Jockula by Gayle Ramage: Scottish Vampire Horror with Bite and Laughs

The funniest vampire novel to come out of Scotland since… well, ever.

Jockula by Gayle Ramage: Scottish Vampire Horror with Bite and Laughs

Jockula | Gayle Ramage | Self-Published | 29 May 2026

Jack Rushton is a thirty-nine-year-old vampire who just wants to be left alone with his Radio 4 comedies, his cheeseburgers, and his unrequited crush on a cafe owner who doesn’t know his real name. Instead, he’s been blackmailed by a six-hundred-year-old vampire queen into kidnapping a human companion for her glamoured drag queen pet, he’s being hunted by a clueless anti-vampire collective calling themselves The Order, and his teenage sister is developing migraines that might not be migraines at all. 

Jockula is Gayle Ramage’s darkly comic entry into Scottish vampire fiction, and it arrives with the force of a Glasgow kiss delivered by a bat. This is horror comedy that actually earns both halves of that descriptor, properly funny, properly tense, and properly Scottish in ways that feel lived-in rather than performed.

Jockula feels like being cornered at a late-night Edinburgh pub by the most charismatic man in the room, who proceeds to tell you the wildest story you’ve ever heard while occasionally pausing to check his phone for texts from his annoying wee sister. The narrative voice is that immediate, that conversational, and that disarmingly funny. Jack Rushton narrates in a Scots-inflected patter that never feels like a gimmick—it’s the sound of a man who’s been dead for fourteen years but still can’t shake his working-class Edinburgh roots, his fondness for old radio comedies, or his habit of calling everyone “pal” whether they deserve it or not.

The horror here isn’t the creeping dread of gothic castles or the existential terror of cosmic indifference. It’s the horror of being a moderately decent bloke who’s been turned into a monster against his will and has to figure out how to live with that without becoming an actual bastard. Jack feeds on humans because he has to, not because he wants to. He hates the taste of blood. He has rules about who he’ll take from. He’s been known to faint at the sight of his own plasma. This is a vampire novel that understands the fundamental absurdity of its premise and leans into it with both feet.

The atmosphere builds through accumulation rather than atmosphere—one ridiculous situation after another, each one escalating the stakes while simultaneously undercutting any pretension to seriousness. A feeding gone wrong in a nightclub alley. A confrontation with a vampire queen who wears unicorn-patterned pyjamas. A ghostly vampire trying to give helpful advice while being, well, dead. A bath-obsessed ancient vampire who might actually be Nosferatu himself. The tension comes from watching Jack try to maintain some semblance of control while the universe, and a bunch of absolute wallopers, conspire to make his unlife as complicated as possible.

Ramage’s prose is the star of the show. The first-person narration is so fully realised that you can hear Jack’s voice in your head from the opening sentence. It’s not just the Scottish dialect, though that’s handled with authenticity rather than caricature, it’s the rhythm of his thoughts, the way he digresses, the self-deprecating humour that never quite masks the genuine pain underneath. He’s the kind of narrator who’ll make you laugh on one page and then hit you with something unexpectedly raw on the next.

The dialogue crackles. Ramage has an ear for how people actually speak, the interruptions, the half-finished sentences, the way Scots will call each other “pal” while meaning anything from “I quite like you” to “I’m about to punch your lights out”. The banter between Jack and his sister Esme feels so lived-in that you’d swear Ramage has siblings herself. The exchanges with the vampire queen Betty are a masterclass in tonal whiplash—she’s menacing and maternal and utterly terrifying in equal measure, and Jack’s refusal to take her seriously is both hilarious and genuinely reckless.

Structurally, the book moves at a clip that doesn’t let up. Each chapter ends with a hook that makes you want to keep going, whether it’s a new threat, a fresh complication, or just Jack being forced into yet another absurd situation. The pacing is breathless without feeling rushed, there’s time for character moments, for Jack to reflect on his situation, for the relationships to breathe. The Edinburgh setting is rendered with enough specificity to feel real without ever descending into tourist-brochure description. This is a city that Jack knows intimately, and Ramage trusts her readers to keep up.

Beneath the jokes and the swearing and the bath-obsessed vampires, Jockula is a book about obligation. Jack is bound by rules he didn’t choose, the Familial Protection Protocol that keeps his human family safe, the bureaucratic machinery of vampire society that pays him a monthly stipend he never asked for, the ancient hierarchy that can revoke his family’s protection on a whim. He’s been forced into a life he never wanted, and the central conflict of the novel is whether he can find a way to protect the people he loves without becoming the kind of monster the world expects him to be.

The chosen one subplot is handled with a knowing wink that never becomes smug. Cassidy, the reluctant Chosen One, would rather be anywhere else, doing anything else. The Order is a shambolic collection of well-meaning incompetents who’ve mistaken a soup recipe for a sacred text. Ramage is clearly having fun with the tropes of vampire fiction, but she’s also asking genuine questions about what it means to be marked for a destiny you didn’t ask for, and whether anyone actually wants to be the hero of their own story.

Family is the emotional core of the book. Jack’s relationship with Esme, the sister who barely knew him when he was alive and only reconnected with him recently, is the engine that drives the plot forward. Everything Jack does, every compromise he makes, every line he’s willing to cross, is motivated by his desire to keep her safe.

The scenes where he worries about her, where he tries to protect her from the truth of his world, where he threatens anyone who might harm her, these are the moments where the comedy falls away and you see the real stakes. Esme’s headaches, caused by Betty’s intrusion into her mind, are a violation that Jack can’t forgive and can’t undo. It’s a reminder that in a world of vampires and ghosts and mirror worlds, the most terrifying thing is still the people you love being hurt.

Gayle Ramage has been writing speculative fiction for over a decade, with series including the Edinburgh Elementals, the Time Travelling Assassins, and the Quality Times. Her work has consistently blended the fantastical with the everyday, finding the strange in the mundane and the humour in the horrific. Jockula represents a significant step up in ambition, it’s her first full-length novel in a new series, and it shows a writer fully in command of her voice and her vision.

Jockula occupies a sweet spot between horror comedy and urban fantasy that’s surprisingly difficult to pull off. Too much humour and the horror loses its bite; too much horror and the comedy feels tacked on. Ramage manages the balancing act with the skill of someone who understands that the two modes are not opposites but complements. The funniest moments are often the most terrifying, and the most terrifying moments are often undercut by something so absurd that you can’t help but laugh.

Comparable works might include Christopher Moore’s Bloodsucking Fiends, which shares Jockula‘s affection for the mundane realities of vampire existence, or the television adaptation of What We Do in the Shadows, which understands that the best vampire comedy comes from treating the supernatural with absolute seriousness while letting the characters be ridiculous. But Jockula is distinctly Scottish in a way that sets it apart. This isn’t vampire fiction filtered through an American or English sensibility, it’s rooted in Edinburgh’s streets, in Scottish patter, in a cultural context that feels specific and authentic.

The book also engages with the broader horror-comedy tradition in ways that feel fresh. The vampire queen Betty is a genuine threat, not just a punchline. The violence, when it comes, has weight. The consequences of Jack’s actions are real. Ramage never lets the comedy undercut the stakes, which is what makes the humour land so effectively. We laugh because we care, not because the book is asking us to.

Jockula is a book that knows exactly what it is and does it with style, wit, and an unexpectedly generous heart. Jack Rushton is the kind of protagonist you want to spend more time with, and the novel’s closing twist, which I won’t spoil, suggests that Ramage has much more to say about him. Jockula is a hell of a debut for a new series, and I’m already looking forward to the next one.

Jockula: Book 1 in the Jockula series by Gayle Ramage 

A darkly comic, sweary Scottish vampire novel.

I was just minding my own business when this guy jumped me and the next thing I know I’ve got a rage-on for the old red stuff. Aye, I’d become a vampire.

But that’s not this story.

This story is about the ridiculous task I’ve been forced to do to keep my living family safe. This story is about being the target of a Chosen One who can’t be bothered to do the job. This story is about Nosferatu, or Norrie, as I call him, demanding bubble baths in my flat.

Brace yourself.

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