Thursday, 31 July 2014

That KILLER look

Grabbing a couple of beers from the mini-bar, Tony announced that the only way to conquer girls like Candy and Jenny was to go in all guns blazing, woo them with food and drink and then move in for the kill. He then added that if we played our cards right, we could wine them and dine them out of town, and then come back to the casino for cocktails in our room and round the evening off with rough sex. I said that he was a genius, but added that although we had almost five thousand dollars, we didn't need to blow all of our cash just for sex, because, after all, a decent prostitute wouldn't cost that much. Finishing his beer, and opening a second bottle, Tony agreed with my statement, but he thought that girls like Candy and Jenny were better than prostitutes, because he was certain that they were still virgins, and, as he added, it's always better, even if it costs a little more, to be the first in line with girls like them.

His choice of costume for the evening was truly inspired. Smart black jeans, a crisply ironed white shirt and a glittering suede waistcoat. Then, for the killer look, he pulled on his handmade cowboy boots, which he had stolen from a shop in London, just before the holiday, and stuck on his head his beloved cowboy hat. After looking at his reflection in the mirror, he announced that he was ready to set the world on fire. We then split our cash between the two of us, before heading off to meet up with the girls.

Dave & Tony are looking to have fun with a couple of girls, but how will their evening end?
Extract taken from "Dave Cooper: Tony, me & Vegas" - an ebook for kindle about two British buffoons who should have stayed at home.

Sunday, 27 July 2014

When Merkel met Roy

The sun is beating down and the beer is flowing. The sausages are sizzling, and your neighbour - a fine fella of a man - is entertaining your guests with wonderful jokes and amusing anecdotes.

This is going to be a barbecue to remember. But wait - what the hell is Angela Merkel doing here? Well, she explains, as she peers at the barbecue, any party WITHOUT Angela Merkel is likely to be a dull affair. Her arrogance stuns you and your other guests, and when she starts to criticise your outdated and rusty barbecue, you must hold yourself back from giving her a good beating.

"In Germany, everything is a hundred percent better than in England," she boasts, as she nibbles on a peanut. "We won the world cup, we drive fast cars and everyone has a job."

You look at your chipolatas and want to cry, because you know she is right.

"Fuck you, Angela!" cries a familiar voice, as Roy Hodgson comes bounding over, to help you in your hour of need. "Fuck the world cup!" he continues to rant, clearly drunk on vodka and strong lager. "There's no way that you'll ever rule Europe."

Merkel is stunned. She came with rosé wine and flowers for your wife. She feels hurt and humiliated.

"Continue like zat and I'll bloody go home," she giggles, hoping to impress your other invitees with her mock English accent.

"Piss off!" squeals Wayne Rooney, as he throws a burnt sausage at the most powerful woman in Europe.

You look up to the sky and praise the Almighty one, for you know that Wayne Rooney, after fifteen cans of cider, is game for anything.

Rooney starts to jab his finger at Merkel's left breast. "If you didn't have tits and wear a skirt, I'd swear that you're Adolf Hitler reincarnated," he sneers.

It's then when Francois Hollande - the inept, ugly and very tiresome French president - arrives at Merkel's side. He is seething with anger. He hates Liverpool (even if he's never been there) and he thinks Roy Hodgson should know better, and should send his young striker home.

"Now look, Francois," says Hodgson, slurring his words and stuffing a sausage in his mouth, "Wayne and me don't need much to give us an excuse to give you a bloody good hiding."

"Oh, mon dieu!" says Hollande. "I thought you were better than this, Roy" he adds, upset by Hodgson's behaviour.

"And what's more," says Hodgson, "you're on OUR patch."

Hollande strokes his greasy hair and tries to think of a way to resolve the potentially explosive situation. He is secretly in love with Merkel but he also admires Hodgson's flair and style. Hollande therefore decides to get drunk on Martini and whisky with Rooney and Hodgson, telling himself that Merkel, nude, isn't something he would like to see. Wayne congratulates Hollande on his decision, and presents him with two tickets for Manchester United's next home match. 

"Bollocks to Germany!" screams Hollande, as he asks you for another bottle of Martini.

Peace has been restored and you feel happy that your barbecue is going well. But wait - what the hell is Rolf Harris doing here?

"G'day Sheila," chuckles Harris, as he pinches Merkel's left buttock. "I went over the wall last night. They'll never catch me," he adds, as he sucks on a sausage.

"Fucking pervert!" shouts Hollande, as he dials 999.

"It's all lies," explains Harris, as Mrs. Smith from next door pins Harris to the ground. "Bloody lies and deceit."

Your neighbour pokes Harris in the eye with a chicken leg. He cries out in pain, and wishes that he was back in prison.

"You bloody Sheilas - you're all the same," he moans, as he's dragged away by two police officers.

"And any more from you, and you'll be sharing a cell with 'im," says one of the policemen, giving a warning to Angela Merkel.

"But I am Angela Merkel," she explains, to the baby-faced officer.

"And I'm Father Christmas," chuckles the second policeman, as Harris is shoved into the back of a police car.

"Long live the Queen!" shouts Rooney, as he drops his pants in front of Hollande.

"Long live afternoons like THIS!" shouts Hollande, as he vomits three sausages and two bottles of Martini over Merkel."

"Long live England!" you cry, as you shove a chipolata into your mouth. "Summer was made for THIS."

"WHO WANTS TO SEE ME NAKED?" shouts Merkel, as she gets out her two bazookas.

"Not I," replies Hodgson, as he opens another can of strong cider, before impressing your guests with his impression of Rolf Harris.


Saturday, 12 July 2014


...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