James Herbert Has Died

James Herbert, a writer mentioned often on this blog, and sometimes referred to as "Britain's Stephen King" has died at 69. He originated what came to be known as 'the nasty', and, with THE RATS, launched an entire genre of horror fiction that spawned titles such as NIGHT OF THE CRABS, BLOWFLY, EAT THEM ALIVE, SLIME, WORMS, THE CATS, DEVIL'S COACH HORSE, SNAKES, and ALLIGATORS.

THE RATS, his first book, was a phenomenon that combined graphic violence and raw sex in the working class settings of London. James, the son of London street traders and an ex-advertising man, was a true success story. In the wake of THE RATS came THE FOG (no relation to the John Carpenter movie) THE SURVIVOR, THE DARK, FLUKE, DOMAIN, LAIR, THE MAGIC COTTAGE, THE SPEAR, HAUNTED, and many others. He even created a RATS installment as a graphic novel and penned two non-fiction works, the best being BY HORROR HAUNTED.



As a young lad, I wrote to Mr. Herbert to express my admiration for his early novels. Over a decade, we exchanged many handwritten letters and met in Melbourne when he was promoting THE JONAH with his publisher. I enjoyed an underaged beer with them.

A serious-minded writer who stressed the importance of research and wrote beautifully, he once told me that writing sex and violence opens up the mind's receptors, and often started his writing day by scribbling something juicy. He also rewrote two or three pages from the previous day's work to get himself back into the previous day's groove.

Mr. Herbert's work was not, generally, translated well to the silver screen. DEADLY EYES, an attempt to turn THE RATS into a movie, was a depressing misfire. THE SURVIVOR, a film made in Australia by director David Hemmings, took a great idea and made a mess of it.



More recently, Mr. Herbert angled towards more supernatural-focused fiction, and an adaptation of his novel HAUNTED fared better in a TV format. He moved away from the true hardcore horror of earlier works with a series of effective 'ghost' novels, but, right up until his final novel ASH, Mr. Herbert's skill to chill was unique and unequaled.

A man who suffered no fools and applied a no-nonsense approach to everything he did, he will be greatly missed by millions who were shaped by his special brand of horror.

You were a true Apostle of Pulp, and you did for British horror what Enid Blyton did for childrens' literature.

RIP, James.

Love Letter To A Lousy Bum

I love this filthy, disease-carrying bastard and his vermin brethren.

I've loved him for decades.

When I was thirteen, I took a macro photograph of his yellow-toothed mug and spent a fortune of my parents' money blowing it up to poster size so I could hang it above my bed.

Every time my mother came into my horror-filled bedroom, she'd be confronted by this snarling, plague-ridden poster boy for London vermin.

After a while, she stopped coming.

Where did they find this handsome beast? Did he audition for The Rats cover? Did James Herbert have to approve him? He was an advertising guy, afterall. Those ad guys are real big on approvals and sign-offs.

Who signed off on Mr. Filthy?

This sharp looking prick personified vermin. Perched on the edge of The Thames like the King of England with London right behind him, he was ready to take on all comers and spread his genetic filth far and bloody wide.

That why I loved him.

There was no bullshit about him.

I AM ENGLAND, he seemed to say, AND YOU'RE FUCKED, SUNSHINE.

I wonder how he got those yellow teeth. Did he smoke? Did he have a two pack a day habit?

Most probably.

When he wasn't ripping babies apart or lurking in abandoned houses, he was partying with his filthy mates. Bunch of bloody hoodlums if you ask me. But well groomed hoodlums. Not the riff-raff you get around here.

He stayed on my wall for three or four years. King of All That Was Filthy and Wrong. Arrogant. Cocky. Perverse.

Note the filthy, unapologetic fingernails

Mr. Herbert owes this furry fuck a case of beer or a bucket of aborted babies, at least, for what he's done to boost his career, not to mention his bank balance. A smashing cover is key to a successful marketing campaign. A good cover will have those books jumping off the shelves like... well, like vermin.

I always appreciated Herbert's use of the word "vermin". It was a prejudicial term, no doubt about that, and it did reduce rats to the status of cancer or foot rot; but I don't think Mr. Filthy and his black-haired hoons would have given a flying fuck about that.

If nothing, they were an honest bunch of bastards. They were riddled with every strain of bacteria you could imagine, they got less respect than child molesters, and there were people out there who were dedicating their lives to their annihilation, but they went about their furry, putrid ways like tomorrow didn't matter and today could take a hike. And let's not forget that it will be their kind who'll still be standing (and smiling) when the bombs rain down and the mushrooms bloom.

Perhaps they wouldn't actually smile. No, they'd pull their lips back and show off their nicotine-stained chompers in a collective demonstration of victory.

In 1979, the New English Library (NEL) management invited Mr. Filthy back to their studios for another cover shot. This time he was promoting Lair, Mr. Herbert's excellent sequel to The Rats. The disease-carrying pop star burst through the red lettering and declared: HERE I AM AGAIN, YOU ROTTEN, MISERABLE SODS. LOCK UP YOUR DAUGHTERS, BABIES, AND LESBIAN GIRLFRIENDS.

This was a public acknowledgment from the NEL team that Mr. Filthy was Herbert's secret weapon.


God bless the lousy bum.