Pre-order Serpentine, my first 'proper' thriller...

It's out on 4th June, and you can get a copy direct from the Random House website.

Here's the skinny. Thanks to Jeff for the quote:

Synopsis
A name from the murkiest corners of Britain's secret war in Ireland: Serpentine.

At first it's just gossip and fearful whispers. But then people begin to die and all hell breaks loose from Palestine to the remote Highlands of Scotland.

Fresh from the toughest assignments in the mercenary world comes former SAS officer Murricane. Can he find Serpentine before it's too late and before the horrific secrets of the past threaten to cause chaos not just in Ireland but in the Middle East too?

In a trail of mayhem that leads through Scotland, Gaza and Ireland, Murricane battles his own demons, as well as a monstrous former RUC officer, a disgraced policeman and a series of unreliable Land Rovers, until Serpentine plays his final, devastating game . . .

Serpentine is an explosive, bitterly funny journey into the darkest heart of the Irish Troubles and the violence that lurks in Scotland's most scenic Highland communities.
What the critics say
This is more than just a gripping page-turner. Morton combines his skill as a story-teller with the literary flair that readers will recognise from his other books
- Jeff Zycinski, head of BBC Radio Scotland

Morton is up there with the best of Scotland's almost-young literary lions
- Highland News

Bike found, trashed...

...and I've had to head north, leaving it in Glasgow, exposed to the elements and any renewed attempts to abduct it. Or simply destroy it. Insurance is proving worse than useless, as is every single bike repair company I've contacted. Big thanks to Bill for his efforts on my behalf, but that particular garage's van was too small. It's as if the insurance companies actually want someone to remove it permanently/render it beyond repair.

I'm awaiting news tomorrow of a possible uplifting of the machine. But my insurers said the damage - one sidepanel and comprehensive wrecking of the wiring loom - was 'probably a write off'. Good grief.

If you see this bike, call the cops

T697 RHC .Stolen from outside my son's west end of Glasgow flat overnight. Bought to take part in the charity ride described on the Journey's Blend blog. 28,000 miles, just resprayed in Alfa Romeo Rosso Red, in superb order, and almost certainly destined for the eBay parts bin. A real shame.

Thing is, I only moved it from safe parking at the BBC (in Govan!) as I was due to pack it with my stuff and begin the journey north to Aberdeen after today's show. Clearly a bad move. The police, who arrived impressively quickly, say that the area around Queen Margaret Drive is notorious for vehicle theft.

Ah well, to the Megabus! Can't help feeling that this may some kind of sign...at least it was comprehensively insured.

Dylan in the Playhouse, the Bum-Clocks outside...

It was slightly disconcerting to arrive outside the Playhouse and find one Malcolm Ross, ex-Orange Juice, ex-Josef K, ex-Aztec Camera and possibly the most influential Scottish guitarist ever, busking on the pavement with his fellow Bum-clocks, including the irrepressible Tam Dean Burn on vocals and ex-Fire Engine Russell Burn on drums. Sounding great and funny, too. Check out their Myspace page at http://www.myspace.com.burnbrosross

On into the Playhouse, then, I think for the first time since going to see Hue and Cry in 1987...a strange vibe, Lindsay H said, and he was right: a mixture of fear that 50 quid had been spent on a gig which, by all accounts could end up being a train wreck, and anticipation. In the end, it's about being in the same room as a legend. And one who changed many of the lives present.

Symbolically, I was in the bar when Dylan came on stage. Leopard Skin Pill Box Hat, and contrary to rumour, recognisably sung. Word from those who had seen other dates on the tour was that tonight was easily the best. While Dylan's voice is shot, and the phrasing sometimes eccentric, there was real feeling in his treatment of Trying To Get To Heaven Before They Close The Door and passion in Like a Rolling Stone. Highway 61 and the recent Thunder on the Mountain (from Modern Times)were superb.

However, his insistence on playing loud, loopy lead guitar on certain songs was hard to bear, particularly with the presence of two wonderful guitarists in his cracking band. All of whom played brilliantly throughout, often having to cover for their wandering leader (his organ playing was a fair stab at Al Kooper, but often plain ridiculous; his moothie blowing is awful these days).

Not a word was spoken in the near two hour (with encores) set.Dylan looked natty in riverboat gambler garb. The reinvention of Blowing in the Wind as a barely recognisable chugalong and a peculiar Tangled Up In Blue was bearable, and in a curious way endearing.

In the end, it was about being there and hearing the man perform ('sing' may not be quite the right word)some of the greatest songs ever written. You can't put a price on the goosebumps-and-tears reaction I had to the chorus of Like a Rolling Stone. Well, you can. It was 50 quid a ticket. And just about worth it.

"Don't ever call me English again..."

Peter Capaldi is scary enough in The Thick of It ("that's your bollocking face") but in In The Loop he reaches new heights of scatalogical abuse as virulent spinmeister Malcolm Tucker. It is a wonderful, vicious, gleefully nasty film which I fear will poison the body politic for some time: so many amateur politico half-wit wonks are going to try "doing a Tucker". Peter (whom I remember from occasional meetings post-Local Hero as a charmingly polite chap) clashes with James Gandolfini as a would-be peacenik General in quite the best actorly confrontation since De Niro and Pacino in Heat."Don't ever call me English again."

Meanwhile, a pint in the Doublet proved once again it's one of the great underrated West End bars. It was a beautiful spring evening, warm and bright, so Mag and I walked towards Cineworld, stopping off at the new Shish Mahal Cafe for tea, or tiffin. It was pretty good. The curries (tapas style; Mother India's Cafe has a lot to answer for) were really excellent, though the nan bread bits were microwaved and the poppadum pieces more like crisps. Mag used to work in the place when it was a weird combination of photo lab and capuccino bar, so we got a friendly welcome. I'd go back.

It's been a pretty full-on day, what with picking up the old Triumph Trophy I'm using for June's Great Whisky Trip in Glenrothes, Scotland's newtown Brigadoon after a reasonable but somewhat turbulent ferry trip (via Orkney.No problems getting to Glasgow, though, which is looking at its best. The Dear Green Place, with a vengeance.

A column in tomorrow's Sunday Post about laundrettes and some restrained (!) quotes in The Sunday Times about ludicrous proposals for 'voluntary quotas' of Scottish music on the radio. I may have used the phrase 'rockin' vicar syndrome'. What I really meant was 'creeping cultural fascism.'