Glossary
berk
fool
binmen
garbagemen
blag my way out
talk my way out of, weasel out of
bloke
guy
bog
bathroom
bop
concert
bugger
jerk
coach
bus
collared him
cornered him
Council
local (city) government
crisps
potato chips
daft
silly, stupid
derry
derelict house
divvy
daft person
down the nick
at the police station
dustbin
garbage can
estate car
station wagon
fag
cigarette
flannel
small towel
flat
apartment
footy
short for football, i.e. soccer
full pelt
full on, full speed
gauch out
almost pass out
GCE
General Certificate of Education, high school exam
gimleted
speared
git
jerk, asshole
gob
mouth
gobsmacked
dumbfounded
gormless
idiotic
Kip
sleep, crash
Knickers
panties
lekky
loo
toilet
lout
thug
methadone script
a prescribed dosage of the drug used to wean addicts off heroin
naff
uncool
nappy
diaper
nick
steal
offie
off-license, liquor store
O-levels/A-levels
standard national high school exams
Pack it in
give it a rest
Paracetamol
a nonprescription painkiller
petrol
gasoline
piccy
picture
pinch
steal
pisshead
drunk
Politburo
powerful committee within the Soviet Communist Party
prat
jerk, ass
queue
line
quid
one pound sterling
ratty
mean
ring up
to phone
roundabouts
traffic circles
row
fight, argument
Scabby
nasty, vile
Scarper
to bolt, run away
scatty
crazy
screws
prison guards
settee
similar to a sofa
shyster
swindler
sign on
to go on welfare
skint
broke
skip
huge metal Dumpster
skivvy
slag
slut
sod
jerk, fellow; also used as a verb in phrases like “sod you” (“screw you”)
spanner
wrench
spliff
marijuana joint
squat
to take up residence in a vacant building; also the building itself
squits
squirts
sussed
figured out
tatty
run-down
tip
dump
togging/togged out
clothes shopping, dressing up
torch
flashlight
Tory
a Conservative
Wagging
pacing
Wet
silly, foolish
Whip round
collection of money
Wolly vest
sleeveless undershirt
yoofs
kids
Gofish
QUESTIONS FOR THE AUTHOR
MELVIN BURGESS
What did you want to be when you grew up?
When I was small, I wanted to be a man who went round the world collecting animals for zoos—I was always a big nature fan. This all came from a series of books by Gerald Durrell, who had exactly that job. It sounded like heaven. Durrell was one of the very first conservationists, and opened up Jersey Zoo, the first zoo designed as an ark, to harbor endangered animals that might become extinct in the wild. Of course, these days, wild animals are so endangered no one collects from the wild anymore, which I’m sure Durrell would have approved of.
When did you realize you wanted to be a writer?
I was pretty useless at school. School is a hard thing to be good at—you have to be a real all-rounder. Unless you are someone who likes study for its own sake, there are always going to be hours and hours of boredom—no matter how good the teachers are. No one can like every subject. I have a low boredom threshold, so I was a nightmare to school and school was a nightmare to me. But I did like reading and writing. Given that they were the only things I was good at, writing seemed a natural choice.
I started off at a rubbish high school, where the English teacher did her best to put me off writing for life. But we moved when I was thirteen and a new English teacher was overflowing with enthusiasm. Her name was Stella Stafford. I didn’t have her for very long, but she made me feel that maybe I could write for a living. She also showed me that the first, best, and sometimes only thing a teacher can offer their students is enthusiasm. She made me feel good about myself.
What’s your most embarrassing childhood memory?
I used to have a most embarrassing habit when I was small—wetting my pants. This caused many embarrassing moments, the worst of which was when we were visiting some friends of my parents, people I didn’t know at all. I think they may have been friends of my dad from work. They had kids round about my age and we all went off to play. On the way back we came to a fence which we had to crawl underneath, and I suddenly realized I’d wet myself. I have no idea when—it just seemed to have already happened. To make it worse, I was wearing a pair of light-colored khaki shorts. The pee showed as a great, dark blossom all over the front. There was just no hiding it.
I remember having to crawl under the fence on my back; for some reason I was worried about the dust sticking to my wet patch and making it even more obvious—as if such a thing was possible!
What’s your favorite childhood memory?
Christmas.
As a young person, who did you look up to most?
Muhummad Ali. He refused to go to war, for one thing, even though he was obviously very brave and a great fighter. For another thing, he changed how we all thought of black people. Nowadays, we forget how racist both the US and Europe used to be—far worse than today. When I was a child, there was an inbuilt feeling that black people were both uglier and more stupid than white people. It was so pervasive that even if you didn’t believe it, there was a part of you that felt like that. But after Ali, no one could be in any doubt that black people could be clever, charismatic, beautiful, and courageous. I admired him so much for that. To change the way people think in such a positive way, on such a huge scale, just by refusing to compromise on who he was—such a great thing to do.
What was your first job?
Kitchen porter in the post office canteen. I had to wash pots and peel spuds.
How did you celebrate publishing your first book?
W
ith a bottle of whiskey.
When you finish a book, who reads it first?
My partner, Anita.
Are you a morning person or a night owl?
Over the years, I’ve turned from a night owl into a morning person. It’s because you get a better quality of concentration in the morning. Even if you’re tired, hungover, or ill, the mind is more flexible early on. Late at night, concentration gets into a fast-moving rut. It’s exciting, but it doesn’t produce your best work.
What’s your idea of the best meal ever?
Seafood. A freshly cooked lobster. Boiled or grilled will do.
Which do you like better: cats or dogs?
I used to like dogs before dog owners had to pick up the doggy doo and carry it about with them. I used to like cats before I started feeding the birds. Now, I like wild animals instead.
What’s the best advice you have ever received about writing?
Slaughter your babies. Not your real babies, of course. It means those lovely bits of prose and wonderful passages that you can’t let go of, despite the fact that they’re adding nothing to your book. Oh, and never give in. It’s not the most talented people who get there—it’s the ones who just never stop.
What would you do if you ever stopped writing?
Nature photography, perhaps. Either that or something to do with food. I’d kinda like to run a smokehouse.
What do you like best about yourself?
Sense of humor.
What is your worst habit?
Talking over people. Smoking. Where do I begin?
What do you consider to be your greatest accomplishment?
I don’t know about accomplishments, but I’m very proud of my kids, and I’m very proud of the people I’ve been in love with. My partner makes me feel I’m the luckiest man in the world.
Where in the world do you feel most at home?
Home. I love home.
What do you wish you could do better?
Tidy up after myself.
What would your readers be most surprised to learn about you?
I own a magic teapot.
Nick has been sent to a home for boys and he thinks
fighting with bullies is the worst thing he has to deal with.
Until he meets the man in charge…
Keep reading for an excerpt from
NICHOLAS DANE
BY MELVIN BURGESS
published in hardcover by Henry Holt.
1
Muriel’s Little Treat
Nick Dane lifted his head and stared blearily at the doorway. There was music blaring through, light flooding in. It sounded as if he was in the kitchen but he could have sworn he was still in bed.
His mother appeared. “Come on, wake up, I want you out, I’ve work to do,” she bellowed cheerfully. She headed back down the stairs toward the kitchen. “I’ll make you some porridge with cream and Goldfish syrup,” she called over her shoulder.
She’d called it that ever since he said it himself when he was three. One mistake: a lifetime of pain.
Nick looked at the clock.
“Bloody ’ell,” he yelled in outrage. “It’s only eight bloody fifteen. There’s hours!”
“I have work to do,” she yelled from downstairs. Nick rammed his head back under the covers, but he knew he’d never get to sleep now. He was too cross. Eight fifteen! He had another half an hour. What was she on?
“Turn the radio down!” he yelled. Why was it so loud? It was Adam Ant, music for morons. Then he realized it must be the radio in her bedroom to make so much racket up here. She was trying to irritate him out of bed.
“Get up and turn it down yourself,” she yelled, so he got up, slammed the door so hard the room shook, and went back to bed. No one was going to separate Nick Dane from his zees. No way.
Pause. Footsteps on the stairs. The door opens. The soft approach. “I’ve got an essay to hand in, I’m late. Come on, Nick. Please?”
He stared at her. “I’m in bed,” he explained, as if to a child. A flicker of irritation crossed her face. They stared at each other, mother and son, for a long moment. Then he relented.
“Mum,” he groaned, giving in. It was blackmail, it really was. She’d been studying for years now, trying to improve herself. She could do with improving. There was a good job at the end of it. Nick was hoping she’d make enough money to keep him in the style to which he wanted to become accustomed.
Muriel trotted back downstairs. Nick lay listening to the music for a while, then pulled the covers down. It felt cold. He pulled them back up. It felt warm. Bed was so good, it was a shame you had to fall asleep and miss it.
A few minutes later Muriel appeared in the doorway again like an overgrown pixie, with her dyed red hair and her lime green gown, baring her yellow teeth at him and trying to be cheerful.
“Come on! You promised. I’m not going till you’re up.”
“I’ve got nothing on.”
“I won’t look. Not that there’s much to see, from what I remember…”
Nick looked alarmed and she instantly regretted her joke.
“Only joking, I know it’s a monster,” she said.
“Shut up! Close the door, then.”
It was a deal. She closed the door and Nick tipped himself out of bed, pulled on his pants, and crawled to the loo. It was too early. Every morning of his life was too early. Life began at about one in the afternoon, everyone knew that.
Muriel stirred the porridge and made a cup of Nesquik milkshake. Her big boy, but he still had his sweet tooth. Nick walked in, with his school trousers on and his shirt undone. Lean, short for his age, but broad shoulders and good muscles. Fourteen years old. It was amazing watching him grow. He was a man—well, on the outside, anyway. He grunted at her, sat down, and started pouring the milkshake down him in long, thirsty gulps. Muriel struggled briefly, trying not to remind him not to drink all the milk first, because that would leave no room for breakfast, but as usual she couldn’t help herself. Nick glanced sideways at the kettle and ignored her. The milk dribbled down his chin. He tipped the glass back to let the last few drops trickle down and put it down with a bang.
She swallowed her irritation. Nick was one of those kids—the slightest hint of being told off and he was off in the other direction. Infuriating! Just like her when she was his age.
She didn’t want a row this morning. Neither of them were at their best first thing.
She decided to horrify him out the door. She started dancing around the kitchen, waving the spoon in the air, to the music on the radio.
“Karma karma karma karma karma chameleon, you come and go, you come and go—oh-oh-oh.”
Nick stared at her as if she’d just turned into a pink blancmange, and she was suddenly overcome with giggles. She clutched the edge of the table, put her wrist to her forehead, and rocked with silent laughter.
“You’re bonkers,” Nick told her. “You don’t even like that song.”
“Karma karma…” she started again.
“Right, that’s it, I’m off,” said Nick, jumping up. See? It worked. Like magic. I’m too clever for my own good, she thought to herself as he ran back into his bedroom and collected his bag.
“Eat your porridge,” she told him.
Nick paused in the hall. “No twattin’ about, then?” he said.
“No twatting about,” she agreed.
He came back in, lured by the irresistible Goldfish syrup, and stood next to the breakfast bar, spooning it down him and talking with his mouth full.
“What’s up with you this morning?” he asked her.
She smiled ruefully. “Exam hysteria. Jailhouse rock. Stir crazy,” she said.
“The exams aren’t for ages.”
“Essay. I’m late. The last one wasn’t good enough, I have to step up my game.”
Nick grunted. Typical. Muriel had blown school, left early, and gone straight on the dole and to a life of idle pleasure. Then she had Nick, went clean, got bore
d, went back to school, and discovered it was easy. She amazed herself. She never even knew she had a brain. All those years at school, she’d been no more able to concentrate than grow a tail, and now, suddenly, thirty years old, she could devour whole books for hours on end without so much as a glance out the window.