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Read this at school, and I mostly remember the title story which is about a shipwrecked sailor, whose sole word to his rescuers is "Shqipra!" Which is the country otherwise known as Albania, at the time a mysterious place behind its own iron curtain, and possessed of a language that Alan Coren (I think it was) described as looking like a losing hand at Scrabble. (he also suggested in the same piece that Albania didn't actually exist but it might as well have not done at the time). Things are different today, and while they're undoubtedly better for the Albanians, are they better all round? Another matter entirely.

Fun and not too serious crime fiction by HSK, featuring several loosely interlinked stories and the usual cacophony of HSK characters - imagine an alternative Chicago Damon Runyon universe. HSK has a reputation for being batshit crazy but this really isn't too bad.
More seriously he has a peculiar reputation for being racially insensitive. Yes, he doggedly transcribes dialect; but considering he was writing pre-WW2 he was ahead of his time in giving positive portrayals of ethnic minorities, and mixed-race couples (which, being in one, could get you lynched in some places at the time). He was fascinated by Chinese culture and it is usually quite evident even if he isn't above poking fun at it as well. He does have an unfortunate propensity for making 'down on his luck man who wants to marry a wealthy / influential woman' his go-to plot driver, but it doesn't always end the same way.
It was as I say a fun read.

ON THE P*** IN THE NIGHT LAND

I awoke me and mine thinking-parts did hurt. I had reminscence of visits to several drinking-places, in which we imbibed several ales. I had also reminiscence of a Maid to whom I paid court in many ways including taking her into a secluded court yard and removing her troublesome nether clothing. I did not recall her name, nor may I ever have askt it. I bethought me to mine Naani of whom I had not thought while the Maid was cooing over mine great physical strength and while I was rogering her so soundly she hoppt off the ground at the top of every stroke of mine impressive shagging-parts.
In the morning I bethought me of this and also of the dis-ease that the Master Monstruwacan hath warned us against, and that I did not take precautions against. And sure enough when I took me from mine bedroll to Piss, the act of Pissation wath painful.
There came a Knock at the door of my quarters, and it wath a Messenger, saying that I wath to be brought before the Beak, that wath to say the MM, right away.
Which I did do so, and upon seeing the Beak, he greeted me thusly:
“Do you not remember that you Punished four fellows in a bar, when they were merely having a drink?”
Some memory of this cameth to mine thinking-parts, which were now hurting even more fiercely. I recalled knocking one down and jumping up and down upon his head. It wath fortunate that the carrying of the Diskos is forbidden in the bars of the Great Redoubt, even for one so heroic as I.
Yet The Beak did not seem to know of the floppy cank from the fifteenth Level whom I surprised with two girls, and taking him aside, did beat him savagely for flopping about and laughing like a wench, yet this memory was coming to me most vivid at the time.
“Now laugheth that one off,” I saideth to him as he lay twitching in a pool of gore and vomition, and gave him a Kick in the Ribs for good measure. Then I wenteth back to the two girls to see if they would be entertained with mine party trick of balancing seven half-pint mugs on mine shagging-parts, but they had gone.
Nay, I suspected the Beak knew of this other incident but thought it well done.
However I am making many an excuse to mine Naani for why I cannot spend the night in her quarters, for the Maid (who was no maiden) whom I tuppt did indeed give me the dis-ease that is known as the Night Clap; and this I would not transmit to mine Naani. I believe that another Expedition may be necessary, to step beyond the Great Redoubt into the Night Land.

tl;dr this is what happens when you let misandrists dictate on the response to (genuine) men's issues.

Missing White Woman Syndrome, the short story.
MWWS: "a term used by social scientists and media commentators to refer to extensive media coverage, especially in television of missing person cases involving young, white, upper-middle-class women or girls ... compared to coverage of missing women of color, women of lower social classes and missing men or boys. Although the term was coined in the context of missing person cases, it is sometimes used of coverage of other violent crimes." [wikipedia]

Missing White Woman Syndrome, the short story. 

Sadly my review of this book was lost, but it is a gentle and engaging guide to that county between Wales and the Black Country, a place of mountain, flood (especially last winter!) and mystery. The towns and cities are here and also the mythology, the ironfounders and the writers such as the incomparable Mary Webb, who should at some time have written the story of Hannah Cullwick, surely a Webb protagonist come to life.  

This is I would say not your average travel guide, more a spirited introduction to one of the most underrated and surprising parts of England.

Cracking adventure set in the interwar period and bringing a kind of Lost Horizon vibe to it. Read just after reading "The Bloody White Baron" so perhaps not surprising here is everyone's favourite batshit insane White warlord, Roman Fedorovich von Ungern-Sternberg (who I've also fictionalised in a thing called "Desk Job").
Easterman is an apostate from the Baha'i religion. von Ungern-Sternberg's proclamation that 'religion is the main cause of war' (though he didn't think this was a bad thing) may have gelled within him.

Intriguing if dated look at the British aircraft industry and how it was sold down the river by politicians in the 1960s and '70s. Old enough though that the BAe146 is described as 'cancelled' when it was later uncancelled and achieved some success.

Enjoyable read although apparently inaccurate in places. The author levels this accusation against Ossendowski's "Of Beasts, Men and Gods," but it is also true here. Later parts of the book dispense with the Baron himself and become a diatribe about Soviet misrule in Mongolia. Von Ungern-Sternberg is a fascinating figure though: insanely courageous and just plain insane, mystic and monarchist, born into the wrong era if anyone ever was.