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Robin Ince - Robin Inces Bad Book Club: One Mans Quest to Uncover the Books That Taste Forgot

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Robin Inces Bad Book Club: One Mans Quest to Uncover the Books That Taste Forgot
Author:
Robin Ince
Publisher:
Sphere
Genre:
Books / Romance novel
Year:
2010
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4 / 5
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Table of Contents

Robin Ince smells of libraries and charity shops. He hopes to eventually bottle and sell this smell as a popular fragrance. He is an award-winning comedian and writer, the sort that appears on Radio 4 shows including presenting science series Infinite Monkey Cage . He does not believe the books discussed within are bad books, they are just different.

Robin Ince's Bad Book Club

ROBIN INCE

Hachette Digital

www.littlebrown.co.uk

Published by Hachette Digital 2010

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

eISBN : 978 0 7481 1513 6

This ebook produced by JOUVE, FRANCE

Hachette Digital
An imprint of
Little, Brown Book Group
100 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DY

An Hachette Livre UK Company

This book is dedicated to my father and mother for bringing me up in a house filled with books.

Authors Note

This book is not an authoritative encyclopedic guide to weird literature and second-hand published oddities; after all, it is only one book. To do justice or injustice to the many misguided guides, banal beast books and peripheral poetry pamphlets would require a monastery of monks sworn to dedicated study to cover the historical romance novel alone. This is a personal collection, one that has driven my wife to the edge of insanity as the tattered killer crabs novels were eventually stacked higher than our only child. Sadly, you will not find books for the amateur taxidermist here, or a guide about hobbies that can be undertaken by invalids unable to leave their sickbed, though both exist. I have looked far and wide for Hobbies for the Bedbound , but sadly it has never been on any charity shop shelf that has fallen under my gaze. The same can be said for The Amateur Taxidermist: A Step by Step Illustrated Handbook on How to Stuff and Preserve Birds, Fish and Furred Animals .

My obsession - and be warned, it never used to be an obsession - has been fuelled by my life as a comedian travelling from Truro to Inverness. This has allowed me the opportunity to visit every Oxfam and local hospice shop I could find, each time hoping to discover something out of the ordinary amongst the numerous Dan Brown novels and Trinny and Susannah clothing guides. Ive had to impose rules along the way, otherwise the exercise would have just been silly. For a book to make it into this scattergun collection, it had to be purchased by me in a second-hand shop for less than 3, or to have been donated by a fellow enthusiast, or to have been found on my travels in a skip or on a train seat. It cannot be purchased at full price, bought from a pulp book internet specialist, or be made up for the hell of it. There are a few exceptions. Sometimes I have paid over the odds; it would be surly not to when the money is going to poorly pets or monocles for the elderly or a new tobacco pouch for the owner of an underperforming junk shop. Other than that, I have been strict.

This is the harvest of five years of touring art centres and old pubs, performing at night and walking the streets by day. There is no end to this book; it is just the beginning of a quest that will dog me until I am in my bath chair. I am not man or beast; I am bibliosexual, and a seedy bibliosexual who haunts the streets, laden with carrier bags held by blistered fingers, stooping under the weight of the rucksack that has brought on sciatica and a Dickensian demeanour.

Preface

Ever held a book in your hand, only to wonder the next day if it might have been a dream?

Over the last five years, people with hazy memories of something that sounded too peculiar to exist have recommended many books to me: Cooking for Spitfire Pilots on the Go or How I Married a Ghost and Gave Birth to a Poltergeist or Learning to Love your Leprosy or The Amish Guide to Dentistry . After investigation, they have usually proved to be the stuff of nightmares or hopes.

There is one book that almost falls into that category, but it is real, it definitely is, and you must take my word for it. Let me tell you a tale of sexy girls.

I held it in my hand, I read from it on stage. Others have held it too. One man even stole it for a while. He was caught at a bus stop in Stirling and forced to return it by a helpful mob, though only after I allowed him to have a page from it. He begged for a page; his eyes almost bled with pleading.

That is how potent this particular book is. I gave him the one page. It had a photo of a naked woman on it lying back and looking enticingly at the reader, telling them to fall into the page; it was the dullest page in the book.

The man stuffed it down his trousers, maybe thinking it might be safe there from all the grasping hands that would want just a hint of this book, and embarked on his public transport trip.

What book could drive a man to thieve and beg for just one page of it?

The Secrets of Picking Up Sexy Girls , that is what book.

It is a book that I will be writing about shortly, probably in Chapter Two, so I wont spoil it by telling you too much now, but there is something you must know. It is a very peculiar book. I worry you will not believe it exists beyond my imagination. It is a book that cannot be found in the British Library, as it is without an ISBN. This makes it contraband on the shelf. It is also a book with strange ideas, many, many strange ideas. It contains sentences that even someone looking right at them might question their existence, thinking it was a pornographic mirage. Why am I going on about this now? Surely if you want to question me I can just pull it from my rucksack? No, because my copy is gone. One Scottish thief was thwarted, but the second time someone somewhere scarpered with literary fools gold. I cant pinpoint exactly when it happened. When did I last know that I had it?

I remember reading from it at the Wychwood Festival. This is one of the more civilised music festivals. It is at Cheltenham racecourse and so has plenty of real toilets made from concrete and porcelain. By the paddocks, I briefly showed it to the organiser of a Christian music festival, and from here it gets hazy. I believe it came back with me to my tent.

It is always a book that creates interest. People have to hold it after a reading to ensure I didnt make it up on stage. A curtain designer at the Daphne du Maurier festival in Fowey asked me if I could photocopy the whole thing for her, otherwise she thought her friends would imagine she had gone quite mad when she told them of the contents of the book.

Sometime between reading from it at Wychwood and performing at the Hay philosophy festival the following night, it disappeared from my travelling preacher-like bag of books.

Had it been snatched by the Christian camp organiser while I slept under canvas? Did A.C. Grayling see it in the green room (or rather green yurt) of Hay in between philosophy lectures and suffer an irresistible urge?

Had it merely fallen out on the train, to be found by a bemused and disgusted carriage cleaner?

Whatever events occurred over that forty-eight hours, the book was gone.

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