‘HistoryHit Miscellany’ is exactly the kind of book you need if you’re looking for a bluffer’s guide to history. It will help you to brush up on your knowledge of the entirety of human civilisation. For interesting facts to break the ice at dinner parties or to impress a date with your depth of reading, the book will provide no shortage of talking points. Each easily-digestible page has splendid historical facts that can be committed to memory. Outside of a miscellany, where else would you find a list of all of the US Presidents who were assassinated or survived assassination attempts? Where does the name of Barry Hines’ classic novel ‘A Kestrel For A Knave’ come from? In which other kind of book could you learn both about the fall of the Roman Empire and about the world’s first recorded speeding ticket (spaced only a few pages apart)?

The book doesn’t just stick to modern or Western history. There are fun facts about the Feathered Serpent and the Iranian Revolution of 1979 as well as much else besides. As a whistle-stop tour through the history of human endeavour, ‘HistoryHit Miscellany’ offers insights into the achievements of civilisations from every corner of the globe and from every major epoch, touching on every system of government from monarchs to emperors via parliamentarians and Communist leaders. No topic takes up more than around two pages, and such focus is devoted only to truly exceptional subjects rich with anecdote such as Winston Churchill.

‘HistoryHit Miscellany’ will undoubtedly appeal to history buffs, especially those who digest the entertaining ‘History Hit’ podcasts. The book also aims to make history interesting, accessible and digestible to a lay audience. For those who prefer a deep dive into particular ages or civilisations, ‘HistoryHit Miscellany’ may provide only an amuse bouche to satisfy their hunger for knowledge. But the intention of the book is to leave the reader dizzy with fascinating facts. Not even the best-read historian can specialise in more than one or two disciplines. Even those who specialise may discover new and interesting facts. I studied Classical Civilisation and had no idea which Romans were responsible for the largest battle, which took place in 197. Those who prefer visuals to facts and figures can enjoy an infographic of Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow in 1812.

The book will make a great gift for the history buff in your friendship circle, or the colleague who likes to impress with their recherché knowledge of historical happenings. It will also appeal to the legion of Dan Snow’s fans and podcast listeners who would like a load of facts and figures in one place. I would have loved there to have been an index, as I read a load of interesting facts that I then couldn’t find again, but it’s a small gripe. As a diversion and a place to dive in to find an interesting fact, ‘HistoryHit Miscellany’ is likely to hit the spot.

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton Publication date: 28th September 2023 Buy ‘HistoryHit Miscellany’

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This whistle-stop tour of monarchical history comes in at around 550 pages, so simple mental arithmetic shows that each chapter is short, averaging under ten pages. That’s around one year of history each half page. When you consider how many volumes have been dedicated to accounting for the life and influence of each monarch, ‘Kings and Queens’ by necessity gives only a brief snapshot of their epochs. These chapters are the edited highlights of their reign, achievements, occasional points of notoriety and their influence on world events. If you want a quick reminder of the broad sweep of English history since Anglo-Saxon times, then ‘Kings and Queens’ is the perfect place to start since the monarch invariably drove or was at the heart of significant events. Each essay is engaging and enjoyable. Sometimes they are provocative (with contributors like David Starkey who tackles Henry VIII and announces his subject as the first properly educated king in our history, what else might one expect?) But each section will, for the lay reader, liberally splash interesting and enlightening facts across its pages.

Although ‘Kings and Queens’ acts as an amuse-bouche, pointing keen readers of popular history to eras into which they may wish to delve deeper, it does provide some context to the broad sweep of English and later British history. This is in spite of every chapter having a different author. If nothing else, this unifying thread demonstrates that the monarchy has always been inextricably interwoven within the national story and the nation’s psyche.

In a book on kings and queens, the dreaded Interregnum is included. In a sense, the nation has never fully recovered from the execution of King Charles I and Oliver Cromwell’s subsequent term as Lord Protector of England. Even though the Restoration under Charles II occurred nearly four hundred years ago, its influence can be felt in the reigns of every monarch thereafter. Dr Kirsteen M MacKenzie contributes a short essay on Richard Cromwell, Oliver’s eldest son, who submitted his resignation to Parliament a full year before Charles II’s accession to the throne. The reinstitution of monarchy under the Stuarts brings with it a seismic shift, and a reappraisal of the respective roles and powers of the monarch and Parliament.

In their own rights, each story is dramatic, proving that recorded history is never dull and ever epoch has its share of big personalities or outright egomaniacs. I found it enjoyable learning about some names, like Canute, that are familiar but known only for the apocryphal story of his demonstration of the limitations of rulers’ power by commanding the tide to stop rising. It is intriguing to learn that Canute was a successful Viking ruler who won over the affections of the English. At the opposite end of the book, Queen Victoria, known for her long period of mourning for Prince Albert and for her austere demeanour, is humanised through an account of the men in her life, including servants, with whom she enjoyed close and affectionate friendships. Edward VIII is primarily known for abdicating the throne in order to marry a divorcee, but Damian Collins provides some details about his personality. This glides seamlessly into Jane Ridley’s account of his nervous brother George VI’s unexpected reign. She notes how “the chief reason why the King feared Edward was because he was pro-Nazi”. This can’t help but cast the previous chapter in a whole new light. Readers may wonder how different history might have been had Edward VIII not abdicated. We certainly would not have had the long, steadying and enriching reign of Elizabeth II (George VI’s eldest daughter), who was the one constant in the nation’s tumultuous times from Churchill’s post-war premiership through to the nation’s recovery from the Covid pandemic seventy years later. Julia Langdon ably captures the rapid national changes during her reign.

Part of Dale’s gift is being a unifying force and someone who delights in hearing a range of voices. His philosophy in life is in evidence in his selection of contributors. From the political left there are journalists and presenters including Matthew Stadlen, Julia Langdon and Harry Lambert. Among well-known media conservative voices are Tim Stanley, Camilla Tominey and Simon Heffer. You’ll find familiar historians such as Tom Holland, Michael Wood, Emily Fox, David Starkey, Dominic Selwood, Gareth Streeter, Annie Whitehead and Jane Ridley. Among politicians there’s Alex Burghart, Stephen Parkinson, Alexander Stafford, Nick Thomas-Symonds and Damian Collins. You’ll also find contributions from authors such as Justin Hill, Paula Lofting and Steven Veerapen.

Bringing together the thoughts and analyses of contributors from such disparate backgrounds, worldviews and professions ensures that ‘Kings and Queens’ is universally accessible to adult readers and has plenty of political balance. It will especially appeal to keen readers of popular history. For those, like me, who enjoy history but have large knowledge gaps, ‘Kings and Queens’ is a good place to absorb enough facts to bluff your way through. It’s light, breezy, entertaining, well-researched and eminently readable.

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton Publication date: 14th September 2023 Buy ‘Kings and Queens’

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‘Why Don’t Things Fall Up’ is a delightful gallop through the scientific disciplines. Each chapter answers, in a digressive, roundabout way, simple yet complex questions. Shaha covers, ‘Why is the sky blue?’, ‘Why don’t things fall up?’, ‘Why does ice-cream melt?’, ‘What is the smallest thing?’, ‘What are stars?’, ‘Are fish animals?’ and ‘What am I made of?’ Each chapter leads readers on a journey, introducing them to scientific principles and models that are key to our understanding of the world around us and the composition of matter.

Around a decade ago I went through a period of intensely reading almost nothing but popular science books, though in recent years I’ve pivoted to history and politics. Thus, I was ripe readership for ‘Why Don’t Things Fall Up?’ As a non-scientist with a waned interest in the subject, I found the book to be a highly engaging refresher, and for the most part readily understandable. There is little intrusion by the aspects of science most likely to terrify and alienate the lay reader – equations and mathematics. True, the second chapter on ‘Why don’t things fall up?’ contains a few, and throws in Newton’s Laws of Motion for good measure. It’s easy to get lost in a tangle of what is scientifically meant by terms such as ‘mass’, ‘acceleration’, ‘force’ and so on, but readers of a more nervous disposition where these things are concerned can rest assured that the second chapter raises the trickiest concepts.

The author is skilful at conveying complex ideas and opening up scientific concepts to casual readers. Shaha’s enthusiasm for his subject is palpable, and his writing will conjure images in the reader’s head to aid understanding. Learning of his experiments and puns to engage the interest of a classroom full of pupils reveals that he has honed his skill as a scientific communicator through winning over the toughest of crowds.

Another enjoyable aspect of the book is that it covers a lot of scientific disciplines, so if you’re looking to brush up, or if you want to gift a book to somebody to further their interest in general science, ‘Why Don’t Things Fall Up?’ is a good choice. The chapter ‘Are Fish Animals’ is mostly about evolutionary biology and references the work of Charles Darwin. It gives a brief overview as to why it is so difficult to define what is meant by a living organism. ‘What Am I Made Of?’ is also mostly contained within the biological sciences but at a more cellular level, delving into the make-up of DNA, the genetic code that shapes us all.

The chapter on ‘What are Stars?’ examines nuclear fusion and fission, and references the work of Robert Oppenheimer, whose legacy has increased in prominence thanks to the recent biopic that has proved a box office smash hit. ‘What is the Smallest Thing’ covers subatomic particles that will intrigue budding physicists, whereas ‘Why Does Ice-Cream Melt’ slides into chemistry.

Shaha is clearly a lover of practical experiments. This comes across in the text and the appendix provides a few ways for you to test the ideas in the book. Find out how to make a pinhole camera, or more intriguingly, a jelly baby wave machine!

The overviews of multiple scientific disciplines means that the book is an introductory tome rather than a deep dive on any subject. Enthusiastic readers will probably find a hook within these pages to learn more about the topics for themselves. But as a way to inspire those who may lack confidence in science or who wish to brush up on their knowledge, ‘Why Don’t Things Fall Up?’ has a lot to recommend it.

Publisher: Hodder and Stoughton Publication date: 17th August 2023 Buy ‘Why Don’t Things Fall Up?’

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Nevertheless, despite the three great monotheisms purporting to be about love, peace and compassion, human history and contemporary societies are beset by religious extremism and violence. In Not in God’s Name, Sacks attempts to explain why this is the case, and spells out his hope for a future when human societies may resolve differences and respect a plurality of views. He does so with his usual measured and articulate voice in what is a thought-provoking and highly readable book. (Sacks’ liberal Judaism too has some way to go on this journey of embracing ‘the other’, over social issues such as marriage equality, perhaps?)

In explaining how religious violence originates, Sacks coins the phrase ‘altruistic evil’, which is when people feel morally justified in treating the ‘other’ with violence. He convincingly traces this phenomenon through non-religious causes too, speaking of the secularisation of knowledge, power and morality, and the resulting replacements for religion (the nation state; ideological systems, especially Communism; and race) and reveals how these too led to violence and death, culminating in the Holocaust. It’s hard to disagree with Sacks’ argument (he uses evolutionary psychology to make his point in these chapters, even covering The Prisoner’s Dilemma and reciprocal altruism, both ideas central to Richard Dawkins’ seminal work The Selfish Gene), and it’s interesting for the lay reader to hear it from a religious viewpoint.

Yet if humanity without identities (or to put it another way, tribalism) seems an impossibility – what is our best chance for stripping violence from a major form of identity – religion? This is the issue that Sacks goes on to discuss, starting in the first part with an examination of the dangerous capacity the human mind has for dualism – the cognitive dissonance needed to persuade ourselves that those not like us aren’t worthy of respect, or even life. Sacks traces how dehumanisation and victimhood are the two key elements lurking behind dualism, and then goes on to discuss a brief history of violence perpetrated against the Jewish people.

The chapters of exegesis in the second part of the book will be of most interest to biblical scholars and those with a developed interest in religious history and scripture.  The concern for the lay reader is always that religious texts are open to interpretation. Sacks argues against a literal reading, yet there are passages in most religious texts that, read literally, appear to call its adherents to violence. Sacks’ reasonable interpretations will widely appeal, but we’re left with the nagging feeling that there’s no compelling reason beyond basic compassion to believe his interpretation over any other. The sections on scapegoating are wholly convincing though – with the anti-Semitic language of Martin Luther and Hitler amongst others offered up.

Not in God’s Name sometimes uses compelling human stories to make its point. Not least is that of Csanad Szegedi, a Hungarian with fiercely anti-Semitic views who discovered he was Jewish himself, after his family members who survived Auschwitz hid their Jewry as they started new lives. Sacks uses this story for the main thrust of the third and final section of the book, which is about the difficult necessity of loving the stranger. You must share our faith to be fully human, is Sacks’ pithy way of summarising resistance to loving the ‘other’, and he goes on to strongly argue why we must overcome out-group hostility.

Whether or not you agree with Sacks’ arguments as spelled out in the three sections of Not in God’s Name, they are argued with conviction and persuasion throughout a wholly absorbing book. Sacks has stuck to talking mostly about Judaism in his exegesis of difficult bible passages that appear to centre on sibling rivalry. Perhaps this is out of respect to other faiths, who have their own spokespeople. Nevertheless, Not in God’s Name is not just a book for Jews, but a book for everyone, just as Sacks’ courteously argued political opinions and social reflections are of great interest to everyone, from those of other faiths to humanists, agnostics and anyone in between. On the subjects of religiously-inspired violence, and on the role of religion in society, Sacks’ voice is reasonable, intelligent and worth heeding on all sides. Properly understood, Not in God’s Name is a rallying cry for secularism and religious freedom.

Book Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton Release Date: 11th June 11 2015

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Peter Stanford’s fascinating new book assesses the depictions of Judas throughout the ages, from the figure found in the gospels, to his representation in wider culture, incorporating religious iconography in churches to the writings of prominent Christian theologians and intellectuals, as well as mentions of Judas in popular culture. What emerges is a thorough account of how one man has always sharply divided opinion.

Judas isn’t a biography because, despite the key role he played in establishing Christianity, so little is known of the historical figure of Judas Iscariot. The first substantial section of the book analyses the mentions of Judas in the four canonical gospels – though this amounts to surprisingly few passages, and they all give slightly different accounts of the familiar story of the kiss, the thirty pieces of silver, the effort of Judas to return the money to the temple, and his later suicide by hanging in Hakeldama. Stanford also turns to the recently unearthed Gospel of Judas – discovered in 2006 – but finds it unhelpful early Christian propaganda. After reading Stanford’s assessment, you won’t expect to see it added to the New Testament any time soon.

A commendable aspect of the book is Stanford’s thorough dissection of the ways in which Judas has stood for the Jewish race in general, and the deep-rooted Christian anti-Semitism that found expression and attempted justification through Judas’ betrayal. Stanford examines this from its origins, where early Christians wanted to see themselves as distinct from the Judaism of their faith’s founders rather than as part of a Jewish squabble (as the Roman occupiers certainly saw it), and in doing so accentuated the Jewishness of Judas; all the way through to the Holocaust, after which the Catholic Church finally stopped finding the Jewish people guilty of deicide. In recent decades, organized Christianity has turned its ire onto a fresh minority: the LGBT community, and Stanford’s book tantalisingly touches on suggestions, often resulting from the unnecessary kiss, about Judas’ sexuality, especially as depicted in homoerotic paintings by Caravaggio and Carracci.

Whilst the breadth of research that has gone into the book is admirable, the major problem is a lack of objectivity, which, as a work of scholarship, leaves the book incomplete. For example, Stanford postulates why Judas, in John’s gospel, is identified from the start as a traitor. Bad writing (which is to make no claim either way about the veracity of the stories found in the gospels), which is perhaps the most obvious explanation, is not entertained. He also raises concerns about why Judas kissed Jesus, given that the Roman authorities would have had no problem identifying him; and examines whether or not Judas was in possession of his own destiny in betraying Jesus without mentioning more obvious, if cynical explanations, such as fictional embellishment. In speaking of author Graham Greene, Stanford describes him as “notoriously prone to doubt”, an odd choice of words loaded against the non-believer, and in the acknowledgements, he makes reference to, “high-profile outbursts by militant atheists” – a lazy ad hominem attack that seeks to suggest a moral equivalence between those who commit atrocities in the name of their chosen religion, and non-religious people who voice an opinion that is hostile to the idea of religion. It’s curious that, with such verbal tics, Stanford assumes a wholly Christian readership, since the history of religion and theology are often subjects of interest to secularists, sceptics and the non-religious with a bent for anthropology and history. There’s no doubting Stanford’s passion for his subject, but taking a step back from it would have made for a more balanced book, and therefore one that would find a more universal readership.

Stanford also has the thankless task of knowing there never can or will be a final word on his chosen subject matter. What Judas does, quite successfully, is to offer a potted history of how Judas Iscariot has been depicted throughout the two thousand-year history of Christianity, and he derives some interesting conclusions about what that says about societies of their time. We also enjoyed the travelogue aspects of the work, as the author brings to life visits to Hakeldama, Gethsemane and Volterra to name a few of the more exotic locations. Anyone with a strong interest in the history of religion who doesn’t mind an overtly Christian perspective will find much to enjoy within these pages.

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Rabbi Lord Sacks said: ‘I am delighted to once again be working with Ian Metcalfe and the team at Hodder on my new book, Not In God’s Name. The greatest threat to freedom in the post-modern world is radical, politicised religion. It is the face of what I call in the book ‘altruistic evil’ in our time. This poses a theological challenge to all three Abrahamic monotheistic faiths – Judaism, Christianity and Islam – that forces all of us, Jews, Christians and Muslims, to ask the most uncomfortable questions. If we fail in this task, we will face a continuation of the terror that has marked our century so far, for it has no other natural end. Faith is God’s call to see His trace in the face of the Other. It is this theology of the Other which I have tried to articulate in this book.’

Director of Publishing Ian Metcalfe said: ‘it is an immense privilege to publish Rabbi Lord Sacks once again, and on such an important topic. His masterful handling of so many different disciplines, not least his deep analysis of Bible stories we think we know so well, builds into a compelling and prophetic call for us all to unite in defeating religious violence.’

Rabbi Lord Sacks, former Chief Rabbi of the United Hebrew Congregations of the UK & Commonwealth, is universally admired and is equally at home in the university and the yeshiva. Rabbi Lord Sacks read Philosophy at Cambridge before pursuing postgraduate studies at New College, Oxford and King’s College, London. Rabbi Lord Sacks holds sixteen honorary degrees, including a doctorate of divinity. He is also is a Knight Bachelor and holds the title Baron Sacks, of Aldgate, London.

Rabbi Lord Sacks is a highly respected writer and broadcaster, having frequently written for The Times and appeared on Radio 4’s Thought for the Day. He is the author of twenty books, including The Great Partnership, The Dignity of Difference and Future Tense.

Hodder Faith will publish Not In God’s Name in the UK on 4th June 2015.

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Over the course of an evening of entertainment, with the church full to the rafters with Dave’s congregation and readers, we learned a lot about why the vicar and author resonates with so many people – whilst all the time bespoke Bad Christian ale and wine flowed.

Before the party was in full swing, we caught up with Dave for a one-to-one chat. As we spoke in the vestry, we learned about what motivated Dave to put his spiritual thoughts into writing in the first place; what his experience of taking Ronnie Biggs’ funeral was like; and just what exactly makes a Bad Christian?

Dave, how are you today?

I’m well. A bit kind of flustered trying to get this party together! Now, it’s too late, it’s going to happen!

When did you first decide to put your ideas onto the page?

A long time ago, but then it took me ages to get round to it. You have to set aside time and focus your thoughts. I wrote bits and pieces, but my first book was published in 1995, called The Post Evangelical. Probably all of my writing follows where my concern goes, which is people either on the edges of faith who are inside the fold but struggling to keep it together; or people outside. The Post Evangelical was written for people of an evangelical background who were suddenly finding that their faith didn’t make sense any more, and were perhaps assuming that that meant it was the end of the journey. That book was written to say that there are other ways of interpreting Christianity and faith.

So the impetus to write perhaps came from hearing people’s stories about problems they had with their faith?

Definitely. That’s a big part of where it’s coming from. At the end of the 1980s I wondered if I belonged in the church – I wouldn’t say my faith was seriously under threat, although it was going through a lot of rethinking – but I wasn’t sure there was a place for me in the church. So along with a bunch of other people I began a little group that met in a pub in South London called Holy Joe’s. It grew and lasted for ten years. A lot of what I’ve done has been following that, and trying to lift my voice wider and wider to people. For a long time it was focussed on people who were on the inside but struggling with issues; whereas the Bad Christian books are aimed at people who are outside altogether, who may not even dream that there’s a place for them in church or in religion. I’m not trying to get them to come to church: what I’m trying to say is, “I think God is part of your life whether you know it or not.” God is just a word anyway, so it doesn’t much matter which word you use. If the word ‘God’ offends you, if it doesn’t make sense to you, or if it perhaps has too many bad associations then forget the jargon! A lot of people say to me, “I don’t believe in God, but I think there’s something there.” So I would say, forget about the religious jargon and concentrate on that something that makes sense to you, which I would describe as God.

Where did the idea of the ‘Bad Christian’ come from?

It was inspired by a wonderful book called How to be a Bad Birdwatcher by Simon Barnes. I’ve always been interested in birds, since I was a little lad; so I picked up this book and realised it wasn’t like any book on birds I’d ever read before. He starts off saying he’s a bad birdwatcher; but it’s pretty obvious he’s a good one – he’s a patron of the RSPB! What he’s trying to do is take birdwatching as an activity out of the hands of geeks and twitchers and people with expensive binoculars and say that birds are part of everybody’s life, and that it doesn’t matter if you know that that’s a goldfinch or a blue tit or whatever, for you to enjoy their presence in your life. When I read it, I thought, “My goodness, I need to write a book,” because that’s what I think about religion. I think God is in the wrong people’s hands. We think of the God Squad as the people who go to church on a Sunday – but in fact I think that God is part of everybody’s life.

Have you found your books have reached a particular audience?

I hoped that the books would sell not just into the Christian ghetto, but that it would get into the general book trade and that it would reach people who are probably never going to come to church, but that doesn’t matter to me. The encouraging thing about How to be a Bad Christian is how far out there the book has gone, and how many responses every week, sometimes every day I get from people who’ve picked up the book, who are not churchy people, who tell me that it makes sense to them and has perhaps helped them to make sense of things they didn’t previously have a language for to make sense of.

Have you had any feedback that has surprised you?

I’m always sad by the negative and quite aggressive voices I get from the more establishment people – but that doesn’t surprise me because I’ve lived with that for quite a long time! But I have been surprised that some people, who you wouldn’t associate with spirituality or religious things, suddenly find that this resonates with them. Earlier this year I took Ronnie Biggs’ funeral, and the previous year I’d take Bruce Reynolds’, who was the mastermind of the Great Train Robbery. I met Ronnie at that funeral and read his tribute out, to Bruce. Then I was asked to take Ronnie’s funeral, and that introduced me to an amazing bunch of people and colourful characters! In the pub after Ronnie’s funeral I was with some people who at one level, you’d think are quite scary. But what I found was a receptiveness to me as a person and to what I had to say. I found that whilst religion had bad press for some, Jesus as a person resonated and they identified with him.

There’s a wonderful touching moment in The Bad Christian’s Manifesto about Ronnie Biggs’ granddaughter.

That’s right. She just saw him as her grandfather. The wonderful thing was that, amidst the eminent people who took part in that service – it was packed out with media – to have this one beautiful little girl standing up: she put the whole thing into perspective. People are interested in Ronnie Biggs because he’s this glamorous figure, and people see that in positive or deeply negative ways: but nobody is reduced to one event in their life. There’s far more to Ronnie Biggs than the train robbery that happened over fifty years ago. That’s true for everybody. We so easily put people into these little categories, and that enables us to feel safe because we’ve put them somewhere.

Was it that nobody else would take Biggs’ funeral, or were you asked to do it?

I was asked to do it, though I did get messages from people in the church who asked how I could do this. They felt I was glamorizing an ‘unrepentant criminal’. There’s a number of things about that. One: taking someone’s funeral is not about saying this person was a great person, necessarily. And two, there’s a massive judgement being made there. How do you know he was an unrepentant sinner? If you read his autobiography he apologises quite deeply at the beginning for the hurt that he caused to people. But again, once we’ve put somebody into a category then we can ignore them. We’re not challenged by them any more. But the great thing about Jesus is that he suffered exactly the same criticism. He spent so much of his life with people who were on the outside. One of the most obvious things about him is what theologians call ‘table fellowship’. He ate meals with people who were considered outcasts by the establishment, and certainly the religious establishment, so he ended up coming under accusations that he was a drunkard and a glutton and so on. There’s nothing new about that.

How would you categorise the Bad Christian books? They’re not apologetics, are they?

Not in any classic sense. I’m not trying to rationally present arguments for why people should believe in God. I think they’re evangelistic: though that’s a word I don’t like at all! But they’re about giving some good news to people, which is what I’m trying to do. It’s a bit of spiritual enlightenment. I would see myself as a theologian. I give a lot of my time to thinking about religion: but I don’t think that’s what’s needed in today’s world. We can argue about doctrinal points until the cows come home, and I’m willing to do that: but will it get us any further? People are looking more for a sense of meaning and purpose in their lives. At its best, that’s what religion can give. At its worst, it completely drives people away from those things.

A lot of that comes out in the stories you relate in the Bad Christian books. Were there any personal accounts you found more difficult than others to write about?

Obviously, I’ve needed to talk to those people, and find out that they’re willing for me to tell their stories. I might hide their identity somewhat, but mostly not, actually. People have been happy for me to tell their stories. There are other stories that I haven’t told, and I probably couldn’t for all kinds of reasons. But stories are so powerful: stories get through to us where a thousand arguments couldn’t. I think Jesus was a phenomenal storyteller. All the great people who influence our lives, when we watch films or television, it’s all storytelling, related to the human dilemma. Often in today’s world it can seem pretty hopeless, so trying to bring some shaft of hope into people’s lives, and show that there are ways of making sense, even of the most awful things. Broadly speaking, it’s about a kind of spiritual enlightenment, and being a guide to people who might be confused or lost, and are looking for a way forward.

Are there elements of pantheism to what you present in the books?

Well, it’s interesting. I’m actually more of a panentheist. Pantheism is the idea that God is everything. I have a number of problems with that idea. Panentheism is saying that God is in everything. That’s another philosophical and theological perspective, which is not something to drop in at parties. But for me it’s a very satisfying way of seeing things, because it was put rather well by St Paul when he was preaching in Athens. He tried to persuade people of his belief in Jesus by quoting from their own prophets and poets. He quoted this bit which said, “In him, in God, we live and move and have our being.” That to me is a very helpful statement. I think of God not as some entity in another part of the universe. I think of God as being like the air that is all around us and within us. So in a sense, you can’t get away from God. God is in everything, and everything is in God. So that’s basically what panentheism means. Rather than saying, “God is everything,” and therefore that God is exhausted by everything that is: that there’s nothing of God beyond the material world [pantheism].

The two Bad Christian books have very distinctive illustrations by Rob Pepper. How did they come about?

Rob’s a very dear friend. He and his wife were not really churchgoers, but were looking for something. They turned up here at St Luke’s one Sunday morning when I was beginning a set of sermons that became another book that I wrote called Re-enchanting Christianity. They liked what I said and decided to hang around for a while at least whilst I finished that series of talks, and we became very dear friends. They don’t live in London any more, but we’re still on the journey together. I really like Rob’s art. He’s an artist, not a designer as such; but it works very well. It crosses over between the two and I think, with his illustrations, he absorbs what I’m saying and finds a way to visualise it. Like the power of stories, there’s also the power of pictures, and I think pictures are important. Rob’s expressing in visual form the same kind of spirit that I’m trying to express in the writing.

I was interested to read in your closing manifesto, one of the points you make is: “To doubt and question without fear, and never be daunted by orthodoxies and authority figures.” That could equally apply to a scientific worldview, couldn’t it?

I could, and it would. My view of religion is like my view of life in general. I think that whether we’re looking at religion, politics, science, technology, I think that we so easily become intimidated by authority figures and orthodoxies. When you think of people who’ve changed the world in various ways, they’re people who’ve been able to step outside of that and question the given orthodoxies. That’s not to say that the orthodoxies are rubbish. I see myself as part of the Christian tradition. To me, tradition isn’t a package that you hand down from one generation to the next, and look after and keep exactly the same. A lot of people think that being faithful to the tradition means keeping it exactly the same as it was when it was given to you. I think that’s rubbish. I think tradition is more of a conversation, a debate, an argument even. If you look back through the history of the church, and in other religious traditions too, that’s how it’s been: constant argument. When you think about the creeds, people think they were handed down from God or something, or were created one day, but of course they evolved over centuries. They came out of these Councils which were really almighty arguments. They’re profoundly important and interesting, but the argument today is not the same argument. That’s the problem. That’s why the creeds can seem hopelessly irrelevant today, because they were grappling with apologetic issues that applied to an entirely different world. As I say in the book, in a post-Darwinian, post-feminist world, and various other posts-, everything changes. The sense of truth and reality changes. We can’t just churn it out in the same old way. The bible assumes a three-tier universe. Heaven up there, earth in the middle and hell below. So stories like the one where Jesus ascends to heaven on a cloud: it makes sense in the world in which it was written, but it makes no sense in ours: what would be up? If he was leaving Australia, he’d be going down from our perspective, surely? So a living tradition is one in which there is a constant heated debate going on. It’s not surprising that there are arguments in the church: there should be. But sometimes I think we’re having the wrong arguments. We’re having arguments that are completely irrelevant, arguments that may be over to the world outside. Arguments about whether we should have women bishops, for instance: and we will, eventually! To the outside world it looks incredible: how can we still be arguing about that? I think the same about same-sex relationships. These are done deals. They’re arguments that are over now, really, to any sensible people.

Do you have any more books you’re working on?

I’ve agreed to write another one, but I haven’t yet decided what it is! What people keep asking me to do is something along the lines of How to Build a Bad Church. A lot of people come to a church like St Luke’s and wonder, “Why can’t we have a church like that where we are?” There’s so many people who are feeling increasingly uneasy in the church but don’t know where to go. And then there’s all the masses of others who probably would come, if they could find something that represented the sort of values that they feel strongly about. That may well be the case: it’s one of my projects. How can you go about changing the church? That is probably going to stretch me to some of my greatest miracles!

We wish you luck and we’ll watch out for the next book. We’ll let you get back to the party, but thank you for talking to us, Dave. 

Thank you!

Dave Tomlinson’s How to be a Bad Christian and The Bad Christian’s Manifesto are available now, published by Hodder & Stoughton. You can follow Dave on Twitter @goodluker as well as @HodderFaith for news on all their titles. 

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“I like your Christ. I do not like your Christians. They are so unlike your Christ.” It’s a quotation found in the book from Gandhi, and it’s an attitude Tomlinson goes some way to sharing, in his effort to bring dogma-free Christianity to a lay readership (with an inferred apology for fundamentalists of all stripes). As well as affirming gay relationships, finding spiritual intelligence in atheists and dealing with flak from his fellow Christians for taking Great Train Robber Ronnie Biggs’ funeral; Tomlinson also has a refreshingly healthy attitude towards sex and sexuality, divorcing our primal urges from the notions of sin found, most especially, in the teachings of the Roman Catholic Church.

Tomlinson talks about Elton John’s assertion that Jesus was a gay man, dismissing the furore amongst conservatives with the belief that Jesus is for everyone – gay people included. He relates the interesting social study about how people invariably imagine a god that agrees with their political views. Thus right-wingers believe in an angry, vengeful and patriarchal god, whilst liberals… don’t.

This isn’t a book for everybody. Conservative Christians who lobby to fight against equality, for example, will burst blood vessels in denouncing this tome as a work of heresy. On the other side of the spiritual spectrum, confirmed atheists are probably far more likely to enjoy the book and find plenty of passages of interest (disclosure: this reviewer falls firmly into this camp). Despite that, there are a few moments that may send those who pride themselves on their rational scepticism twitching in ire. Tomlinson goes along with the unfairly dismissive view that Richard Dawkins promotes “dogmatic, evangelical atheism,” and later quotes approvingly from snake-oil salesman Deepak Chopra. However, since one of the lessons of the book is that ‘nobody’s perfect’, it would be churlish to dwell on such details when the overall thrust of Tomlinson’s prose is warmly set out and deeply considered.

The question that comes out of reading The Bad Christian’s Manifesto is: will it concern the author that the book will displease as many (if not more) as it delights? The answer is ‘no’. It would be a mistake to think that Tomlinson is trying to please everybody. He’s simply putting forward his view of what spirituality is and what it means to be a Christian, based on his understanding of the faith. As Tomlinson attests in the book, he preaches inclusion, not because he is nice, “but because radical inclusion is utterly fundamental to what Jesus is about.” The best thing about the book, and the reason it deserves to find a wide readership, is that there’s something in it for everyone, and every reader will take away their own thoughts from it. Better still, they’ll find plenty to disagree with, yet coaxed by Tomlinson’s pleasant rationale, they will simultaneously find food for though. The Bad Christian’s Manifesto is the perfect book for a train ride, or better still, for whiling away a few hours in the pub, storing up discussion points to chew over with a pint or few.

The worry some may have is that The Bad Christian’s Manifesto is watered-down Christianity, though there are plenty of biblical references for anyone interested in cross-referencing Tomlinson’s writing. The only real answer to that is to quote from Tomlinson’s suggested manifesto (which reads coincidentally like Richard Dawkins’ New Ten Commandments, some of which he borrows from an atheist blogger, which is found in The God Delusion), when he suggests that we, “follow the way of Jesus rather than rules and conventions.”

For someone who claims that writing doesn’t come naturally to them, Tomlinson’s books are highly readable, and he has a finely-tuned ear for story-telling coupled with the ability to put forward a coherent and persuasive argument. Most importantly, he is interested in his fellow humans, and his passion for understanding what makes people tick shines through every word.

Tomlinson’s voice is an invaluable contribution to the continuing debate about the presence and value of religious faith in an increasingly secular society. The reasonableness with which he presents his faith is the major reason for the power of his voice.

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There is something in the human psyche dating back to our nomadic ancestry that loves tales of marathon journeys. From epic stories like Moses leading the Israelites out of Egypt to Odysseus’ decade-long voyage home to Ithaca after the Trojan War, the romantic appeal of such stories is hard-wired into our brains.

Lilwall’s book is a modern version of the hero’s journey theme, meshing well with the ‘buddy movie’ genre that has sprung up (he and Leon are film enthusiasts – a recurrent theme) and which he emulates. Thus swigs of whisky, bantering, fallings-out and makings-up intersperse the book, creating a personal narrative to the backdrop of their travels. The book is beautifully illustrated and includes useful maps, which help the reader retain a sense of place in an expansive, and to many, mysterious land.

The parts of the book that grabbed our attention the most were the digressions about Chinese history and culture. Along the way, Lilwall recounts the China of the various imperial dynasties, as well as exploring other topics to have directly influenced the country’s development such as the Opium Wars, Mao’s Cultural Revolution, the rise of communism and the recent economic boom.

Such sections bring to life the land through which Lilwall journeys, offering a traveller’s and foreigner’s perspective of China and her people. Standout episodes include a brush with death inside a carbon monoxide-rich tunnel, the friendliness and hospitality of a railway points operator, and the extraordinary lengths Lilwall and Leon go to in order to recreate footage after a fault with the camera. Lilwall also captures well the different terrains and ways of life across a vast country.

Otherwise, the book cycles around a limited number of themes which aren’t disinteresting, but which quickly become repetitive (Lilwall also periodically inserts religious beliefs that are neither expounded upon nor clearly part of the story – he’s not on a pilgrimage, but making a documentary – and consequently they feel a bit tacked on and intrusive). There are only so many times one may wish to read about scrapes with the police, sore feet, unscrupulous versus friendly natives, dietary limitations and bowel movements. It’s also a difficult task to describe an arduous and physically exhausting journey in a way that entertains one’s readership and prevents ennui from setting in. Lilwall is only partially successful in striking that balance.

Overall, Walking Home From Mongolia is a touch verbose and repetitive, but has enough insight and wit to warrant a look. Those interested in China and travel will likely find the book thoroughly absorbing.

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Tomlinson’s prose is as conversational, warm and welcoming as you would expect the man to be in person. It’s no easy task capturing such character traits on the page, but Tomlinson succeeds with well-timed anecdotes, enjoyable rhetoric and interesting topics. You will find sections such as “Dumping the guilt trip: how to forgive yourself and move on,” that contain general good advice, reflected through the prism of Christianity. There’s an appendix on the enneagram – a non-religious look at personality types which every reader will enjoy going through to find their type. Aware that he’s searching for an audience who run away whenever anyone starts talking about their faith, Tomlinson uses few bible quotes, and those he chooses contain positive messages.

What of the impact of the book? I went into reading it a die-hard atheist, and I emerge the same, albeit one who found the wit and wisdom of Tomlinson frequently encouraging and always charming. There’s no off-putting pulpit bashing about why you should believe scripture is true, nor dire warnings of hell for not subscribing to dogma. He tackles the big questions, such as the one that often leads to abandonment of faith – why does ‘god’ allow suffering? In so doing, he offers no easy answers and admits that it is a tricky area for the theologian. Tomlinson touches on moments of humanity and strong faith found even within the walls of Nazi concentration camps. Yet one could just as easily cite Primo Levi, or the carving, “If there is a God, he will have to beg for my forgiveness” found on a cell wall in Mauthausen.

This is to miss the point, because no part of How to be a Bad Christian is a theological argument. It’s not a work of apologetics – such an approach is simply outside of its remit. Instead, what it achieves is to present a sensible and accessible form of Christianity, and one so rarely heard these days on debate shows when it’s invariably the hard-line nutters who are wheeled out. Here you’ll discover there are vicars who are happy to assert that their god is neither a Christian nor a published author, that the bible was written by fallible men and that other religious and non-religious traditions have validity and merit.

By the second chapter, subtitled “how to find god without going near a church”, the gentle Anglicanism that forms the basis of Tomlinson’s faith is readily apparent. He describes a form of pantheism, finding god and prayer without the trappings of organized religion. It all sounds very appealing, though there is the danger that religious concepts become so loosely defined that they can be made to mean almost anything, especially if, as he asserts, one can love god and pray simply by admiring the beauty of nature.

Tomlinson claims to prefer the company of pub-goers to church-goers – a point of view it’s easy to embrace – but How to Be A Bad Christian won’t find much appeal in Christians who prefer the letter of dogma to the spirit of humanity, and they will likely be left fulminating by Tomlinson’s unashamedly inclusive approach to his faith.

Nevertheless, this heart-warming book should find broad appeal and be widely read, by moderate Christians or those who consider themselves ‘spiritual’ but shy away from subscribing to a particular cult and eschew the idea of ritualised observance. Atheists and rationalists will also find aspects to enjoy, taking away some insights into how to live a good life; and Tomlinson’s friendly treatise may persuade those generally repulsed by religion that can also present itself in a palatable form.

End result: if Dave Tomlinson knocked on your door and mentioned his faith, you’re likely to invite him in for a chat over a cup of tea, or better yet, a drink.

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With virtually no publicity it became a bestseller – almost unheard of in the publishing world – thanks entirely to the power of the tale and the indomitable Gypsy spirit of the author that captured the imaginations of readers worldwide and spread by word of mouth. It’s an astonishing story: sometimes brutal, other times hilarious, but always moving. It left questions unanswered, and readers desperate to know more.

Gypsy Boy On The Run fulfils that need, as Walsh returns to his memoirs, fleshing out the events around and after he ran away, with a condensed retelling of why he had no choice but to leave. Born into a family of prize-fighters, his father pinned all his hopes on his eldest son following his destiny of becoming a famed Gypsy fighter. Mikey was a sensitive boy who deplored violence and whose talents and strengths lay elsewhere. In order to survive, Mikey breaks all the rules. Knowing that his homosexuality will never be accepted within his community, he does the unthinkable and associates with Gorgias (non-Gypsies); and then hatches a plan with Caleb, his first boyfriend, to run away from home and start a new life, knowing full well that to leave would mean never returning and to stay would probably kill him. It’s an awful choice to make, but Mikey does what he has to in order to survive.

The involvement of the young man, Caleb, who helped Mikey escape, is more fully explained here. The enormous risk he takes in reaching out a hand to Mikey and offering him the possibility of another life in another world is a superhuman gesture; but the relentless pressure of Mikey’s father’s search for his son, and the beatings Caleb endures as the Gypsies close in on them takes its toll on his psyche. It’s heartbreaking to read of the disintegration of Caleb, but Mikey never shies away from the searing honesty that’s the hallmark of his writing style, and Caleb’s gradual decline into paranoia structures the first part of the book. There is a heartrending scene in which Caleb delivers Mikey a recording that his mother has made telling him how much she misses him, which suffocates Mikey with guilt as he feels he owes both Caleb and his mother his undying devotion. He also knows that without Caleb, he’ll lose all contact with his family and have to start his life from scratch all over again, a stranger to everyone and alone in the world.

Gypsy Boy On the Run is an appropriate title since Mikey remains a restless spirit throughout much of it; but always with the bravery to fundamentally change his life when he knows he has to. Wherever Mikey tries to settle, he finds himself looking over his shoulder and unable to find peace, hunted and haunted by ghosts from his past, when all he wants is to find acceptance and a place to belong.

Some moments that make you laugh, such as his account of his relationship with a boyfriend called Glyn, later come back to haunt you as Glyn’s eccentricities point towards craziness. The book continues the theme of survival; and whether it’s his father, Caleb or Glyn; Mikey always manages to pick himself up, dust himself down and soldier on.

The Romany Gypsy community so vividly and fondly described in the first book couldn’t be any further removed from the gay scene in Manchester that forms the backdrop to this one. Walsh’s gift for describing people vividly and pithily is put to good use with the colourful crowd of new faces he meets there. He maintains the sense of childlike awe and wonder as he finds his way in a totally alien world as he works in various bars and burger joints, slowly finding his feet. The development of feeling, from early excitement to later dissatisfaction, is something that Walsh captures as well as any other great writer, and it’s a recurring theme of the book. His restless spirit is forever driven on to make changes to his life when he needs to, whether it’s moving to a new place or battling for a formal education in drama school, and he’s not afraid to be honest with himself and make tough decisions; constantly dying, constantly reborn.

These are the themes that bubble through the second memoir, taking over prominence from the extraordinary childhood reminiscences that made Gypsy Boy such a brilliant read. There are occasional flashbacks, always lucidly painted, to childhood moments; most memorably a time Mikey nearly drowned and was rescued by his father; another time when he was given an adorable puppy (with a decidedly inappropriate name!) as a present; and recollection of his sister setting up a frog hospital after an unexpected infestation of amphibians. They are fondly recalled echoes of a lifestyle under threat of extinction, but a proud one with its own culture and customs, such as the “sitting up” that is observed after a death. The visual writing style of the author conjures rich and vibrant images in the mind of the audience.

Gypsy Boy On The Run also answers the other question that often arose amongst critics and readers of Gypsy Boy – Mikey’s loving attitude towards his father (this book is dedicated to him), who fulfils the literary role of antagonist in the first book. Why he holds no ill-feeling towards his father is explained in On The Run, and the developing relationship between the two with the uneasy search for mutual understanding and respect is one of the most touching aspects, where simple words spoken by a man only comfortable expressing anger take on a profoundly affecting quality. Walsh has an innate understanding of human nature, which is partly what makes him a fine storyteller, but it’s also how he’s able to generously assess the people in his life, remaining non-judgemental and fiercely loyal to the culture that shaped him.

There is, I believe, a deeper, primal fascination in the story of nomadic cultures that dates back to pre-history, before the human race settled in small villages, cultivating crops and domesticating animals. The unnatural adaptation to stay in one place is what catalysed the agricultural and technological revolutions. Yet there were those who defied the trend and kept on the move, keeping intuitively aligned with the early human spirit. They were small societies that developed their own highly distinctive cultures that were too busy with day-to-day survival to keep pace with the cultural changes of the settled world around them. Hence the enduring fascination outsiders have with nomads like the Romany Gypsies, whose traditions and way of life recall that residual instinct buried deep in the human past. BothGypsy Boy memoirs are astonishing and privileged insights from within of a community now almost stifled out of existence by the surrounding modern culture.

It’s also an essential read for younger people as a response to the profoundly ignorant idea propagated by (amongst others) religious communities that sexuality is somehow a choice. There are horrendous acts of homophobic violence recounted in the book that act as a haunting consciousness-raiser on this issue. Whilst equality for gay people has come a long way, ignorance, bigotry and violent intolerance still abounds even in the most liberal of societies, and Walsh’s books can play a fundamental part in breaking down barriers and raising awareness, whether or not that was ever his intention.

Gypsy Boy On The Run is a universal story of a restless spirit looking for love, peace, and a place to call his own. He’s driven by the need to survive, and although at times he suffers terribly at the hands of others, he never loses his faith in humanity, the possibility of kindness and finding acceptance and love. Mikey Walsh’s writing is overwhelmingly optimistic and courageous, and can inspire anybody that change is possible, and any obstacles, no matter how seemingly insurmountable, can be overcome.

However the story of Mikey Walsh’s life touches you, Gypsy Boy On The Run is likely to resonate deeply and reach as wide an audience as his first book. If you loved Gypsy Boy, you’ll love this one too. It’s a powerful story, full of wisdom and wit, and an astonishing ability to personalise the telling of it. It’s a beautifully told account of a remarkable life, written in a unique and engaging voice. Once read, never forgotten.

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So what is all the fuss about? Gypsy Boy is the autobiographical story of the first fifteen years in the life of Mikey Walsh. If you think that sounds like a mundane yawnfest then think again. Mikey was born into a Romany Gypsy family, and his memoir is a blistering insight into a secretive and enigmatic people. Never mixing with non-Gypsies (Gorgias), and being raised in a travelling lifestyle in which most remain illiterate, the Gypsy life that Mikey grew up in is only viewed by the outside world through a mist of myths and legends. By opening a window into that mysterious world, Mikey has broken one of the biggest taboos of Gypsy life – telling Gorgias about it.

The early chapters are lyrical descriptions of the events surrounding his birth, as witnessed by the adults who would play key parts in his early years. This introduces the reader to the Gypsy way of life, preparing us for Mikey’s childhood. From the age of four, he’s trained to fight, subjected to boxing lessons from his father, so that he can retain the good name of the Walshes. Yet it’s clear from the first session that Mikey’s not cut out to fight, and he very soon becomes a source of shame and embarrassment to his father, who uses Mikey as a punch bag on which to take out all his frustrations.

The harrowing descriptions of boxing gloves that feel too heavy on childish hands; of being punched repeatedly by his father; and of crying even though he’s been warned that tears will be punished are graphically detailed, and will awaken the worst childhood memories in any reader: the terror of being forced into doing something against your will in order to try to satisfy a parent’s frustrated ambition. Although Mikey had it tougher than most, and refuses to shy away from the traumatic details of his formative years, there’s not a trace of self-pity in the prose, nor indeed any hint of resentment towards his father. Instead, he writes of himself as being in a world in which he doesn’t belong, can’t conform to, and can’t escape.

Yet it’s not all bleak. His complicated relationships with his sister Frankie and his mother offer the light and shade, and there are plenty of moments of comic relief. The flamboyant Aunt Minnie provides plenty of belly laughs with her gutter mouth and rapier wit. She takes Mikey and Frankie on shopping trips, but doesn’t like paying for anything, and their little outings don’t always go according to plan. It’s never too long though before a feeling of dread returns to the narrative. When Mikey and Frankie take to dressing up in their mother’s clothes, Mikey takes on the persona of ‘Aunt Sadly’, a grotesque comic creation that would lead to trouble if his father ever found out about her. Cue Mikey frantically rubbing make-up from his face and scrambling out of a dress as his father hammers at the bathroom door. The feeling of dread that Mikey will be ‘found out’ subsumes the book through the constant fear that he will bear the brunt of his father’s short fuse, or be challenged to fight another Gypsy – which he can’t decline even though he has little chance of winning.

The older he gets, the worse things become for Mikey. He even finds himself isolated from Frankie when his father sets the two against one another. The most poignant moments of the book revolve around his relationship with his sister. They are so close to begin with, as friends who stick up for each other, sharing in the sense of childhood wonder that Mikey captures so well; but this makes it all the sadder when, as they grow older and become teenagers, they drift apart, and the shifting sands of their relationship is part of what makes the story so tangibly real, moving and heartfelt. The relatively short childhoods of the Gypsies perhaps makes the formative years more intensely remembered. But from the movie nights with his mother; to the Gypsy custom of kissing the deceased and reaching down, eyes closed, to see off an elderly relative; to the one teacher at the Gorgia school who first reached out a hand to Mikey and sowed the seeds of belief in his creative talents; it’s a childhood memoir of astonishing richness and clarity, told with great humour and compassion.

There are some things Mikey is unable to tell even Frankie. One of the few adult male Gypsies ever to give him a kind word is one of his uncles, but when it becomes clear there’s a sinister motive behind the gestures of affection, the story reaches the sections most difficult to read. It’s about survival, though, and that’s something Mikey does very well, against the odds. He knows from an early age that he’s gay, and that is not a safe thing to be in Gypsy culture. This sets up a terrible dilemma of either having to spend his life living a lie, or leave his people forever in order to live his own life.

A Gypsy can’t leave the Gypsy way of life and ever go back. There’s no free passage between the Gorgias and Gypsies. The only Gorgias they interact with are ‘dossers’, who are treated worse than the lurchers. The expectation is always that Mikey will find a way to leave, and the seed of this idea is planted on his first visit to London, staring in awe out of the window of his father’s van at the lions in Trafalgar Square as he promises himself that one day he’ll make the city his home. But it seems impossible for Mikey to find a way out, unless he can find someone in the Gorgia world to help him. Yet hanging out with Gorgias is bad enough, but falling for a gay Gorgia is about the most dangerous thing he can do. Mikey leaves no clue in the writing as to what would happen if he did succeed in escaping, and what terrifying lengths his father and other Gypsies would go to in order to drag him back; and this sets up a breathtaking climax to the story, so suspenseful you’ll be unable to stop reading until you finish it.

By the time you reach the end of the book you ought, by rights, to be emotionally battered and bruised. That this isn’t the case is down to the indefatigable strength of human spirit that Mikey shows in remaining resilient in the face of enormous difficulties, and having the moral courage to live his life and make the right choices, even when the consequences are unbearably hard and hurt those closest to him. There are plenty of tough men depicted in the book, but, whilst he may have lost the fist-fights, Mikey is as courageous as any of them.

What is so impressive about the book is the stamp of identity. Not just Mikey’s own pride in his roots and impassioned defence of Gypsy culture, but his own clearly defined personality. Telling your own story isn’t as easy as it may sound. A common mistake is to overlook the protagonist and leave a gaping hole in the narrative. Not so withGypsy Boy. Whether it’s because of the oral tradition of the Gypsies; the number of times he must have told his story to new friends when finding his feet in the Gorgia world, his drama training, or possibly a combination, Mikey takes you by the hand in the telling of his extraordinary tale, and in the intimacy of its telling lies its power. It will have a wonderful nostalgia value for anyone who grew up in the 80s, and the insight into the Romany Gypsy world makes for a truly original voice. It’ll make you laugh, and it may well make you cry – possibly even in the space of a page. Gypsy Boy is the sort of book you’ll remember forever.

For anyone who prefers the even more personal touch, an audiobook version of Gypsy Boy is also available, read by Mikey Walsh himself. His accent is remarkable, and his voice very easy on the ear. Reading it aloud suits Mikey’s cinematic writing style, and there’s consistency of voices for the other characters. He kept me company on two long car journeys and helped the time and the motorways to fly by.

Gypsy Boy leaves you with a flashforward to Mikey in the present day, but there are fifteen intervening years of his life story still begging to be told. Thankfully, a follow-up book is in the pipeline, which should satisfy fans of Gypsy Boyand introduce a new audience to Mikey Walsh’s writing.

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