Tag Archives: Frank Cottrell Boyce

Ted Rules the World

Wanting to influence the Prime Minister is something I suspect most of us would love to do right now. In Frank Cottrell Boyce’s Ted Rules the World, nine-year-old Ted finds that he actually can do that, much to his surprise.

Frank Cottrell Boyce, Ted Rules the World

Just about everything he suggests or talks about starts to happen. I mean, who wouldn’t ask for free Premier League Cards if they had the PM’s ear? If that’s not an end to bullying, I don’t know what is.

The thing is, Ted hasn’t met the Prime Minister. All he does is talk to his best friend, and occasionally to the lady at the till in the local shop. And she remembers that Ted supports Stockport County (yeah, I don’t know how that sneaked into a proper book).

It could be she is not a real till lady. Or maybe she is, and the lesson to us all is to speak more to the people who take our money.

And why Ted? Even if he didn’t support Stockport County, he is still only a small boy.

This book has not one, but two, illustrators; Chris Riddell for the front cover, and Cate James for all that happens inside the covers. It’s a true Little Gem.

The Astounding Broccoli Boy

This is a very green book. It’s also most enjoyable, but you just can’t escape the green-ness of it. Escaping being green – all over – is impossible for the two boys in this book by Frank Cottrell Boyce. His green heroes are Rory, the smallest boy in his year at school, and Tommy-Lee, the boy in his class who has bullied him every day since they started Y7. They are both as green as broccoli, and no one can work out why.

Frank Cottrell Boyce, The Astounding Broccoli Boy

Rory might just have tried to kill Tommy-Lee (or Grim as he called him then) with a biscuit, but he didn’t mean to.

And here they are, in a hospital isolation unit, very green, prodded daily for blood and urine and things. And then Tommy-Lee starts to sleepwalk, on the 12th floor. Naturally, Rory follows, to see what he’s doing. He discovers that they both seem to have some super powers, and they get up to some weird stuff on their nightly escapades, including teleporting, a little.

But why did this happen, and can two such different boys ever be friends? And the penguin, and the lion and the hippo; how did they end up roaming London? What could the Killer Kittens virus have to do with being green?

We meet some interesting and unexpected people, and we witness a lot of bravery, mostly well beyond Tommy-Lee’s blood sample giving (although, it depends what you are scared of, if you are to be praised for showing courage).

As always with a story by Frank, The Astounding Broccoli Boy is a lovely and thought provoking, not to mention extremely entertaining, book. It is green, though.

(According to the afterword, there really were green children once. And Frank has really teleported. Also once.)

Desirable

Oh how I needed this book! I know, it’s been waiting for my attention a bit longer than it should have, but I was truly grateful for Desirable once I got to it.

You know, slightly bad day and you need something reliably uplifting and fun. That’s Frank Cottrell Boyce for you. Desirable. (That’s the title…)

George is a loser, and it’s brought home to him when even his Grandad can’t quite be bothered to do much for his birthday. No one else came to the party, and Grandad left pretty swiftly, after having given George the very same item that George’s mum once gave her dad (I believe it’s called re-gifting).

Although, perhaps Grandad knew what he was doing? George’s boring life suddenly changes. He becomes desirable. Not that that is necessarily as desirable as you’d think before you reached desirablity.

Frank Cottrell Boyce and Cate James, Desirable

This story is as heartwarming and funny as you would expect from Frank, and with very ‘undesirable’ illustrations from Cate James, in a desirable sort of fashion, if you know what I mean?

Those teachers are downright weird. Just saying.

Dung beetles in Salford Quays

When the Resident IT Consultant heard that I’d asked another man out to dinner, I had to placate him by lending him a copy of Grk and the Phoney Macaroni. That’s because the man was none other than Josh Lacey, who is also Joshua Doder,* who writes about the adorable Grk.

I then added to my dinner guests by trawling through the shortlist for the Salford Children’s Book Award, and apart from those who were ill or otherwise indisposed, or who claimed to be telling 2000 people in Derry what to do, I found Dirk Lloyd (aka the Dark Lord, aka Jamie Thomson) and Gill Lewis, who both courageously sacrificed themselves to dinner with the witch. (I suppose it beats a dry sandwich alone in a hotel.)

Dining – and wining – authors is almost better than going to awards ceremonies. (Think Disney’s Snow White and a certain witch.)

Speaking of hotels; they shouldn’t be allowed to name and build them in such a way that authors don’t know where they are staying. We almost led someone astray after the meal.

I found Josh and the Dark Lord in the bar at the Lowry last night, where I had gone to warm up, and they for a glass of something. Before long I forced them to go out and search for Gill, who had abandonend the end of a very good book to dine with us.

We talked about a lot of things. The Dark Lord talked the most, and he is very keen on games. And similar stuff. He knows about smörgåsbord, and there was a rather unfortunate conversation about eating elk.

Some people go to awards nights away to sleep, when sleep is hard to come by at home. (On that basis, maybe there should be even more events away for the sleep deprived.) Gill, who is a vet, writes about animals, and the Dark Lord got busy thinking one up for her next book (which, if it mentions too much gamesy stuff is all his fault) to top ospreys, dolphins and bears. It seems dung beetles are the answer.

There was some speculation as to who will win today’s award. Most of our money is on Frank Cottrell Boyce, but I’m sure we could be wrong. It might be one of the dinner guests. Or Barbara Mitchelhill, David Logan or Lissa Evans. Who knows?

I gather Alan Gibbons is doing the talking again this year, so I wish I could be/have been there. But as usual, I’m happy for the children of Salford who have read and voted and hopefully generally enjoyed this year’s award work.

And my fellow diners might never have the same kind of bank balance as JKR, but they are great company, and only ever so slightly slow at ordering food. At least one of us was starving, and another very sleepy. Actually, that makes two of us.

There was some speculation on the feasibility of a Jacqueline Wilson sci-fi novel, and why not? The odds are better than for me getting the hang of modern mobile phonery. I tried texting my guests. I tried answering my phone. I’m pretty useless at it all.

Maybe it’s because I’m a foreigner that I don’t distinguish between more and longer. I meant longer. I never knowingly insult children’s authors.

Thank you, Gill, Josh and Jamie.

PS Gill Lewis and her Sky Hawk won!!!

* I am sorry to have to tell you (well, not that sorry, actually) that Joshua Doder is now dead. Kaput, as Josh Lacey put it. He is taking over his alter ego, and from now on Grk will belong to him.

Bookwitch bites #92

Thank goodness for these bites where I can complain on a variety of subjects almost every week. Occasionally I have lovely news as well. Let’s see if I can find some.

I don’t often (like never, obviously) receive invitations from the Canadian High Commission in London, but this week I had to make myself say ‘no thanks’ to them. But as Disney’s Cinderella says, what could possibly be nice about a visit to Canada House? (Only all of it…)

Came across the programme for Book Week Scotland at the end of November. Can’t go, even though I can be found north of the border that very week. So no Frank Cottrell Boyce. No Debi Gliori and no Steve Cole. Nobody.

Offspring are my reasons for travelling, and Son had some news this week, relating to the literal translation he did earlier this year. We are finally able to say it was Strindberg, for the Donmar at Trafalgar Studios. The Dance of Death. Will get back to you on that.

Before leaving Scotland, let me just mention the Grampian Children’s Book Award 2013. Apart from Patrick Ness who is on every single shortlist these days, the shortlisted authors are Barry Hutchison, Cathy MacPhail, Mark Lowery, Dave Cousins and Annabel Pitcher. Tough competition.

South to Newcastle, where the good news is that Seven Stories can call themselves National Centre for Children’s Books, as the only ‘national’ place in the Northeast. Well done to a special place!

Launch of Jacqueline Wilson exhibition at Seven Stories

Actually, I am coping with the happy business, after all. We’ll finish with a decisive jump across the water to Ireland, where they have The Irish Book Awards. You can vote, but you might want to follow my example and only vote in categories (they have so many!) where you have read the books. Luckily I didn’t have to choose between Declan Burke and Adrian McKinty. Not quite so lucky with Eoin Colfer and Derek Landy, though.

A witch can always flip a coin.

Coat wins the Guardian children’s fiction prize

Frank Cottrell Boyce and Philip Ardagh

You know what? It’s the middle of the night, and I’ve celebrated a birthday (not my own) and watched trains vanish into thin air (might have been the infamous Fife haar), so I have simply returned to my temporary base and I am not above stealing photos from Philip Ardagh. If he minds, I will deal with him later.

Because this is not about the tallish man with the beard, but about his pal on the left, Frank Cottrell Boyce, who won the Guardian children’s fiction prize on Wednesday evening. Very well deserved win, for a fantastic book (The Unforgotten Coat) by a marvellous author. (And he’s not short. He was just misguided enough to stand next to Ardagh. Even I would look short under such circumstances.)

Frank Cottrell Boyce, The Un-Forgotten Coat

It would have been great to have been in London, but I wasn’t. I sent my stand-in with the beard. He likes to hang out with successful people. Come to think of it, so do I.

Frank, meanwhile, has joined a long line of really very great writers who have won the Guardian prize. As he said about the award: ‘It would be amazing to win this award with any book I’d written but it is a special joy to win it with The Unforgotten Coat, which started life not as a published book at all, but as a gift. Walker gave away thousands of copies in Liverpool – on buses, at ferry terminals, through schools, prisons and hospitals – to help promote the mighty Reader Organisation. We even had the book launch on a train.’

And speaking of trains, I do wonder what happened to my disappearing one?

A Little, Aloud

This is one anthology that I won’t be able to carry around with me in order to catch all its participating authors for autographs. Many are dead, and anyway, there are so many of them. Many means good, because there is a tremendous variety and choice, and once you’ve read what you fancy, you might pick something you don’t. That way you discover that is actually also perfectly fine.

You don’t always get anthologies intended to be read aloud, which of course doesn’t stop you from doing so. Short stories and excerpts and poems are just right for that bedtime read, when you are praying you won’t be sitting on the edge of the bed half the night. This book obligingly tells you how long you can expect to spend reading each contribution, so no nasty surprises.

A Little, Aloud

The royalties for this collection of good reads go to The Reader Organisation, which has as its aim ‘reading and health.’ Very nice to see those two words used together. I frequently sit down with a book even when far too many little jobs and crises scream at me that my attention is of the utmost importance. I know that I will feel so much better after a read.

Foreworded by Michael Morpurgo (naturally) and with blurbs by Philip Pullman and Stephen Fry (two men whose voices I just love listening to), the book begins with Instructions by Neil Gaiman. I mistakenly thought he was needed to tell us what to do, but it was actually a proper poem.

Many of the stories in here are ones I have already read, as part of the novel they hail from or as works in their own right. They have, for instance, had the good taste to pick my favourite Shaun Tan story, Broken Toys. There are excerpts from Siobhan Dowd’s The London Eye Mystery, Joan Aiken’s The Wolves of Willoughby Chase as well as Cosmic by Frank Cottrell Boyce.

You have Shakespeare and Kipling, Stevenson and Larkin, and even good old Anon. I haven’t read them all. Yet. This is another of those volumes I want to keep somewhere near, just to dip into. The pile for dipping is getting taller, but that just can’t be helped.

I will want to dip.

(Apologies to all those, dead or alive, whose names I haven’t listed. They are many. And how marvellous to be able to share classic writers in an easy bite size form with a child.)