney. In my case, it felt like Santa had gorged his beardy face on one too many mince pies and caught his flabby gut on the brickwork, so long did the night last. Finally, however, dawn broke and we jumped on an Easy Jet flight (hey, we’re still poor) down to London.

Much of the day was spent in nervous anticipation, partly in our friends’ Perry and Matthew’s flat, partly in Paula’s Café in Hoxton, where I alternated between stuffing fish and chips into my mouth and practicing my author face in case I won:

I clearly have some work to do, as my attempts to look authorial fell well short and landed in the area of “squinting into the sun/ready for a nap”.  Rest assured, I will be studying other author portraits to search for just the right air of gravitas, although maybe I would be better off sticking with my usual gormless expression since my book is perhaps not the most serious work of fiction you will ever read.
Happily, P&M’s flat turned out to be located in a neighbourhood ideal for a location in my next novel (in progress), so I managed to get some research in, which involved sitting on their balcony, smoking and drinking tea, while I took lots of pictures. Half-arsed research over, and unable to sit still for longer than a millisecond, I hauled Nats down to Waterstones Piccadilly early. It turns out this was a good move, because it gave me the opportunity to chat with the lovely Dave Beynon, whose novel The Platinum Ticket was also shortlisted (Dave would have been an equally worthy winner, and I am sure he will have no problem finding a publisher for his work). 
It turns out we had both been desperately searching for clues as to our chances, stopping just short of consulting the tea leaves, and continued to analyse every eyebrow twitch and glance in our direction from the Transworld people.
Sir Terry obviously doesn’t watch the X-Factor or Britain’s Got Talent, and thankfully did not insert a screamingly tense 30-second pause before announcing the names of the winners – although I must admit, I did feel a lot like a talent show contestant, as the following picture taken by Nats just before the announcement shows:
David Logan was announced as the first of the joint winners, leaving one place for the remaining five shortlisted candidates. When Sir Terry said the second novel had won “despite the awful pun”, I knew it was me. To be honest, I can’t remember too much about what came next. I know I made a short speech. I can only hope I didn’t say anything too stupid, although the chances of such an occurrence are quite slim. I know I posed for some pictures. You may notice that my cheesy grin somewhat ruins the moody vibe of the black clothes sported by the two winners and Sir Terry, so I at least know I was happy.
I then had a brief chat with Sir Terry, a longer chat with his right-hand man Rob (henceforth to be known as ‘The Enforcer’), and Marianne and Lynsey from Transworld, and was introduced to Simon, the editor who will face the unenviable task of knocking my manuscript into shape. David and I, along with our family and friends, were the last to leave the bar, which I can assure you had absolutely nothing to do with the free booze and canapés being handed out.

P&M took us to the Vista Bar at Trafalgar Hotel, a rooftop joint boasting amazing views of London’s skyline, where we were joined by our old pal Carol and drank quite a few cocktails before staggering out onto the streets in search of a taxi.

All-in-all, one of the best days of my life – behind my marriage to Natalie and the birth of our daughter Charlotte.

The many faces of Michael Logan

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There are many Michael Logans out there, as a quick trawl through Google Images in an idle moment revealed, and so many magnificent alternate lives that could have been mine, had I been just a shade more fortunate.

Of the many Michaels out there, I have selected the finest specimens – Michaels I myself would be proud to be – and present them here to you, one by one in order not to dissipate their glory.

Wrestler Michael 

Behold my splendour! Gape at my awesome muscles! Marvel at my two-tone dye job! Gasp as I crush a walnut with MY BARE HANDS! Tremble as you imagine toweling down my sweaty body! Admire what might be a beard or just some lint clinging to the underside of my lip! Marvel at my fake pearls, purchased at the WalMart conveniently located a five-minute pick-up-truck ride from my trailer park! Do not confuse my fearsome stare with Strabismus, which I was diagnosed with as a child but have managed to completely disguise by being COMPLETELY FUCKING HARD!

Ejaculate as you imagine me and my live-in partners and wrestle buddies, Hamshank Hank and Devon Casey, writhing naked together beneath the cowhide blanket that covers our grubby bed! Nod in sympathy as you imagine all the hair that clogs the drains in our shower, which I have to pick out because Hank and Devon are filthy! Cluck in disgust as you picture Hank stealing my spare pair of pink shorts because he soiled his (again) after drinking 20 Pabst Blue Ribbon and passing out on the floor, weeping and dreaming of what could have been if only he had the talent, in front of WWE SmackDown!

Do not be taken in by the cheesy glamour of this other wrestling Michael Logan (aka The Canadian Gigolo, or the Sexual Intellectual) who is totally nowhere near as sexy as me! Laugh at his attempt to boost his sex appeal by getting his granny to lather on the lipstick and kiss his nasty speedos! Mock the fact his wristbands are way too tight, making his hands a completely different colour from the rest of his permatan body!

And, finally: send me some money, as my wrestling career hasn’t taken off the way it should have, I’m three months behind on my alimony payments and my Doberman needs a new kidney!

Favourite World Cup moments so far

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My two favourite moments from Cape Town so far came not at the France v Uruguay game, which was a turgid affair with little atmosphere – due in no small part to the vuvuzelas drowning out singing and the lack of foreign fans. They came out on the streets.

Cape Town’s Fan Fest was full from early in the morning on Friday, so come kick-off thousands of fans were milling around outside. They surrounded the fence, many of them climbing up onto trees to catch a glimpse of South Africa on the big screen, which was framed by the imposing table mountain. One enterprising fan climbed up onto the concrete roof of the neighbouring bus station, egged on by the rowdy crowd below, who were honking their infernal horns furiously. Three policemen clambered atop a fire engine to talk him down. Their efforts quickly became half-hearted, then non-existent, when they realised they could watch the game from their vantage point.

On Saturday evening, I went down to the V&A Waterfront to watch the England v USA game in the Dubliner bar, where I met a lovely American couple, Jamie Marie and Stephen Turner, who were watching the game with their 16-month-old son.

As we chatted at half-time, a pissed-up, fat, sweaty female English fan, wearing a nasty muffin top, heaved herself up onto one of the round tables. She was part of a group of equally fat and drunk men, whose face paint was running – together they looked like a group of paedophile clowns. They had earlier been lambasting a bunch of US kids draped in flags, who seemed bewildered by the wide repertoire of songs at the command of the English fans. The kids could only respond with chants of “U-S-A”, to which the English replied: “You’ve only got one chant.”

Upon seeing the drunken English fan gyrating seedily and wobbling perilously close to the edge of the table, a clean-cut young American girl – they were all clean-cut, with nice teeth and good skin – took to her table. While she was far prettier and slimmer, she was clearly far more uncomfortable – and sober – than her competitor. She shuffled around awkwardly as the steamer peeled off her jersey and did the bump-and-grind. The English fan probably would have taken more clothes off as the whole bar cheered, but the show ended before it could escalate to pale, flabby nudity. The US girl leapt off, fully-clothed and clearly relieved.

The game may have ended 1-1, but is was clearly 1-0 to the English fans.

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