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Interview With The Brummie Bukowski

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      U.V. Ray, or as he's known around these parts, The Brummie Bukowski, hasn't taken part in an interview for a decade. The rare and original writer has much to say, most of it about his new book, A Cigarette Burn in the Sun which, going on the reviews alone, looks to be his most popular work so far. It's a bleak piece, both terse and terrific, and recounts a period in time which deserves more attention. I identified a lot of truth in the book, recognised the fact and the fiction, but wanted to know what the author thought. So, here we are, a rare insight into the working life and practices of a truly talented practitioner of the writer's craft.  TONY BLACK:  I believe the book's based on a real-life incident, is that right? U. V. RAY:  Fictionalised reality, yes. We used to go to this club in Brum called Snobs and they had this indie night called Loaded. Me and my drinking pal Paul came rolling outta there about two-thirty in the morning and I think we migh
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Five-Star Fag Burn

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 REVIEW: a cigarette burn in the sun by u.v. ray 



 I like the cut of u.v. ray’s jib I like short books, novellas, novelettes I like The Legend of the Holy Drinker I like The Old Man and the Sea Writers who write what they know Like Joyce’s Dubliners Welsh’s schemies Bukowski’s Tales of Ordinary Madness Because it’s definitely everywhere Especially these days, like a cigarette burn in the sun by u.v. ray Set in Birmingham, 1986 Amidst alkies, junkies Those on the outside of the outside The last thin rim Where you’d need wings to balance Like Angel T. Cooley Hero without a halo But a Pentax and a plan That’s not the same as a plot If Joyce made Waugh spit fire ray might bring the brimstone Don’t look for an arc A turn or a twist There’s no nods to the gods Or head girls and editors In London or the Guardian Instead there’s a black moment On every page A horror upon horror To publish and be damned Well done u.v. ray You’re the Brummie Bukowski A star in the making But already burnt out
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Remembering John Byrne, Ross-shire Journal

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'Get Me Some More, Just Like Him' I unearthed my Certificate of Scottish Education today, during what my beloved, late  Grandmother would once have referred to as a "right good bogle" about the loft. It can be unnerving up there, balanced on rafters, juggling baby clothes and bags of tax returns, whilst past-lives flood back. I spied the document before I recognised it, in its latest incarnation it has become dog-eared, tattered, the colour of butter. But, there it was, present-day proof of my teenage self's attainment in higher education. Aside from the subjects of Art and English, believe me, these long sweated-over results were anything but assured. And for a while, even Higher English, to steal a line from the class's set text, was as dead to me as the undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveller returns.   However, as fate would have it, beneath my teacher's Fair Isle tank-tops beat the raging heart of an iconoclast. If he couldn't breathe
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