One of the most exciting debut novels for years.
Foul-mouthed but lyrical, with a tragic love story at its core, 'Pelican Blood' gatecrashes our assumptions about obsession, anorak pastimes and what makes life worth living.
'I heard somebody say once: you don't think about your troubles near water. Me, I can't feel low around birds. it wipes your mind clean just watching them.'
Birders are addicts. Rarely-seen birds are the best drug they know. Whether they're cleaning toilets, sitting in a caff, doodling or dancing, when the pager bleeps with news that up on Stornoway or out on the Kent saltflats or on a Scilly rock there's a supertick sighting, Bish, Stevie Red Bus and the gang pile into their car and belt up the motorway just for the pure thrill, the shared exhaltation of seeing that rare bird in all its feathered reality. It's some way to life a life, at least. Half the time it matters so much you'll kill to protect it and half the time you wonder why bother carrying on at all. And somewhere in between you might just find something that looks like mating for life: find it, lose it, then find it all over again.
