Dériveville

In 1981 I started writing a novel, and wrote very little of it. The part that I wrote is reproduced verbatim in my new novel, Dériveville, which is published today. Most novels don't take this long to write, but some of them do, and it's probably because you need to learn things along the way to make them what they should be. In 1981 I knew a lot about certain things, but I knew nothing about some other things, hadn't done other things, and so needed to learn and do them. And so I did.

In the 1980s there wasn't all the things there are now, constant bombardment with information and instant knowledge and a selfie culture with the attendant fascination of the person. But there was. There was a thriving celebrity culture, daily newspapers and gossip columns, hoards of photographers on the streets outside restaurants waiting for film stars to emerge. It just took a bit longer. Gossip columns that somehow knew or invented that someone had asked someone else to marry them, what people had been up to, what they were wearing. Film International on BBC2 could show you the best foreign films of the past, while Time Out told you where you could see the current films that were showing in London. Instead of time being measured in seconds as it is now, it might be measured in a day or a week. But that culture was still there. 

If you were young and wanted to be a writer, all this could be fascinating. Politics as well was just as wild, with the Communist bloc and America, in the words of Ted Hughes, 'circling each other', Europe being piggy in the middle of it all, mildly referred to as the 'theatre of war' in any possible nuclear conflict. It didn't bear thinking about. Poland suddenly saying no, it wasn't good enough, the Gdansk shipyards taking on the might of the USSR, it was unbelievable. A so-called revolution in Iran that was the polar opposite of any revolution you've ever heard of, where any kind of liberation was either swathed in black cloth or obliterated. 

Today we are hurtling back to a more censurious time, where people are judged on actions from years ago, the slightest touch can ruin your career, one word might be judged to be so controversial you're persona non grata. In the 80s outrageous behaviour was normal, Oliver Reed brawling in pubs, love affairs that would now be judged as inappropriate or toxic, drug taking, remarks that would now be seen as appalling. All of this was the stuff of day to day life, of the newspaper articles, the gossip columns, all the rest of it. And to some of us, this was glamour, fascinating glamour that was what some of us wanted. 

And if you add to that the politics of the past, or the not too distant past, the events of May 1968 in Paris, the glamour and excitement were even more present. I can remember when I was 16, lying on my bed listening to a radio documentary about the ten year anniversary of May 68, and I can still remember some of it almost word for word. Even though I might not have been totally sure, I wanted some of that to be in whatever novel I was writing. 

Over the years I found out new things, most importantly about the Situationist International and  the writings and ideas of Guy Debord. I discovered the SI, like many people of my generation, in Compendium Books in Camden, the basement a delight of weird, fascinating things you'd never heard of, and part of that was the SI. It was like a private world that you'd hint at to people, and if they understood, you were both in the club. But in those days, even if you spoke very good French, it was still hard to find out as much as you wanted. Apparently Debord was still alive and living in the French countryside, but it could have been on the moon for all we knew. And over the years I realised, when I returned to the novel, that the SI and certainly Debord, were going to feature in it.

In 2016 I was asked to speak at a small conference about Lettrism in Paris, where I met a man who had been a friend of Debord, had been involved in the events of May and had been offered and accepted membership of the SI after everything ended. Unfortunately, due to drink having been taken, no one can remember his name, but it was a thrilling and exciting experience. When I was home, I decided that maybe it was time to write a novel, since my previous one had been published in 2010. I still wasn't really sure what was going to happen, but the person I couldn't stop thinking about was Debord's unnamed friend. I knew what he was doing on that day in June, I knew what he'd been doing in May 1968. It seemed only natural to wonder what he was doing in 1981, in the middle of Paris, with films, politics, martial law in Poland, the Cannes Film Festival, the wild nightlife of the city, and the art of writing something. And for once, since 1981, I almost knew where to begin. 

Before I started again, properly, I thought about my favourite novels. A Certain Smile by Francoise Sagan, All the King's Horses and The Night by Michele Bernstein, The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath being some of them. I wanted my novel to be like some of these and to use them in some way, just as Michele Bernstein had used some novels she'd read and liked. I also wanted to have elements of being Situationist, that is having interruptions within the book to jolt you out of reading a novel and wonder what is happening. So I thought a bit about my main character's life and what she would have had with her.

When I finished my first degree I was a bit bored and thought I would write a screenplay of Iris Murdoch's novel The Sandcastle. I'd bought a couple of screenplays in a shop in Charing Cross Road and didn't get very far, but it stayed with me - and probably played a big part in wanting to write novels and not in another form. And in Deriveville the two main characters are brought together by the writing of a screenplay of the book, and would later meet someone who was intimately involved with Iris Murdoch. 

After the events of May 68 Guy Debord was at a crossroads, and like many enrages went abroad, firstly to Belgium and later to Italy. It was in Florence that he several times mentions Dante talking about loosing your way in middle age, and while the city was a perfect place for Debord to find himself again in a back street in the Oltrano, I wanted a way for a washed up film director to find his way back to being as good as he once was. Julia, "absurdly lucky" as a reviewer called her, wins a major literary prize, and through her presence in Paris is led by Lenica - and leads Lenica - around the city, through Cannes and to Surrey, to find their way back to where they should be.

So it's a story of redemption, of discovery, of Situationist politics, Martial Law in Poland, a bit of drug taking, lots of sex and walking around. If you like the sound of going to the Cannes film festival and dancing in Les Bains Douche in 1981, then this might be just what you want to read. Deriveville is published today (30th March), costs £10.99 and is available from myself through leaving a comment, my publisher Sabrestorm here or through Blackwells, Foyles and Waterstones online. It's also available on Amazon. 

If you want to come and hear me talking about the book I will be having an event at Housmans bookshop in King's Cross on 22nd April with Tom Vague, and at October Books in Southampton on May 16th, and I'd be very happy to have a chat with you.