I liked Kirkland Ciccone’s third novel, North of Porter, a bit more than I think he’s expecting. I reckon he’s found himself as a writer now. Don’t misunderstand me, North of Porter is still a crazy book, but it’s much more of the right kind of crazy. In fact, I suspect Porter is Kirkland.
Or should that be the other way round?
We’re back in Cumbernauld, or Castlecrankie as he calls it in order to throw people off the scent. Porter is a sad specimen of a teenager at times. And at times he’s really quite with it. He’d be better still if he didn’t obsess so much about his Dolce and Gabbana handbag.
His parents are crazy, and quite corrupt. There are aliens, one of whom is called JFK. Teenagers are going missing from Castlecrankie, and the workers at the pie factory are on strike. You have the usual crop circles. And then there is the poor cow that turns up in Porter’s flat, on the 16th floor. Also, his older brother is dead and his parents keep the body in a suitcase in the wardrobe.
So there you have it. It’s the kind of list of craziness you end up with if you sit down to make a list. And then you try and write your novel as though you are a bit crazy too. You know, sentences like ‘he wasn’t gone long before something murdered him noisily.’ It’s bad, but by then you have come to expect this kind of thing.
It might be a government conspiracy, for all I know.
In all this craziness, the only thing I don’t believe in is the en-suite in Porter’s bedroom. I mean, this is Cumbernauld, for goodness’ sake. A high rise. A speaking lift that is obviously also crazy, seems quite normal by comparison.
So, yes. I didn’t actually hate it at all. It was fun visualising Kirkie and his handbag sorting the aliens out, and all that. Sorry, I meant Porter.