So while everyone is in the midst of the annual "new year, new me" bullshit, I've decided to change things up a little. Not a massive amount and not for very long; I'll be back to spitting feathers before you know it and certainly before the Rogue One script writers realise their terrible mistake and apologise publicly for That Pun. You know what I'm talking about.
Dramatic plot twist number one: I won't be bringing up much bile this week which obviously throws the whole premise of this blog out of the window temporarily, but I'm the one writing this stuff, so suck it up buttercup. Everyone's allowed a holiday and I'm allowed to like things occasionally.
Dramatic Shyamalan-esque plot twist number two: I feel like taking a bit of a retro step and talking something other than a movie. A book in fact, or a series of them more accurately. Ironically, not an actual, real-life, made-of-dead-trees, 'ruined in your bag if it rains too hard and it soaks through the zip, but only in one corner so it ends up warping' book. No folks, I read it on the Kindle app, but the process is the same so it counts. Cost me less than £3 as well; you can't overlook that sort of value for money.
What you have to understand is that I fell out with reading. Not on a daily basis, not refusing to read anything at all. It's not like I'd waltz past street signs or posters or menus in restaurants refusing to read because I held a grudge. That would be dumb. I basically drank my way through my English degree if I'm being honest, and the sheer amount of reading, plus the in-depth level of analysis required dried up my love of reading and left it a withered husk. A touch melodramatic you say? Never! Well yeah, OK just a touch. Every once and a while however, my interest is piqued.
I was having a conversation with Ben at work (do yourself a solid favour and check out/subscribe/stalk/send random freedom of information requests to One Credit Classics at https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCLFvBU22pFIosJShOi65T2A; nobody will regret anything, he's terribly discreet) which worked it's way round to Garth Marenghi's Darkplace. If you've never partaken, it's phenomenal. I was already aware of how awesome it was, despite it not really getting the credit it deserved the first time around because the general public are clearly Philistines. What I was not aware of however, is that Marenghi is based on an actual, real author; one Guy N Smith.
And just in case you were under any false impressions, Guy N Smith is a legitimate legend.
You may think you know about horror. You've probably read some Stephen King, Dean Koontz or Clive Barker. You may have seen the adapted movies (Affleck was the bomb in Phantoms) and consider yourself somewhat of an expert, a connoisseur if you will. Sadly unless you've experienced indestructible, horse-sized crabs ransacking picturesque Welsh seaside towns and feasting on the inhabitants, then Sir and or Madam; you don't know shit.
In all seriousness, ironically, Guy N Smith's books are beautifully ridiculous. So far I've worked through the first two Crabs novels, (Night of the Crabs and Killer Crabs) but I've read excerpts from others that actually make these concepts seem restrained. I'm very much looking forward to the Sabat series (about a former SAS, ex-priest, exorcist fighting all sorts of demonic evil) and who wouldn't be excited about The Slime Beast or The Sucking Pit? Or Caracal, which is an obscure enough reference to a little known African wildcat even before you supplant it into the idyllic countryside of Shropshire. Let's not get too far ahead of ourselves though.
Night of the Crabs actually takes place over several nights, but I'm sure that's not really important. You couldn't fit this much pure action into a single evening anyway, it would be too much for even the staunchest of literary heroes to contend with. Professor Cliff Davenport however is exactly the type of botanist to give that sort of thing the old college try. He's a real renaissance man, not least because crabs not usually classed as flora and I don't think standard military procedure in times of monster invasion is to get on the blower with a trumped up gardener. He's pretty suave when it comes to the ladies which here takes the 70's Bond-esque meaning of can't hide his erections and doesn't take no for an answer. Handily adept at scuba diving, and strangely and coincidentally au fait with the habits and biology of crabs. Modern authors might be attempted to assemble a team of diversely skilled experts, but not Guy N Smith. One hero at a time please.
Plot wise, you'll not be shocked by much, but you shouldn't care. What's not to like about giant, intelligent, vengeful, carnivorous crabs lead by a further oversized King Crab (who later in the series turns out to be a Queen Crab so take that feminism! Oh, wait spoilers. Ha!) There are no huge dramatic plot twists, nobody turns out to be a crab in a human suit although there is plenty of scope in the remaining 5 novels I haven't read yet and you literally can't count anything out. We don't get to know where they came from until at least book 3, Origin of the Crabs, but I only just started that one so I guess we'll see. There are plenty of awkward boners though, (in the novel, not from me, honest) a good splash of sexy misogyny, (because this was the seventies after all) and handfuls of nice sloppy gore. It's a very strange experience; one minute you're hearing proudly of how a girl in a bikini gives our hero an instant tent-pole, the next minute we're introduced to some poor soul whose only job is to get offed before the end of the chapter. In one case, getting their hands pincered off and seemingly deliberately spraying the blood into their own face. I mean basically everything in a Guy N Smith novel spurts in some fashion or other.
Despite the fairly obviously flaws, which do include unedited typos, deus ex machina plot solutions and preposterous dialogue there's something really gripping about the stories. How there hasn't been a cinematic adaptation yet is beyond me, especially given the dross that does get put into production. I can practically see the slightly jerky stop motion crabs chewing up over-acting extras leaving a trail of overly-bright red corn syrup down the beaches of Wales while Cliff Davenport surreptitiously tries to suppress his hardon until a more suitable moment. Unlikely to bother the Oscars, but since when is that a true mark of quality? Never, that's when.
Besides all that, if you're even a moderately quick reader you'll blast through in less time than it takes to watch Batman vs Superman, instantly regret the decision, write a stern letter to DC and Zack Snyder advising them to consider their lifestyle choices and weep softly over those lost hours. You're never getting them back.
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