In recent weeks I’ve reviewed two books that were published in 1960, and for this one I’ve bypassed the present day altogether and headed straight for 2035.

The future in Michelle Cook’s TIPPING POINT seems close enough to reach out and touch. Climate change is ravaging the Earth, protest is outlawed, the police can brutalise people with impunity and drones hover in the sky watching our every move.

Scary, isn’t it? And what makes it scary is that it feels like it’s almost upon us.

And in the midst of all this chaos we meet Essie, a sparky 19-year-old waitress who lost her entire family in a tragic accident two years previously. Essie is trying to negotiate her way through her personal grief as well as a country in meltdown, and then, one day, she makes a decision that changes the course of her life. She accompanies a friend, Maya, to a meeting.

In this future, that’s all it takes to get you put on a government watch-list, and that’s when things start to get nasty. But there’s more. Essie is being messaged online by a mysterious man who needs her help. He claims to be in possession of plans for a ‘prototype’ that could reverse climate change, saving billions of lives.

Essie is a deeply layered and likeable hero and it’s through her that we experience the descent into paranoia, kidnap, torture, murder and, even more terrifying, politics. The tension never lets up and the author doesn’t spare us when the knives come out. TIPPING POINT is a vital, bloody and compelling debut novel. But it’s also more than that. It’s a warning.


This is the second book written in 1960 that I’ve reviewed within the space of a week, and boy, they couldn’t be more different!

Whereas Dennis Wheatley’s The Satanist was an adventure yarn about a bunch of fine, patriotic chaps saving the realm from a murderous Satanic cult who want to start WWIII, this is the story of a pregnant woman who has to move into a crappy room in a dingy house after being kicked out of the family home by her dad.

Here, she finds friendship, support and, yes, love among her new housemates, including a frustrated Jewish writer called Toby, a black jazz musician called John, her stern landlady, the eccentric old lady downstairs and the two prostitutes who live in the basement.

Jane Graham is a likeable, intelligent and cultured protagonist who merely finds herself on the wrong side of the social mores of her time. Author Lynne Reid Banks vividly evokes the squalor and griminess of the post-war period while conjuring a cast of richly-drawn characters, each with their own complex arcs and motivations.

As modern readers, we can only look on aghast as Jane accepts as inevitable the fact that she’ll lose her job because of her pregnancy. Proof that some things at least do change for the better.

One thing this book does have in common with its 1960 cousin The Satanist, though, is the whiff of racism. It seems that the author cannot mention John, the black jazz musician, without also mentioning the jungle, or his body odour. It’s a real shame, and also slightly baffling, because John is a sympathetic character, one of the good guys. He’s as deep, complex and richly-drawn as any of the others.

The L-Shaped Room provides an invaluable snapshot of Britain right at that moment. In these pages it’s frozen in time for us to delve into and experience, casual racism included.


This was my first Wheatley and three things stood out…

  1. The incredible amount of exposition in the opening chapters.
  2. The incredible amount of drinking.
  3. The racism.

That said, it would be remiss of me if I failed to state right from the off that Dennis Wheatley really does know how to write an exciting book. But before I get stuck into that, this review includes spoilers so if you don’t want to have any surprises ruined, you’d better stop reading.

What begins as two apparently unrelated plots – one involving Russian rabble-rousers in the trade union movement and the other a young lady investigating the death of her husband – soon converge to become something akin to a James Bond novel, with an evil genius trying to start WWIII by launching a stolen nuclear warhead at Moscow from his mountain lair.

It’s all genuinely thrilling and Wheatley wrings every last ounce of tension out of various imaginative set-pieces that take our heroes from the seedy streets of London to the snowy heights of the Swiss Alps.

Mary Morden’s husband was a secret agent who was murdered while attempting to infiltrate a Satanic coven somewhere in the capital. She decides that she should be the one to gather the evidence to convict his killers, so she disguises herself and tries to worm her way into the coven via a sleazy Indian chap called Ratnadatta.

Meanwhile, a fine, upstanding chap called Colonel Verney suspects a connection between the Commies and the Satanists and sends agent Barney Sullivan in to check it out. However, the defence of the realm is threatened when a megalomaniac with supernatural powers steals a plane-load of experimental rocket fuel for his own nefarious purposes.

The aforementioned exposition that occurs in the opening chapters of the book, far from holding things up, actually serves to set the scene nicely. It’s all too common these days for novels to begin by dropping the reader into the middle of the already unfolding action, so it was nice to read something that starts with a slow burn. However, not even this amount of exposition could prepare me for the absolutely astounding amount of drinking that Verney and Sullivan indulge in during the course of their adventure.

No national crisis, it seems, is too severe to prevent a quick visit to the nearest “club” for a glass of port, sherry or gin. I’m not kidding, they’re knocking this stuff back every couple of pages. After a few chapters I could only envisage them as two shambling red-faced drunkards, slurring their way from one plot point to the next, urinating themselves as they go.

And then there’s the racism. I can already hear people saying, “Ah yes, but The Satanist was published in 1960. It’s just of it’s time, that’s all.”

Yes, well…there’s being “of it’s time” and then there’s the n-word. Know what I mean? Also, as she infiltrates deeper into the Satanic coven, Mary learns that she might be expected to have sex with some of the members. She is horrified to discover that this may include one or more of the “negroes”. This is something that no decent, self-respecting white girl would ever consider, apparently.

So yes, that certainly left a sour taste.

The book concludes with Mary getting what every young lady truly desires, a marriage proposal. And that’s not all, because her suitor (ie Barney) also has a title (Lord) which means that she will too (Lady). It’s all so terribly terribly British, isn’t it?


Alright. I admit it. I’m a MASSIVE Lupita Nyong’o fanboy. I’ll watch anything that she stars in*, so when I got wind of a comedy horror movie that had her name above the title, I thought, “Yes please!”

Rather disappointingly, Little Monsters bypassed the cinemas where I live so I was denied the pleasure of a big screen viewing, and that’s a real shame as I found it hugely enjoyable.

Alexander England plays Dave, an ultra-selfish, washed-up musician who’s just broken up with his girlfriend and is, to use a very British phrase, on his arse. In a fit of self-pity he imposes himself on his sister, crashing on her couch.

One morning, she forces him to take her young son Felix to school and it’s there that he claps eyes on his angelic teacher Miss Caroline, played by an effervescent Lupita. Instantly besotted, he volunteers to help escort her class on an outing to some sort of outdoor attraction. Meanwhile, there’s been a zombie outbreak at a nearby military facility and soon the place is overrun.

Lupita Nyong’o is a mesmerising screen presence and it was a joy to behold her, armed only with a ukulele, morphing from ‘schoolteacher’ mode to ‘protector’ mode, doing everything and anything she could to keep her kids safe while also trying to convince them that the whole thing was just a game, even threatening a sleazy children’s entertainer (played by Josh Gad) with physical violence if he doesn’t play along.

This is a stupendously entertaining film and a lot more gory than I was expecting. Even though it’s primarily a comedy, director Abe Forsythe doesn’t shy away from the splatter, with zombie’s heads exploding and/or being cut off at regular intervals. There’s some great gags in her too, including a zombiefied sock puppet and the zombies joining in with a game of ‘If you’re happy and you know it’.

Needless to say, by the end Dave has learned the meaning of responsibility and is now a good example to his nephew Felix. Also, he gains Miss Caroline’s approval. But thanks to very likeable performances from all the leads his journey never feels hackneyed.

If they ever decide to make a sequel to this, I’ll be first in the queue. And hopefully this time it’ll be at a cinema.

*With the exception of that latest Star Wars trilogy. I have no intention of ever sitting through that again.

“I actually wrote a good book!” – the week DEEP LEVEL went on tour

On Monday 22nd February my debut horror novel DEEP LEVEL packed a suitcase, said goodbye and headed out on tour, leaving his tearful daddy (ie me!) behind.

It was a day of mixed emotions. On the one hand, I was keen to see what kind of critical reaction my baby boy would get from book bloggers and reviewers. But on the other, I was terrified to see what kind of critical reaction my baby boy would get from book bloggers and reviewers.

As it turns out, I needn’t have worried because the reviews were all great. Every. Single. One of them.

Now, it goes without saying that I already thought my book was good. Of course I did. I never would have sent it out to publishers if I didn’t think it was. But when you find out that OTHER people think it’s good – overwhelmingly so – now THAT’s a great feeling. In fact, it’s the best.

In case you don’t know, DEEP LEVEL is the story of four friends who set out to explore a system of secret Victorian underground train tunnels. However, they soon discover that some things are secret for a reason. It is, as previously stated, a horror novel, and what I found most heartening about the reviews was that many of them started with something along the lines of: “Now, I’m no horror fan, but…” and then went on to heap praise on it.

I loved the fact that my horror novel was appealing to non-horror fans. When I read those comments I knew I had done something right. Here’s a few choice quotes…

“With characters who share humorous banter, a creepy and unsettling locale, and a fascinating plot that will keep you on your toes, Deep Level is a book fans of the horror genre should definitely pick up.” –

“Wow…just, wow, this is an extremely well written debut, it’s intense, atmospheric, spine chilling and makes your skin crawl in places but is also laced with moments of humour.” –

“Truly sinister and unnerving, this is a great book for those who like their horror malevolent and greedy.” –

“The suspense in this novel is amazing. It was completely unsettling and downright creepy. I think what makes horror novels so great is when they get under your skin. That’s what Deep Level does.” –

“I was hooked from the end of Chapter 1 and the tension grows so intense but is sprinkled delicately with humour in just the right places.”

There were loads more, but I don’t want to bombard you with too much awesomeness.

The tour was arranged by Rachel at and she got me a total of 18 reviews and 3 Q&As over 7 days. I was blown away by that. I would definitely recommend her if you have a book to publicise.

Over the course of that week, DEEP LEVEL was read about by thousands of people who may not otherwise have heard of it, and for that I am very grateful. But what was just as valuable was the validation I felt as the reviews came pouring in day after day. I actually wrote a good book. I know that because everyone else thinks so.


If I ever meet Charlie Tyler in person I’m going to keep a safe distance.

A lake on the surface is calm and serene, but underneath it is a dark and dangerous place. Perhaps the same could be said of Tyler. Friendly and accommodating on the outside but a raging hellstorm of murderous intent within. Or at least, she is if this, her debut novel, is anything to go by.

Right from the off the reader is thrown in at the deep end (pun intended) with a body that needs disposing of. From then on things only get worse. This unfortunate victim has been killed for no other reason than to frame an innocent man. So far so cosy crime. But before you settle down with a mug of cocoa, looking forward to that old trope of the investigating detective gathering his or her suspects together for the inevitable revelation, just know that things don’t stay cosy for long.

In The Cry of the Lake, even the secrets of secrets have secrets, and nothing is as it seems. The story demands your attention but never loses you, and with every revelation you feel yourself getting dragged down deeper and deeper into the murky depths of madness and despair. Also, the characters are richly drawn and the author doesn’t compromise on making them complex and multi-layered.

This is a brutal read and is never less than utterly compelling. By the time I finished it I felt like I needed to come up for air. And I’m only joking about Charlie. I know for a fact she is a sweet and accommodating person. However, I think we should all be grateful that she exorcises those dark thoughts of hers in her writing, otherwise we’d all be in trouble!


When you work in radio advertising, as I do, there’s a certain kind of horror that descends on you whenever a client says: “…and I’d like my niece to voice my ads.”

Just to clarify, it’s not just nieces voicing commercials we fear. It could be any relative/friend/acquaintance of the client. Ads should always be voiced by professional voice over artists, or at the very least by the clients themselves, if they’re outgoing and confident enough. But in this particular case it happened to be a niece.

The business in question was a day nursery, and the instant those words left the owner’s lips I felt my whole body slump. Oh, here we go, I thought. How am I going to let him down gently?

“So, does your niece have any experience in acting?” I asked.

“I should say so,” the client replied. “She’s Joanna Page.”

Wait up. You don’t mean THAT Joanna Page? Joanna Page of Gavin and Stacey and Love, Actually fame?

“Yes. THAT Joanna Page.”

My heart didn’t so much skip a beat as sprint up to the top of a large hill and yell for joy.

By this point we were well into December and Christmas was threatening to put the brakes on commercial production, so I had to move fast. The client gave me her number and told me she was expecting a call. So I called and she answered in the only way Joanna Page could, with a chirpy “Hiya!”

I asked where she was based, expecting her to answer “London”. “London”, she replied. I asked when she was free. She gave me a date and I said I’d book a studio and we’d do the voice over session via ISDN.

To the uninitiated, ISDN is a broadcast quality line that allows us to record VO artists remotely. So I could book her into a studio in London and direct and record from my little studio in Swansea. Easy peasy.

However, there was a problem. But then, when there’s no problem there’s no story, so let’s all be grateful. The problem was that our ISDN kit was being ripped out and replaced on the one day she was free. What were the odds?

I had two options. Option one was to trust another producer/engineer to produce the session for me. I wasn’t keen on this as only I knew how I wanted my scripts to sound. I wouldn’t even be able to listen in via phone because there’s no signal in the studios because of the soundproofing.

Option two was to get in my car and zoom up to London to produce the ads myself. So that’s what I did. But in the meantime, there was the matter of the scripts. I worked fast and bashed out a few that capitalised on Joanna’s uber-bubbly public persona (try saying that three times) and got them approved by the client. I also had a few tag lines and station links for her to record. I was all set.

I didn’t actually drive INTO London. That would have been crazy. Instead, I drove to Reading, parked up and got on the train. So much more convenient. I had ‘borrowed’ a studio from TalkSport and by the time I got there Joanna was waiting for me in the canteen. We had a little bit of a chat and then one of the engineers came up to show us to our studio. Heads turned as we were led through the sales office.

Yes. That really was Joanna Page. Her of Gavin and Stacey and Love, Actually fame?

Needless to say, she was a little bundle of Christmassy joy and the voice over session was a blast. When we were done I gave her a Christmas prezzie from my station and a bag of Welsh cakes from me. I never go anywhere without Welsh cakes. Then we wandered outside as her husband was due to pick her up. He turned out to be none other than actor and VO artist James Thornton, best known for starring in Emmerdale.

Then I got the train back to Reading, jumped in my car, aimed it in the direction of Swansea and was back in work that afternoon. There wasn’t much of the afternoon left by that point, but one likes to show willing. It had been a monumentally tiring day with about six hours spent on the road. But it had also been a very rewarding one. The ads sounded ace, and that’s all that matters.

In radio no two days are ever the same, and this was definitely one of the most memorable. On the plus side, to this day, whenever a client says they have a relative who can voice their ads for them, I no longer feel a sense of horror fall over me.


When we do a celebrity voice advertising campaign in radio, this is how it usually works…

A business wants to advertise. We come up with an idea. We think, “Hey! You know who the perfect person to voice this campaign would be?” We contact their agent and get a quote. We pitch it to the client. They love it. We book the studio time with the celeb in question, giving ourselves plenty of time to nail down the scripts, and we get to work.

But that’s not how it happened in this case.

Fairyhill Hotel on the Gower Peninsula in south Wales was relaunching and wanted a brand new campaign to reflect the new identity. Nigel (the owner) and Shakira (the marketing bod) came into the station to have a chat about it. That chat went something like this: “We’ve got Joanna Lumley booked into a studio in Soho next week. We need a campaign.”

The campaign consisted of six 30-second scripts and a whole bunch of taglines to cover pretty much any eventuality. Cue a week of coming into work early and staying late in order to get them done, as well as all the other campaigns I was working on.

I told my mother I was working on a campaign to the voiced by the one and only Joanna Lumley and that I’d be going up to London for the recording session, and she asked me a really bizarre question. She said, “How are you going to cope with that?”

How was I going to cope? It’s not like I was going to be coming under sniper fire or anything. Weird.

Anyway, come the day of the recording session and we still weren’t 100% happy with the scripts. Shakira, Nigel and myself worked on them all the way to London on the train, finishing off the last one as we were pulling into Paddington Station. Before jumping into a taxi, Shakira emailed them on to the studio to be printed out in time for our session.

We arrived and took a seat in reception. At 1pm, right on schedule, Joanna Lumley arrived. Before we commenced with the recording we enjoyed a bit of chitchat and Joanna treated us to a history lesson from her time growing up in Kashmir. What a day!

The campaign was in the style of the classic M&S ads so we had Joanna going into pornographic detail about the sumptuous dishes served at the new Fairyhill. She said voicing all those scripts about food made her hungry, but that was okay because I’d brought a bag of Welsh cakes along for her. I brought some for the producer too. He said he hadn’t had a Welsh cake since his university days in Aberystwyth, so he was very grateful. I had a bag for the receptionist as well. Welsh cakes all round.

We got the session done just in time and Joanna left at 2pm on the dot. What a pro. Then myself, Nigel and Shakira headed out for a celebratory lunch in old London town. Joanna had been just as lovely and charming as we’d always imagined and we knew that the commercials were going to sound amazing.

Later, Nigel and I got the train back to Swansea (Shakira was staying over). We were in the buffet car when who should come staggering in from first class but actor Toby Jones. He appeared to be very drunk. Nevertheless, this was not preventing him from buying some more booze. If he hadn’t been quite so sozzled I would have introduced myself and said hello as I, in a very loose sense, had worked with him once before. I was an extra in Captain America: The First Avenger in which he played Doctor Zola.

So, it may have been a fraught week of long hours and little sleep but I didn’t care. I love the unpredictability and mania of my job. The only thing that mattered was that the campaign was a success and got people talking. For months afterward, whenever I told people who I worked for, they’d invariably ask: “Is that really Joanna Lumley on the Fairyhill ads?”

It sure was.


In horror maestro Stephen King’s latest (see what I did there?), a young boy who lives with his single mother realises he can see dead people.

Sound familiar?

But don’t be fooled because The Sixth Sense this ain’t. This is far more visceral stuff. Our young hero is Jamie Conklin, but he doesn’t stay young for long. As we follow him into his teens he learns to accept his gift and use it to do good deeds, like finding a missing wedding ring for an elderly neighbour who has just lost his wife. His mother is a literary agent (I love how King never strays far from the book world) whose business seems doomed following the death of her number one client. His mother has a girlfriend, a dirty cop called Liz, who brings to the story a generous helping of noir menace.

Jamie’s world takes a turn for the bizarre and terrifying when Liz intercepts him from school one day to help her prevent an atrocity being committed. A psycho who has been terrorising the city has taken his own life, but not before planting a bomb that’s set to go off god knows where and god knows when.

Liz wants Jamie to help her find the dead guy’s ghost and get the location of the bomb out of him before lives are lost. But, of course, this being Stephen King, things are not quite that simple.

This is King’s third book in the Hard Case Crime series and is told in the first person, which lends a cool swagger to the narrative without losing the author’s signature groove. The protagonist is likeable and the story zips along at a satisfying and exciting pace. Also, crucially, the sense of threat he faces is palpable and leads to a thrilling denouement that features a genuinely gasp-inducing twist.

I really enjoyed living in Jamie’s world while reading this book. My only complaint would be that it left me wanting more. But, thinking about it, I’m not sure that even qualifies as a complaint at all.


Greetings friends. I hope this correspondence finds you well.

My writing group has released an anthology entitled CHANGE. It features two short stories by my good (and bad) self, albeit under my mortal name of Rhydderch Wilson.

Here’s an excerpt from one of them…


When Luke woke up his first thought was that it was Saturday. Happy and relieved, he allowed himself the luxury of drifting back off to sleep. As he did so, he felt the warm body of his wife Daphne snuggle in behind him.

            When he awoke for the second time that morning his bladder felt ready to burst, so he got up. After he had finished in the bathroom he went downstairs and put the kettle on. Deciding that the house could do with some waking up too, he switched on the radio and opened the conservatory windows. Already the sun was up. It was going to be a nice day.

            He drifted back upstairs and stood in the bedroom doorway for a moment. Hazy sunbeams were bleeding in through the gap in the curtains. Daphne blinked awake.

            “Kettle’s on,” said Luke.

            Daphne stretched lazily and serenely. “What time is it?” she asked.

            “Gone nine.”

            “Does that officially qualify as a lie in?”

            “It does.”

            Daphne sat up. The duvet fell from her body to reveal that her arms were no longer there. Luke’s blood turned to ice.

            “Chilly up here,” she said, her blond hair glowing in the morning sunlight. “Could you pass me my dressing gown?”

            Frozen, all Luke could do was stare. He tried to speak but no words were forthcoming. His extremities tingled with pins and needles.

            “Darling? Dressing gown?” Daphne repeated.             Feeling as if his body were moving through warm water, Luke retrieved the fluffy pastel blue dressing gown from the hanger on the back of the bedroom door. Every muscle turned to jelly as he watched his wife, now armless, slip from the bed as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Then she approached, turned and stood waiting with her back to him. Luke just stood there, his mind as arid as a desert, his mouth tinderbox dry, his thoughts drowned out by a chorus of vultures.


The collection is the third of a successful series of anthologies and is partly inspired by the events of the 2020 pandemic. It distils the best of the creative thought from that year on change of all kinds.

It includes everything from a man changing in the sea, to the planting of seeds and watching them grow; the change of growing up, to career change and homelessness through poetry, prose, humour and serious thought.

It’s available from Amazon in ebook and paperback formats.

Swansea and District Writers Circle is a group of dedicated amateur and professional authors from south Wales who meet regularly to exchange ideas and learn from their peers.