There is a well-worn story about the late Iain Banks and his relationship to video games.
Ultimately, he deleted the game from his hard drive so you can resist temptation.
But the spirit of Civ - and other games - clearly bled into his work.
which - dwindling UK geopolitical influence metaphor alert - is about to be sold off to a US consortium.
That’s just a taste.
There should have, could have, would have been more.
Ten long years without a new book from him seems illogical, bizarre.
That adaptation wasquietly cancelled in 2020.
(My hot tip?
A little more than ten years after his death, we are experiencing a timely, double-pronged Banks bump.
- that will hopefully get them into the hands and brainpans of a new generation of readers.
The result is a chaotic intergalactic blueprint - the Culture in skunkworks form - self-annotated in cramped chickenscratch.
It occasionally reads like graffiti scrawled in the margins of a runaway imagination: Banksy Woz Ere.
One of the inspiring things about Banks was how much he seemed to enjoy demystifying the creative process.
Nine-to-five, five days a week: proper traditional working hours, if only for three months or so.
But the rest of the year?
Fast cars (although heditched his Porsches in 2006).
The obvious angle seemed to be chatting to him over a malt whisky tasting.
A lunchtime session was arranged at a swanky private member’s club in Glasgow.
It was a dream gig.
Meeting an artist I had idolised since high school.
Someone who had opened my mind to what a writer could be.
A tangible, relatable inspiration.
Also: free whisky.
Banks arrived a little late and sheepishly confessed to be ruinously hungover.
The premium malts in chunky crystal tumblers remained untouched.
But he still provided me with reams of rollicking but self-deprecating quotes.
So I never officially got to have a drink with him.
Cheers for everything, Iain.
