Review – The Corrupted Part Two

CorruptedIt’s not often I give up on a book, but I’ve stopped reading this half-way through. I have problems with the structure, the plotting and the writing. The only positive I can think of – and it’s the reason that I read The Corrupted after hearing it on BBC Radio 4 – is the way that it brings real life characters and events into the sleazy London underworld.

Let’s deal with structure first. It seems obvious to me that this was originally conceived as a screenplay and then adapted into a novel. The reader is subjected to a barrage of short scenes that rat-tat-tat at you like machine-gun fire. About a third of the way in I tired of this chopped narrative and it was only because I hate not finishing a book that I persisted.

The plot revolved around the tensions between Brian and his uncle Jack. This revealed itself in Brian’s attempts to coerce criminal associates or corrupt policemen to ‘off’ Jack, either by ‘taking him to the pig farm’ or ‘banging him up’. So many conversations; so many attempts; so many failures to act. Perlease, just get on and do it yourself, Brian. You’ve proved to be as much of a psychopath as your uncle.

In a lesser but equally annoying plotline, a succession of police officers drift in and out of the criminals’ world. The same policeman will sometimes enforce the law or will randomly decide to turn a blind eye. The one consistently honourable officer is such a cliché of rectitude that he is not credible.

As far as the writing is concerned, so many sentences hit their points home with the insane force of Brian wielding his meat cleaver. We get ‘show’, we get ‘tell’ and we get ‘tell’ again, all in the same sentence. Then, in case the dumb reader has missed the point, GF Newman gives a character a piece of explanatory dialogue to hammer the point home.

I think this may be the first one-star review I’ve given on Goodreads and it may be uncharitable. But that’s how this book made me feel.


05 2017

Do you know this woman?

This ILP_1931picture was taken at an Independent Labour Party (ILP) Summer School in 1930 or 1931. The man in the middle of the back row is the MP David Kirkwood and his fellow MP, James Maxton, is in the front. They were leading members of the (infamous?) Red Clydesider group of MPs.

As is typical of photographs of the time the women who appeared with them, presumably other members of the iLP and delegates to the summer school, are not named.

I am keen to find out the identities of any of the women but I’m particularly interested in the woman who is top left in the photograph. I think she may be my grandmother.

If you know the names of any of the women pictured please contact me via the contact page on this website or e-mail me directly on

I tell the full story of this photograph in my talk Rattling the Family Skeleton.

My novel No Mean Affair  is a fictional account of my grandmother’s relationship with another leading member of the Clydeside Reds, John Wheatley.


02 2017

Finding the Furlong Girls

FurlongsIn the Q and A session after my talk Rattling the Family Skeleton I’m often asked, “Why don’t you get a DNA test done to prove that John Wheatley is your grandfather?” My response is that, based on the circumstantial evidence that supports the story in my book No Mean Affair, it would be impertinent to ask any survivors of the Wheatley family to indulge me in this.

However, I have realised that my cousins on my father’s side could provide the answer. They are the children of my dad’s older sister, Millie, and her husband Patrick (Paddy) Furlong. Given that Millie clearly inherited her father’s dark looks and her children will indisputably be hers, it’s almost 100% certain that these cousins will have their grandfather Ireland’s genes. Consequently, if my genetic make up differs from theirs to the extent that we couldn’t share the same grandfather it gives credence to my dad’s story that he wasn’t his ‘father’s’ son.

I have had no contact with these cousins for over 50 years. Perhaps through the power of the internet I can find them. They were four sisters all with the maiden name ‘Furlong’. Patricia was the oldest and will likely be in her 70s. Next was Margaret whose married name was Sampson. She and the younger sisters Eleanor and Christine are likely to be in their 60s. One of them may have had the married name Beckley.

If I could find one of the sisters it would help solve the mystery my dad started with his ‘death-bed’ confession.

If you are one of the ‘Furlong girls’ or possibly know the whereabouts of one of them, please contact me via the contact page on this site or e-mail me



02 2017

The President Without Doubt

Trump Exec OrdersWhen I wrote Out of Such Darkness in 2010 I compared and contrasted the differences between America’s post 9/11 fear of Muslim terrorists and pre-war Germany’s victimisation of Jews. I travelled in the USA in the days after the attack on the twin towers and I was struck by how most US citizens were controlled in their responses to the tragedy. They realised that the crimes of the few did not belong to the many.

One of the characters in the book is a man driven by the certainty of his destiny and I tried to show that certainty without evidence, certainty based purely on faith or belief, is ultimately destructive.

President Trump is certain that he has one of the most powerful intellects in the world and he is certain that any deal he makes is the best deal that can be done, a great deal. He says he can make America great again because he is certain that it is true. He is certain that the crimes of a few Muslim extremists belong to the many. He is certainly a President without doubt.

Out of Such Darkness forecasts the arrival of a man like the Trump but not as President. (Let’s face it, you couldn’t have made this up seven years ago!) But it’s true to say that the themes of the book are even more relevant now than they were on the day it was published.

Out of Such Darkness (Patrician Press 2015) is available in paperback here and Kindle format here.



01 2017

Glasgow Rent Strike 1915

rent-strike-crowdIn 1915, while the world was at war, the owners of Glasgow’s tenement buildings put up the rents. They were taking advantage of the fact that the man in many of these tenant families now had a steady income because he had joined up. He may have been away at the front, but the family could collect his earnings at the post office. It was the first time they had a steady income and the landlords saw that their tenants could afford to pay more.

The women of Glasgow held a rent strike – one of the first examples of women organising to fight injustice – and they were supported by the local politicians from the Independent Labour Party. One of these was John Wheatley. If, as I have been told, my grandmother, Mary Ireland, was active politically in Glasgow at this time she would have helped organise the strike.

The following is a scene from my novel No Mean Affair in which John Wheatley and my mother are thrown together in the fight for justice.

Wheatley had chosen the McHugh’s as an example but it could as well have been any soldier’s family in Shettleston, Tollcross, Parkhead, St Rollox, the infamous Garngad – anywhere in East Glasgow. But, that day, it was to Mrs McHugh’s house that Danny limped alongside the twenty or so members of the Independent Labour Party. They could see something special was happening. Men drifted in to join them like tributaries feeding a river. It was if they were building a crowd for the football at Celtic Park. The men’s boots sparked on the flags as they hurried down the Shettleston Road.

The top of William Street was a sight to behold. Danny had never seen so many women collected together in one place. From their bonnets and shawls they were from the tenements. From the lowest ‘hairy’ to the highest ‘doilie’ they had marched down behind Mary.

Her shriek went up. ‘That’s him! Mr Wheatley!’ And a high-pitched holler such as would be heard in hell came from them. The men, more used to being massed in a crowd, stood to one side watching, as the women shook their fists and elbowed each other, all the time keeping up a flocking, mocking screech.

Wheatley put his hands up to silence them. ‘It’s good so many of you have come out in support of your sister, Mrs McHugh,’ he shouted. ‘If you will let me through to the front of the house, I can address the crowd and we shall make sure we send the landlords and their factors packing.’

They greeted this with another yell and the group parted. Mary took Wheatley by the arm and led him through to the front. Danny followed and felt the women’s slaps on his back. There was steam coming off the huddle of them trailing a strange mixed smell of the Parkhead Forge, tobacco and sour whisky. It was good to get through them and to the small area where Wheatley stood in front of the cottage.

Mrs McHugh looked old enough to be Wheatley’s mother but was probably fifteen years his junior. She had the look in her eyes as if Wheatley were a statue of Christ on the cross, tears streamed down her cheeks. She grasped his hand. ‘It’s wonderful what you are doing, Mr Wheatley.’ Mary elbowed her aside and stood rigid alongside Wheatley as they turned to face the crowd. Her face was flushed and her eyes sparked with excitement.

Extract from No Mean Affair (Foxwell Press 2012)


01 2017