Saturday, 12 July 2014

Death

...back in our hotel room, Glen tended to Tony's cuts and bruises. Tony was naked and outstretched on his bed, and as Glen dabbed at his cuts with cotton wool, Tony smiled, and told Glen that he was a wonderful nurse, and that if he ever decided to give up petty crime, he would easily get a job in a hospital.



Glen then undressed, and after Tony had lowered Glen's boxer shorts, he invited Glen to climb on top of him, insisting that he wanted to try out the sixty-nine position. Glen acknowledged Tony's request, and after straddling Tony's fat stomach, Glen lowered his head between Tony's fat legs, and started to suck on Tony's cock. Tony squealed with delight, and taking Glen's cock into his own mouth, he proceeded to reciprocate the cock-sucking gesture.



Glen ejaculated first, although if Tony had been expecting to receive a mouthful of warm spunk, he discovered that the only fluid which shot from Glen's cock was blood. Tony screamed out, and desperately trying to get Glen to stop, he found more and more blood shooting from Glen's now limp cock. Glen was lifeless on Tony's body, and as the flow of blood continued, I could see that Tony had started to cry.



Tears trickled down Tony's face, and as I tried to understand just what was happening around me, Jill appeared beside me, telling me in her soft voice that it was best if we left the two lovers to get on with whatever it was they were doing.
Tony Joy and Glen, two hard bastards from Catford, are in bed together. But Tony - a fat, foul-mouthed man with a heart of stone - is a real man, and a man who certainly has no homosexual inclinations.

Something has gone terribly wrong in southeast London - but what?

Find out in "The Londoners Trilogy - Four Years In London" - out now on Kindle.


Sunday, 29 June 2014

Only 5 Pence!





Back in the seventies, five pence would have bought you a delicious bar of Galaxy full cream, milk chocolate and a Twix would have set you back three pence.



Yes, this was a time when life was just GREAT, this was a time before the internet and a time before mobile telephones. British TV was probably at its peak - series like The Sweeney, The Two Ronnies and Morecambe & Wise poured from our box-shaped sets - and the music which came from the radio was REAL music, and nothing like the crap we have to tolerate today.



Peter Sutcliffe (aka The Yorkshire Ripper) had started his campaign of hate against prostitutes, the labour party was in the throes of fucking up Great Britain and British Leyland was churning out their shit cars.



1976 was a summer to remember, as glorious days of sun seemed to go on forever. British Rail was in need of life support and power cuts were all the rage. Rubbish piled up in the streets and package holidays to Spain were an alternative to a weekend in Margate.



Blasting a ball through a multi-coloured wall was what Atari offered us in the way of video games and drunken yobbos were happily vandelising telephone kiosks. Football hooligans had a hell of a time and Christmases seemed to last an eternity...



...until midnight, the thirty-first of December, 1979.



Callaghan was out and Thatcher was in. Arthur Scargill was rearing his ugly head and the Falklands war was about to hit the headlines. Maggie wanted victories on all fronts, she drove down unemployment and gave simple folk the chance to buy their council houses. Saturday nights out seemed much better and holidays in the sun were a must. Pot Noodles and boil-in-the-bag curries were an alternative to fish and chips and British TV seemed to be getting better. New video games popped up like wild flowers and Marks & Spencer was queen of the High Street. There was a feel-good factor sweeping through our land, and if a bar of Galaxy full cream, milk chocolate was more expensive, who cared!



Were they the good old days? I dunno, but a blast of nostalgia never did anyone any harm, and neither did a bar of Pink Panther chocolate or a go at space invaders.



Long live the future, for the past is dead. Long live Poundland, for Woolworths is dead. Long live Snickers, for Marathon is dead.

Monday, 16 June 2014

Utter Crap!

 
Some will blame it on the heat, some will say the pitch was bloody awful and others will say that we did our best. But as another glorious defeat is delivered by the England football team, why don't we just admit that, as a nation, we are not capable of playing football at the highest standard.

As usual, the pre-match hype had England as victors in their difficult, first-round match, against those pizza-loving, pasta-stuffing Italians, who clearly need to be brought down a peg or two. Thousands of England fans had made the trip from Blighty to Brazil, and millions of supporters throughout our green and pleasant land were either in the pub, or at home, rubbing their hands in anticipation of the good hiding we were going to give to Italy's finest.

And so, ninety minutes later, Roy Hodgson's young lions bowed their heads in shame, after another inept and useless performance of the highest standard.

Next Thursday, when England face Uruguay in their second match, I won't even watch the game. Why bother? Instead, I'll read a book, surf the net, dig up a few weeds from the garden, tidy the shed or clean the barbecue.

   
Geriatric manager, Roy Hodgson, is ready for retirement, and has no hope whatsoever of bringing the World Cup back to England. During the match, when the camera zoomed in on Hodgson's face, he looked like a man who wished that he was back at home, far away from the shambles which he was orchestrating. Then, at times, he appeared to be talking to himself or gazing wide-eyed into the air, looking for inspiration and wondering why his team was in the process of fucking-up another World Cup campaign.

Everyone knows that aggression and an attacking mentality will reap its rewards. The only way to win a game of Monopoly is by attacking the other players from the outset, by buying all of the property, and selling it on at ludicrous prices, thus crippling, financially, your opponents. The only way to win a boxing match is to thrash the other guy to near-death. The only way to win a war is by bombing the enemy and then rolling over them with tanks. So, naturally, the only way to win a football match is...

Thank God that England is still up there with the best, when it comes to being a great nation, and that our display in Brazil will do nothing to take the edge off some of our finest non-football related victories. We've won wars, we've ruled empires and we gave the world delightful country pubs, fish and chips and Phil Taylor - the world's GREATEST darts player!





 


Sunday, 1 June 2014

A Holiday From Hell












“Bloody hell, what’s that smell?” grunted Phil, as a bitter odour filled his nostrils.

“Jesus Christ!” exclaimed Clare, as she turned around and raced out of the house. “It smells like something’s died in there!”

“That’s authentic Normandy dust,” laughed Deano, as he finally found the light switch. He then pushed at the button, illuminating the hallway with a flickering and dim light. By now Clare had rejoined the others, and covering her nose, she looked at the sight before her.

“What the hell have you brought us to, Deano?” she asked her boyfriend. Deano looked ahead and smiled.

“It’s just dust, Baby,” he replied, trying hard to resist the overpowering smell of rotten meat. “Once we’ve got the windows open, and a few drinks inside of us, you’ll see things differently.”

“ERRR!!!” shrieked Sarah. “You don’t want to go in the kitchen. It’s disgusting in there.” Clare brushed past Sarah to take a look for herself. She then reappeared a few seconds later.

“I can confirm what Sarah has said,” she said. “The kitchen is a cesspit – like the rest of the bloody house, I suppose.”

“Eh! Deano,” said Phil. “Where’s the pool meant to be?”

“At the back of the house,” replied Deano.

“Well, I’ve just been round the back, and all I could see was a pit of leaves and rainwater,” said Phil, as he scratched his neck.


Welcome to Normandy : "Clare's Holiday" - an amusing ebook for Kindle, by Luke Ryman.
The fun starts in France and finishes in Margate, via too much Chardonnay, love and self-discovery.
Happy holidays!!!

Friday, 23 May 2014

Somewhere In Normandy...










When the pretty girl returned with more drinks, Phil said that he was starving. He then looked at the girl, and smiling at her, he launched into conversation with her.

“Can we eat here, sweetheart?” he enquired, as Clare looked on. This, she thought, was going to be fun. The girl shrugged her shoulders, as she struggled to understand what Phil was saying.

“Eat,” he repeated, motioning with his hands that he was cutting imaginary food with a knife and fork.

“Ah, mais oui,” replied the girl, smiling at the tattooed beast, before putting on her best English accent. “’ere we ‘ave some fine foodz. What does it you want?”

“Yeah!” replied Phil excitingly. “We’re getting there. Have you got any cheeseburgers?”

Clare burst out laughing. “Oh, Phil and his cheeseburgers. How lovely.”

“Comment?” replied the girl. “What is this cheezburgers?”

“You know,” said Sarah. “C H E E S E B U R G E R S.”

“Oh, mais non,” said the girl, registering at last what a cheeseburger was. “’ere we ‘ave steak and frize or just a sandweech.”


Phil should have stayed at home, or at least learnt French. Have they really gone all that way to eat bloody cheeseburgers in the culinary capital of the world? Find out, by sailing away with Clare, Deano, Phil - the tattooed one - and his vulgar girlfriend, Sarah.




Extract taken from "Clare's Holiday" - an ebook for Kindle, by Luke Ryman

Saturday, 17 May 2014

I'll Drink To That!



Drink beer, talk rubbish!




With summer rapidly heading our way, like a juggernaut  thundering along an open highway, the time is upon us to dust off our barbecues, get out the garden furniture and dream of spending lazy days drinking lager and eating burnt sausages, whilst complaining that it's too hot outside. Then there's the bloody flies, the screaming kids next door and the bastard who has decided to mow his lawn at the same time that you want to sleep and dream of England.


Yes, the football season is over but the World Cup is still to come. Last winter's rain clouds have buggered off and pretty girls dressed in shorts and t-shirts are ready to make an appearance. The sausages and pork chops have been given their last rites, the crunching sound of charcoal being poured onto the barbecue fills the air, a can of lager is opened, the banter between friends increases and the fire is lit. And then - like an old friend who we haven't seen since last year - the smell of those sizzling sausages and pork chops, cooking over the red-hot charcoal, fills the air.


Pssst goes another can of lager, as the only neighbour you've invited - yes, him from two doors further down the street - rips the ringpull and starts to empty the delicious, ice-cold liquid down his throat, before commenting on the fact that he thinks that Arsene Wenger is a complete and utter wanker.


Your best friend - a beast of a man who happens to be a life-long Arsenal fan - cannot believe what he's just heard. He has been drinking neat vodka since ten o'clock in the morning, so four hours later - and three bottles further on - insults aimed at Monsieur Wenger must be dealt with accordingly.


Of course, your neighbour quickly apologises for his foul-mouthed outburst, and tries to pacify your friend by saying that Wenger is, in fact, a fine football manager who has achieved much in his glittering career at Arsenal.


You step in - in between turning the sausages, flipping the pork chops and drinking more lager - to tell your friend that no harm has been done, and that your neighbour is very sorry about the offence he may have caused.


Pssst goes another can of lager and laughter once again fills the air. A major incident has been avoided.


Sadly, your friend just cannot let such remarks be brushed under the carpet, and even if there are women and children present, and he should know better, your vodka-fuelled best chum decides to deliver a well-aimed punch towards your neighbour's cocky and smug grin.


Blood spurts in all directions, as your neighbour goes crashing down - the little turd will clearly think twice before accepting another invitation from you - onto the sausages and pork chops. He screams in pain as he burns his hands and your friend laughs with delight as he surveys the scene before him.


Your guests try not to get involved, and after finishing their sangria and rosé, they say their farewells and leave- unfed and unimpressed.


Your wife starts crying and your dog eats the scattered sausages and pork chops. There is no more lager in the fridge and you think that your neighbour may need to go to hospital, because his third-degree burns look quite bad. Your best friend is still laughing to himself, as he opens another bottle of vodka and starts to sing God Save the Queen.


Only a few minutes earlier, beneath the scorching sun, your garden seemed like such a jolly place to be, where children played and men shared jokes. Now it's just an empty space, with blood on the  ground, a neighbour in pain and a friend who has got Arsenal running through his veins.


I like barbecues. I like lager. I hate Arsenal!


Luke Ryman is an indie author. He is the creator of Cooper and Joy and author of the "But Bloody France!" series of ebooks.












Monday, 12 May 2014

True Love In Margate

Someone is in love, in Margate. Who loves who, and why?





Tina, I love you

Tina, I want to live with you

I want to love with you

I want to die with you

Please, do not leave me

Do not hurt me

Do not make me cry

Tina, I love you

Poem taken from "Clare's Holiday" and "Those Margate Days, Those Lonely Nights." Out now on Kindle, via Amazon.