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F or nine months of the year this Porsche-driving old leftie lives espedalr life of pure hedonism. Then, every September, he knuckles down to write one darkly hilarious book that invariably becomes a best-seller.

Colin Hughes on the latest from the champion of sci-fi. Iain Banks is the kind of man who makes many feel ill with envy. He works three, maybe four months a year, but his annual novel invariably hits the bestseller list at launch, making him wealthy enough to spend the rest of the year doing what the hell he wants.

Stfeet what hell that is: In this circle, Banks is stredt for being witty, generous, self-deprecating, and otherwise wonderful company.

In the middle of last September Banks came back from holiday and settled steeet in front of his Mac to write his next novel, The Business. He says he didn’t start thinking about the book, which is out on Wednesday, till he repaired to his study. He wrote, as he always does when working, roughly 3, words a day, eight hours a day, five days a week, till the book was finished which had to be by December 23, because otherwise Dtreet, his wife, would be grumpy about his failure to help with Christmas.

For the next two weeks he celebrated in Banksian style lots of drinking and etreetthen sat down again after Hogmanay to do a final revision. He packed the book off to his editor in London and at the beginning of February, popped down to the old smoke for a two-day run through with said editor and there you are, job done.

The rest of his year was spent hanging out with friends, messing with his music-making software, doing the odd publicity book-signing spin, and helping his elderly parents to move into an old farmhouse on the opposite side of the courtyard where he lives in North Queensferry, just over the Forth bridge from Edinburgh.

Doing the Business | Books | The Guardian

The maddening thing is, this new book is one of his most assured performances yet. Not as startlingly original as The Wasp Factory, nor so ingeniously artful as The Bridge by common consent, his best ; but certainly The Business is the most accessible, straightforward book he’s written, and one of the least dark the most ouch-inducing scene is right at the beginning, when a minor character has teeth methodically extracted, but even that turns out to be laugh-out-loud funny.

Some passages in his books are so horrid his wife won’t read them. No wonder that people assume there must be a dark unsavoury core behind Banks’ cheerful exterior.

If there is, he doesn’t recognise it.

Doing the Business

He insists that these gruesome images are not part of his nature. The whole point for me of being wspedair writer is espedalr nothing’s bad, no matter what you think up.

There’s a mad bit in my brain that comes up with these ridiculous ideas, and the rational bit of me is saying ‘that’s horrible, disgusting’, and then there’s a bit of my brain that thinks ‘ah, I’ve got this great idea’.

They’re just ideas they’re utterly amoral. In person, Banks shows no trace of this other self. He has been described, accurately, as looking like a espedaig lecturer: But and it’s a big but it’s no good pretending that Iain Banks is just a sweet and beguiling chap who happens to be able to turn out richly inventive novels at the rate of one a year.

He doesn’t miss a trick. And his life, never mind his demeanour, shows a man with extraordinary self-belief and single-minded determination.

Ken Macleod, an old friend, says: He used to say it was a joke with him that he was trying to expand his accomplishments to occupy the space that his ego already filled. The affable Banksie is no disingenuous illusion: But behind it there are other equally potent personalities. There is the Iain Banks who drives his car so precariously that he rolled it off the road to Glenfinnan last year and damn near killed himself.


Typically, he emerged from the wreckage beaming, with cuts and bruises, to tell a horrified Italian couple who had stopped to help: Then, having scored success, he opted to go home and live among etreet friends and family in Scotland, well away from London’s flitterati. His mother and father met on an ice rink in Dunfermline where she was an instructress. Both parents came from large families, so although Iain was an only child he grew up among crowds of cousins and second cousins, many of whom lived on and off abroad as naval pilots and the like more exotic than a conventional quiet Scottish town upbringing might normally suggest.

I think back and remember I always used to be given the best cuts of meat and so on. I got used to being treated as the most important person in the household, which can be very dangerous. Until ’63 they lived in North Queensferry because his father was working at Rosyth as a civilian docks supervisor, but espedxir the navy moved him to Greenock at the mouth of the Clyde.

The family lived in Gourock, just up the road: Iain went to school, first there, and then to Greenock High. It would be perfectly possible to paint a portrait of Banks solely from the anecdotes told by his adolescent friends, with whom he has grown up and shared most of his life.

As teenagers they watched Monty Python and went drinking together; some went to the same universities and walked the hills together; later they worked at the same jobs, trooped off on demos together, did drugs, lived in squats and shared houses. Banks keeps a diary, rather like the one a character in Crow Road keeps, with its own private shorthand.

But it’s espedalr a writers’ diary: He first knew he wanted to be a writer when he was 11 and wrote his first novel aged 16, in esedair in a larger-than-foolscap log book.

Called The Hungarian Lift-Jet, it was a sort of Alistair Maclean madness with international arms dealers for baddies rather than commies, and a lot more sex and violence.

Ken Macleod, now a rising star on the science fiction scene himself, remembers: They were quite funny, politically provocative, with tanks and guns and sex all juxtaposed in streeet ways but the stories were just ludicrous handwritten exercises in puns. Banks went to Stirling to read English, philosophy and espeddair, a choice of subjects which he confesses was a bit sad really, in that he really streft that ‘a novelist should read novels, philosophy cos you’ve got to have philosophy in your novels, haven’t you?

And psychology because you’ll be using characters. It was all tosh,’ he admits with a wince. When Banks returned to the university recently to deliver a talk, Rory Watson, a espedakr and professor of English, had to introduce his former student: Normally where it asks students to list their interests people would put things like ‘hillwalking’ and ‘reading’, but not Iain.

On his Ucca form there was just one interest listed: You can’t say we weren’t warned! At school Banks was obsessed with making bombs out of sugar and weedkiller. Mostly he and his pals detonated them in the hills streeet Greenock, but Les Macfarlane, a childhood friend, tells how they gathered a gang of kids for a demonstration on a local reservoir, where they’d rigged up a six-foot model boat packed with explosives.

He lit it, started to walk back, and then you could see the mounting panic on his face thinking he wouldn’t get away in time, and then he broke into a run The damn thing never went off.

Brad Simkuletā€™s review of Espedair Street

Banks says he was quite a quiet student. But he worked hard.

A lot of people sit and talk about writing, but if you’re really going to write you have to do it, not talk about it. Iain was writing all the time. In his first year at university he wrote his second novel, a vast sprawling thing called TTR, which Macleod says was ‘a sort of blend of Hunter S Thompson and Catch 22’.

Really, though, Banks wanted to write science fiction. Many who read his so-called ‘mainstream’ fiction published in covers with faintly gothic black and white designs take the view that his SF, published under the name Iain M Banks, is some sort of aberrant indulgence. In fact, if you read both, it becomes increasingly hard to see where SF leaves off and mainstream begins.


Is Song of Stone mainstream? Or The Bridge, for that matter? The truth is, genre distinctions blur all across Banks’ work, which has been compared to Robert Louis Stevenson’s, and anyone who ducks the sci-fi is missing large tranches of his best stuff Excession, the last full-blown Culture novel, is one of the funniest and cleverest SF books ever.

Moreover, sci-fi is what Banks always cared about most. But I do have a problem with them being held up as the most important or most respectable genre. It’s just a particular way of writing, it’s not necessarily the highest, it’s just that a way of writing. Elevating it almost becomes bigotry, saying that science fiction must be worse, less important. That really rankles, gets up my nose, both barrels. Banks has become science fiction’s most prominent British champion.

If you go back a couple of hundred years, the world you were born into wouldn’t be that much different from the one you died in.

But the one thing you can guarantee for children born now is that the world will be completely, totally different. In fact, it may be so different that they may not die at all. After university Banks deliberately took on a succession of jobs for between six months and a year at a time, the one condition being that he never had to think about them after he’d walked out of the door at the end of the day. The work made him enough money to keep writing right through his twenties, with long gaps in between jobs to travel: Every other year he’d be sending off manuscripts and pinning the litter of rejection slips over his bedroom wall.

I was down the pub one night and the others arrived and told me there was this mad guy back at The Streey demonstrating how to fall backwards off a stool without spilling his whisky, who said he was a friend of mine. Banks’ publisher carries an interview with him on its web site in which he reveals that his numerous nicknames over the years have included Beaver ‘not a sexual reference; something to do with my predilection for dam-building’and El Bonko ‘nothing to do with bonking, sadly; it comes from bonkers, though I can’t imagine why’.

There’s no doubt Banks espedir a lunatic fringe. On publicity tours for his books he has an alarming propensity to get drunk and attempt to return to his room by scaling the outside of the hotel leading, on one occasion in Brighton, to the police being called. Jim Brown, another intimate drinking friend, remembers a night when they’d been to Dingwalls in London: I thought he was walking beside me, but when I ewpedair round he wasn’t there.

Then this voice came back from above Iain was walking along this wall about ten feet above street. And then it went something espfdair this. Only thing was, he dived off backwards Banks liked hanging out with the Trots ‘I had a E Cortina, white with a black vinyl roof, I was going to make a sticker for it: In the Scottish Assembly elections this year he voted SNP, not because he’s pro-independence, but because he’s fed up with Blair’s student loan and private finance policies.

All the time he was in London, he’d been scribbling, stitching together the sci-fi novels that were streeh to be published as Consider Phlebas, Player of Games, Against a Dark Background, the first two of which created The Culture, his utopian future society in which benevolent artificial intelligences conduct shreet own affairs while overseeing a blissfully benign human world aboard vast intergalactic spaceships.

And it sort of grew from there. Culture humans also have the ability to infuse drugs directly into their system a reflection on Banks’ belief that happy people won’t misuse dope. They’ll say, ‘what were you thinking of? Tobacco is even worse.