After a nervous wait of a few weeks, we’re really pleased with the review for PIG IRON by Benjamin Myers for The Guardian’s Not the Booker Prize. We’ve added it as it appears on the Guardian website, written by Sam Jordison.
Since the Not The Booker prize is all about openness, I think you should know right away that I like Ben Myers. Is this a conflict of interest? Arguably. But if it is a conflict, it's one that is played out across the books pages every day. The only difference here is that I'm being honest about it.
As I'm sure you already realise, friends review friends all the time. And if they didn't, literary journalism would have a few problems. Reviewers often become chummy with the people they write about. It's human nature. I became a reviewer because I like books; it follows that I'll probably also like a few of the writers of those books. Should I then refuse to read their books because of that affection? Well, we can have it out in the comments, but first, a bit more explanation:
I first came into contact with Ben years ago, because I liked his sweary prose, as this article (containing the wonderful question "Has anyone ever seen an e-book?") witnesses. I read Ben before I knew him. But since then, we've regularly corresponded, met once, and frequently laughed at slowed down versions of Metallica songs on Facebook. Does this alter the way I'm going to review Pig Iron? Possibly. The thing that gives me pause is wondering whether I'd have been able to write a review for Pig Iron like the one I wrote for Paint This Town Red. I think it would have been difficult. Perhaps I'd have managed it. Perhaps…
Happily, I didn't have to explore that dilemma this time around. I liked the book. And I don't think knowing Ben has influenced my opinion. Not too much, anyway. Maybe I warmed to it more quickly than I might have otherwise. Possibly, also, I felt extra pangs of sympathy because John-John Wisdom, the unfortunate main narrator, is a weird short northerner who's fond of Jack Russell terriers and therefore reminded me of Ben himself. But it was the writing that mattered. The writing.
One more quick personal note before I finally stop talking about myself. I spent part of my early childhood in County Durham, not so far from John-John's home in Pig Iron, and Myers' prose, rich in "mebbes" and "marrers", "nees" and "nowts", "haways" and "shite", tickled my memory. Importantly, it seemed real. John-John and his co-narrator (whom I can't name, since to do so would give away one of the book's successful surprises) speak in a stylised and sometimes strange way: "And that was when I got the weakness on me and I did faint." But it never seems forced or inauthentic.
Better still, I barely registered the unusual voice, after a while. It became part of the texture of John-John's world. Every now and again I was conscious of an appealing bit of yakka: "I've shat bigger jobbies than that lad." Also, a few lovely rhythms: "He began to treat me differently. I was a mother now. A mother who had endured one miscarriage and two births. I was a body that fetched the water and gathered the wood and kept the fires going and cleaned the clothes and the van and scolded the kids and kissed them better and worried about her husband when he disappeared for nights and days." Most of the time, though, I was too immersed in the story to notice what was happening on the surface.
It's hard not to make this story sound like a cross between Snatch and Fight Club. John-John is the son of the bare-knuckle King of the Gypsies, Mac Wisdom, whose life we hear about in retrospect from the second narrator, and whose influence weighs heavy on the protagonist as he attempts to rebuild his life after a long stretch in jail. But there's no Brad Pitt here. No Hollywood. John-John's world is ugly. The fighting isn't about pleasure. Or even escape. It's just savage men knocking bells out of each other: blood, guts and pain described in visceral detail:
Mackem's neck tasted warm and bitter and metallic… I loosened for a second then went at him again, nearly dislocating me bloody jaw. There was a crunching sound and me teeth nearly met in the middle and I must have hit some veins or summat because the blood started pouring out of his neck. Human flesh doesn't tear easily. It's noisy stuff.
Things aren't much prettier for John-John when he isn't scrapping. He's forced to live in a pokey, ugly flat on a dangerous estate, where he knows next to no one, and is hounded by a gang of "charvers" whose charm is well-demonstrated in their leader's announcement that "I'll put you in the fucking ovens where you and your lot belong."
Even so, there are moments of relief. John-John is consistently amusing, a master of the sardonic aside ("'I bet you like hearing the old tales, lad'. Like a punch in the cock, I'm muttering.") He's also big-hearted and warm. Some of the book's best passages come in the descriptions of the quiet fun John-John has tootling around the countryside ("the green cathedral") in an ice-cream van, falling in love with a very unsuitable local girl and fussing over his pet dog Coughdrop. John-John is a winning presence. And of course, that makes his catalogue of misfortunes and persecution all the more upsetting; his attempts to right those many wrongs all the more gripping.
Caught up as I was, I did wonder sometimes if Myers pushed things too far. Towards the end, especially, things went a bit nuts. Imagine Hunger Games with an uglier cast, genuine violence and less chance of redemption – but also fewer loud bangs to distract you from the essential daftness. Now and again, I had doubts, but was always carried through by John-John's force of personality and righteous anger at his and Coughdrop's oppressors. What's more, just when I thought things were about to go right over the top, Myers swerved away gracefully. The ending came in a sudden flash of gold and beauty. To say more would be to give it away; suffice to say, you'll like it when you get there and it's a journey worth making. This is another quality entrant on our shortlist.
