Reading for pleasure: January 2023

Retired Teenagers: The Story of a Glasgow Club Night 

John D McGonagle (available on Amazon: £8.99)

There are (sadly) a lot of books of memoirs penned by Scottish solicitors. I can guarantee that none of them has ever been like this.

Childhood/formative years/career progress/greatest triumph? Nope. What we have here is a rollicking account of 10 years at the cutting edge of the Glasgow music scene at the start of the century. John spent that time performing at, and running, the coolest Glasgow clubs of the time, and hobnobbing with such of the music greats as would speak to him. The 59 close typed pages of this book whizz you through the decade in record time. If I felt exhausted at the end of it, heaven knows how John must have felt.

Perhaps it was qualifying as a solicitor which brought this phase of his life to an end, or just turning 30. To an end? Don’t you believe it. He is still involved in the business, running a company called One More Tune DJs. Weddings seem now to be the target market, and equipment can be supplied. Be warned – his speakers are 1,000 watts. And he can write your speeches for you. What a man.

I’m not sure who the target market is, but I know it will appeal to my middle daughter K, who was into the Glasgow music scene in a big way. She cried at the death of Scott Hutchison of Frightened Rabbit. And to her sister H. The latter was taken to a Franz Ferdinand gig and came away raving about the support band, then unknowns from Leeds, called the Kaiser Chiefs. And, obviously, to anyone else who lived through this period in the west of Scotland.

John is now a senior associate in a major law firm. He specialises in commercial contracts and intellectual property. I have no idea how he finds the time, especially with two sons. Not sure which will embarrass teenagers more, John, their Dad being a lawyer or a DJ.

What I am sure of is that if John’s career is blessed with the same ingenuity, energy and enthusiasm that pulses from this book, he will have one heck of a practice.

There Are No Happy Loves

Sergio Olguín, translated by Miranda France (Bitter Lemon Press: £9.99; e-book £5.99)

Let’s consider the component parts of a page-turning novel. A feisty, attractive heroine – check. A love interest, or two or three – of course. Dark forces, police/judges/priests/politicians – naturally. Murders a-plenty. Boy had girl; boy lost girl; boy meets girl again; will they, won’t they? A high drama, action packed ending. Yes, they’re all here.

The girl in question is journalist Veronica Rosenthal. She featured in this column three years ago in The Fragility of Bodies, which was praised to the rafters. Why then a different reaction to this book? There is no doubt that the threads are woven together with considerable skill. There is a prologue entitled "Three Stories". In one, a man regains consciousness after a car crash with no sign of his wife and daughter. Dead? Or are they? Another features a child getting lost in a supermarket. In the third one a prosecutor and journalist are tipped off about a forthcoming drug bust – but the cargo turns out to be body parts and corpses of babies.

Slowly the clues appear, some by good old fashioned detective/journalistic work, others by the work of hackers. The latter stages move at such breakneck speed that it’s easy to suspend disbelief at the absurdity of the plot. The conclusion must be that this was written with a view to cinema or TV. Probably the former with the volume of gratuitous sex scenes, the goriness of the many killings and the inevitable journalist turned action hero ending.

Had I not read The Fragility of Bodies, perhaps I would have enjoyed this more. That was a truly outstanding, quite scary piece of work. This one? Still a rollicking tale, I suppose, but middle of the table as opposed to Champions' League.