I’ve been lucky to have two of my books selected as Book Of the Week as well as there being abridged and unabridged audio versions of four of them (one was even voted the second best audiobook ever, deauntcha kneau*). This means that I’ve heard my words read by several different voices which, when you write first person books like I do, is a strange experience.

There’s as much, no, there’s more reading than writing involved when you turn out a book. The constant revising, tinkering and smoothing means that by the time you’re ready to submit it to the publisher you can practically recite the thing off by heart.

Naturally, the voice that you hear reciting those words in your head is your own. Well, I mean, who else’s would you expect? Leonard Rossiter? Brian Sewell? Snagglepuss?** But I think it’s especially true of first person non-fiction because you’re telling the story in your own voice.

When I’m writing I try not to be clever with words. Mainly because I don’t know many clever words, but I think that if I can keep it simple and clear with a rhythm that I’m happy with – and I believe rhythm to be an underrated, vital consideration in writing, especially humorous writing – then I’m happy. Essentially I’m trying to write in a way that I’d tell you the story if we were sitting there face to face. For better or worse, it’s me you’re getting in these books.

So when I hear someone else reading the words that are so familiar to me it’s a curious experience but one that I can never resist. Strangely, while I can’t bear watching or listening to myself on the television or radio, I never missed a minute of one of my books on Book Of The Week: I was pacing up and down wringing my hands and biting my lip all the way through, like an expectant father outside the delivery room.

I can’t claim to have listened to every minute of every audiobook of my stuff – that would, after all, be a bit mad – but I’ve listened to good chunks. Why do I do this? Because I think I might learn from it. I think listening to other people, not least professional actors, reading my words might help make me a better writer.

Tom Goodman-Hill reads the Attention All Shipping abridgement (and, while we’re at it, hats off to the people who abridge books for broadcast – it’s a tough job but I’ve not heard a bad one of mine yet) so his is the first voice I ever heard reading my stuff out loud other than the glottal stoppy, stilted, nasal whine inside my head.

He did a great job, and for me the best thing about it was hearing the different inflections and emphases he put on my words that were very different from mine and realising that even though it was my ‘voice’, his voice had enhanced what I’d written.

It was the same when Alex Jennings recorded the Attention All Shipping audiobook, but was more pronounced when the In Search Of Elvis audiobook was read by Julian Rhind-Tutt. For one thing, his was a voice already familiar to me from the television. For another, I was there for some of the recording and it was fascinating to watch him in the studio, waving his arms around as he read, even on a couple of occasions leaping up out of his chair.

It was the same when Martin Freeman read And Did Those Feet for Book Of The Week on Radio 4. A hugely familiar voice, obviously, and an inspired choice of reader (his reading of the final chapter is one of the highlights of what I laughably call my career). His rhythms, emphases and pauses were totally different to those in my head when I wrote it – especially that final chapter – and to me the book sounded all the better for it.

When I’m asked to give writing seminars one of my main aims is to get people to trust their own voices and have confidence in their own style. Not to attempt to sound ‘writerly’ or to sound like anyone else. That’s the only way you’ll be convincing to the reader.

For me, hearing professional actors reading what I’ve written and it sounding even vaguely plausible is an encouraging sign that, while I may still have a long way to go, I’m on the right track.

* This is not big-headed boasting. Well, maybe a bit. But it is telling that the version of that book that achieved the highest accolade was the version I had the least to do with.

** Actually, Snagglepuss would be quite a cool voice to have in your head when reading your own stuff. If in my next book you come across paragraphs starting with the phrase, “Heavens to murgatroyd”, you know what’s happened.

Would you like to see it? What’s that? You would?

Well, as you’ve been very good, you can read it here.

Note how the words ‘incredibly stupid’ appear very subtly in the subheading. No coincidence that.

The car door creaked open and a hat emerged. A small, dark, pillbox hat embroidered with colourful sequins and beads; the kind that’s piled high in the street markets all along the Silk Road.

Further vertical progress revealed that it was perched atop the shoulder-length grey hair of a large, middle-aged man wearing a St Patrick’s Athletic replica shirt. He closed the car door, stretched and swung a jacket around his shoulders.

A woman got out of the passenger seat and slammed the door. She looked across the roof of the car.

“Would you ever just take that hat off?”
“No, I’m wearing me hat. That’s the end of it.”

It’s probably safe to say that the paths of Inchicore and Kazakhstan have rarely crossed, but such idiosyncratic cultural fusions are part of what make the recondite early rounds of European competitions so enchanting. This couple had clearly been to the first leg of the tie in Karaganda, the capital city of the central Kazakh province that gives the Shakhter Karagandy club its name, and the male half of the duo wanted everyone at the return leg at Richmond Park last night to know, even at the expense of domestic harmony.

Saints trailed 1-2 going into last night’s game and the talk in the club shop and ticket office next to the funeral parlour was that their away goal could well prove crucial. Inside the ground the nervous anxiety thrummed through the very foundations. Richmond Park, rebranded apparently with a straight face as ‘The Stadium Of Light’ a few years ago, is a proper, old-fashioned football ground, its idiosyncratic undulations and freeform boundaries giving it the feel that it’s made itself comfortable in its surroundings over the decades, a bit like an old shoe moulded to the shape of the foot that wears it.

Only two sides were open last night due to UEFA regulations: uncovered seating behind one goal and the cramped main stand where my friend Arthur and I sat, knees pressed against the back of the seat in front and swaying this way and that as the action passed behind the pillars and floodlight pylons between us and the pitch.

The Kazakhs were a challenge to St Pat’s in more ways than one. The stadium announcer tried his best with names like Tokrar Zhangylyshbay and Aldin Dzidic, but in the end was reduced to announcing players apparently called Igor Shhhhhhov and Andrei Prrrrrrrrrv. The fact that their names were on the back of their shirts in Cyrillic only added to the exoticism of the visitors.

They were also massive. Two giant Bosnians stood at the heart of their defence like the Poolbeg chimneys. Up front wearing number 91, Sergei Khizhnichenko (“Nomber noynty-one, Sergei Ki…Kizzzzzhko”) should probably have been wearing lights to alert planes approaching Dublin airport.

Despite this the game was fast-paced and played along the floor. Pats levelled the tie on aggregate with a goal on the quarter-hour – a close range header from a cross that somehow evaded the threshing machines playing at centre-half for Shakhter.

The tie was won for the home side by a brilliant volleyed goal midway through the second half, the crowd’s response to which nearly lifted the roof clean off the stand. The visitors became scrappy, picking up yellow cards as their frustration grew and they began to realise the game was lost. Saints had started the game nervously but were now knocking the ball around with the assured confidence of champions.

At the final whistle as the Saints players ran to each other with arms outstretched and the crowd leapt to its feet with clenched fists aloft, the pitch became littered with prostrate Kazakhs. Some lay on their backs in the evening dew that glistened silver under the floodlights, staring glassily at the sky, others dropped as if winded to their haunches and contemplated turf that suddenly seemed a very long way from home indeed.

Passing home players would pat them consolingly or haul them to their feet for handshakes and commiseration, the international football sign language of shrugs, clapping of palms, meshing of fingers and the mimed plucking of jerseys to arrange later shirt exchanges.

These were scenes being replayed right across the continent, from volcanic Iceland to the sandy fringes of Asia: joy and despair, the thrill of the unknown still to come weighed against broken dreams and crushing disappointment.

When the Champions League final comes around again in May and two of Europe’s finest, most expensively assembled teams square up across the halfway line, think back to occasions like last night, to the long-forgotten rounds and thrilling cup runs, the players who played the games of their lives and saw nations and cities they couldn’t even have dreamed of, the vast extremes of emotions soaking into pitches across the continent, the lifelong memories created before the players in the final had even returned from their summer holidays.

Somewhere in that joyful crowd after the final whistle last night, a hand would have clamped onto a small pillbox hat, the floodlights glinting back off its beads and sequins, to stop it being lost in the clumsy dancing embrace of delicious victory.

Each year on St Patrick’s Day the eighty million people around the world claiming Irish ancestry celebrate their spiritual homeland. Millions more don leprechaun hats and swallow pints of Guinness in an annual global high-fiving of all things Irish. Charlie Connelly was one of them. As a Londoner claiming Irish roots he thought he knew what Ireland was all about. Then, when he was least expecting it, he went to live there.

Our Man In Hibernia follows Charlie’s adventures living among the Irish. In an engaging and frequently hilarious tale – we learn how a tree stump can draw legions of visitors from across the land and why being on a pig’s back is a desirable thing – Charlie contrasts the cliched shamrock-strewn image with the reality of life in modern Ireland.

As a lover of both history and the British countryside, Charlie Connelly decided to rectify this, and set out on a series of walks that recreate famous historical journeys. En route he retells the story of the original trip while discovering who and what now inhabit these iconic routes.

Walking in England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales, Charlie journeys alongside Boudicca’s ghost in Norfolk, relives Bonnie Prince Charlie’s flight to Skye disguised as Flora MacDonald’s maid and takes the same 32-mile round trip as the starving Louisburgh famine walkers. He suffers broken toes, becomes trapped in the Scottish Parliament and encounters dead poets and a surprisingly high number of mad old women in woolly hats.

Told with Charlie’s customary charm and wit, And Did Those Feet will reveal the historical secrets hidden in the much-loved coastal, country and urban landscapes of Britain.

]]> http://www.charlieconnelly.com/and-did-those-feet-walking-through-2000-years-of-british-and-irish-history/feed/ 2 http://www.charlieconnelly.com/in-search-of-elvis-a-journey-to-find-the-man-beneath-the-jumpsuit/ http://www.charlieconnelly.com/in-search-of-elvis-a-journey-to-find-the-man-beneath-the-jumpsuit/#comments Thu, 12 May 2011 14:48:30 +0000 Charlie http://webatcha.com/client-area/charlieconnelly/?p=339 Since his death in 1977 Elvis Presley has become an even greater cultural icon than when he was making records and consuming deep-fried peanut-butter-and-banana sandwiches. In Search of Elvis sees Charlie Connelly set off on a journey to discover what makes Elvis so significant today and how his spirit is being kept alive more than half a century after he changed popular culture for ever.

Charlie’s odyssey takes him to places such as the frozen wastes of Finland to meet an academic who performs Elvis songs in Latin and ancient Sumerian while wearing a kilt; Canada to find the orthodox Jewish Elvis tribute artist, Schmelvis; Uzbekistan, where he ends up performing an Elvis song live on national television completely by accident, as well as Scotland, Israel and Germany, not to mention a Barry Manilow concert in Las Vegas and far too many public renditions by the author of Blue Moon Of Kentucky than is good for anyone.

Hilarious yet informative, and written with Charlie Connelly’s customary wit and charm, this book will appeal to Elvis fans of all ages, plus the many travel-book aficionados who delighted in Attention All Shipping.

Sitting at home listening to the shipping forecast can be a cosily reassuring experience. There’s no danger of a westerly gale eight, veering southwesterly increasing nine later (visibility poor) gusting through your average suburban living room, blowing the Sunday papers all over the place and startling the cat. Yet familiar though the sea areas are by name, few people give much thought to where they are or what they contain. Charlie Connelly wittily explores the places behind the voice, those mysterious regions whose names seem often to bear no relation to conventional geography.

“An engaging and often very funny book”  Sunday Times

“One of those simple yet brilliant ideas” Daily Mail

“If listening to ‘Sailing By’ to the bitter end every night is the surest sign of a Radio 4 addict, then buying Charlie Connelly’s new travel book runs it close”  Independent on Sunday

“Armchair travelling will never be the same again” Western Mail

“Charlie Connelly proves to be a suitably intelligent and amusing guide around these coastal stations and provides an illuminating history of the forecast itself” Hampstead and Highgate Express

“Went down a storm with this sea lover. It has great humour, it has great atmosphere. A very entertaining read and, believe me, you’ll never see cod in the same way again”  Sunday Tribune

Travelling to all of Liechenstein’s qualifying matches, Charlie Connelly examines what motivates a team to take the field dressed proudly in the shirts of Liechtenstein despite the knowledge that they are, with notably few exceptions, in for a damn good hiding.

Sampling the delights of Liechtenstein’s capital, Vaduz, such as the Postage Stamp Museum, the State Art Museum and, er, the Postage Stamp Museum again, Connelly provides an evocative and witty account of the land where every year on National Day the sovereign invites the entire population into his garden for a glass of wine.

Whilst a probing comment on contemporary football this is also a hilariously funny travel book.”  New Books Magazine

“Unlike the Liechtenstein team, Connelly hits the back of the net…he has a relaxed style and an intelligent eye for people.” The Times

“Charlie Connelly’s hilarious account of following the Liechtenstein national team should be swallowed whole in one sitting.” The Times Hot Holiday Reads

“Not only a quirky and enjoyable quasi-travel guide and footballing odyssey but essential reading…Connelly has produced a damned good read…charming, off the wall and well worth a tenner.” Sunday Times

“A wonderfully recondite book.” The Observer

“For all those people who might be just a tad jaded by the World Cup, this book is the perfect tonic.” Irish Times

“The best book yet written about Liechtenstein football” When Saturday Comes

Even the most ardent Charlton Athletic supporter had limited ambitions at the start of the 2000/01 Premiership campaign. The buzzwords around The Valley were ‘survival’ and ’17th place’. Despite the Addicks having won the First Division championship at a canter the season before, memories of relegation from the top flight in 1998/99 remained at the forefront of most fans’ thoughts. But this time Alan Curbishley’s team was more experienced and better prepared, and they would prove themselves more than up to the challenge.

In Many Miles, north-stand season-ticket holder Charlie Connelly charts Charlton’s progress on and off the pitch through a roller-coaster season that turned out to be the Addicks’ best for 47 years. From the opening day mauling of Manchester City to an extraordinary final match against Liverpool, Many Miles, relives the excitement of a year to remember.

Exclusive interviews with club captain Mark Kinsella, record-signing Claus Jensen and manager Curbishley provide a perspective from the training ground, while left-back Chris Powell relates the story of his shock call-up to the full England side. And, in his last major interview before his career was cruelly curtailed, striker Andy Hunt talks movingly about the condition that eventually forced him to retire from football. There is also a revealing insight into Charlton’s future, with plc chairman Richard Murray discussing his vision for the club and youth academy director Mick Browne pointing the way forward on the pitch. For every Charlton fan, Many Miles is an essential souvenir of a remarkable campaig

“More than simply a sporting travelogue, this uplifting, stylishly written odyssey views its subjects within a historical, political and cultural context.”  Independent, Sports Books of the Year 2000

“Connelly’s excellent book is full of wondrous little facts and stories that are a million miles away from Luis Figo and his £37.5million transfer…he has written a refreshing book that reminds this reviewer as to why he fell in love with football in the first place.”  Total Football, Book of the Month, January 2001

Derry is one of the stop off points on Connelly’s journey to the far-flung outposts of the beautiful game, and his chapter on the decline and fall of the Candystripes shows a fine understanding of the Brandywell club’s plight. From Spain’s Primera Liga to the Faroe Islands’ Second Division, each visit is a novella in itself. Well worth a look.” Irish Independent, Sports Books of the Year 2000