Strong language follows:
As Kyle and I are Alumni of Bellshill Academy, Lanarkshire. (We don’t use that term, Alumni. Anyone who attended said school in the 90s would perhaps be more comfortable with the label ‘fellow survivor’. Alumni suggests that something constructive took place. It did not.)
As a fellow survivor who has also found himself writing in middle-age, I wanted to introduce you to Kyle Scott, Bellshill man, demented horror writer and political activist.
The only problem is that Kyle’s a wee shite. As eager as I am to tell you how good his first offering as a writer is (and it is good, very good), I can’t get past the fact that he’s a total wank.
In all honesty, I’m gutted at how good Consumed, his debut collection is. I’d much rather he kept his writing to himself and his stupid pointy-nosed gimp face off my newsfeed, but he’s got me hanging around like a crack-whore waiting on my next fucking hit.
With that in mind, here’s a short interview followed by my review of Consumed:
Who the fuck do you think you are? You’re supposed to be a Scottish writer; where’s the clichéd drunks, wife beaters, drug addicts, dole scroungers and other Begbie-derived lunatics. There’s not even any fucking football thugs. Writing a genuinely intelligent, caustic social commentary in the guise of a horror anthology, you cheeky bastard. Whadafuck?
Thanks for having me, dick-stick.
Well, I figured seeing’ as all you other Scottish authors are sucking Satan’s cock and being as clichéd and half-hearted in your literature as the world expects you to be, I’d break the trend and actually write something good. I know this may come as a shock to you talentless no-names, but there’s a whole world out there that isn’t soaked in Buckfast or smack. I’m thinking maybe if you pull your heads out your asses, you may be able to write something halfway decent. I mean, most of you can string a sentence together, sort of. Did you know, Mark, that there are oceans out there? And birds? Trees and mountains and shit? Varying cultures with their own rich heritage?
I shit you not!
They’re all pish compared to Scotland, but still…
Everyone from your school days remembers you as a long-fringed, spaced out, hippy fuck with a carpet-coat and pish-stains on your baggy Benzini jeans, plodding along with rainbows spreading out from your footprints. What happened to the chilled out, pishy-pants of old. How’d he end up being a horror writer?
While the rest of you losers were roaming the halls with your Armani jeans and your Jazzie B records, your superior, (me), was busy using a variety of chemical enhancements on myself – much like a superhero or some sort of awesome fucking wizard – to reach a spiritual realm the likes of which you scabby little shitheels could only dream, were you not all too busy wanking off into jam-jars, or studying for your ‘education’.
Even then, I knew you cretins would fuel my inner rage. It was either write horror or take you all to the fucking cleaners!
In Consumed, the violence is described in a wonderfully graphic manner but your sex scenes are awesome. I cracked a forty-percenter several times. As you’re celibate, did you get a friend to help research the act of love?
I had sex once! Don’t you dare say I didn’t, because I did! Also, there’s only one sex scene, so why don’t you admit that you read it repeatedly while shaking yer sausage, like you were looking in my window – circa 1990. I only became celibate because I’d rather stick my dick in an operating blender than squander my sexual prowess on you lowlifes.
I know you’re terrified of hard work, you lazy little piss-flap. How’d you get your shit together long enough to put Consumed together, let alone recently complete your first full-length novel, Devil’s Day?
My shit wasn’t together, and no one can say it was! I was on a heady concoction of Blue Meth, LSD and Fairy Liquid, while writing Consumed. The process went on for twenty years, and while I can’t remember writing any of it, or even know what the fuck it’s about, I’m positive it’s the best book ever written by anyone in the history of ever!
Except for my new book, Devil’s Day, which is better than life!
Thanks for the interview, Dickbag.
Fuck you and your interview. I’m off to find my dealer…..
Some people bring out the absolute worst in a person. You know the type, right?
The hipster in his post-ironic, Wall Street braces and bow tie standing statue-still, thoughtfully playing with his post-ironic beard or his faux-NHS specs at the front of your favourite band’s gig. Dancing never occurring to the bastard.
The dickhead who puts spikes out to deprive the homeless of a good-night’s sleep, defending a 6 foot by three foot slab of rock he calls his.
How about the asshole correspondent on regional BBC news who gets you pebble-dashing your TV screen with your morning cereal as he’s telling you that a hundred people marched in your city centre protesting Israel’s war on Palestine when you witnessed 10,000 with your own eyes.
If not those, then the best friend who talks you into one more drink/bar/gamble/lap dance
and takes a step to the side to photograph your inevitable meltdown. That guy, yeah, him.
Kyle Scott is such a creature. With his debut work he effortlessly takes you to places you don’t wish to go or acknowledge that you have tucked away in the darkest, most twisted corridors of your mind. All that shit that you ignore or hide, to blend in with the other fucks all around you all doing the same damn thing. This heartless fucker spares nothing in stripping bare the very best and the very worst of humanity in both everyday and supremely horrific acts.
Kyle knows which buttons to push, the sick bastard has pushed most of those buttons in his own damaged wee psyche, so he knows how to fuck you in the head. He knows which threads to pull at and he knows how to make you invest yourself in a story or a character, how to force you to recoil in horror, sneer in derision and smile or laugh sadistically when you know you shouldn’t.
Always graphic, his narrative slowly picks away at the scabby veneer of each of his cast to reveal their true depravity or heroism or weakness. He strips the poor souls of their illusions and drops the veil of society, presenting them with a moment to rise, fall or be devoured-sometimes literally. He’s a sick fuck, this guy, but his real strength, if you can call sadism a strength, is in conveying- in revealing- the true monsters lurking behind society.
Kyle explores consumerism at its most base and engages the reader’s brain without ever descending into preachy rhetoric. This subtle tugging at the reader’s sensibilities and values, coupled with the effective characterisation and incredibly descriptive acts of brutality, propels and plummets the reader through this collection at breakneck speed and makes him/her squirm in recognition of their own flaws. In Scott’s second short, ‘Shopping’ he uses this skill to great effect, presenting us with his most tragic, simple, heroically honest character in the form of a hideously misshapen cannibal named Roland on a shopping trip.
He’s a manipulative little bastard, Kyle Scott. You’ve been warned.