Dreams of Sex and Stage Diving

Table of Contents

 

 

 

Martin Millar

“
Milk
is a giddy journey, an amusement park ride, an enchantment like
A Midsummer Night's Dream
.”

—
The New York Times Book Review

“The dizzying array of characters and perspectives whips Millar's madcap story into a potent blitz that runs at full throttle through the satisfying conclusion. Fans of Irvine Welsh will love Millar's singularly entertaining tale of suspicious minds.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“Creates a patchwork of a novel that is fresh, clever, and compulsively readable . . . Millar's novel so thoroughly embraces its narrator's paranoia that I found myself questioning my own sense of reality. Even so, real or not, I loved this book.”

—
Bookslut

“A low-life fairy tale, Milk preserves a strong sense of hard-earned realism . . . one comes to feel thoroughly under the influence of Millar's lively, hurtling prose.”

—
Bookforum

“Millar's first novel receives a welcome re-issue . . . evokes amphetamine-induced paranoia without ever approaching a cliché. These days the drugs have changed, but this entertaining fable, which is alternately surreal and grubbily realistic, still delights.”

—
The Times
(U.K.)

“Pop cultural references are everywhere in this frantic cultish debut which takes an Irvine Welsh-esque turn.”

—
The Guardian

“Written in 1987, this welcome re-issue is a masterful work that goes straight to the heart of a spurned generation, alive and not so well, in Thatcher's revolting (in both meanings of the word) Britain . . . A work of rare genius and truly cult, it deserves a place on your book shelf next to Hubert Selby Jr's
Last Exit To Brooklyn
.”

—
The List

“Martin Millar created a minor classic with his exciting, surreal and funny debut novel. It is strange, quirky and entertaining to the end.”

—
What's On London

“What's allergic to milk, collects comics, sells speed, likes The Fall and lives in Brixton? Alby Starvation, the first true British anti-hero of the giro generation. A strange and wonderful story, I've yet to meet someone who has not enjoyed it.”

—
NME

“A classic tale of Brixton low-life. ****”

—
Uncut

“A crazed comedy of Brixton lowlife, drugs and martial arts.”

—
The Face

“I fell a little bit in love with the sweet, gormless, lovelorn Brixton squatter protagonist and his best friend Ruby, who never wore shoes, and who made everything okay by naming it.”

—
Bookslut

 

“Millar uses all of the elements of his story . . . to build a batshit atmosphere in which humor and the grim specter of class tension can play.”

—
Time Out Chicago

“An uncommon voice in the wilderness of fantasy novelists.”

—
Kirkus Reviews

“Offer[s] laughs and, finally, some touching insights into life's trajectory.”

—
Publishers Weekly

 

“Glasgow circa 1972 shimmers like a vision of Atlantis, a lost world.”

—Ed Park,
The Los Angeles Times

“It's like being there, minus the acid.”

—
Publishers Weekly
, “Books for Grownups”

“Part romance, nostalgia trip and musical memory . . . a hip and canny gem of a novel wrapped up in cheesecloth and patchouli . . . [A] heartfelt tale of teen emotional toothache.”

—
Bookmunch

“Millar's self-deprecating humor and wild enthusiasm for the music of his youth deepen the pull of this bittersweet read.”

—
Booklist

“The British author does a crack job recalling that youth . . . the mere timelessness of this rite of passage is something well worth documenting.”

—
The Austin Chronicle

“A passionate account of what it meant to be young, spotty and in love when Led Zeppelin IV came out, presented in the authentic voice of a dreamy 14-year-old whose other great obsessions are lusting after girls and vanquishing the Monstrous Hordes of Xotha.”

—
The Guardian

“His finest.”

—
Daily Telegraph

“It's so compelling you don't want to it end. The grungy, gory, glorious world that World Fantasy Award-winner Millar has created is unforgettable.”

—Booklist (starred review)

“[A] loving tribute to disaffection and the hopefulness of youth.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“Every detail in this book is rich and deep and thoughtful; Millar gives his characters the time and attention they deserve . . . The fact that this is sincerely accomplished through the text is really quite remarkable and a testament to the writing ability of this so very talented, and sharply creative, author.”

—
Bookslut

 

“Read it now, and then make your friends buy their own copies. You'll thank me someday.”

—Neil Gaiman

“Millar offers fiercely funny (and often inebriated) Scottish fairies, a poignant love story, cultural conflicts, and the plight of the homeless in this fey urban fantasy.”

—
Publishers Weekly
(starred review)

““Imagine Kurt Vonnegut reading Marvel Comics with The Clash thrashing in the background. For the deceptively simple poetry of the everyday, nobody does it better. Just check out . . . the Highlands-bred, New York Dolls-obsessed fairies for yourself.”

—
The List
(UK)

also by martin millar:

ELFISH, PRETENDING TO be her ex-friend Amnesia, phoned up Mo.

“Mo? This is Amnesia. Remember me?”

Mo remembered. It was more than a year since he had seen Amnesia but she was not a person who was easily forgotten, even by a man who drank as much as Mo.

“What do you want?” he asked, wasting no time on politeness. Mo was never polite. Besides, he hated Elfish and felt no particular desire to speak to her acquaintances.

Elfish was not sure what she wanted.

Her brother Aran, sitting beside her, looked on dully. Aran was so deep in depression that even the unusual event of his sister Elfish phoning up her old lover under the guise of being her ex-friend Amnesia barely interested him.

“Nothing in particular.”

Elfish was making some effort to disguise her voice, pitching it a little deeper, but she was not really worried about Mo realising he was being fooled. Elfish's regard for Mo's intelligence was not high. In fact, Elfish's repeated assertion to Mo that he was stupid was one of the main reasons for their present antagonism.

“I'm coming up to London next week. I was hoping I'd meet you again. But Elfish tells me you're not seeing each other anymore.”

“Right.”

“How come?”

“How come?”

“Because Elfish is a bitch.”

“She certainly is,” agreed Elfish. “I always wondered what you saw in her.”

“I never saw anything in her,” claimed Mo. “We just slept together sometimes. I was always seeing other women as well.”

“Really?” Elfish forced a little amusement into her voice. “Poor Elfish. I don't expect she realised. She was always pretty stupid about things like that.”

“Right,” said Mo.

“Well, I'd better be going, Mo. I'll come and see you when I get to London. You remember what I look like?”

Mo grunted.

“I bleached my hair blonder,” said Elfish. “You'll like it. Bye.”

She put the phone down.

“How was it?” enquired Aran, but Elfish, now on her feet and marching round the room in a tight circle, was too furious to reply.

ELFISH WOKE UP in a pool of her own vomit and other people's beer. She groaned. Her head was unbearably sore and it quickly got worse. Trying to raise herself she made it only on to one elbow before vomiting again. It dribbled down her T-shirt, flowing in small rivulets around the already congealed mess from last night. Tears of pain smarted in her eyes and her throat was so dry she could not swallow. When she vomited again she felt as if her stomach was coming out in shreds.

“I'm poisoned. I can't move.”