Thursday, 5 November 2015

Balls, Beer & Bedlam

When Sally Bunting appeared with the drinks she gave Johnny Joy a warm smile.
Put them on my bill,” said Lime, as he took his glass.
Mister Lime,” said Johnny Joy, in a tone which made Lime straighten his back, “I don't believe in bar bills. If a man can't pay for a round of drinks,” said Joy, “then he's better off staying at home.”
Joy then pulled a chunky pile of banknotes from his pocket, and after delicately removing a single note, he duly paid for the drinks.
And take one for yourself, sweetheart,” said Joy, to a Sally Bunting who seemed to be in awe of the wad of notes which the visitor had pulled from his pocket.
Thanks,” she replied.
And keep the change,” said Joy, as he turned his head to admire Sally Bunting's backside, as she returned to the bar.
You're right,” laughed Joy, as he appeared to half empty his glass in one go, “she IS a diamond, but your dickhead of a parking attendant is something else,” grunted Joy.
Oh, no,” replied Lime, coming to the defence of his friend. “That's Derek Smith. He's one of our most respected members.”
He's a dickhead!” repeated Johnny Joy, as he finished his drink.

What's the future of this sleepy seaside town golf club?
Extract taken from "The Clubhouse" - an ebook by Luke Ryman.
Get "The Clubhouse" now, for kindle, via Amazon.

Tuesday, 6 October 2015

Killing and Laughing

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 for kindle, by Luke Ryman

Sunday, 13 September 2015

The MacRefugee

With there them migrants about to hit our shores, the barbecue season coming to an end and the nights slowly drawing in, life in dear old Blighty won't be as good for some time to come - at least until next spring to be precise.

Oh how the thought of autumn and winter sends a shiver down my spine. No more lounging in the garden, no more mowing the lawn, no more beer under the parasol, no more sizzling sausages on the barbecue...

But apart from being deprived of all of these good things, what can one expect from the world of business, politics, sport and entertainment over the coming months?

Well, look out for the latest line from McDonalds: The MacRefugee. This delightful creation can be worn around the neck, is made of plastic, and so acts as a bouyancy aid in the event of one those dinghys, much loved by migrants around the world, capsizing. What's more, because it's plastic, the bun-cum-lifejacket, can't be eaten. What a brilliant innovation, I hear you cry. Quite right too - and in this healthy-eating obsessed world in which we now live, there's no chance that those migrants will become hideously obese, thus making sure that as many of the buggers can be squeezed into their dinghys, for their return journey home.

This vile pervert has plans to release a charity record at Christmas, to raise money for the migrants we're about to receive in Britain. Sir Cliff Richard loves helping others less fortunate than him, and has even decided to house a family of four migrants at his mansion, where the family is able to make use of the billiard table, the home cinema and the olympic-size swimming pool. What a true christian this wonderful man surely is. But then we all said the same about Jimmy Savile...

The boy Hodgson has done well in getting England through to next year's european championship finals, to be held in France. The man is a tactical genius and has a strong pedigree in football management. Firm but fair, I see Hodgson getting his boys to the final, where they'll whip those German buggers in the final. It'll be like 1945 all over again, with Rooney and company fighting in the streets, in the fields and on the beaches. Not even Merkel and her hairy armpits will be strong enough for Roy's Boys. Get behind them, and destroy the beast that is slowly taking over europe.

This buffoon is still running France, but only just. With soaring taxes, high unemployment and misery throughout the land, Francois Hollande has the solution to get his country back on its feet- he's allowing thousands of migrants to set up home in the land of fine wine and cheeses.
The natives are in uproar, but with his popularity rating being lower than ever, this is the time for Hollande to do a Cliff Richard, to boost his image.

It's socialism gone mad, I hear you cry. It's the end of La France, the world replies. Well, we'll have to wait and see...

Other events that could take place before the end of the year:
Wayne Rooney announces that his buttocks were once squeezed by a very drunk Angela Merkel - odds 500/1

Roy Hodgson makes a vile, racist comment concerning the migrants entering Britain - odds 2/1

Cliff Richard turns water into wine and opens a campsite for homeless migrants - odds 2/1

The BBC is shut down after it's confirmed that the organisation is infested with perverts, child molestors and
 overpaid arseholes - odds 10/1

New Labour leader, Jeremy Corbyn, reveals that all migrants will receive apple i-pads, beer and Nike training shoes for Christmas - providing they pledge their loyalty to him and his party of no-hopers - odds 3/1

Monday, 7 September 2015

A Little Bit Of Vegas...

Who is the vulgar cockney with the flash car, and why is he showing an interest in a struggling golf club which has seen better days?

Alistair Lime, the club's long-serving president, is keen to discover the answer to these questions.

Wait a while, Mister Lime, and all will be revealed,” announces Johnny Joy, an overweight Londoner with money to burn. “You might hate me now, but tomorrow you'll love me.”

And so Alistair Lime succumbs to Johnny Joy's charms, even if drastic changes are in the air.

But things won't change that much, will they?

Welcome to the clubhouse, where gin and tonics and soggy cheese sandwiches will soon be banished, to be replaced by exciting food and fancy cocktails.

What will the members make of this?

The Clubhouse: if you like golf you'll hate this. If you loathe golf you'll love this.

The Clubhouse by Luke Ryman is the first part of an amusing series about love, life and money - but certainly not about golf. Out now from Amazon for Kindle.

Click here to buy the book.

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!