| HORROR'S GUILTY PLEASURES |
Return with me now to the glory days of guts, gore, and flesh-eating nightmares.
A time when the paperback cover ruled supreme. I'm talking about the great horror fiction boom of the
1970's and 1980's, of course, when each month dozens upon dozens of cheesy horror novels from major
houses flooded the book racks of your local brick-and-mortar store. The cover was the thing: the more
gruesome, the more grisly, the more gut-wrenching, the better. And nobody did covers like the UK
publishers: NEL, Arrow, Star, Hamyln, Sphere etc.
That isn't to say, of course, that England held a patent on good horror artists--they didn't--but for some
reason, American publishers were simply too conservative on the whole to produce books with maggoty
skulls, impaled women, and cannibals feeding on bloody human hearts. A tradition, unfortunately, that
continues to this day in the lackluster, anemic books put out by those American publishers that even
bother putting out horror at all. Zebra Books, for example, who had a very active horror line in those
days, thought that the pinnacle of horror illustration was the skeleton. And so they pumped out countless
horror novels--most of them pretty bad--and the covers were nearly identical: a cheerleading skeleton, a
skeleton in a baby carriage, and--ooo, this'll get 'em--two skeleton girls playing jumprope.
Not the case in Jolly Old England. Gore and shock was the thing. And love it or hate, it was this kind of
visceral imagery that sold millions of books. Back in the 1980's, when you wanted a horror novel and
nothing else would do, you wanted it to be easily identifiable. You didn't want to grab some lame cozy
mystery or tepid suspense novel and in the UK, there was absolutely no chance of that. Of course, there
were always the pretentious bastards who thought such grisly covers were demeaning to the form, that
great fictional medium that Poe and Hawthorn, some contend, once labored in. I recall one reviewer
calling these covers "the artistic equivalent of two boys poking a dead cat to see if the maggots will come
out." In other words, childish. But since horror fiction speaks directly to the frightened child in us all...why
not? Let us kick our lofty ideals to the curb where they belong and be done with them. We're talking
horror fiction here, people! If good horror is the literary equivalent of anything then it's a scary tale told
around the fire or one of those unpleasant stories kids whisper to each in the dark.
I'm not ashamed to say that I bought dozens of books just for the grotesque covers. There was thrill to it,
I suppose, when someone saw you reading a book with slugs tunneling through a screaming human head
on the cover. The same childish joy I got as a kid dragging squeamish girls to look at a decomposing dog
in a ditch. When you had one of these books in your hand you were saying, "Yeah, I can take it. I got
good nerves and a strong fucking stomach." After all, any fool can read Joyce Carol Oates or John
Updike, but it takes a special kind of mind to appreciate Shaun Hutson!
Anyway, in the UK these kinds of books were called "nasties" and that was an appropriate tag for what
you were to find in their pages. For if you wanted blood, guts, and graphic close-ups of the most
sickening atrocities, then you would not be disappointed. If the nasties had a father, then it was probably
James Herbert, Britain's best-selling horror writer and the author of such absolute gems as The Fog, The
Dark, and The Spear. But it was his first novel, The Rats, that gave birth to the nasties. Plenty of these
books had supernatural horrors or serial killers running about hacking people up, but their real mainstay
was nature run wild. Herbert had created the template with The Rats and it sold like crazy and soon the
bookstores were flooded with novels about spiders and worms, blowflies and jellyfish, mad dogs and
flesh-eating cats, killer pike, snakes, even lamprey and man-eating pigs got in on the fun.
So let us return to those wonderful days when a lover of horror could simply go to any bookstore,
drugstore, or newsstand to get his bloody fix. No muddled covers, no pretentious literary bullshit, no
effeminate teenage vampires, no weak-kneed subtlety, and absolutely no delusions of grandeur.
The horror is the thing...
A time when the paperback cover ruled supreme. I'm talking about the great horror fiction boom of the
1970's and 1980's, of course, when each month dozens upon dozens of cheesy horror novels from major
houses flooded the book racks of your local brick-and-mortar store. The cover was the thing: the more
gruesome, the more grisly, the more gut-wrenching, the better. And nobody did covers like the UK
publishers: NEL, Arrow, Star, Hamyln, Sphere etc.
That isn't to say, of course, that England held a patent on good horror artists--they didn't--but for some
reason, American publishers were simply too conservative on the whole to produce books with maggoty
skulls, impaled women, and cannibals feeding on bloody human hearts. A tradition, unfortunately, that
continues to this day in the lackluster, anemic books put out by those American publishers that even
bother putting out horror at all. Zebra Books, for example, who had a very active horror line in those
days, thought that the pinnacle of horror illustration was the skeleton. And so they pumped out countless
horror novels--most of them pretty bad--and the covers were nearly identical: a cheerleading skeleton, a
skeleton in a baby carriage, and--ooo, this'll get 'em--two skeleton girls playing jumprope.
Not the case in Jolly Old England. Gore and shock was the thing. And love it or hate, it was this kind of
visceral imagery that sold millions of books. Back in the 1980's, when you wanted a horror novel and
nothing else would do, you wanted it to be easily identifiable. You didn't want to grab some lame cozy
mystery or tepid suspense novel and in the UK, there was absolutely no chance of that. Of course, there
were always the pretentious bastards who thought such grisly covers were demeaning to the form, that
great fictional medium that Poe and Hawthorn, some contend, once labored in. I recall one reviewer
calling these covers "the artistic equivalent of two boys poking a dead cat to see if the maggots will come
out." In other words, childish. But since horror fiction speaks directly to the frightened child in us all...why
not? Let us kick our lofty ideals to the curb where they belong and be done with them. We're talking
horror fiction here, people! If good horror is the literary equivalent of anything then it's a scary tale told
around the fire or one of those unpleasant stories kids whisper to each in the dark.
I'm not ashamed to say that I bought dozens of books just for the grotesque covers. There was thrill to it,
I suppose, when someone saw you reading a book with slugs tunneling through a screaming human head
on the cover. The same childish joy I got as a kid dragging squeamish girls to look at a decomposing dog
in a ditch. When you had one of these books in your hand you were saying, "Yeah, I can take it. I got
good nerves and a strong fucking stomach." After all, any fool can read Joyce Carol Oates or John
Updike, but it takes a special kind of mind to appreciate Shaun Hutson!
Anyway, in the UK these kinds of books were called "nasties" and that was an appropriate tag for what
you were to find in their pages. For if you wanted blood, guts, and graphic close-ups of the most
sickening atrocities, then you would not be disappointed. If the nasties had a father, then it was probably
James Herbert, Britain's best-selling horror writer and the author of such absolute gems as The Fog, The
Dark, and The Spear. But it was his first novel, The Rats, that gave birth to the nasties. Plenty of these
books had supernatural horrors or serial killers running about hacking people up, but their real mainstay
was nature run wild. Herbert had created the template with The Rats and it sold like crazy and soon the
bookstores were flooded with novels about spiders and worms, blowflies and jellyfish, mad dogs and
flesh-eating cats, killer pike, snakes, even lamprey and man-eating pigs got in on the fun.
So let us return to those wonderful days when a lover of horror could simply go to any bookstore,
drugstore, or newsstand to get his bloody fix. No muddled covers, no pretentious literary bullshit, no
effeminate teenage vampires, no weak-kneed subtlety, and absolutely no delusions of grandeur.
The horror is the thing...
| THIS MONTH'S GUILTY PLEASURE: |
| ENTIRE CONTENT COPYRIGHT 2009 BY TIM CURRAN tim@corpseking.com |
Check out the archive here
The Fungus (UK: Star Books, 1985)
Tagline: "It grows on you."
Already you're digging that undeniably disgusting cover and I'm there with
you. Now who, upon seeing this on the shelf back in the day, wouldn't
want to read this? Well, lots of people probably, but that sort doesn't
interest us here. Cool cover with screaming man infested by mushrooms
and assorted fungi. Enough said. This one was penned by Harry Adam
Knight, author of other wonderful nasties like Carnosaur and Slimer, and
trust me, he knows his business. Knight was a pseudonym for Australian
Tagline: "It grows on you."
Already you're digging that undeniably disgusting cover and I'm there with
you. Now who, upon seeing this on the shelf back in the day, wouldn't
want to read this? Well, lots of people probably, but that sort doesn't
interest us here. Cool cover with screaming man infested by mushrooms
and assorted fungi. Enough said. This one was penned by Harry Adam
Knight, author of other wonderful nasties like Carnosaur and Slimer, and
trust me, he knows his business. Knight was a pseudonym for Australian
science fiction and fantasy author John Brosnan whom we sadly lost in 2005. Brosnan wrote under
a variety of pen names such as Simon Ian Childer (Tendrils), but it is Knight we are interested in
here. It has been oft pointed out that the initials of Harry Adam Knight spell HAK, which might have
been an inside joke by Brosnan...but hack or not, Knight knows his business.
As always, beware for spoilers abound.
Let's cut to the chase. Mycologist Jane Wilson has created a mutant macro-enzyme which makes
fungi--all fungi--grow at an alarming rate. And if you ever had basic bio in high school you know very
well that mushrooms and toadstools are but the tip of the fungal iceberg. As can be imagined, this
macro-enzyme gets loose and causes hell at every turn as every fungi it comes into contact with
mutates and proliferates at an alarming rate. Like this woman finds out early in the book:
"She picked up a length of wood and thrust it angrily into one of the bigger mounds of fungus.
Unexpectedly, a ripple ran through the growth then the whole mound moved...
Even worse, it spoke to her.
'Nora,' it said in a thick muffled voice. 'Nora...it's me...' "
Which is bad enough, but nothing compared to this woman's gruesome discovery:
"Her horror and disgust gave her extra strength. She violently wrenched her body to one side,
simultaneously giving the rapist a powerful shove with her arms...
There was a distinct crunch. Then a thin, wailing scream. She looked up and saw him kneeling
there clutching at his crotch. Blood spurted out between his fingers.
His companion cried, "What's wrong? What did she do to you?"
The other one just continued to scream. It was then that Kimberley became aware that he was still
inside her. She realized that his grotesque member was so diseased with fungus it had simply
snapped off...
In the course of some 220 pages, all manner of horrible things happen. A man's Athlete's foot
mutates and absorbs his legs, making them crumble to gray powder. A pair of lesbian lovers are
consumed by oral thrush after...well, you know. Intestinal fungus living in cowshit assimilates a
sleeping family on a campout. Soldiers burst apart with green and black slime. Every imaginable
form of fungi--toadstools, mushrooms, yeast, molds--is infected and soon England is under siege
once again (poor old England, it suffered so in the nasties). Enter Barry Wilson, spy novelist, and
former mycologist. And also the husband of Jane who started this hideous mess. The military
arrests him and sends him deep into fungi-occupied London to search for his wife and the key to
the infestation. In a specially-designed armored vehicle, he penetrates the fungal hellzone of London
with a bitter, used-up asshole of a soldier named Slocock and a perverted hottie named Kimberley
Fairchild who happens to be a specialist in tropical medicine. Knight paints neither of these
characters in a very sympathetic light--Slocock is an alcoholic bully and Kimberley is true whack-job
with a sexual obsession for men with power. They both torment Wilson who is obviously--and
understandably--scared. Over the intercom Wilson hears them having sex--the paunchy Slocock
and the depraved young Kimberley. At first Wilson is appalled, but then he begins to find them both
pathetic and appalling. No longer shrinking from the fungi horror outside, Wilson channels the spirit
of Flannery, the Irish tough guy of his spy novels, and soon sets things to right, breaking Slocock's
nose with a rifle and in the process, symbolically castrating him in Kimberley's eyes. She soon is
attracted to him. You get the idea. When these two meet their ends, the reader greets it with
sadistic pleasure.
This novel is very well researched and darkly imaginative. It's worth the price just to read of
Wilson's ride through London. People and animals have become spongy slime molds. Buildings are
shrouded in nets of spiderweb fungus. Immense mushrooms rise from the wreckage of buildings.
Fungi people hunt the mushy streets in wolfpacks. Does Wilson find his wife? Yes, he does. She
has become a mad fungi-sporing messiah of a cult of fungus females. The ending is great, but in
this one it's getting there that really counts.
Pros: Just about everything. Definitely ghastly, definitely gruesome, and definitely gor-fying, so it
meets the three essential G's of nasties. Also, characters with issues, perverted sex, horrible
happenings, and let's not forget the definitive nasty rape scene which may be the finest horror rape
scene since that girl got slimed and violated by the giant maggot in Galaxy of Terror.
Cons: Can't think of any. Well-written, perfectly paced, perfectly disturbing.
Overall: Go grab this one. If you like this kind of stuff, you won't be disappointed. Harry Adam
Knight (Bronson) is to be commended for writing a near-perfect piece of pulp horror.
I give this one five bloody skulls out of five.
Next month's Guilty Pleasure:
"They slime, they ooze, they kill--"
a variety of pen names such as Simon Ian Childer (Tendrils), but it is Knight we are interested in
here. It has been oft pointed out that the initials of Harry Adam Knight spell HAK, which might have
been an inside joke by Brosnan...but hack or not, Knight knows his business.
As always, beware for spoilers abound.
Let's cut to the chase. Mycologist Jane Wilson has created a mutant macro-enzyme which makes
fungi--all fungi--grow at an alarming rate. And if you ever had basic bio in high school you know very
well that mushrooms and toadstools are but the tip of the fungal iceberg. As can be imagined, this
macro-enzyme gets loose and causes hell at every turn as every fungi it comes into contact with
mutates and proliferates at an alarming rate. Like this woman finds out early in the book:
"She picked up a length of wood and thrust it angrily into one of the bigger mounds of fungus.
Unexpectedly, a ripple ran through the growth then the whole mound moved...
Even worse, it spoke to her.
'Nora,' it said in a thick muffled voice. 'Nora...it's me...' "
Which is bad enough, but nothing compared to this woman's gruesome discovery:
"Her horror and disgust gave her extra strength. She violently wrenched her body to one side,
simultaneously giving the rapist a powerful shove with her arms...
There was a distinct crunch. Then a thin, wailing scream. She looked up and saw him kneeling
there clutching at his crotch. Blood spurted out between his fingers.
His companion cried, "What's wrong? What did she do to you?"
The other one just continued to scream. It was then that Kimberley became aware that he was still
inside her. She realized that his grotesque member was so diseased with fungus it had simply
snapped off...
In the course of some 220 pages, all manner of horrible things happen. A man's Athlete's foot
mutates and absorbs his legs, making them crumble to gray powder. A pair of lesbian lovers are
consumed by oral thrush after...well, you know. Intestinal fungus living in cowshit assimilates a
sleeping family on a campout. Soldiers burst apart with green and black slime. Every imaginable
form of fungi--toadstools, mushrooms, yeast, molds--is infected and soon England is under siege
once again (poor old England, it suffered so in the nasties). Enter Barry Wilson, spy novelist, and
former mycologist. And also the husband of Jane who started this hideous mess. The military
arrests him and sends him deep into fungi-occupied London to search for his wife and the key to
the infestation. In a specially-designed armored vehicle, he penetrates the fungal hellzone of London
with a bitter, used-up asshole of a soldier named Slocock and a perverted hottie named Kimberley
Fairchild who happens to be a specialist in tropical medicine. Knight paints neither of these
characters in a very sympathetic light--Slocock is an alcoholic bully and Kimberley is true whack-job
with a sexual obsession for men with power. They both torment Wilson who is obviously--and
understandably--scared. Over the intercom Wilson hears them having sex--the paunchy Slocock
and the depraved young Kimberley. At first Wilson is appalled, but then he begins to find them both
pathetic and appalling. No longer shrinking from the fungi horror outside, Wilson channels the spirit
of Flannery, the Irish tough guy of his spy novels, and soon sets things to right, breaking Slocock's
nose with a rifle and in the process, symbolically castrating him in Kimberley's eyes. She soon is
attracted to him. You get the idea. When these two meet their ends, the reader greets it with
sadistic pleasure.
This novel is very well researched and darkly imaginative. It's worth the price just to read of
Wilson's ride through London. People and animals have become spongy slime molds. Buildings are
shrouded in nets of spiderweb fungus. Immense mushrooms rise from the wreckage of buildings.
Fungi people hunt the mushy streets in wolfpacks. Does Wilson find his wife? Yes, he does. She
has become a mad fungi-sporing messiah of a cult of fungus females. The ending is great, but in
this one it's getting there that really counts.
Pros: Just about everything. Definitely ghastly, definitely gruesome, and definitely gor-fying, so it
meets the three essential G's of nasties. Also, characters with issues, perverted sex, horrible
happenings, and let's not forget the definitive nasty rape scene which may be the finest horror rape
scene since that girl got slimed and violated by the giant maggot in Galaxy of Terror.
Cons: Can't think of any. Well-written, perfectly paced, perfectly disturbing.
Overall: Go grab this one. If you like this kind of stuff, you won't be disappointed. Harry Adam
Knight (Bronson) is to be commended for writing a near-perfect piece of pulp horror.
I give this one five bloody skulls out of five.
Next month's Guilty Pleasure:
"They slime, they ooze, they kill--"