Southcart Book Club May 2016

Let’s just imagine that a couple of weekends ago, hang on, it might have been last week. No, it was definitely… Oh, I don’t know, I’m not Doctor bloody Who (Although I would no doubt, make a bloody brilliant Doctor Who. Admittedly, there’d be a lot less reversing the polarity of the neutron flow and a lot more ‘Hold my beer and watch this’ before all the running and yelling started)

Anywho, 3... 2... 1... back in the room… Where was I? Oh yes, one weekend in the recent past, I was invited down to Southcart Books, the only independent book shop in the Black Country (Where Lenny Henry comes from) to talk about all my books – Past, present and *Whisper* future. You’ve heard me talk about Southcart before – I bang on about it like it’s going out of fashion, you should really go there and spend lots of money. Also, say it was my idea that you go there, I might get a free coffee out of it or maybe some vodka at Christmas – Because everyone knows that that’s what authors live on, coffee and vodka.

It wasn’t just me that got invited. Well, it was that time, but… Well, what happens is that every month, on the lunchtime of the last Saturday, they hold a book club in the shop. It’s where they get a local author, or other person of note, to pop down for a couple of hours and chat about stuff and things, maybe do a reading, maybe recount some funny story from their past and generally hold sway with their feet on the table like a cut-price Tyrion Lannister until it’s time for them all to leave so that they can pick their kids up from ballet, or football, or organic weasel plaiting or whatever it is that passes for children’s weekend entertainment in the West Midlands nowadays. The punters also get the chance to buy copies of whatever book the author’s hawking at the moment. It’s like the thing that Waterstones do with authors you’ve actually heard of, but without all the nasty queueing out of the door and not being able to eat an ice-cream while you’re looking around the shop.

I got there early, spread out some signed copies of ‘The Pangolin Yodels’ and sat on one of the shop’s comfy sofas to await my audience. Before long, Lucy, the organiser of the whole book club thing arrived – Calling her an organiser is selling her short really, she’s a successful author too, and a musical photographer (in that she specializes in taking photos of bands, she doesn’t spin around whilst whistling the Sugar-Plum Fairy as she works – Although who am I to judge? She may well do that too.) and she’s the lead singer of a massively popular soul band – I hate her actually, she’s so bloody talented that it makes my teeth itch.  She let me know how these things usually played out, and confided that usually it followed a pretty strict timetable of five minutes of the author bigging up their book, then a break for cake, then the remaining hour was reserved for random knob jokes and comparing favourite flavours of crisps, then a couple of people would buy a copy of your book and we could all go home (via the Organic Weasel Plaiting Foundry Est. in Walsall December 1749, obviously)  

So then the fine upstanding members of the book club started to arrive and some of them talked for a while about the damage caused to their boobs by rabbits, (Plus other famous local author James Josiah whom I may have mentioned in passing before - Wait, no, I don't mean that James Josiah caused them some boob damage too... Oh Christ I can see the litigation now!) I sat at the head of the oversized oak table, with a line of completely normal people down each side, some with more damaged boobs than others. They looked at me like jackals in a kebab shop, ‘Go on,’ I could tell that they were thinking, ‘do something literary, I dare you.’ I started off with telling them who I was, just to let them know that they were in the right place. And gave them a quick five minutes of why I do what I do, and where I stared and stuff like that. Then I was asked for a reading… I’d prepared some stuff, but I was requested to read the Gullible Steve story ‘The Concussion Chilli with Rottweiler Sauce’ – I read it, stopping every few minutes to wait for people to stop laughing, and told them that this story wasn’t actually in the book that was available for sale, it was in my previous one (Luckily, I’d bought a copy of it with me for advertising purposes). I got through ‘Thermodynamics,it’s the law’ about my Dad and a pigeon from the 60’s and I think that there might have been one other, but I can’t for the life of me remember what it was.

Then I read ‘Bek’ – Now, I can’t tell you what ‘Bek’s about, because it’s a story from my next book, which includes both some extended versions of existing (fiction) stories and some completely new stuff – I’m trying to get it out for Christmas (2016 before you ask) – I’ll keep you in the loop.  This is the cover:

Yes, that's my daughter there, well spotted

It promoted some interesting reactions, there were yelps, there were covered faces and various cries of ‘No!’ from people.  At the end there was a stunned silence for a few seconds, and one person asked, “How can that story have been written by someone who writes things like that.” (Pointing at ‘The Pangolin Yodels’) another remarked that it felt somehow comfortable and horrific at the same time (I’m paraphrasing as I can't remember exactly what words he used, but I know that I was quite pleased)

I looked up at the clock and we’d over-run by about half an hour. I inscribed some books for people, and every single person who was there bought a copy (apart from the people who already owned it, obvs) – We even had a Viking film director come in off the street to buy a copy (And by Viking film director, I don’t mean someone who directs Viking films, I mean he directs films, and is also a Viking)

(Don't tell anyone, but there has even been talk about the possibility of one of the stories from 'Forever Girl' being made into a film - Remember, Mum's the word. Shh...)

Another funny thing happened, all the people who were there, every man-jack of them, are now my friends on Facebook – I’m very social you know – And one of them has given me permission to screen-grab something she posted so that you can see that, despite your better judgement, it’s not just me that enjoys my books. (I also enclose a picture of her preparing to read the book, for science reasons *cough*) I’m going to be there again probably on Saturday the 25^th June, so that people can ask me questions about the book – You could come too, it’ll be fun. There might be a bouncy castle*

Not gratuitous in the slightest...

Frankly written and beautiful? Open? Me? Surely some mistake... Anywho, Southcart might have some signed copies left, or if you get a copy of whichever book/s you want and get in contact, I'll scribble something unintelligible in them and send them back to you, free of charge (inc postage within reason) when I remember.

And what do you get for nothing nowadays?

*There almost certainly won't be a bouncy castle.

Help Southcart Books - You're their only hope

You know me right? Living on the edge, Lone Wolf, loose cannon, Maverick, One shot Trevor, The shiniest haddock in the shoal.

What I mean to say is… Everything I’ve ever done, every success I’ve had, every award I’ve ever won and achievement I’ve ever unlocked on the Xbox and Steam has been totally down to me and the sweat of my brow.

And if you do know me, if you have had the honour of meeting me in the flesh at one of my tremendously infrequent public appearances, you’ll know that the previous two paragraphs are complete balls.  Firstly, I’ve not achieved very much at all, and those things I have, have been with the help of people who have a lot more faith in me than I do.  Don’t get me wrong, I’ve done a boatload of things – I’ve even done some things that didn’t have the capacity to kill me if my faith in blind luck had ever petered out even a little. (Which is why I have a large tattoo of a blindfolded lady on my back. Her name is PISTIS (Πίστις) and she’s the Ancient Greek personification of faith… Blind Faith in this case)

I’d never have written a book without the support of my friends, I’d never have published it without my family, (I’m writing my fifth, sixth and seventh books at the minute, all at the same time – Go me!) And I’m sure that most of you guys are the same, easy stuff is easy… The clue’s in the name, but to get the difficult stuff done, you’re gonna need help.  I consider myself really lucky that I’ve managed to surround myself, both literally and figuratively, with people who are willing to help me do some massively stupid things, purely because they’ll probably be funny.

One such institution has now asked for my help in return – And it’s only fair that I pass that burden on to you people, because you’re friendly types and probably have a lot more money than I do. 

Southcart Books in Walsall. Run by the odd, but tremendously friendly, Scott & Amy. Because of their tremendous financial skills (And the fact that their landlord is doing his best to sell their shop out from under them) are trying to move to larger premises avec le grande vitesse.

They’ve set up a Crowdfunder to cover the cost of fitting out the new place, having a decent frontage installed and helping towards the deposit. There are any number of pledge levels with rewards, from £1 - £500 (Although they’re almost halfway to their £4,000 target already, you see – it really is the type of place that has loyal customers – If only BHS had been so lucky.) There are many more fine photos like the one above on their Crowdfunder page, but you'll notice that none feature me, those pictures are saved for specialist customers and there is a waiting list as long as my... Well, let's just say that there's a waiting list.

But here’s the rub… If you pledge an amount, any amount, they will give you that amount back, in books, it’s as if you’ve not spent any money at all!. So, if you were to pledge, let’s say, £20.00, not only would you get free coffees AND your name painted lovingly on the outside of the shop, you’d also get £20.00 worth of free books. If you were to pledge £500.00, you’d get to run the shop for a day AND get £500 pounds worth of free books – I don’t know, you might get to name a bookshelf after yourself and hold your own Pagan rituals there too, I’m not really involved in the decision making process (for good reason, probably).

So, you lovely, lovely munchkins, click on the link below and swap a pledge for some books, and coffee, and the warm, tuberculosis-like tickle in your chesty-box that comes when you help good people do a nice thing.  Remember, without them, there’d be no me…

Actually no, forget that, I am the Captain of my own fate… I did it all on my own *cough*

Click here to support 'The Southcart Books Big Move Crowdfunder'

Neil's Birthday Story 2016

As a lot of the 'keener' (or is it 'more keen'?) followers out there will know, some of my friends get a story, rather than a card or a present for their birthdays each year.  Mr friend Neil is one of these people.

Hope that he doesn't mind me sharing it with you... He won't, he's pretty chilled.

-oOo-

Arkon looked over his shoulder into the night, their camp was small and the torches that their bodymen had sunk into the ground only illuminated the pale sand directly below them. The Tyrnus Desert was a thousand square kintyres of featureless flatland. They were still a full day’s ride from civilisation; from the terminus of the first part of their quest.

“Lord Arkon?” asked Lord Bilthor, looking up from the firepit, “Are you sure that the seer will be in Forthang City when we get there?”

Lord Arkon nodded slowly, then took a long drag on his Yantha-bone pipe, “That’s where the Sand-Kin said he would be; I’ve had no reason to think they would lie.” The curl of pale green smoke from his pipe momentarily obscured the stars that made up the constellation of Jory the Merrywalker; Arkon waved it away before Bilthor had chance to remark on this new ill omen.  “Is Lord Teletorc in his tent?”

Bilthor nodded, robbed of the opportunity to point out the ill omen, “He’s still suffering from that nest of woodgrubs that he ate yesterday. I told him that he should have let his bodyman singe all the hairs off it before he ate it, but what would I know?” He made the complicated hand-gesture that meant ‘It is as something known by a child.’ In his native language.

“We will enter Forthang tomorrow, the seer will be on top of his pole in the market square and he will be able to tell us where we can get High-Lord Sehmbhy’s yearly tribute.

“I hope it’s easier than last year’s quest, the air was very thin at the top of the mountain. I lost three bodymen to that final avalanche…” both men nodded, “Lord Kalkreith’s wife still hasn’t recovered from losing her husband you know?”

Arkon pulled the tiny crystal vial from under his shirt, “I’ve still got the sample of the creature’s blood.”

“Does it protect you from harm?”

“Well, brother, I’m not dead yet.” The deep laughter of the two lords was interrupted by a bodyman bringing them each a glass of Jumen wine, which they drank silently and retired to their tents for the night.

The next morning was bright and hot. The three lords sat whilst the camp was struck, and packed carefully aboard their tame Yanthas. They headed towards the shining towers of Forthang behind its giant defensive wall of sand-glass. The strong legs and barbaric claws of the Yanthas ate up the distance as if it were nothing, and even though they had to stop twice for Lord Teletorc to be put back onto his mighty steed, it was just after Second-Prayer when they arrived at their destination.

The Lords’ bodymen cleared the way in front of them, as they made their way from the stables to the market square – and right to the base of the seer’s pole.

“Good Seer, I am Lord Arkon of the Guild of Tribute. We…” He looked at Lord Teletorc’s prone form, lying on the worn cobbles, “We three have travelled from far Ithnia to gain your counsel.” Arkon paused, but the seer just sat at the top of the pole, his eyes closed. “We have been sent so that we may know of what the High-Lord requires as his tribute this year.”

The seer’s eyes flickered open, their cloudy white pupils reflecting the harsh sun. He coughed, his mouth dry from not speaking for the three hundred days since he had last spoken. He fixed the lords with his blind stare, “The High-Lord requires one of the remaining two Chumchurras in existence. One is located in the highest tower of the Dark Citadel on the dead continent of Chumchurrasel. To reach it you must cross the Blood Sea, braving the ravenous Sea-Chibs who are known for their ability to separate a sailor’s head from his shoulders between breaths. Then, when you make landfall on the rocky coast of Koranth, you must travel across the Plains of Death, against the Mirror Wind that will show you your greatest desires to try and divert you from your task. And finally enter the Invisible Valley by choosing the one true door from amongst the eighty-three exactly similar ones, knowing at all times that the wrong choice will bring instant death.”

Arkon and Bilthor looked at each other and gulped. “Can I just stop you there, what about the other one? – You said there were two.”

The seer blinked, “What?”

“You said that there are two remaining – So how do we get the other one, claiming the first one seems a bit… involved. Not to mention dangerous.”

The seer deflated slightly, then he reached for the jug of ice-water next to him and took a long, slow drink. “There’s an Argos Extra on the corner of Hadras Street,” he pointed over their heads, back the way they’d come, “It’s catalog number 734/7624 – You get a choice of colours. Only one per customer though. You know, no offence, but I don’t think you’re really entering into the spirit of this ‘quest’ business.”

Mirror

As some of you know, I often write stories for people as birthday presents - It's because I'm cheap, I make no bones about it. I could warble on about home-made presents meaning more, but neither you nor I really believe that do we?

The following story was initially meant as a birthday story for my agent, Andy... But it sort of took on a life of its own, then it got a bit dark, and a bit long, so I thought I'd put it here rather then on his Facebook page where people might accidentally see it.

Anywho... Here we go... This story is 'Mirror'

-oOo-

He winced at the grinding noise from the gearbox as he changed down into second. The engine note changing pitch as the tires fought for grip on the loose, rocky surface.

“Mirror, this is three-eleven, checking in.”

“Roger three-eleven,” the tinny voice from the radio was almost lost in the static that seemed to always haunt this stretch of road, “We see you at the base of the South Escarpment, anything to report?”

“Looks like there’s been a rock fall, lotta loose shale on the road. Might put me behind by a few minutes, wouldn’t want you getting worried about me and sending out the dogs or anything.”

“Negative three-eleven, we don’t worry about anything, you know that. Though for your information and safety, the dogs are already out.”

He spat a word that his Mother would have beaten him senseless for using, “Has there been a breach?”

“Seal broke during the last delivery, four confirmed losses and another two had to be annulled in the bay. They’re still hosing it down. Six dogs released, three have enabled stealth.”

“They’ve picked up the trail then.”

“Watch yourself, they weren’t coming towards you, but between the stealth and static - they sometimes drop off the grid.”

“Thanks Mirror, that’s brightened my Birthday no end. Three-eleven out.”

He peered out of the window into the fog, in this weather it would be almost impossible to spot the escaped animals until he was close enough to run over them, which he was legally bound to do. It wouldn’t be much easier to see the dogs, even the light coming from their sensors would probably be masked in the mist. The image on the dashboard scanner flickered and then cleared, for a second he thought he saw a blip amongst the fleeting interference. He knew that hitting it wouldn’t help, but he did it anyway; regretting it instantly as the pain shot up his wrist to his elbow.  “You’re getting old Andy.” He mumbled to himself as he flexed his fingers, “I'm glad this is the last run.”

The truck continued to climb towards the lip of the escarpment, the ride getting rougher as he got closer to what he assumed was the source of the rock-fall. His whole cab lurched as one of the front wheels dropped into a pothole and the ever-present noise from the cargo compartment behind doubled in volume. He banged on the panel behind him, the pain once more shooting up his arm. “Son of a…” he yelled. He was still yelling a stream of obscenities, when he crested the rise and the tire pressure alarm sounded.

The truck juddered to a halt in a cloud of gravel as he hit the brakes and he sat with his head in his hands until the strident alarm annoyed him enough that he muted it. A check of the screens told him that the front offside tire was punctured beyond the capacity of the self-inflating system to fix.

“Mirror, this is three-eleven, I have lost a wheel – Going to have to replace it manually. Any update on the dogs?”

“All dogs are now in stealth mode, it’s only a matter of time. Last track puts them over one click to the North. Do you require assistance?”

“Negative Mirror. Shouldn’t take me more than a few minutes,” he looked at his still tingling arm, “No problems here. Just let me know if there’s any update.”

He jumped down from the cab, the chill from the fog immediately dampening the sleeves of his fatigue jacket. Moving towards the rear of the cargo bay, he punched his access code into the arm that held the 2 meter high spare wheel and, as he watched, the wheel made its way forward, along the siderails of the truck, until it reached the cab. Whereupon words started to flash on the keypad’s tiny screen. Andy sighed, then looked around as he heard a rock clatter to the ground behind him. Convincing himself that it was just a remnant from the rock-fall he shook his head and looked closely at the warning. ‘Automatic hub release disabled. Please disconnect manually’

“Really?” he shouted at no-one in particular as he set to work with the contents of his emergency toolbox. He removed the hub cover and started to loosen the nuts holding the hub.  He had released seven of the twelve when the radio burst into life. The message was more interference than words. “three-elev…. Dog… three hun… Not respon…”

The wrench fell from his numb hand as a sheen of sweat instantly appeared on his forehead. “Mirror? Mirror! Goddammit Mirror – Call the dogs off!” but the rest of the message, if there was one, was completely lost in the cloud of static. He picked up the tool and feverishly started to work on the remaining five nuts, praying for the fog to clear.

Another rock fell. This time it was not from behind him, not from the way he had come, but instead it came from the North, from the direction of the Mirror… From the direction of the dogs. He finished loosening the last nut with his fingers. As it dropped to the ground, the indicators on the spare wheel went green and the auto-jack started to slowly raise the truck into the air. “C’mon you bitch.” The compressor laboured as it rose, and he lovingly stroked the truck’s smooth paintwork, willing it to move more quickly. A ram pushed the old wheel off, letting him see the huge jagged rip in the thick rubber for the first time. The arm moved the new wheel into position and stopped. Once more displaying a flashing warning on its screen. ‘Manually replace twelve wheel nuts.’ it said.  He stared at it, dumbfounded, before dropping to his knees to try and find the discarded fasteners amongst the gravel. He was replacing the third one when he heard it.

His entire body froze, except for the hand holding the wrench. He had definitely heard movement. The toneless silence of the fog had caused his ears to become so sensitive that he could even hear the thick beat of his own laboured pulse. “Hello!” he called, without turning his head, still looking at the screen, “I am Animal Delivery Technician three-eleven. Inbound, full, cold, tired and scared. Check with the Mirror.” The display changed to ‘Manually replace nine wheel nuts.’ And the noise of movement came again. He rested his head against the wheel and took several deep breaths before turning around.

She was about nine years old, covered in dust, with two clean streaks on her face where she’d been crying.  Her breathing was as ragged as his was, and probably for the same reasons.

“Please, can you help me… My Daddy said to run… He pointed this way,” She looked over her shoulder, “I ran… He said he’d be right behind me… I’m cold.” She took a step towards the truck, still frightened, but with the beginnings of a relieved smile on her lips.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “there’s nothing I can do. You’ve already…” He took a step backwards, maintaining eye contact whilst reaching for the Taser clipped to his belt. 

Her eyes widened. “Please Mister, please help me.  I want my Daddy…”

She didn’t even notice the dog before it grabbed her. The electrical charge in its jaws knocking her unconscious before she had time to scream. It was probably for the best, she’d suffered enough.  The dog stared directly at him, the little girl dangling limply in its jaws, he raised his hands - moving them as far away from his Taser as possible.  There was a pause as it scanned him to confirm his identity, then it gave a derogatory sniff as it turned its two tonne bulk towards the Mirror and padded back into the fog.

He replaced the remaining nuts in record time and boarded the truck, leaving the destroyed tire where it lay. Reaching for the starter, he paused, then slouched back into the seat and started to sob.  The Earth was dying, some would say that it was already dead. It wasn’t so bad when the oil ran out, giant solar mirrors were built around the planet, collecting limitless free energy from the Sun. It was a boom time almost, the population skyrocketed. Nobody realised that we were running short of other key resources though. We lost Sodium first, then Molybdenum, Silicon and Vanadium. Suddenly there were millions of consumers with nothing to consume. 

It was then that they passed the worldwide ‘One out, one in’ law, where children could only be born if a member of their family died, zero population growth. They just fined the parents that had the ‘unauthorised’ children. Until they realised that the human body contained trace amounts of every element we needed, and that those elements could be released simply by feeding a living body into the lightstream of a solar collector.  They just took the 'surplus' children at first, but it wasn’t long before they took the parents too… Entire families sometimes.  It depended completely on how much space you had left in the collection truck.

The cries from the cargo compartment were getting louder, and he knew that he’d made the right decision to hand in his notice.

Insomnia

A story based on a sleepless night I had a few months ago. In actuality, it went on for about another five minutes or so, but... Well... Some things are best left undescribed.

The Nightmare, Henry Fuseli, 1781

-oOo-

My bladder woke me at 03:30 – and I briefly tried to convince myself that I could hold it until the alarm went off; but the bastard part of my brain, the piece that visualizes dripping taps and waterfalls and gurgling drains, had more immediate ideas. Pulling back the covers as quietly as I could, I padded through the cold darkness to the bathroom, careful not to stub my toe on the laundry basket, or tread on the cat as I so often do.

I fumbled for the light, which only had two settings, ‘Off’ and ‘The heart of a supernova’, or so it felt in the early hours of the morning when the house was quiet and peaceful but for the hushed snores of my wife and slightly louder ones from the dog in the next room. I screwed my eyes closed and tried to flip the switch slowly, willing the light to fade into life, rather than springing upon me like a startled leopard. I saw details of the bathroom furniture through my tightly closed lids and could almost hear the sizzling noise as my retinas shrank.

Immediate business completed, I washed up and tried to put the hand-towel back on the radiator through pupils the size of pinpricks. Turning the light out as I left plunged me into the darkness usually reserved for particularly deep dwelling badgers and professional kidnapees. I stumbled back into bed, offering thanks to whoever had initially thought of en-suite bathrooms for making it so that I didn’t need to go out onto the landing and enter the domain of the inquisitive, but vision impaired, dog that sometimes haunted the corridors.

Pulling the covers up to my neck, I chanced a look at the clock. The bright green LED numbers displayed 03:37. I closed my eyes, planted my feet flat on my wife’s previously warm thighs, smiling at her grunt of mild discomfort as she turned over, and tried to go back to sleep.  The clock showed 03:51 and my attention was drawn to the light shining from the gap above the curtains. Was it getting lighter? The sun doesn’t usually rise until 06:30, until after I had fought my way out of bed, which meant that the sun was lazier than I was, or significantly more clever. But what if it was Saturday? Is it Saturday today? I looked at the clock and saw the single LED in the corner that showed me that the alarm had been intentionally set; so no, it wasn’t Saturday. Perhaps it was a Bank Holiday and I had set the alarm in error – There’s always that hope. I thought about setting the alarm on a Friday night, just so that the alarm would sound at ‘Stupid O’clock’ on the Saturday morning and I could just turn it off, roll over, and go back to sleep, with all the feelings of empowerment that came with it. I thought of my own confusion, I thought of the dead-arm that would unquestionably result when my wife discovered what I’d done, I hastily thought better of my plan. It was 04:07, less than two hours until the alarm went off and the repetitive electronic screaming presided over the birth of another dull, soul-less day.

I stared at the wall between the wardrobe and the door to the hallway.  It seemed darker than the rest of the wall. It wasn’t a shadow, the dim light from the curtains bathed that entire wall, but the specific area I looked at was darker, and the longer I looked at it, the darker it became.  I scanned along the wall, until I was looking at one of the small pictures that my Wife had bought in a desperate bid to give the room some ‘character’. I remembered that old writing exercise where lazy English teachers ask you to write a story about a generic picture that had far too many elements for you to adequately cover in your allotted time. Mine invariably featured devious Lovecraftian experiments, or an underground butchery ring, or a trusted upstanding member of the community being unveiled as a cannibal. Jesus Christ, was it any wonder that none of my writing ever sold? If you look up the words ‘Formulaic’ or ‘Derivative’ in the dictionary, there was a picture of me, looking self-satisfied. In later editions, I often had a revolver pressed to my temple. In the Children’s editions, it had a flag, with ‘BANG!’ written on it sticking out of the barrel.

My eyes lowered to a point on the wall directly below the picture; almost immediately, the wall began to darken in a clearly delineated circle around the point I was staring at. Sweet Baby Jesus, I was going blind! At the very least it was cataracts, I’m not even 50, a failed, derivative writer, trying to make enough money to keep himself and his family fed on a diet of watery soup and second-hand crackers.  My children would point and laugh at my crumpled Dickensian form, panhandling for sixpence pieces by the side of the road. My wife would leave me for her tennis coach and she doesn’t even have a tennis coach. She would take the last of our money, hire a tennis coach, and leave me for him. I would change my name to Michael de Santa.

04:21. Should I just get up? I could see if I’d had any more life-affirming ‘likes’ on Facebook. I could go through my backlog of unopened emails to see if my Agent had received any life-changing acceptance letters. I could see if those pictures from my tequila party were ‘Trending’ on Twitter. Who am I kidding? I’d either be playing an on-line game until I made myself late for work, or opening an ‘Incognito Window’ on Chrome and hoping the floorboards didn’t creak too rhythmically and wake someone up before I had experienced a personal ‘petit-mort’.

I’ll make a cup of tea. Can I be bothered to make myself a cup of tea? Maybe coffee? Maybe I could make a pot of coffee and score some brownie points with the wife when she woke up. Would it stay warm long enough? It was 04:45, it’d be close. I’ll do that, I’ll make a pot of decent coffee.

I woke up to hands on my chest, warm hands, a palm resting gently on each of what I laughingly call my pecs, but everyone else calls ‘moobs’. I slowly open my eyes to the yellowish light streaming through the kitchen window, a bright day, a warm day. I’m lying on the coffee table, maybe eighteen inches off the ground. The smell of fresh coffee permeating the air. I look up, along the bare arms of my masseuse, to the shoulder of the fitted mini-dress, rising to a thin, pale, neck, sporting a golden necklace finer than a human hair, from which hung a gold and diamond crucifix nestling in the valley where her translucent skin was barely covered by the sheer material. I blinked, trying to clear the slight blurring of my vision, “Aren’t you…”

She smiled, “Just call me Madeline.” She took a step forward, her manicured nails moving through the hairs on my chest, down to my stomach; her parted thighs gently brushing the tops of my ears.

“Madeline… Smith? I saw a film with you in it… Last night… You were…” It was then that the alarm chose, in its infinite wisdom, to go off.

As Johnny Depp once said:

"I'm shy, paranoid, whatever word you want to use. I hate fame. I've done everything I can to avoid it."

No, really, he did... But the poor bugger still has to sit on a big pile of money $400 million high and repeatedly have sweaty, monkey sex with Amber Heard (The blonde girl off of Zombieland) 

Amber Heard

So I'm guessing that he considers his life a massive failure. What with all the fame and the money and having to spend 14 years gettin-jiggy-wid French popstrel Vanessa Paradis previous to that.

Vanessa Paradis

I mean, just look at the quality of his taste in available women, the poor little fellah.

But anyway, enough of comparing myself to this professional pirate impersonator.  Let us concentrate more on our differences...

I was going to do a table and be all scientific and stuff, but I wrote it out on paper first and... to be honest, I couldn't read what I'd written after most of the ink had been washed away by my uncontrollable tears.  But suffice it to say, I am not 'Best buds' with Tim Burton, I do not have Alice Cooper on speed-dial and I do not own a vineyard in St. Tropez.

But the main difference is that I would love to be famous.  I know it changes you. I know that there wouldn't be a portion of my life that was private anymore (<remember this bit for the big reveal later)

And I don't mean fairly famous... I'm pretty sure that I'm 'fairly famous' already - I mean, you guys have all heard of me, Michael Sheen (Yes, THAT Michael Sheen) wished me Happy Christmas last month. I also count Yvette Fielding, Dr. Karl Fielding and Rufus Hound as close, personal friends (As long as you don't tell them about it - I'm not sure that it's 100% reciprocal - I mean, they like and retweet a lot of my stuff... Well some of it... maybe a couple each, tops... I'm so alone.)

and Scott Page, the saxophonist from Pink Floyd, thinks I'm cool - No, really he does.

But I want a gold plated helicarrier with a giant naked picture of myself on the bottom, I want Vin Diesel to walk everywhere behind me just punching his left fist into his right palm every time i talk to anyone, whilst wearing the sunglasses from 'Pitch Black'. I want whistling lobsters as shoulder-pads.

Am I ever going to be that rich?

Not on my own, no... What I need are followers (No, not 'Drink the Coolaid' type followers - put that straight-jacket down) I mean, like a regular audience who can spread the word and increase the numbers of the Dandy Nation.

To that end, I have done the unthinkable... From tomorrow, 28th January, to 1st February 2016 All three of my Chimping Dandy books will be FREE to download onto your Kindle, or Kindle compatible device from Amazon.

Here are the Links:

Mumblings of an Irate Pangolin - My First book... Read the reviews if you're unsure as to whether to download it FOR FREE - All five star, all of the time

The Pangolin Yodels - My second book... All five star reviews again (except the one four star review). You don't need to have read 'Mumblings' before you read this one - But you know, there's no reason not to because you can download it FOR FREE

And finally...

Do you have children, are they of an age where they're not so easily scared and/or overawed by life on this big ball of snot that we call 'The Earth'? Do you read them bed-time stories, or throw a book at them and say "Read this until you fall asleep"? Well, if you do, then you should totally get this:

The Collected Children's Pangolin Primer - This is a collection of volumes 1 and 2 from above, but with all the drugs, sex and swearing taken out (I think it might say 'bugger' once... But it's used as an expletive, not a verb) - It has a picture of my Son on the front... It's pretty dim, it's a bit like those 'The longer you stare into the fog, the more zombies you will see' type thing, but he's definitely there. This can also be downloaded FOR FREE

So, if I want to be rich, why am I giving my books away?

Well, in all honesty, I'm trying to get you hooked, so that when my fiction books come out (And the Pangolin books contain some of the stories that they're based on if you need a sweetener) you'll dive onto them like an extra from 'Breaking Bad' dives onto anything blue and translucent.

Just think of me as your friendly neighborhood drug dealer - only hairier, and possibly fatter with a slightly less casually racist Hispanic name.

But seriously Buy... I mean, GET FOR FREE, my books, make me famous, I'l buy you a chinchilla or something when I am. Totally, you will probably have to remind me though.

Remember when I said that I wouldn't be worried that none of my life would be private? Well, if you get these books, you'll know pretty much everything there is to know about me anyway - And that's got to be worth at least nothing at all... Hasn't it?

This is not the state of the nation

I’m aware that I haven’t done a ‘State of the Dandy Nation’ post for a while. In fact, it’s been so long that there are probably people reading this who don’t even know what that means.

Every month, when this blog was new, and fresh, and throbbing, I would let you wonderful people into some of the stats from the previous month (or however long it had been since the previous time that I’d done it) – I’d include things like the top-ten all-time posts and what countries had checked the blog out more than any other, or what strange and odd things people had typed into Google to find us.

I like thinking of us as us you know… You the reader, me the purveyor of lurid scoria, the people who visit the blog purely because I very often slip a word into the Metadata that people often use when searching for pornography – It helps to foster inclusion, and it makes me giggle uncontrollably.

Did I tell you about the time when I got confused for a busty, red-headed camgirl model, for like six months or something? People were googling “IsHotMyself Dandy” (Which was the name of a site she was featured on) But were being pointed to my page, explaining about the wonderful day when I shot myself… Easy mistake to make I suppose, I’m hoping that at least some of them stayed (If you are one of those people, please leave a message in the comments… I’ll buy a red wig and post a topless photo of myself as a treat for you… Might even sign it) - I was going to post a picture of the young lady concerned... But, I couldn't really find one that was 'appropriate' - You could try the search yourself, just not a work, OK?

Anywho, nowadays, if you want to know the all-time top-ten posts, I post them on the right-hand side of the main page, so you can take a look yourself. As far as our audience goes – It’s mostly the USA, followed by Russia, the UK, then the Ukraine… With a load of European countries making up the rest of the top ten. To be honest, the only thing people have googled to find us, other than the name of the blog, are the words ‘Dzit Dit Gaii’ (Which is Navajo for ‘The Mountain that is White’) – and only goes to show that the Internet is still full of conspiracy theorists. And that they’re coming to me for answers – The poor confused lambs.

-oOo-

Anyway, I wanted to do something different this time, if you follow me on Twitter (@Chimping_Dandy) you’ll know that I occasionally post phrases, in the style of Redtop headlines that, when typed into Google – Show search results where this blog (in general, not this post in particular) is the first result. I thought that I might share a few of them with you… In the vain hope that you might find them funny, or odd, or a cry for help from a fat, bald man whose readership figures aren’t what they were when he was posting every day instead of having a lunch-break.

I’ll start with the most recent one…

• Colin Firth makes an example of lesbian weasels using cutlery – Takes you HERE
• Alvaston Nazi hunter finds pizza from 1953 – Takes you HERE
• Stickleback tin helmet brain lesion made Benedict Cumberbatch try breast feeding – Takes you HERE
• A drunk moorhen on its gap-year wears teenage student underwear – Takes you HERE
• Christmas blindness blamed on primrose cannabis vodka – Takes you HERE

You know, if you get a spare minute, maybe you'd want to try this for yourself, it'll probably waste a few minutes, it might even be fun - If you find a good one, send it in - I'll say thanks and everything... Probably