Thursday, 20 August 2015


Tony and me live in a flat – a small flat, sandwiched between those on the first and third floors of the building in which we live – which is awful, but because the rent is low, and there's a pub at the end of the road, Tony and me can just about live with the constant damp, the noisy neighbours and the rest of life's problems that come from living in accommodation at the lower end of the market.

When we first came to London four years ago we knew, that with a limited budget, we weren't going to end up in Mayfair, and that our future home would probably be a very small flat, in a part of London that is littered with high-rise tower blocks, vast expanses of dreary and cold concrete and very little to get excited about. Well, we were absolutely right, because we've got the high-rise tower blocks, the dreary and cold concrete and not a lot else.

Fortunately, we avoided living in a high-rise flat, because we stumbled upon a vacant property, in a reasonably well-kept building, in a road that provides us with all that we need in life. Our favourite pub is just a few minutes walk away, there's a pizzeria opposite us, and next to that there's one of those shops that sells everything and which is open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Of course, such independent convenience stores are more expensive than their bigger rivals, but, as Tony says, our nation was made great by shopkeepers of the independent variety, and by doing our shopping in such shops, we're helping to keep alive the Davids in a world where there are too many Goliaths.

Dave Cooper has a lot to be happy about, but is there more to life than pizzas, pubs and twenty-four hour mini-markets? Find out the answer to this question, and others, in "The Londoners" trilogy - the first in a series of ebooks by Luke Ryman.

Wednesday, 29 July 2015


The hotel was on Dover seafront, behind a fa├žade of fake palm trees and a line of parked cars. That morning the sun reflected off the sea and sharp beams pierced the windows of the rows and rows of houses which looked out to the Channel. These houses had long ago been converted into bedsits, and these bedsits were home to hundreds of immigrants, whose first port of call when arriving in England is Dover.

Dover had died many years before – beaten by a disease which has destroyed so many English coastal towns – and now it was just limping along. The council had spent thousands of pounds in sprucing up the depressing seafront, and on the day Peter Ward was in town, it seemed that perhaps there were worse places to be. But if the seafront seemed picturesque and the fake palm trees appeared to be real, all of this was an illusion caused by the sunlight which appeared to fill every dirty corner of the town.

At night the immigrants left their bedsits and roamed aimlessly along the promenade and through the town. The men drank beer and spirits from stolen bottles and the women stayed in groups, intimidating local residents with their malicious looks and foul language. Some of the immigrants smashed shop windows and some pissed openly in the park. Some had dogs, and these dogs shit on the pavement and barked for no apparent reason. The police drove round in circles and the residents were afraid. When the sun had set and darkness descended upon the town, Dover was uninviting and unappealing.

Extract taken from "After Dover" - a short story, by Luke Ryman, about a cold-blooded killer. Available now from all Amazon sites for Kindle.

Sunday, 26 July 2015

You Are What You Eat


He may have got Italy's trains to run on time, but when Mussolini was hung from a lamp post, no-one bothered to thank him for making the 16:25h weekday service from Rome to Milan reliable and punctual. It seems, as he swung gently in a light breeze, that his people were just glad to get rid of the fat bastard, whose successes in the last war could be noted on the back of a very small postage stamp. And when the crowd had seen the dictator lynched by an angry mob, everyone - except Mussolini and his other half - returned to their tables to finish their pasta and pizzas. He was gone, but when you've got a four-seasons special to tuck into, who gives a fuck about a fat wanker who couldn't have organised a piss up in a brewery - let alone win a war.

"GERMANY WILL BATTLE ON" screamed the headlines, when the Daily Mirror announced the death of this vile dictator, whose only aim in life was to take over the world. Angela Merkel may well be harvesting dreams of fulfilling Hitler's ambitions, but the she-boy from Berlin certainly won't have the support of her people. No - all Germany's population wants now is beer, sausages and football, and to hell with invading France. Angela needs her people to get behind her, but as the master race are fed up with shit storms and her love affair with Francois Hollande, she should watch her back - and indeed her neck, if she doesn't want to end up doing a Mussolini.

Two fried eggs, two sausages, a fried tomato, bacon, beans and fried bread: eating this, my friends, is the BEST way to start the day. Forget your croissants, cheese and ham, forget your yogurt and fruit salad, and just get stuck into a full English breakfast. The world will be yours for the taking, and life will seem so much better as you wipe egg yolk from your chin and you savour the flavour of sizzling bacon. A nation is built upon its people, and a nation is great because of its people. Yes - we may be crap at football and our trains may well run late, but there will always be bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover, fish and chips will live on for ever and dictators, fascists and smelly girls called Angela will never change that!

Happy holidays!

Friday, 17 July 2015

The Holiday

What do you want, Baby?” enquired Deano, turning to Clare.
“That handbag, for starters,” she laughed, before realising that she was testing her boyfriend’s patience. “Or if not, a glass of white wine.”
Sarah laughed. “You won’t catch me drinking wine. It gives me terrible headaches, and after too many glasses I start to lose control of myself.”
Phil looked at his girlfriend and grinned. “I know what your next drink’s going to be then – five pints of Chardonnay.”
“What’s that?” enquired Sarah, as she crunched on an ice cube.
“It’s a popular white wine,” replied Clare, as she took a sip of wine from her glass.
Sarah turned to Deano and laughed. “You’ve got yourself a right one there, Deano. She’s into handbags and wine. I bet she costs you a fortune to run.” She then pulled down her top, so that the curve of her breasts caught Phil’s eye, before asking her boyfriend for another drink.
“Coming right up,” he said, before attracting the attention of the barman. “The same for everyone?” he asked.
Clare, who had by now removed her sunglasses, stared at the side of Sarah’s head. The next time, she thought, that the trashy bitch said something even remotely nasty about her, she would be on the receiving end of a well-aimed punch in the mouth.

What a holiday this is going to be, with four friends planning two weeks of fun in Normandy. Surely they'll have the time of their lives - won't they?
Discover if Clare's holiday will be one to remember, in this ebook, out now, for Kindle.

Sunday, 14 June 2015


As summer officially comes into view, and spring prepares to pack its bags for another nine months, now is the time to start planning just how to fill those sunny days which are heading our way.

What I need is a holiday! I hear you cry, as you drool over the pages and pages of bargains which can be found on the internet. Your better half has her mind set on Bali, where the days are bathed in constant sunshine and the beaches are long and sandy. You, however, prefer seven days on some Godforsaken Greek island, because, and as you quite rightly say, the sun in Bali is the same as the sun in Greece, but for only £99 per person, for seven days, a week in Lesbos is much better for the budget.
OUR RATING IS 4/10: Cheap it might be, but Greece is drowning in debt and illegal immigrants. Hot it may well be, but with most pubs and bars unable to pay their suppliers, what is the point of going somewhere where the only drink on offer is tap water. Avoid this nation of hairy women and abandoned resorts, and leave Lesbos for the locals.

Oh I do like to be beside the sing, as you contemplate a long weekend in Great Yarmouth. The kids will love it, the wife will hate it but you, after finding a pub where happy hour is every hour, won't really care what your better half thinks. Ah!!! The smell of fish and chips, the stench of sewage as it spills into the sea and the used syringes which cover the sand is what holidays are all about. Then there's the dog shit and broken bottles, the guest houses from hell and the the cold wind which rolls permanently in from the disgusting and ice-cold sea.
OUR RATING IS 2/10: This dump of a seaside resort is nothing like it used to be. Crammed with immigrants and unemployed drug addicts, spending a weekend in Great Yarmouth is as bad as premature ejaculation and chronic toothache.

Let's go camping! you cry, as you picture you and your family in a tent, in a unspoilt and charming part of England. Barbecues upon barbecues, lazy days under the sun and walks in the woods. You've found a four-star campsite in Cornwall, not too far away from Lands End. The campsite has won numerous awards and prides itself on it's amenities. But can this paradise on earth really be this good...
OUR RATING IS 6/10: If the campsite is clean and the campers are well-mannered, this could be a good idea. Watch out however for Albanian immigrants and noisy German bastards. Also, don't forget that the weather can make or break such a holiday.

Let's have a party! you say, as you imagine having the mother of all garden parties. The fridge is crammed with beer and Chardonnay, the sausages are sizzling and the music is at full blast. The kids are having fun, the ladies are getting merrily drunk and you and your friends are already hopelessly slaughtered. Your neighbour, an elderly German man, asks you politely to turn the music down. Your friend - a tattooed beast with a dislike of anyone not English - decides to urinate over your neighbour's roses, before leading the rest of your guests into a rousing version of Land of Hope and Glory.
OUR RATING IS 910: This is another way to relax which can be a complete success or total failure. Keep the beer flowing, keep the sausages coming and to hell with the Germans, and this will be one hell of a way to celebrate summer!

Happy Holidays!!!

Sunday, 31 May 2015

The first time...

Up to the time when he had claimed the first of his victims, there had been no reason for him to have committed murder. The girl – she was twenty-two, with a pretty face and soft skin – had wanted to dance with Ward in a backstreet club. They danced and shared a drink, and when the evening was over and too much alcohol had been consumed by the girl, he had offered to walk her home. It was on that walk to her home that something must have been said, or his advances had been refused.

He hit the girl over the back of her head with a brick and left her to die. Blood ejaculated from her mouth as he slid his right hand inside the front of her jeans. He played with his victim's cunt for five minutes until a barking dog scared the life out of him. It rained heavily that night, and as Ward calmly walked home, he occasionally arched back his head to allow the rainwater to enter his mouth.

And so that had been his first murder. It was a crime which made the news the following day, and the story lingered for a while until it faded away into obscurity. It was a crime that went unsolved, probably because at that time forensic science was not as advanced as it is today. Occasionally, Ward was haunted by the girl's face, but whenever he felt remorse he just laughed, before telling himself that no-one is immortal.

Extract taken from "After Dover" - a short story about a cold-blooded killer, written by Luke Ryman. Out now on Kindle via Amazon.

Friday, 15 May 2015

He drove a bus...

Home was hell!

Dad was a bus driver, and although he often told me that driving a bus was a responsible job, that required a great deal of care and attention, his weekly pay never reflected the fact that people entrusted him to get them from A to B, safely. I think my old man made a big thing about how careful he had to be when transporting his passengers, and it sometimes sounded like he was actually a Jumbo Jet pilot, and not a lowly bus driver, who earned very little, and didn't even get the opportunity to drive his bus anywhere else other than on the estate where we lived.

But driving a bus was a steady job, that came with a uniform, the right to cheap bus travel and four weeks holiday a year. It wasn't exciting, but it WAS a job, and as dad told me every now and then, as though I hadn't heard it a hundred times before, having a job was the most important thing in life. Mum used to tell him to shut up when he started asking me what I wanted to do when I left school, telling him that I was a smart kid, and that I would end up doing something better than driving a bus for a living. I think if my wife had insulted me, like that, I would have laid into her, but because dad liked to avoid confrontation, and rarely listened to what my mum said, he just smiled, and say that there was no shame in being a bus driver.

Extract taken from "Dad drove a bus" - an ebook for kindle.
By the same author, in the same series: "The Londoners", "The Londoners 2 - After Love Comes Hate" & "The Londoners 3 - No Turning Back"