Sunday, 14 June 2015
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 seaside...you 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!
Sunday, 31 May 2015
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
|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.
By the same author, in the same series: "The Londoners", "The Londoners 2 - After Love Comes Hate" & "The Londoners 3 - No Turning Back"
Friday, 1 May 2015
Clare clearly remembered the first time she had seen her boyfriend, even if it was now over a year ago since they had first met. He had danced badly all night and had smelt like a bloody poof. He had been wearing smart designer jeans and a plain white t-shirt. There was a hint of a fake tan, which made Deano stick out like a sore thumb, because in Margate people with tans like he had are thin on the ground.
But there was something about this bad dancer which had caught Clare’s eye, as she and her friends danced themselves senseless in a grotty Margate nightclub. The following Saturday one of her friends was going to get married, and so, to celebrate this life-changing event, Clare, Suzy, Chloe, Emma, Selina and Penny had decided to organise a drunken evening for Julie, by the end of which the girls would finish completely smashed, and Julie would be wondering if getting married was really her thing.
Emma, wanting to show off the result of her recent breast enlargement operation, was unsurprisingly chased across the dance floor by a number of teenage lads all wanting to get their hands on her prize assets. Of course, she had been flattered to have been pursued by so many testosterone-fuelled admirers, but the guy she really wanted to accept a drink from was the tattooed beast hovering next to Deano.
Clare cringed when realised that one of her best friends wanted nothing more than to spend a night with a shaven-headed monster, who had spent all evening pouring lager down his throat at an impressive rate, whilst laughing and joking with Deano. Clare hated men with tattoos, and after trying to persuade Emma that she was aiming her sights too low, she gave up when she saw that the tattooed one had moved in for the kill, and was already plying Emma with expensive cocktails.
Extract taken from "But Bloody France!" - part 1 of the "But Bloody France!" amusing trilogy, following the ups and downs in the life of Clare Green, twenty-something, from Margate in Kent.
Get the complete trilogy in "Clare's Holiday" - out now for Kindle via Amazon.
Sunday, 12 April 2015
When she's not doing a spot of gardening, or watching repeats of Kojak, Angela Merkel likes nothing more than to dream of ruling Europe.
"War is a terrible thing," she says, but if you've ever been near her when she unleashes one of her violent farts, you'll agree that the gas which seeps from her body is almost as bad as grown men shooting at each other.
Either way, there's a huge shitstorm heading our way, and unless we put a stop to this hideous beast - with her hairy armpits and male genitals - Europe may well one day succumb to Angela, fifty-something, from Berlin, who has a passion for turtles and rough sex*
But what must we do to put this little turd back in her box?
Well, a tsunami would be an effective and cheap way to wash away the land of beer and sausages, but because Germany is in the heart of Europe - there's no chance of a killer wave reaching its cities and towns.
No, what's needed here is a radical approach to a simmering problem.
"But what do you propose?" I hear you cry.
BOMBS, my boy - and lot's of them! Let's bomb these buggers with stale turds, rotton fruit and constipated pigs. Let's unleash our own shitstorm, and cover Germany in the finest human waste our bodies can produce.
"And when should this assault begin?" I hear you ask.
Well, Angela is always at home on Friday afternoons, so Friday afternoon sounds fine to me.
So, bombs away!!! Let's stick two fingers up to Europe's most famous she-boy and let's smile, smile, smile...
*This is how she describes herself on her Facebook profile.
Coming soon: The worst town in England
Saturday, 4 April 2015
There's no denying that global famine is still a problem, which won't go away, unless world leaders do something to tackle the crisis, and help millions of starving people emerge from the shadows of despair and misery.
Why not send millions of pounds in cash to these poor nations, I hear you cry, as you write out a cheque for fifteen pounds, made payable to "END FAMINE IN AFRICA."
Well, yes, this is a very kind thought on your behalf, but are you sure that you're doing the right thing?
Of course you're not! No, what's needed here is some positive action to bring a smile to millions of sad faces throughout the planet. So after guzzling seventeen pints of lager during lunchtime, I have finally come up with a five-point-plan which will end world famine forever.
Number 1: Fast food is fast money to be made. Be the first to open a McDonald's restaurant in Somalia. A simple Happy Meal will for some hopeless child be a HAPPY MEAL!
Number 2: Call your local pizza restaurant tonight and ask for a four seasons special to be flown out to Ethiopia.
Number 3: KFC is finger-licking good! So let's bomb Africa with some of Colonel Saunder's finest flame-grilled chicken wings. Don't forget to add a few family meals, because big families are all the rage in the poorest continent on earth.
Number 4: Open a chain of tex-Mex restaurants in Ethiopia, for a decent spicy meal never did anyone any harm.
Number 5: Do nothing, because the more you give to certain people the more those people want. Instead of lying around all day, having sex and and then sleeping all afternoon, why don't the laziest bastards on the planet get off their fucking backsides, get to work and get their countries out of the shit in which they find themselves.
Yes, charity is a wonderful thing, but for me it BEGINS AT HOME!!!
Next week I'll be focussing on why Germany should be bombed.
Sunday, 22 March 2015
The local population are familiar with the legend surrounding Oxney Bottom, with the legend feeding the fact that Oxney Bottom is considered one of the most haunted places in Great Britain. There are tales of the ghosts of highwaymen being seen on this stretch of road, and numerous accounts of sightings of the Grey Lady, the ghostly image of an old woman seen by the roadside, witnessed by passing motorists. It is for this very reason, that when driving through Oxney Bottom at night, drivers have a habit of accelerating through the bends, because they want to get through Oxney Bottom as quickly possible, to get away from the air of uneasiness which hangs over the place.
Davis Hochard and Emilie Guerin approached Oxney Bottom via a series of fields which run from St. Margaret's Bay to Ringwould. Hochard had read about Oxney Bottom's history, and as he and his French girlfriend walked along a narrow lane, to a wooded area about a mile or so ahead of them, he seemed impatient to discover if there was any truth in the legend. Emilie Guerin, starting to tire from the hike, had no interest in ghosts, but was secretly pleased that their visit to this part of the world was during daylight hours. Hochard stopped briefly, also tired from walking in unseasonally hot sunshine, and smiled when he realised that very soon he would be in the heart of Oxney Bottom.
When the couple arrived at the edge of a heavily wooded area, Emilie Guerin seemed to think that the sky had clouded over. The trees had seemed attractive from a distance, but now, as the sunlight grew weak and feeble, the part of the world in which Davis Hochard and Emilie Guerin found themselves seemed cold, unfriendly and uninviting. However, unperturbed by his girlfriend's lack of enthusiasm, Hochard walked ahead, occasionally looking up at the sinister sky. His rate of breathing increased with every step that he took, as though he was scared but also eager to discover the secrets of Oxney Bottom.
Extract taken from "After Dover" - an ebook about a cold-blooded killer, by Luke Ryman. Now available for Kindle via Amazon