Sunday 31 May 2015


I went shopping the other day. I was shopping for glasses because people complain when I make them drink wine out of pesto jars, for some reason. Discovered these beautiful blue glass jobbies with gold detail. Very pretty, and surprisingly cheap at FRW 700 (about 70p) each.

I miss the residual scent of pesto with my pinot gris, though.

Anyway, whilst I was there I decided to treat myself to a proper big mug. It's very important for a writer to have that one, special mug. The bucket o' tea/coffee/whisky - whatever's required.

Thursday 28 May 2015

Female Characters Shunned at Awards

Hmm... interesting, not sure I'm surprised: Books about women less likely to win prizes, study findsStudy of six major awards in the last 15 years shows male subjects the predominant focus of winning novels

Her analysis came as the summer issue of Mslexia, the magazine for women writers, explores the “silent takeover by men of the top jobs” in British publishing. Industry expert Danuta Kean laid out how, since 2008, the “women at the top of the three biggest corporate publishing houses have stepped aside – in each case to be replaced by men”.

I'd like to see author Chimamanda Adichie extend her outstanding talk on feminism to tackle this one.

I remember attending an LGBT book talk once where the men's group were billed as the 'Sci-fi panel' (I'm not sure if it was intentionally all-men, but it was) and the women writers' group labelled the 'Lesbian writers panel' - until I fought to add Bisexual, which added an air of ambiguity to it. Talk about a gender split, though. 

I do wince at the term 'women writers' and 'women's literature'. As the article says: 'This is the culture that still calls male writers Writers, and female writers Women Writers. The male perspective is still the real one, the standard. Women’s voices are just details.'

I very rarely ever answer the question 'what do you do?' with 'I'm a writer,' but I'm categorically certain I've never answer it with 'I'm a female writer.' Surely that's self-bloody-evident? Either one writes, or one doesn't. What's between your legs has no bearing on how well you write, whether you understand grammar, or what you write about. 

This idea of 'women's literature' being empowering... I wonder. I wonder whether it doesn't just prop up a cultural deficiency in gender equality that keeps women writers in a 'special' category all of their own? Those special, special women writers...

Which is not to say that the gender of an author isn't important - especially as far as monitoring this kind of bias goes. Had the call been close, it would have been easy to suggest that perhaps the books that won were simply better written, but the margin is far too wide to be coincidental. Certainly some subconscious bias going on there that needs dragging into the light. And no excuse whatsoever for the inequality of employment opportunities within the upper echelons of the publishing industry.

Also check out my post Sexism Rampant in Publishing and Laine Cunningham's book Writing While Female or Black or Gay.

Tuesday 26 May 2015

Don't Ask!

Just hoping he takes his time, I'm only up to 3.1.

My second favourite meme of the week...

Teamwork: Great things can be accomplished when you stop
trying to kill each other and start killing everyone else.

Sunday 24 May 2015

Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell

Thoroughly enjoying the BBC's adaptation of Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell. I read it when it first came out, and it's become an undisputed cult classic. 

Loving the casting. I'm a huge Peaky Blinders fan, so it's nice to see Charlotte Riley (May Carleton) as Arabella. I'm also a huge fan of Marc Warren/Hustle (incidentally from the same small town in Northamptonshire where I learned to play bagpipes as a kid). Also, Eddie Marsan, who I spent an entire series of Ray Donovan watching thinking I know that face, I know I know that face, but unable to place for his excellent American accent. Plus that staple of British casting, Paul Kaye, who in recent years seems to have become synonymous with beardy slightly deranged characters (often with a religious bent) whilst perpetually looking like Fagin, but who I will love always for giving us Blackball, one of the finest yet sadly underrated Britcoms of all time.

It was a very big book, and fairly slow moving. I think the adaptation has managed to capture the ambiance perfectly, whilst moving along at a steady pace. Really can escape into it for an hour or so and forget everything I'm supposed to be doing.

It's been so long since I read it, I'm looking forward to rediscovering the story.

Can't beat a decent period drama and a Yorkshire accent, by gum.

Saturday 23 May 2015

He Drinks Poison

Shout out to Laine Cunningham for her latest book, He Drinks Poison. I absolutely love the cover.

​Priya Conlin-Kumar, conceived when her mother was gang-raped in India, became an FBI agent in order to stop violent criminals. While tracking a serial killer, she experiences visions from Hindu epic The Ramayana. As each new vision creeps further into the physical world, it seems that an ancient demon has reappeared. 
When Priya falls in love with the county sheriff, they dabble in bondage. Each night opens her to pleasures she has always desired... and to the trust she has always craved. Soon their coupling mirrors that of Shiva and Shakti, the god and goddess who left marks on each other's flesh and whose passion shook the earth.  
Their loving activities stand in stark contrast to the sexualized violence they face during the investigation. Priya eventually takes on Prince Ram's righteous anger and accesses the power of the dark goddess Kali. The justice she metes out satisfies both the laws of man and spiritual laws.

An interesting mix of crime thriller, erotica and the spiritual. Reminded me a bit of Colin Cotterill who also brings the spirit world into play with his Dr. Siri series set in Laos.

Atmospheric. Having grown up in Leicester with a strong Hindu community and the largest Diwali celebration outside India, it certainly struck a chord.

Highly poetic in parts, but you'll need a strong stomach for this one. I made the mistake of reading it over lunch... jam jars - eeww eeww eeeewww.

And believe me, it takes a lot for me to say eeww.

As an aside, I was interviewed by Laine a while back, and you can find her review of Rosy Hours here.

Friday 22 May 2015

Hardwired for Story

Food for thought. Follows on from my post on Books Bend Your Brain. Appreciate what she's saying, but the be-all and end-all of storytelling isn't to hit the New York Best Sellers list (though I'm sure my publishers wouldn't complain). I think there's plenty of scope for stories that don't follow the arc, for non-aspirational storytelling and being reckless in your construction. Rosy Hours certainly doesn't conform, and whereas it's been criticised for that, last I looked, it's also got a few die-hard fans who completely connected with it. Stories come in all shapes and sizes, as do people and their brains. Mass-appeal may require a strict format, but how many beautiful, brilliant stories would go unwritten if we took the moral of this talk to heart? Still worth a watch. The neurochemistry behind storytelling is quite fascinating.

Wednesday 20 May 2015

Black Sails

[UPDATE: I have completely revised my opinion on this - best thing since sliced bread. Complex exploration of sexuality on the high seas - aarrrr.]

Hmmm. Just started watching Black Sails. First heard about this when I started writing a pirate project of my own and was researching the period. Still can't decide if it's worth continuing my story since this came out, even my title was similar, but it's got a good IMDB rating which backs up my theory there's a market for buccaneering.

I wasn't completely enamoured. Some of the acting's a bit dodgy in the first few episodes, and it's not a fast-moving plot. Felt like a few things were thrown in just for effect. But once you're into it, it gets better and better. There was one aspect that really held my attention from the off. 

There's a strong female character called  Eleanor, and she's bisexual.

This shouldn't sound so surprising, but to me it was. At least, to see it portrayed in such a way. Most of my favourite programs: Game of Thrones, The Borgias, Last Tango in Halifax, Lip Service - they have some element of bisexuality in there somewhere. It gives the impression that we see a lot of it on telly. But as far as women are concerned it's often a case of a woman transitioning from a straight relationship to a gay one (Last Tango, Imagine Me & You), or something that feels thrown in to tantalise, but isn't explicitly explored (Lip Service, Borgias (I always expect Vittoria to answer 'Bob' when asked her name)). Kitty Butler in Tipping the Velvet is the most complex I can think in memorable mainstream telly, outside of cult classics like Shortbus.

I honestly sat up in my chair. A rarity to see an in-your-face, unapologetic, understandable bisexual woman. Now there's someone I can identify with, I thought. Especially when she smacked the guy round the head for assaulting her girlfriend, having just climbed out of bed with her boyfriend. Made me chuckle.

Also made me realise how important it is for stories to reflect us - all of us. How we look for our own narrative in stories. Good stories offer up a smoky mirror, where our reflections shift and change and settle.

Most of the stuff in Black Sails is vivid, from the fights to the fucks. Not to everyone's taste, I'm sure. In that respect it made me reflect on the history of televised storytelling, and how it can slam through cultural norms as a powerful device for change. From Star Trek's first interracial kiss to the normality of watching wenches pleasure one another on GoT.  And one of my favourite of all the big screen gay tragedies Cloud Atlas - because no one, gay, straight or asexual, can fail to understand the depth of love behind that narrative. It hurts the heart whichever angle you approach it (even if the rest of the film leaves many scratching their heads.)

Stories are the medium through which we understand ourselves and empathise with others.

I look forward to the day when something like this doesn't make me sit up in my seat. When characters like Eleanor get more of an airing and cease to be such a rarity.

On another note, I also appreciate this drama for the cock shots. Hear me out here. I have no issue with nudity in films. What I have an issue with is that pretty much everything you see shows women completely naked: boobs, butt and in between. You seldom ever see male protagonists laid bare. Women are usually portrayed as more modest, more bashful, more virtuous and men more virile and sexual, yet when it comes to genitals, this doesn't match up on screen. It's hard not to wonder - if nudity is acceptable - why it's acceptable for women to show all, yet shots of men always stop above the waist or get artistically filmed from a concealing angle? I appreciate this series for being bold enough to break that taboo. 

Definitely enjoying it now that I've got into it.

Monday 18 May 2015

Kigali Library Mark II

Last year, I wrote about visiting Kigali's new library and not being terribly impressed, especially with the café upstairs which was bakingly hot and filled with bored waiters listening to a crackling radio.

Well, I went back yesterday and what a transformation!

Didn't go into the library, just up to the café to meet friends. It's been taken over my Shokola and Innovation Village, part of Rwanda's drive to modernise public libraries and make them more attractive. It's utterly gorgeous. 

They now have a meeting room, a spacious and airy restaurant with books, work stations and a stunning view. I was extremely impressed. Might start working from there. Well worth a visit.

Thursday 14 May 2015

Musical Interlude: The Thrill Is Gone

Don't usually make two music posts so close together, but sad to hear BB King has passed. Soundtrack of my teenage summers, thanks to mum's partner Merrick. The thrill has left the building.

Wednesday 13 May 2015

Writing Competitions from Almond

I've mentioned Almond Press before, but it's worth checking out their site again for a list of writing competitions. More on FirstWriter, which is a subscription service, but worth it. Check out my tips on entering competitions: effort v. return.

Monday 11 May 2015

Why My Editor Kicks Ass

I haven't been writing anything lately. Struck down by a cold, buried beneath a pile of RealWorld (tm) work and what little time I have had to write, I've spent panicking over a competition submission. I haven't entered a writing competition in donkey's, but this one just happened to catch my eye. 

It requires a sample of the novel I'm working on - the first 15k, consecutively.

I swore off editing anything until I'd completely finished the MS, but it's at around 110k at the moment, and I reckon there's only another 10k left to go. So it'll be done by the time the results are in.

It's hard enough editing 15k when you can kick back and relax, but trying to get through such a weighty sum to a tight deadline is horrid. 

Worse, I needed to lose around 1,000 words to include a synopsis.

Proofreading and culling in one fell swoop. 

I sent it to my trusted beta readers, but they both have a lot of work themselves and I didn't want to push the issue. Honestly, I didn't want to send it to them at all until I'd had a proper shot at a first edit, but time... it's always about time.

Tentatively, I approached my editor Salomé Jones at Ghostwoods. Over the past year developing Rosy Hours together, she's become a friend as well as a colleague, but I didn't just want to assume she had time to look through my half-hashed efforts. I was delighted when she said that she would.

It's terrifying when you first show what you're working on to someone else. 50k into any story and you lose all sense of objectivity. Even my spell checker's given up on me. I know there's some stuff isn't quite right with this one, but I wasn't sure if it was 'just a bit off' or 'dear gods, my eyes are bleeding' bad.

You will hear time and time again that a good editor is worth their weight in gold. Gold, silver and rubies, my friends. The next day I got back the simple advice:

Cut the first chapter. Take the first two paragraphs and paste them to the start of the third (now the second) chapter.

Frowning like someone attempting a Rubik's Cube, I did as instructed.

It became a totally different story, and gained me that precious 1,000 words in the process.

Good editors have a special gift. It's not just about proofing and obsessive apostrophising - they have a deeply intuitive sense of story. Most writers have that too, but on a different level. Say a story is a block of marble. The writer brings that story to the table and carves out a picture, but an editor acts like the grit that polishes away until it sparkles. If you were to put that raw, unedited story in a museum next to a long line of other statues, people might look, they might remark, but they would soon move on. Put the polished version out there and people will look and see themselves reflected back. 

The wonderful thing about a good editor is that they're a critic who's on your side. No punches pulled 'Salomé, is this boring?' - 'Yes' - 'Thanks, I thought so.' But the difference is, they've usually got a solution. I spend all my time writing my stories. I read other people's, but, other than a passing sense of professional admiration, I don't technically deconstruct them. Editors do - lots of stories, lots of genres, lots of authors. They have a lot of knowledge and experience to pass on. 

Always test your editor. Not everyone who says 'I can edit' can. But when you find that good one, listen to everything they say. Don't swallow your gut instinct, don't be afraid to question, but watch, listen and learn. Accept that seeing your work lined through is going to come as a shock, then get over it. 

Honestly 'lose a chapter and put this there' - transformational. Wouldn't have got there on my own.

The story might not get anywhere in the competition, but at least I know I put my best foot forward, and either way the first 15k of the novel looks a hell of a lot smarter.

I don't think they're currently accepting new editing clients at the moment, but I know Salomé works for Flourish. Worth enquiring if you're looking for an excellent editor.

Sunday 10 May 2015

Mother's Day Reading List

Come on people, little synchronicity please. Mother's Day, it's like bloody World Book Day in that you can pick your date. For the Brits it gets hideously disorienting to see #MothersDay suddenly trending on 10th May. Feels like a whole year's gone by in a couple of months.

So, in honour of Mother's Day in March, or May, or whenever you celebrate, here's three books I've bought my mother in the past for Mother's Day or birthdays. My mum loves a good book. Our house is stacked full of them. So they have to be high calibre for me to select one I think she'll like.

The Generation Game by Sophie Duffy
(full review)

This is one of the all-time unsung fantastic novels that deserves far more attention than it got. Winner of the Luke Bitmead Bursary in 2010. It's hard to summarise this book. As the title suggests, it spans a generation. Poignantly written. Something Lovely Bones-esque about it.

Sister of My Heart by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni
(full review)

I fall to my knees at the beauty of Divakaruni's prose. She's best known for Mistress of Spices, but, personally, I love this one even more. Every word is poetry. A story of how the distant past affects the far future for two women in India.

The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern
(full review)

An evocative period piece that appeals to the more magical mind. A love story and a competition, both of which draw you in. I first found this in a charity shop in Scotland. I had five minutes to choose a book - it chose me.

A book about life, a book about legend, a book of the supernatural.

A booklist fit for Mum - though you might want to read them yourself first!

Friday 8 May 2015

Famous Author Word Counts

Interesting post on the average daily word count of famous authors. I would fall into the Kingsolver, Waters, Maugham camp if I wrote every day. When I do write every day, 1,000's my usual. More usually it comes in fits and starts. 6,000 the other day, nothing since then. You might also like to check out my post on how many words make a novel and word counters.

Thursday 7 May 2015

Ikirezi Bookshop

Just got back from Ikirezi Bookshop in Kigali. It's not far from my house in Kacyiru. For those who know the area, head down Embassy Row from Top Tower and swing a left opposite Great Wall Chinese (KG 692). Follow the road round to the right (KG 5) and you'll see a tall, reflective-glass building immediately on your left. The downstairs is the Spark office, upstairs is the bookshop and café. 

It's gorgeous in there. Apparently they've been in business since 1998, previously based next to the Belgian School. This feels ultra-modern, and the view from the café is gorgeous. Nice place to sit and work, or read, over a coffee.

Really worth visiting. They have a wide selection of books in English, French and some Kinyarwanda, fiction, non-fiction and a great children's section. It's dangerous for me to walk into bookshops like this, as I leave with no money.

They've also got an outlet in Goma, and a really excellent attitude which reminds me of Isaro Foundation:

The Company was started due to a significant lack of bookshops... Join us to promote the reading culture in the great lakes region

I popped in there with a sample of Rosy Hours, and it seemed to pass the test. Fingers crossed they're going to order a few copies and hopefully we'll organise a signing. Watch this space...

You can find them online, e-mail at or call +250.788560358.

Wednesday 6 May 2015

I Ain't Racist But...

Thanks to my mate Jim for sharing this. Very nicely done. Watch it to the end, it's not what you think. Also, see this.

Sunday 3 May 2015

6,000 Down and Dirty

Yesterday was a very good day for writing. I haven't written much in weeks. Work has been intense, and I dread opening my in-box at the moment, but yesterday I refused to connect to the internet. Instead, I sat down on the sofa, opened my MS and rolled up my sleeves.

Very happy with the results. Words came a lot easier than I was expecting. Had fun with a new character. In the original translation, he is thus mentioned:

It was about that time it happened them to meet with a young man of good race, and his name was Aibric; and he often took notice of the birds, and their singing was sweet to him and he loved them greatly, and they loved him. And it is this young man that told the whole story of all that had happened them, and put it in order. 

Oh, really - thought I. Well, of course, if this story comes to us by the hand of Aibric, then Aibric is going to paint himself as a man of upstanding 'good race'.

So, I thought I'd mess with that a little. 

I much admired the dirty lyrics of R. R. Martin in Mance Rayder's tent. What ancient fantasy story is complete without a little blue ditty? So,  I gave it my best shot. Aibric starts out in this story as a letcherous, drunken bard, and this is his song:

Oh, her skirts were covered in mud – in mud!
My pretty white Lilly, my love

So I said, if your skirts are covered in mud

Lift ‘em up to Heaven above – above!

She lifted her skirts and between her legs
I saw something wetter than mud
I said to my Lilly, my Lilly, my love
Best you lie down in your bed
For she lifted her skirts to Heaven above
In doing so, this I now know
For Heaven ain’t there, above – above!
Heaven’s right here down below!

Not bad for ten minutes' musing.

Anyway, I quite like Aibric. 

If I could sit down and do the same amount of writing again, I reckon I'd be near enough finished in four days. But, sadly, I must return to the real world today. Fingers crossed I can snatch one more day later this week. Being busy certainly focuses the mind when you eventually do get to write.

I'll leave you with this. As ever, very rough, unedited. It's from very early on in the novel, two of my favourite characters meeting.

It felt like the best thing we’d ever done leaving Sidhe Fionnachaidh behind. I knew it the moment we rode out that morning with half our clan behind us dragging the ox carts and the tents. My horse, fast-footed, skipped and sidled as soon we were out the fort, as though he knew he had finally found his freedom. My lungs burst like bellows from galloping across the open grass, leaving behind the thick, stifling air of my father’s melancholy.

From that first night at Sidh-ar-Femhin I felt as though I had truly come home. The great settlement of my grandfather was full to bursting with light and song and dancing. There was food there to feed all the armies of the Tuatha Dé Danann, with enough left over for the spirits and the fire.

Whilst my sister span and laughed with aunt Ailbhe, I raced into the crowds before anyone could think to ask me to take charge of my brothers. I knew it was just what you ask of the eldest boy, to take care of his kin, but I knew Fiachra and Conn had no need of my protection. They would have a far finer time of it without me, and I without them.

I don’t know what I was looking for that night, rather I was looking at everything. I wanted to drink in the scene with my eyes so as not to forget a moment of it. Deep in my heart I held to the fear that next morning my father might change his mind, throw us back into the saddle and force us to ride for home. I think I was collecting memories that night, that I could relive them over and over in my mind, back in my silent bed above the water.

The Feast of Age was glorious. All the The Men of Dea came from far and wide. By day they threw long spears and raced by foot from vale to vale whilst by night they washed themselves down in oil and wrestled beside the hot embers. Awards were given of precious stones and armour, and between the clans a half-hundred handfastings took place. Some of the brides pretty, some less so but hardy and quick with a smile.

I walked between them, taking the measure of each man, flexing my muscles and comparing my shape with theirs. I saw small men fighting with stealth, tipping the weight of giants with their speed and cunning. I shadowed their movements, testing the reach of my arm and the clench of my fist.

The great warrior Cumhaill, head of my grandfather’s guard, was fighting with Goll mac Morna, the only other man a match for his strength. They beat down their chests with earth and cried the ancient battle cry of war, the diord fionn, before setting to. Goll got in the first punch, spit flying from Cumhaill’s mouth and fizzing to steam on the fire. His advantage did not last long however, as Cumhaill regained his balance and charged Goll like a bull, butting his head square against his bare chest and felling him, landing astraddle and smashing his face first with the left fist, then the right, then the left again.

I was cheering for Cumhaill, copying the movement of his throws, when suddenly I found myself face down in the dirt, sprawled like a clumsy maid.

Cac ar oineach, what’d you do that for?”

“Want to try it for real?” my assailant grinned down at me. He was a slim-shouldered boy, but tall, his red hair as curly as my own. “Caílte mac Rónáin,” he said, offering me his hand.

Like an idiot, I took it and he dropped me on my arse.

“First lesson if you want to be a fighter,” he said, that grin growing wider. “Never trust the man who’s hitting you.”

“Piss off,” I said, scrambling to my feet.

“Second lesson, don’t give him reason to hit you again.”

I glared at Caílte, drawing myself up to full height, which wasn’t even his neck.

“Come on, want to see something?”


“Don’t be like that, I was only teasing.”

“Yeah, well I don’t trust you.”

“You learn fast,” he laughed. “But come on, it’ll be fun.”

Reluctant to leave the fight, which was now in full swing, Goll having wrapped his arm around Cumhaill in a headlock, I blew my hair out of my eyes and turned into the crowd. I followed Caílte out to the edges of the settlement, where the heat of the fires hardly reached and the chill night caused me to shiver.

“Hush, listen,” he said, turning to me and holding up his hand. “Do you hear that?”

“What?” I said, still sulking from before.

“Just listen.”

All around I heard people breathing like the bellows of the blacksmiths. Between the rush of air were high pitched gasps and murmured names.

“Curious?” he asked, and I nodded. “Can you guess what it is?”

I could not, so he took me by the hand and led me to one of the huts nearby.

There on the floor were men and women, their half-naked bodies entwined and writhing like snakes. Hands fondled breasts and members, legs and lips parted, oblivious to our presence. In one corner two men were kissing, their bodies pressed flat against one another. I felt something tighten beneath my tunic and turned away.

Caílte laughed and pulled me on to the next hut and the next; in every hut the same.

“Come on, let’s get a drink,” he said, when the heat of the blood in my cheeks threatened to roast me alive. “They’re celebrating the death of the old with the birth of the new. Come spring there’ll be half an army born at Sidh-ar-Femhin and we’ll have to expand the walls of the fort to contain them.”

That night I drank until the urge inside me abated. I had never been drunk at my father’s fort, not like this. It was half the wine and half the intoxication of freedom, of being so far from my crannog prison.

My companion was the nephew of Cumhaill, that warrior I most admired, yet despite our introduction he was not a warrior by heart. When we were drunk he recited poems to the fire and plucked a clàrsach from a sleeping druid, playing it fine enough to my mead-muffled ears.

That is the sadness, you see. In all the years and all that was to come – all that they did to us – they forgot what truly mattered. In writing and rewriting our deaths, they forgot to tell that we ever truly lived. 

Friday 1 May 2015

Beltane Aleister Crowley Reading List

A bright, blesséd Beltane one and all. If you'd like to know what good heathen folk get up to during May Day mayhem, there's a good post here. I was recently reading Red Phone Box, which has a slathering of the arcane about it, including reference to Crowley.

Just for kicks, here's a wyrd reading list.

A Magick Life by Martin Booth

I adore this biography. I read it years ago and instantly loved it because it did what the best biographers do - it took a legend, a vilified daemon - and made him human. Showed us his follies, his weaknesses, his loves and losses, and, yes, a streak of sadism. Forwent the question of whether you believe and went from the perspective: he did. Very nicely done indeed.

The Book of the Law by.. errr, Aiwass?

Essential reading for anyone interested in Crowley or Thelema. An esoteric text said to have been dictated to him in trance in Cairo. It's where the famed lines "Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law" and "Love is the law, love under will" arise. If nothing else, it's short.
Diary of a Drug Fiend by Aleister Crowley

Did you know he was also a (let's say loosely) fiction author? (Creative non-fiction?) Hmm. I enjoyed this rather hedonistic jaunt through high society and bedlam. You might too, provided you're willing to lose the plot (as I'm not sure there is one). It reminds me of something, and I've never been able to place exactly what. A little bit Gatsby, a little DBC Pierre, perhaps.

I think that's a balanced reading list: not Crowley, Crowley when he didn't think he was Crowley, and definitely Crowley.

I shall bid you all a debaucherous goodnight with a little Beltane Fire Dance. Take it away Ms. McKennitt.