F. Gwynplaine MacIntyre’s Alleged
Rogue’s GalleryPhoto GalleryALL IMAGES COPYRIGHTED © F. GWYNPLAINE MacINTYRE & GWYNPLAINE ENDEAVOURS, LLC
or are copyrighted © (and used with permission from) the persons depicted in the photographs.Some of these are photos taken BY me, some are photos taken OF me, and some are just photos that I like!
Who cares what an author looks like? Actually, here’s one of the publishing world’s dirty secrets: the best way to get your book published is to be a good-looking woman, because publishers are most eager to acquire the books that are the easiest to publicise on television . . . and — in our channel-surfing era — the booking agents for TV programmes are more likely to book a photogenic female than any other specimen. I haven’t been a good-looking woman lately, so here’s a photograph of me (BELOW) standing between two blokes who look better than I do. Aye, that’s me in the middle.
The gent with the vin plonk (at left) is BORIS JOHNSON, Mayor of London (nice one, Bozzer!). The toff in the blue tie (at right) is ARTHUR WELLESLEY, the MARQUESS OF DOURO OBE: prominent philanthropist, businessman, tireless charity worker (see note*) and a direct descendant of the famed Duke of Wellington. He gave me a recipe for beef Wellington and some Wellington boots. (*NOTE: Anyone who will stand next to me long enough to have a picture taken is a charity worker.)
ABOVE: That’s me on the right. The gent in the centre is London journalist, columnist, reviewer and restaurant critic TOBY YOUNG. He wears several hats, although none in this picture. The Hon. Toby Young (him again) is also author of the best-selling (and very funny) book How to Lose Friends & Alienate People, inspiration for the 2008 motion picture. You can read about the movie version of Toby’s book here. The tall, well-buttoned fellow on the left is IAN OSBORNE, one of the most daring young theatrical producers ever to work on both sides of the Atlantic. I’m the only one in the picture who hasn’t got his arms across his chest because I’m wearing handcuffs. This photo was taken in the winter; I can always spot the season, in old photos of me, by the behaviour of my hair. Some seasons, it’s much more active than the rest of me.
ABOVE: That’s me on the right again, with American television journalist ANDY ROONEY and his very charming wife MARGUERITE, attending an awards banquet in 1990. See if you can figure out why I don’t wear black-tie very often. Ladies, of course, can wear whatever they ruddy well please at such events.
ABOVE: The landlord never fixes this place! All mod cons, eh? This is the earliest surviving photo of me, apart from the photo that H.M. Government made me pose for, just before I got put aboard the transport ship to Australia as one of the circa 10,000 ‘child migrants’ expatriated from post-war Britain. After escaping from several work-farms and forced-labour camps that masqueraded as orphanages, I returned to Britain . . . and decided I like England and Wales much better than my native Scotland. Here I am at (have a guess) Stonehenge in 1964 (AD), when visitors could still walk among the stones. Later, the stone circle and the earthworks had to be fenced off to keep out the hippies and self-appointed druids. The real Druids never had anything to do with Stonehenge: it was crafted mostly by an ancient culture now known as the Beaker People, who showed up in the British Isles well before the Druids. The true Druids and their religion are now well and truly extinct. Any modern hippy-dippy New Ager who claims to be a practitioner of the Druid craft, or who claims to be a descendant of the tree-worshipping Druids, is merely a son of a birch.
PEARLY VICTORIOUS: These piccies of me (in 1969) were snapped by a dolly-bird I was dating at the time, who worked as a commercial photographer’s assistant. In the snap on the left, I’m the Pearly King of Wooloomooloo. More than 40 years on from when this photo was taken, I still own the jacket and cap of this pearly rig, made with several hundred mother-of-pearl buttons. Even more miraculoulsy, I can still get into the jacket, even though my waistline has expanded considerably. (But it hasn’t expanded as rapidly as my head.) The dapper portrait on the right was taken on the same day, during my larrikin phase. You’ll notice that, in both photos, my left eye is artfully concealed. At the time, I had membership of a motorcycle enthusiasts group known as the Bexley Gropers, and we’d got into a pub brawl with some ‘bovver boys’ the week before these pictures were taken; I’d emerged from the stosh-up with a damaged eye that took a couple of years to heal properly.
TOO LOOSE LA TREK: Here I am, larking about with a friend in my misspent youth. No, the photo’s not out of focus, nor smudged: I actually was blurred in those days. Smudged, too. I’m wearing mittens to strangle some kittens. (And so I don’t leave any fingerprints on this fair lady.) I’m also wearing a British Army jacket that one of the Paras gave me after I beat him in a snooker match. (You can’t see ’em in the photo, but the inside lining has got broad-arrow labels to show that the jacket is property of the Ministry of Defence.) I stopped wearing military gear when people started mistaking me for an ex-serviceman; as someone who has never served in the military, I didn’t want to be mistaken for a non-veteran claiming to be a veteran.
YOUNG GOODMAN GOODMAN: Stone the crows! Cop a squizz at all that hair I’ve got! This photo harks back to the days when I had more hairline and less waistline. When I was young and stupid (as opposed to old and stupid), I thought I was unbreakable, and (for a while) I smoked a pipe. Cancer? Never heard of it! Eventually, sanity prevailed and I gave up abusing my lungs in favour of abusing my liver. Here I am in Noo Yawk City in the late 1970s as a would-be crusading journalist, with one of the best friends I’ve ever known: JEFF GOODMAN, a steady source of common sense in serious matters and my colleague in nefarious shenanigans; the Heckle to my Jeckle, the Hecht to my MacArthur. Jeff is one of those smart, funny and sensible guys who has spent years in the background of the publishing business, making other people seem more smart, funny and sensible than they really are. In that photo, we were probably looking at some porno rag that would only slightly embarrass me now . . . but I’m actually more embarrassed to be seen using a tobacco product. Yes, I’m quite certain it was tobacco.
SNAFFLED: Behold the only-ever photo of me that was taken (1993) by a studio photographer. Also the only-ever time that I actually bothered to comb my hair. (I combed my face, too.) I never was very well-endowed in the eyebrows department. It’s a good job that this photo isn’t in colour: my top hair (formerly red) had gone dark brown, my side-whiskers were ginger, my moustache was tan, and my eyebrows (what there is of ’em) were blond. By ’93, I was starting to look a right Smuggins: prosperous, respectable and self-satisfied. After some harsh early years when I seldom knew where my next meal was coming from, by now I’d developed the habit of eating at regular intervals . . . and I’ve gained a few stone since my scuffling days.
That thingummy on my lapel is a stock pin, worn by horsemen instead of a tie-clip. I’ve always loved riding horses (and breaking them to bit and saddle, and working with them) ever since my days as a jackaroo and a drover on livestock stations in Australia. This particular stock pin is shaped like a snaffle bit, used for training horses.
Nowadays I weigh about as much as a horse does; when I go riding now, the horse and I take it in turns to carry each other. Much fairer that way.
FIVE CHILDREN AND IT, MINUS THE FIVE CHILDREN: This photo was taken in 2000 by a friend of mine, MIKE ASHLEY from Kent. That’s Mike Ashley the author, editor and winner of the coveted Edgar Award, not Mike Ashley the owner of Lillywhites and Newcastle United. I’m in the churchyard of Saint Mary’s in the Marsh in Romney Marsh, near Mike’s home, and I’m crouching behind the goalpost-shaped grave-marker of Edwardian author Edith Bland, who wrote under the name ‘E. Nesbit’. When I was younger and stupider, she was one of my favourite authors. She was also the favourite author of Sir Noël Coward. The only ever time I met him, Sir Noël and I disagreed on every subject that we discussed except our mutual enthusiasm for E. Nesbit’s novels.
Alas for innocence! A few years later, I learnt that E. Nesbit and her husband were founding members of the Fabian Society, a bunch of political crackpots only just barely distinguishable from communists. Then, in middle age, I started to read E. Nesbit’s books again, but I discovered that they were full of bigotry against various ethnic groups, especially Jews: some of it so obvious, I’m ashamed that I failed to spot it in my first reading of her stories.
In addition to her political activities, E. Nesbit also had membership of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, a Victorian neo-pagan cult who figure prominently in my Victorian-era novel The Woman Between the Worlds . . . in fact, E. Nesbit shows up briefly in my novel, costumed as Nesbit, the ancient Egyptian god of the fifth hour (an ‘authentic’ deity of Egyptian mythology). However, E. Nesbit is no longer in my pantheon of favourite authors. But because her gravesite is so close to Mike Ashley’s home in the beautiful Kentish countryside, he generously drove me there to see it.
The inscription on her grave-marker (minus some graffiti) reads “RESTING • E. NESBIT • Mrs BLAND • AUTHOR • DIED 4 MAY 1924 AGED 65”. A friend of mine (with my permission) donated a JPG of this photo to Wikipedia for their article on E. Nesbit, but didn’t identify me in the caption . . . so, anyone who swots up research on E. Nesbit at Wikipedia will see this photo and wonder who the weird-looking bloke is. As you see here, my facial hair really is ginger, and my top hair (now greying and vanishing) was indeed quasi-brown back in 2000: a side-effect of medical treatment. My eyebrows are blond: the various colours make my face resemble a pousse-café.
HE’S DEAD, JIM: This photograph (all my own work) also ended up in Wikipedia. This is the gravestone of JAMES BLISH, a major science-fiction author and one of the most important people in my life. Blish, an American, moved to Henley-on-Thames to be near Oxford University in general and in particular the Bodleian Library, where I first met him. At the time, I had already published professionally but I still wasn’t entirely committed to becoming an author. Jim Blish became my mentor: he was the first to recognise my talent and truly to encourage me, and he was the person who showed me that writing is indeed the most important and most noble form of human activity and expression. He also introduced me to the manifold marvels of his favourite novel, JAMES JOYCE’s Finnegans Wake. If I had never had the honour of meeting James Blish, and the greater honour of becoming his disciple (not too strong a word), I should very possibly now be in prison, or dead. Jim Blish is buried in the very beautiful Holywell Cemetery in the Saint Cross Road, Oxford, just a short stroll from his beloved Bodleian. Among his many other books, Jim Blish wrote the very first Star Trek novel, and he was grateful for the assignment of adapting the original Star Trek episodes into paperback anthologies: these brought him more money and popularity than the novels and stories he wrote entirely from his own imagination. My alleged witticism at the beginning of this paragraph — “He’s dead, Jim!” — may seem in poor taste, but I know that Jim Blish would be the first to laugh in delight.
MESSING ABOUT IN GRAVES: My Wikipedia hat-trick: I took this photo, too! This beautiful headstone marks the grave of KENNETH GRAHAME, author of The Wind in the Willows and The Reluctant Dragon. He shares the grave, the headstone and the epitaph with his son Alastair Grahame, who predeceased him. It was for young Alastair that Kenneth Grahame invented the tales of Toad and Rat and Badger which ultimately became his beloved book. Sadly, Alastair Grahame had medical problems from birth, and was never happy. He committed suicide in a rather unpleasant (and very British) manner. At the time, the social stigma against suicide was even deeper than it is today. Kenneth Grahame was something of a local hero: not because of his books, but because he’d foiled a bank robbery. Out of respect for Grahame’s reputation, his son’s demise (very definitely a suicide) was officially recorded as an accidental death.
Although I enjoyed The Wind in the Willows, neither this book nor its author were especially important to me in my formative years. However, Kenneth Grahame and his son Alastair are buried in Holywell Cemetery, just a few feet from the grave of my mentor James Blish . . . in fact, I have to pass Grahame’s very prominent headstone in order to reach the much more modest Blish marker. Whenever I visit Jim Blish’s resting place, I always spend a moment with Kenneth and Alastair Grahame as well. Over time, I’ve learnt quite a bit about Grahame’s writings and his very interesting life.
OH, SO-LOW ME, OH! Here I am in Sacile, Italy, in October 2006, to attend Le Giornate del Cinema Muto, the annual silent-film festival. (Normally held in nearby Pordenone, to which it returned the following year.) I’m wearing that green ribbon round my neck because I won third prize in a livestock show. (No: the truth is, it’s holding my press badge and I.D. for the film festival. I actually came in fourth in that livestock show.) The scenery in Sacile and Pordenone — including some Renaissance architecture, a chiming campanile, and terraced pavements in every palazzo — is extremely beautiful, but who the hell has got time to look at scenery when there’s a film festival on?
Sacile is just north of Venice, and is quite Venetian itself: the town is built on several islands, so the locals are reliant on bridges and boats. (Not gondolas, though.) The 2005 Cinema Muto festival (also in Sacile) was less pleasant for me than usual: some local idiot was setting off pathetically impotent little bombs, but getting lots of attention because he left notes with his bombs, crying himself “the Unabomber”. The local carabinieri (really a comic-opera joke) were constantly stopping everyone who was clearly not a local, and demanding to see identification. Each time they stopped me (and I felt quite flattered to be recognised as someone who is NOT Italian!), I told the copperazzi that the idiot they were hunting was obviously local talent. When they eventually caught him, they discovered I was right. And that’s how I solved another case.
SILENTS, PLEASE: Speaking of silent films: I’m passionately interested in the history of the movies (as an industry and an art form), and I’m especially interested in the silent-movie era. Over the years, I’ve managed to meet a few important people from the days of silent film. Since women tend to live longer than men, and females tend to enter the film industry at a younger age than males — as “script girls” or in some other lowly capacity, or as ingenues — most of the survivors of the silent-film era whom I’ve met were women, although I’ve met some male survivors too. If I listed here all the silent-film actors, actresses and tech people whom I’ve met over the years, I’d look a proper name-dropper. (Maybe I’ll list of them on a separate web page, so that the three or four people who actually care about my life experiences can find that information without the rest of you lot getting bored.) Anyroad, whenever I meet someone with an interesting life or career — from silent films, or from any other realm — I’m usually more interested in interviewing her (or him) than in posing for photographs. Just occasionally, though, the camera obliges.
The lady beside me in the photo montage above is DIANA SERRA CARY, who was famous throughout the United States in the late silent era under her screen name BABY PEGGY. Her movies of the 1920s, viewed today, are astonishing: unlike most child actors of either sex, Baby Peggy was a refreshingly natural and unaffected performer. A compilation of her dramatic and comedy scenes should be required viewing for anyone who thinks that silent-film acting was always stilted and unnatural. The photo at lower left shows her in 1923, at nearly the peak of her stardom. Regrettably, the parents of Peggy-Jean Montgomery (her birth name) squandered the earnings from her film roles, her merchandising deals and her endorsements. Studio politics blacklisted her from the film industry during a brief period just before the talkies arrived . . . and in the tumult that followed, Hollywood forgot her. The photo at lower right shows her as actress Peggy Montgomery in 1935, in costume and make-up for a stage role. She never regained movie stardom in her adult years. Fortunately, after leaving the stage, she made some wise investments and retired comfortably.
Notice how my hair changes colour in different lightings? Weird, aye? Been like that my whole life, it has. A few years from now, when I’ll be sporting an Erich von Stroheim hairline, the problem will sort itself out.
When I first became an aspiring author, I gave up a lot of social opportunities — parties, sport events, pub crawls — in order to stay home and write, and I passed up many chances for friendships and alliances. After I started getting published, I made the happy discovery that my writing would actually bring me the friendships of people who enjoyed reading what I’d written. As I’ve mentioned elsewhere, I took my middle name ‘Gwynplaine’ from the name of the hero in one of Victor Hugo’s novels. The lady seen here is MARINA NEARY. Her love of Victor Hugo’s writings has led her to discover my own writings; Marina is now a fan of my writing, and I’m a fan of her own endeavours: she’s a talented playwright, photographer and film-maker as well as a dedicated dancer. (Unlike me; I only ever participate in art forms that I can do sitting down.) She probably knows Hugo’s novels better than I do. The fair Lady Marina is a booster for all my projects, and I wish her luck and success with all of hers.
Here’s another friend of mine, and a valued mentor: IAN CHARLES SCOTT, a fellow Scotsman. Many’s the jar of electric soup that Ian and I have supped in Sauchiehall Street. Ian wants everyone to know that Her Royal Majesty ELIZABETH II, Queen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, and of the Commonwealth realms, is in fact his homeboy. Ian and Madge go way back together. The Queen Mother once formally opened one of his gallery shows.
Ian proudly hails from Caithness, the only part of Scotland that’s even more remote and forsaken than the part I came from. Ian is so Scottish, his blood type is tartan. Ian is also an extremely talented (and successful) artist: he has exhibited in the National Portrait Gallery, sold artworks to (and received commissions from) major international collectors (including David Bowie), and taught many other aspiring artists to become overpaid layabouts much like himself. My own background is mostly in literature and publishing, but Ian — a proud exemplar of the functionally illiterate — has introduced me to no end of creative people in the visual arts, and he has encouraged me to develop my alleged talents as a visual artist. (So that I can become an overpaid layabout much like himself.) Wa-hey, oor Ian!
This here is my good buddy Dan Cragg: Cragg by name and craggy by nature. Dan is proudly a Vietnam veteran (support our troops!) and just generally an all-round great guy, at least when he and I aren’t busy lambasting each other with terrible jokes and shaggy-dog stories. More to the point, Dan is also the author of the StarFist Saga series of military science-fiction novels, as well as an expert (and non-fiction author) on several military topics. Dare I wonder what’s in that drink he’s imbibing? The world needs more people like Danster the Manster.
Here is a dear friend of mine from bygone yore, now back in touch with me in modern yore. (Yore welcome.) She is the fair lady Susan Rothman, whom I met when I first lived in New York City. The pic at left shows Susan as one of the Stepford Wives roundabout when I first knew her (actually at her brother’s wedding a couple of decades ago), whilst the recent photo at right shows that Susan has matured into a very beautiful lady indeed.
Behold a pair of my more photogenic fans, who were kind enough to give me their photos. The fair lady on the portside prefers to be known here as UptownGrrl, so I shall comply. As for that photo to starboard . . . trouble in River City! BilliardsGal and I played a quick round of snooker, in which I got snookered. Notice her unusual, erm, stance. For some reason, I couldn’t keep my mind on the game. I kept trying to pot the pink.
Please visit this page again soon, to see more photos and/or Wanted posters.
