|Posted by ryanbracha on October 25, 2014 at 5:40 AM|
Bracsman Vs Allen Miles
Now then. It's been a while, and a good friend of mine, Ryan Bracha, has only gone and fucking extended the Abrachadabra name. Originally just a name he put his own books out under, he's decided that what the publishing industry needed was a label that stuck two fingers up at minimum term contracts. He figured that writers put way too much effort in to be walking away with 3% royalties. He figured also that there's too much of that wizard shit out there and not enough quality writers of just straight up good stories getting their faces out there. So he branched out, and he signed the supremely talented writer, and cohort on the literary collaboration Twelve Mad Men, Allen Miles. A long man from Hull with an unnerving interest in football from the 90s, an encyclopaedic knowledge of great music, and more than a passing resemblance to Ellen Degeneres. Mr Miles, or Big A to me, is in the studio discussing all manner of things, including Steve. He's here to publicise his latest book, This Is How You Disappear. Allen, watch your head on that door frame, you long bastard, sit down, and answer the shit out of these questions, you cunt.
1. Allen Miles, Milesy, The Milester, The Big AM. How's tricks? Keep it brief, I don't have all day.
Mr Miles, if you don't mind. Apart from a little lumbago I can't complain.
2. I heard you had a new book out, why should I give even the slightest of fucks?
You shouldn't. I can't imagine for a second someone like you could appreciate the genius of this book. Frankly it will be way over your head, it will appeal to people with intellect and taste. Not the likes of you and your... ilk.
3. That's cheeky as fuck, but I'll let you off because you brought me crayons. Does it have any pictures in it?
We're really not on the same level here, are we? There are no pictures.
4. What? Not even any biro pictures?
No. One of my work-colleagues seized my proof copy and scrawled on the first page "PEOPLE WHO WRITE BOOK'S R GAY BENDERS", and I am not counting the naked Polaroid of yourself that you slipped in between the pages of the copy you sent me to autograph. I hope rash that clears up, by the way, but no, no pictures.
5. That's wank, I only bought it because I thought it was an illustrated magic book. That's a waste of a few quid I could do without spending. Okay, you love your music and your football, what are your thoughts on the many combinations of the two? My personal favourite is that shit Status Quo reworking by Manchester United ages ago.
The two peaks are clearly the John Barnes rap on World In Motion and Hoddle and Waddle's Diamond Lights. I wanted to cover the latter during my days in a punk band, and wrote to Glenn Hoddle himself for permission. He vetoed it on the grounds that my late grandmother spent some time in a wheelchair during her last days.
6. You're a pretty girl, how comes you have a boy's name? Cruel parents?
I am not a girl. I am a very masculine person. I once assembled some flat-pack furniture incorrectly and the other day I very nearly bought a steak from Morrison's. I even tried some lager once. I noticed when you walked in how struck you were by my androgynous appearance, but really I'm just Peter Crouch's body with Helen Mirren's head. I sincerely hope there will be no stray fingers around my nether regions during the remainder of this interview.
7. I never make promises I can't keep. What's heavier? A fat cunt or Metallica in a hot air balloon?
I must say, I hadn't prepared for such obscene vulgarity. How dare you use the word "Metallica"?
8. Have I told you lately that I love you?
Sigh. It begins. Kindly remove your hand from my thigh, Mr Bracsman.
9. But your legs are so thin and holdable, like a pair of Peperamis wearing nice shoes. Anyway, have you ever danced with the devil in the pale moonlight?
Several times. I actually roomed with him for a few months during my summer job on a doughnut stall in Scarborough. At the end of the shift we would have a couple of dry sherries each then wander over to the beach in our stripy blazers, stick Avalon by Roxy Music on our ghetto blaster and have a slow waltz. We haven't spoken since the "high-tide incident", but I always found the devil, or Steve, as he was actually called, thoroughly pleasant company.
10. Who's gonna play Davy Sheridan in the BBC2 adaptation of 18 Days?
I've thought about this extensively and I can't think of a single thespian from any era who could inhabit such a complex role; not Robert De Niro, not Marlon Brando, not Ross Kemp, so I've decided it would have to be myself. I'm an utterly superb actor. I've managed to convince everyone I know that I'm a skinny white kid from East Yorkshire, when in actual fact I'm a middle-aged Ugandan woman called Bertha.
11. Who's the actual jammiest cunt in music right now? Chris Martin?
Chris Martin isn't in music, he's in aural sewage. I'd say the jammiest cunt in music right now is Cheryl Tweedy-Cole-Hutz-Tewilliger-Nahasapeemapetillon-McClure because everyone seems to have forgotten that she kicked the living hell out of a nightclub toilet attendant in a booze/coke fuelled possibly-racist rage. Can you imagine what would happen if Wayne Rooney did that?
12. There'd be uproar, like that time he chinned a Japanese tramp. What's next for Allen Miles the writer?
I don't honestly know. I'm preparing to slog my guts out to promote this book. The bloke who I've signed with strikes me as a bit of an untrustworthy slimeball, to be honest, and I reckon the whole "author" thing is a front to pimp me out as a male escort to rich elderly widows. I'm going to carry on working, very slowly, on my novel, which is preliminarily entitled "Dick", and we'll take it from there.
13. What's next for Allen Miles the man?
I'm feeling rather bilious so I'm going to take some Gaviscon.
14. Who'd win in a fight between your old PE teacher and your local newsagent?
My old PE teacher was called Mr Law. I would not have got on the wrong side of that man. He didn't have blood in his veins, he had cement. Our equipment store once caught fire, so he ripped his t-shirt off, charged over and told the fire to shut up. And it did. He'd kick the living fuck out of me, you and my newsgent. Could you put your trousers back on please?
No, I put that ring on your finger, and it wasn't so you could cook my fucking tea. Get in that bedroom you slag.
Allen Miles is a six-foot three anaemic stick insect with a bit of a cold. He lives in Hull with his wife and daughter and annual purchase rates. When he’s not writing he’s either watching old footage of Matthew Le Tissier on YouTube at one in the morning while drunk or moonlighting as an Ellen Degeneres look-a-like. His rants, along with other ludicrously talented writers such as Gill Hoffs, Paul Featherstone, Andi Ware and Martyn Taylor, are to be found at http://www.sittingontheswings.com
You can find his books here