Ian Hutson: British Author of Humor, Science-Fiction, Satire
I could not be more excited to introduce Ian Hutson to those who may not be familiar with his genius or his madness, or more likely a beautiful blend of the two. Mr. Hutson is a British satirist and humourist.
An acknowledgement is definitely owed to my friend and British Crime Mystery writer and humorist, Pat McDonald. She introduced me to The Diesel-Electric Elephant Company and the writings of Ian Hutson. For that I will be eternally grateful. When I need a smile or a smirk I look for anything attributed to Mr. Hutson.
Let me begin my introduction by saying that I figuratively hopped aboard the Cardinal Wolsey, Ian’s floating home, and have traveled along for the past few months, laughing aloud on many days, puckering my butt as the canals narrow on others, and suffering severe withdrawal on days when Ian does not write. I was thrilled when “we” moored in early November for a day or so, left the Cardinal and enjoyed a pee and a pub. To put it mildly, I am as addicted to Ian Hutson’s writings as many other crazies are addicted to daily horoscopes.
Fascinated by his mind and infatuated with his writing, I contacted Ian Hutson and asked him to share his personal story with this reader and others. He has been kind enough to do so. His past is as interesting as his present, to say the least. I am honored that he took a bit of his time to “talk” to us.
It is now my pleasure to introduce a man I can only call an English treasure, Author Ian Hutson.
Ian Hutson: The Writer and His Dreams
I love talking to authors about their writing processes, about what makes them tick as a writer, what inspires them. Ian Hutson did not disappoint. In his own words, Ian shares his dreams…
Among all of this change and contrast, continuing into my current life as an itinerant ditch-dwelling traveller, the one constant right from my very first childhood “invisible friend” onwards has been that the world inside my head is far more important to me – and far more reliable – than the world outside.
My dreams are intense, and some of them have been going on like serials for decades, in any one of a dozen or more dream worlds and landscapes, with ever-present characters and with characters who pop in and out from time to time. I can go to sleep and the dreams of the previous night will carry on from where we left off. Sometimes I can pick and choose where among these dream landscapes I will go when I shut my eyes that night. I encourage dreams, and this has made me more of an observer than a participant in life elsewhere. The “real” world also looks rather ridiculous and a little bit pointless by comparison. I’ve never really been on good terms with the “real” world, and now I can’t be bothered with it at all, and we avoid each other as much as is possible.
From not being able to read or write at all until the age of eight or nine I was then suddenly presented with the world of books… and stories. Stories are only one place removed from dreams and books have the advantage that where dreams might fill my nights, books can fill my days. Better yet, reading is considered to be a very respectable occupation so no-one chastises me for it, quite the reverse. I am one of those dreadful people who can read and re-read books until the print wears off the page, and each time I read I sink a little deeper into that story-world, appreciate different details, and squeeze out just as much fun or more as on the first reading.
Once I had learned my alphabet and control of my thumbs it was inevitable that I would write as well as read. From my twenties onwards I have written for magazines, written for anthologies and written books, garnering a faithful and devoted readership of some half a dozen, maybe even seven or eight souls. Like all writers though, most of what I put down on paper never sees even the half-dozen reader light of day. To date I’ve wallowed in a sort of cynical comedy, mirroring the tragically inept social floundering of the human species, but as I get towards the end of my fifties I can feel (yet) another change coming on, and I am secretly scribbling about more serious things, such as romance, dogs and boats.
It is my intention in writing to leave enough behind for future generations of my family such that they blink a lot, turn their heads on one side and then double-check in hopes that they were indeed born out of wedlock and unrelated, with the midwife their actual mother and their father the milkman. If I have any ambition then it is for the future family tree to be drawn showing me as hanging upside down from my branch, accompanied by a large question mark. I’m well on the way to success.
Ian Hutson: Ups, Downs, and Lands Safely in a Canal
As Mr. Hutson explains, life takes a few turns, but all is well that ends Wolsey, “Cardinal Wolsey” that is. Ian Hutson continues in his words…
From a pre-teen childhood that was brilliant, and about which I actually remember virtually nothing, and teenage years that were criminally dismal, and about which I remember every grinding, horrid detail, I launched then into a spectacularly mediocre twenties in the Civil Service.
To celebrate my thirties I moved to the sprawling seaside enclave of Blackpool, where I discovered deliciously seedy nightclubs, Smirnoff Black vodka and the art of being comatose on pavements outside seedy nightclubs.
For my forties I put the cork firmly back in the bottle and moved again to Norfolk, trying instead to discover I.T. contracting and business, found that I was suited to neither and promptly went bankrupt. I don’t often sing the praises of County Court Judges, but the one that I got for my case was an absolute darling, although I still lost my valuables and car to auction, and ended up living in borrowed circumstances in a corner of a charitable close relative’s garden.
A few years into my fifties a change in the law of the land allowed me to draw my (un-confiscated) private pension early, if somewhat drastically reduced, and after two or three seconds of careful consideration I leapt at the chance.
Ian’s Books:
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Ian Hutson’s newest book of bubbly babble is sure to delight. Cheerio! and thanks for the apocalypse is a compilation of shorts designed to make the reader laugh, smile, giggle, and shake his head knowingly.
Hutson writes satire, political humour, religious humour, and any other kind of humour a reader can imagine. Or, if the reader is short on imagination, Ian Hutson was gifted with enough to make up our deficits and he does so with a flourish of the pen… well, a clicky clack of fingertips on a keyboard.
The first story in this little book is “Bazza, Gazza, Shazza, Tom, Dick and Harry.” It catches the PM and London in a cloud of dust, not just any dust, mind you. What could possibly go wrong in a world of the powerful when they have no power, no one to listen to the orders of the day, or repair the toilet? Life can be hilariously tough according to Hutson.
I loved all the stories, but admittedly, my atheist friends and I loved “And they think that I’m insane.” Most writers would shy away from such taboo humour, but Hutson, in his free-wheeling manner, takes on some of the most delicate rules in a most indelicate and casual manner. For anyone with a real sense of humour, this is a must-read story.
So, look, Friends, if you are not afraid of humour that strikes at everything many hold sacred, this is the book for you. I found myself wishing I had the imagination of Ian Hutson and a spirit free enough to wander into realms he inhabits.
Hutson is irreverent but will never become irrelevant. His words flow from a mind that is so far ahead of the masses, we can only hope to grasp bits of it in his wake. And, yes! He is a genius/madman. No one of lesser stature could create such a world of satire, filled with our truths being poked and prodded by his, making us laugh at ourselves.
Truth is, Ian Hutson has the intestinal fortitude (or just doesn’t give a damn) to tell the stories many of us would keep hidden if we were only capable of thinking of them. Luckily, we must rely on Mr. Hutson to tell the stories and keep us laughing all the way.
