Why I Love Tony Blair

No, not ex-British Prime Minister Tony Blair, obviously. If I loved him, I wouldn’t have killed him so blatantly and violently.

In a book. Not in real life. You would have heard about that. And, for the record, I wish no harm upon the sneaky, power-crazed war-monger, either. Because I believe that life has a way of quietly going about its own special kind of retribution with no need of the assistance of the likes of you and me. And it would only make a martyr out of the blasted chap and no one wants that.

But anyway.

No. The affection to which I refer is for my own self published novel, Who Shot Tony Blair? It wasn’t that my publisher didn’t want it. In fact, it was to their great chagrin that I published it on a whim one evening via that great tax-avoiding bastard in the sky. (Not God – the other one, much more popular. You know.) And why I did that is still a bit of a surprise, even to myself. It was helpful to know that publishing a novel can be achieved in under half an hour, should the fancy take one. I learned that, certainly. But that was a by-product of the experience.


You see, I knew that this was the last thing I would be publishing in a while. And I also knew that, as raw and unpolished as it is, I couldn’t leave the writing world without this being out there. There has been little, if any, promotion on my part. A handful of enthusiasts, bless their cotton socks, have made a little song and dance here and there – for that, dear chaps, I salute you. Mind you, I backed out of all promotion and publicity for the much-vaunted and highly celebrated PorterGirl collection, Old College Diaries. Which leads us all to suspect that maybe I’m not overly fond of promotion and marketing.

Well, what’s new? I hear all authors cry. No one likes that! And you would all be right. Everyone hates that. It’s just that I’ve made the decision that I’m not going to do that any more. Why? There are lots of reasons. I am under no obligation to explain. In the words of mighty wordsmiths Run DMC – it’s like that, and that’s the way it is.

But back to Tony Blair. Who Shot Tony Blair? started as a drunken joke in a shed and continued as a huge in-joke as a blog series, featuring a cast almost entirely consisting of online and offline friends and family. It was the only major thing I have written purely for the sheer joy of writing, with a complete disregard for the the rules and norms of storytelling and literature. It is pure, unadulterated fun on a page, conceived and written before the whole Brexit debacle but with that very much at the forefront of proceedings. There is no real rhyme or reason for it at all – although it has proved uncannily prophetic in recent times. I wrote it for me and my readers. It is by no means a perfect or even a competent novel, but that is all of its charm. To place it in the hands of an editor and publisher would erode the sharp edges and jarring imperfections that make the book what it is. Which is joyful bloody nonsense, with no respect for either the authority of the state or the authority of the publishing industry. If this should be my swan song, then I delight in the fact that it is me, unfiltered and unrepentant in concept and prose.

I have written far better books. I have written much more accomplished things for fun – Poirot parodies Never A Cross Word  and Hide And Seek , for example. But part of me will never be more proud of anything than Who Shot Tony Blair? It is, without doubt, the most honest thing I have produced in my writing career. And, really, when you’ve done that, where do you go from there?



Regular readers will notice that I have turned off comments on my blog. This is not because I don’t love the interactions and bloody marvellous conversations that have made many of us firm friends – not to mention being more interesting than the posts themselves! My life has changed and no longer affords me the pleasure of your company in the way it did before. Please do not think my lack of interaction on your sites means that you matter any the less to me. Find me on Facebook (Lucy Brazier) Twitter (@Portergirl100) or email lucy@verticalrecordings.com and I will be delighted to stay in touch. 

If There’s One Thing I Can’t Stand…

Anyone who knows me at all will know that there is certainly more than one thing I can’t stand. In fact, the list of things that give me the pip is quite extensive. But the one thing I especially can’t stand today is the promotion of one’s own work, specifically the PorterGirl trilogy which I believe is released today. Or maybe tomorrow. I’m past the point of caring, quite frankly.

I should be in Florida right now, personally extolling the virtues of the world of Old College to an eager international audience. Needless to say, I am not. I am here in Blighty, drinking tea at a rate of knots whilst looking at the clock and wondering whether or not it is a decent enough hour to be opening wine. It’s not like I haven’t already gone through this charade once already this year, with Sinister Dexter. The enthusiasm to go through it all again is none existent, and this comes from a girl whose capacity for mindless enthusiasm knows no bounds.

Well-meaning friends and acquaintances offer to interview me, host me on their sites and radio shows and suggest all manner of lovely and brilliant ways to bring my latest tome to the masses. These people are wonderful and their faith in me touching, if misplaced. Which is why my polite refusals appear all the more ungrateful. Believe me, I am not ungrateful. It’s not you, it’s me.

The problem is, I really don’t want to talk about my books. I don’t want to talk about how or why I became a writer (but if you must know, I didn’t become a writer. I just am one). And it baffles me completely as to why anyone would be the remotest bit interested in my influences, where I get my inspiration or what I think about this, that, the other or even anything at all. There is not a single question any interviewer could possibly ask me right now that I would actually want to answer. Unless that question is ‘Do you fancy lunch?’

It is times like this that I question my ability – and even my desire – to be a professional writer. Don’t get me wrong, I can string together a sentence and, at times, express deep and profound things on the page that I could never hope to do in person. Writing for me is a compulsion, a kind of therapy and a source of great joy and amusement. But sometimes actually being a writer is depressing. I couldn’t tell you why, it is just how it is. What am I actually achieving, really? What good am I doing in the world? Is this really a worthy and fulfilling use of my time and skills? There is the gnawing thought that I should be applying myself to something far more worthwhile.

I imagine that over the next couple of days I shall have to put on my big girl pants and persevere with plastering on the sunny disposition for which I am so well known, joyfully announcing to anyone who will listen that I have another book out. It is what is expected of me and I am a stickler for honouring my obligations. Until then, I shall be playing music at an unsociable volume and wondering why when everything is going so right, everything feels anything but.

If you feel that this post is about more than a disgruntled reaction to literary commercialism, then you would be right. It’s okay to not always be okay. And even I am sometimes not okay. I mean, I’m okay, there’s no cause for concern. But behind the bowler hat and cheeky grin sits a real life person who occasionally has just had enough. I wrote this to get it out of my system and it helped enormously. I never intended to publish it, but I have – in case there are other people who have just had enough too, and I want those people to know that it’s okay.

I have disabled comments on this post because for once, I’d really rather not talk about it. Thank you.

Veni, Vidi, Portavi

I came, I saw, I portered*

The great Judge Judy once said, “I think that you’re supposed to know when it’s time to say goodbye”. As I prepare for my imminent departure from Cambridge, I like to see it less as a goodbye to the city I have come to love above all others, but more of a ‘hello’ to new adventures.

Coming to the University city changed my life beyond all recognition and, despite not being a scholar or academic of any kind, I was able to realise my dreams and reach a potential I never imagined possible within the strange and wonderful walls of this esoteric world. More than that, I have been lucky enough to have you all alongside me for what has been a most unexpected emprise. And, as far as unexpected emprises go, this is just the beginning, I assure you.

But now it is time to go. There are those I love even more than Cambridge, endeavours even more pertinent than PorterGirl. Without doubt, Cambridge will always be a part of me, but perhaps more importantly, I will always be a part of Cambridge.

*Relying on schoolgirl Latin as opposed to being a Classical scholar, I struggled to find a direct translation for ‘porter’ as either a noun or verb. So, seeing as our English word porter is derived from the Latin portātor, from past participle of portāre (to carry) I decided to go with that, as it’s a nice first conjugation word and easily popped into the singular perfect tense. I am sure far better educated chaps than my good self will have plenty to say about this pitiful translation but, quite frankly, bollocks to them.