Sunday, 30 December 2012

Drugged & Robbed In Las Vegas



 
The Third Day.


            I'm not sure if it was the early morning sun burning my face which woke me, or the roar of the engines of an overhead plane, as it came into land. In fact, it was neither of these things, but instead officer Baker prodding me in the ribs, to see if I was okay.
 

            Well – I was just fine! I had enjoyed a very pleasant evening with my dear friend, Tony Joy, and after dining on the finest food money could buy, we had finished the evening by having rough sex with Candy and Jenny. And now, the morning after, here I was stretched out in the Nevada desert, with the mother of all headaches and dry throats. And then, when I rubbed my eyes to get a better view, I could see the kind face of officer Baker, and out of the corner of my right eye, I could just make out the flashing lights of his patrol car. And finally, when my brain finally started to whir into life, I asked myself why I was where I was, and why I wasn't lying in my comfortable hotel bed, with Candy for company.
 

                                   *          *          *         *         *       *       *        *       *       *        *
 

            The coffee was fantastic, and the headache tablets had started to work. But as the nurse dabbed my face with cotton wool, my sunburnt skin stung like hell! She consoled me and said that the redness would disappear in a few days, but I told her that I wanted the redness to disappear straight away. She just gave me a motherly sort of smile and continued to dab away at my face, telling me that she didn't get many English patients.
 
Dave Cooper in the hands of a kind nurse, after having been drugged and robbed in Las Vegas.
Extract from "An American Adventure" - an Ebook for Kindle, to make you smile.



Thursday, 27 December 2012

They're Just Pieces Of Meat To The Man



The pub was packed with tourists and Londoners. There wasn't a spare seat in the house. Glen's two female companions leant on his muscular frame. They had probably been on their feet for a few hours, and now they were tired. What they would have given for two barstools to perch themselves upon. Glen ignored the girls. He didn't give a fuck about them being tired. If they were weary, they could go. He had girls everywhere. They were just two of the many sluts which stuck to him. Here, he gave a lesson to me on how women should be treated. The Man had no time for love affairs and affection. To him, a woman was a piece of meat which was there to be fucked. Cunt, arse or mouth. These are the openings into which he emptied his balls on a regular basis, whenever he wasn't sat at a bar, drinking his lager like a fucking queer.
 
 
Glen - a real man - treating his girls like dirt.
Extract taken from "The Londoners 2" - an Ebook for Kindle, by Luke Ryman, availabe via Amazon.


Wednesday, 19 December 2012

The Joy Of Christmas - Part Two


So, you've managed to get the tree into the house, by dragging it through the garden, before carrying out a complex manoeuvre which involves turning the tree on its side, so you can get the bloody thing through the kitchen and into the dining room, where it will take pride of place in the corner of the room.

Now, to please your wife, you decide to decorate the tree in her absence.The decorations are from last year, and to be perfectly honest - they're total crap. But what the hell - an hour later your overgrown, Norwegian, overpriced tree looks so much better. This, you tell yourself, is because the fragile baubles and plastic angels make all the difference. And then, once the lights are on, and the musical bell which plays fifty different Christmas carols has been brought to life, you tell yourself that you deserve a drink.

So, the lager flows as the singing bell fills the room with Silent Night. Then, more lager flows, and even if the singing bell brings joy to you, after the twenty-fifth, randomly selected carol, you decide that the bell is beginning to annoy you, in the same way that Bing Crosby does whenever he sings about dreaming of a white Christmas (see previous post).

After seven cans of lager your wife arrives home. She's finally finished the last of the Christmas shopping, and is in need of a glass of white wine. Off come her boots and down go the bags. She sails into the dining room, happy that the bank account is empty, and the shopping is done. And then she looks at the tree, and taking a sip of her white wine, she believes that the tree would be better in the lounge.

You attempt to reason with her, and even if you pride yourself on your negotiating skills, the woman of your life has already made up her mind.

After another can of lager you grab the tree by its baubles, and after dragging it across the floor, you encounter your first problem. The tree is too wide and tall to pass through the doorway. Your wife suggests, as she opens a second bottle of white wine, that by tilting the tree forty-five degrees, success will be guaranteed.


 In fact, the required angle of tilt was fifty degrees, but after an hour spent transferring the tree from one room to another, it's too late in the day to start arguing about the importance of five degrees.

You stare at the tree and want to cry. All of its pine needles have been lost in the move from the dining room to the lounge, most of last year's decorations are smashed and ruined, and the lights no longer want to function. However, the musical bell has survived what resembles a tsunami, and as you open another can of lager, and pour your wife another glass of wine, Silent Night fills the air!


Sunday, 16 December 2012

Drinking The Night Away



But Tony didn't care, because he was buying drinks for Eleanor, and rubbing his sweaty body against hers, on the edge of the very long sofa. He was rubbing her arm with his sweaty hand, and telling her that he was a self-made man. He was bombarding her with lies and deceit, knowing that she was impressed by the tales he told. And then came more drinks for Amanda, for she was kind, and she had brought us to this wonderful club. There were more drinks for Emma and me, because we were Tony's friends, and this is how he liked to treat his friends. And there were more drinks for Eleanor, because she was Tony's friend, and she would share his bed that night, and do things for him like no other woman had ever done. And then there were more drinks for Jenny. And drinks for her boyfriend. And drinks for a Chinese girl. And more drinks for Amanda. And for Amanda's boyfriend. And for a man who said he was a friend of Amanda's boyfriend. And more drinks for Eleanor's friend. And more drinks for whoever was dying of thirst in that dark, hot, vibrating club.

Tony Joy buying drinks for his new friends.
Extract taken from "The Londoners 2 - After Love Comes Hate"
An Ebook for Kindle, via Amazon, by Luke Ryman.
An Ebook about two men drifting aimlessly through life.

Saturday, 15 December 2012

The Prisoner


I told Lisa to sit down. She turned, and making for the door, she knew that if she didn't get out of the flat, she was probably going to suffer at the hands of Tony and me. Too quick for me, she reached the door before I had time to react, but unbeknown to her, Tony had locked the door, and therefore she was imprisoned in our filthy home. Now, I thought, the fun could begin.

Dragging her, by her hair, back to the sofa, Tony made it clear that if she screamed, Lisa would suffer more than was absolutely necessary, and because she seemed like an intelligent girl, it was best if she let us just have our fun. After that, he promised, she could be on her way.

A girl is going to suffer in our hovel of a home.
Tony Joy and Dave Cooper with only one thing on their minds.
Extract taken from "The Londoners 2 - After Love Comes Hate"
An Ebook for Kindle, via Amazon, by Luke Ryman.

Friday, 14 December 2012

Visiting Glen In North London


To get to Glen's home we had to take a short train ride to an underground station, board a train heading north,  disembark, head through a labyrinth of subways, wait on another platform, join another train, spend fifteen minutes of our lives being transported even further north, and then step out into the most miserable landscape known to man. And during all of this time Tony  gripped firmly a blue holdall, into which he had stashed the stolen goods.

Glen's kingdom was on the very edge of north London, where there is a saturation of danger-ridden housing estates, little employment, decay, no hope, old people living in fear, vandalised shops, unwelcoming pubs, and  destroyed bus shelters. I had always thought that where Jill lived was rough, but in comparison to where I now found myself, it was paradise on earth.

But Tony thought that this part of the world was full of character, and that if a man could survive living in such a place, he could survive anything. Here was a part of the world in which only the strongest existed, and the weaker members of society were certainly not welcome.

We crossed a foot-bridge which spanned a busy road. In the distance I could hear the thunder of traffic. I looked to my right and saw the faint outline of a motorway. Thousands of cars, trucks, and coaches roared by, almost touching the edge of London, yet managing to carry on heading north or south, without being sucked into this cesspit. Good luck to the bastards, I thought. They were the lucky ones. The drivers and passengers could see all of this shit from their windows, and they would have been happy to know that they didn't live here.

 When we got to the other side of the bridge I commented on the litter which was blowing wildly around on the ground. Rusted cans and ancient newspapers. Just when did anyone clean this fucking dump? Then there was the dog shit, the cheeseburger wrappers, the abandoned syringes, and the condoms. What! People actually fuck here?

Tony Joy and Dave Cooper heading north, to do business with a very undesirable individual.
Extract taken from "The Londoners 2 - After Love Comes Hate" Now available for Kindle, via Amazon.

Tuesday, 11 December 2012

The Londoners 2: After Love Comes Hate



Behind these eyes - bulging and bloodshot - is a very sick and depraved mind. It is a mind where kindness and gentleness are now strangers. It is a mind which has become polluted over the years, and it is a mind which is now beyond the point of unravelling and understanding.
 
 
These eyes are used to undress young ladies, as they sit in the corner of the pub, drinking their vodka and coke, whilst laughing and joking with their boyfriends. These eyes tell young men that violence is the answer to all of life's problems, and if they have a problem, violently is how they will be dealt with. These eyes say that life is a constant struggle, but with alcohol and young ladies to undress, things aren't really that bad, are they?
 
 
And so Anthony Joy - with bulging and bloodshot eyes - is facing another crisis in his miserable life.
 
 
Never has Anthony been this poor, and never has Anthony felt so depressed.
 
 
Anthony Joy is at war with the world. A war confined to video games, but soon a war to be fought on the very streets in which he lives.
 
 
Anthony Joy is going to plunge to new depths, sink lower than he has ever been before, and try and salvage something from his disaster of a life.
 
 
The time for playing is over. In twenty-four hours things will seem so much better.
 
 
But life has never been easy for Anthony Joy...
 
 
The gloves are off in Catford, and the time for talking is over. There are no longer any rules to follow, and the winner will take all. Join Anthony Joy and David Cooper, as they set out to enrich themselves, in "The Londoners 2 - After Love Comes Hate"
 
An Ebook for Kindle, available from Amazon.


Wednesday, 5 December 2012

The Joy Of Christmas - Part One

Bing Crosby spent most of his time dreaming of a white one, Andy Williams believed that it was the most wonderful time of the year, and not wanting to feel left out in the cold, Perry Como joined forces with David Bowie, to entertain us with a delightful song about a little drummer boy.
 
And love them or hate them, one thing is for sure, if you don't find yourself whistling a Christmas tune by the end of this month - whether stuck in a lift, waiting to see a dentist, sitting behind your computer, taking a shower, waiting in the queue at the supermarket checkout or emptying your bowels - you're not really human, are you?
 
 



Ahhh...God bless Perry, Bing, Andy and a host of others, including Roger Whittaker, Slade, Wham and just about every other recording artist of the last century, and this one, for making Christmas such a special time of year.
As I write, I am overcome with nostalgia and the effects of cheap red wine, thinking about spending many a Christmas Eve in a fine English pub, drinking lager, smoking my cheap cigars, laughing and joking with the other customers, nibbling away at the free cheese and onion sandwiches, and listening to the jukebox, as another sad bastard paid fifty pence to listen to another Christmas song - knowing that The Sex Pistols, Iron Maiden, The Smiths and The Who would certainly not be permitted to fill the air with their fine music, at such a special time of year.
 
Then came more lager, more cigars, more crude and vulgar jokes and more stale cheese and onion sandwiches. Then, as is the norm at this time of year, enter the charity collector - dressed in a Santa Claus outfit - collecting on behalf of the local puppy hospice. Ahhh...out comes a banknote, because not even a hard-faced bugger like Luke Ryman can allow a poor puppy to suffer at this time of year. And then, out comes another coin, as I trudge off towards the jukebox, to blast away the thoughts of puppies suffering with the sound of God Save The Queen, sung delightfully by The Sex Pistols. 
 
And that's when the looks come. What the hell have I done? Well, in my half-drunken state, I have stuck two fingers up to tradition, belched at the dreary bastards who I've been laughing and joking with, and decided that although white Christmases are all very nice, I don't need to overload my brain with Bing's sentimental slush, and Andy's irritating refrains. NO! I want music to shake the pub, music to wake us all from our slumber, and music to help me forget about this time of year.
 
Even the landlord gives me a filthy look. It's best, his face says, if I finish my drink and go to another pub, where my kind of people are welcome to pollute the air with vile lyrics, at the time of year when the anniversary of the birth of our Lord should not be celebrated with punks singing a song about the monarchy.
 
I tell the landlord that his sandwiches are crap. I tell the landlord that his lager is warm. I wish the other customers a MERRY F**KING CHRISTMAS, and in my drunken state, I send a couple of baubles flying across the pub.
 
The landlord isn't angry with me, for after all, this is Christmas, when peace and goodwill to all men is what this most wonderful time of the year is all about!
 





 






Saturday, 1 December 2012

Collecting Debts The Sunday Before Christmas

Ahhh...I remember it as though it was only yesterday.
I was a fine model of a man - twenty years younger than I am now - setting out on my career with Provident Personal Credit.
Section Manager in the Dover office, bursting to do well, and wanting promotion like I have never wanted anything before.
My manager was an Irish chap, and after he had sold me the job, he told me that I could go far.
And just what did this wonderful job entail? Well, in a word - or two - collecting debts.
Trudging the streets of Dover, Aylesham and Folkestone, late at night, when most other people were sat at home finishing their evening meals, and getting ready for an evening in front of the television. Trudging the streets. Dodging the rain. Laughing at the threats aimed my way. Dodging the rain. Wondering why I wasn't at home. Trudging the streets. Taking all of the insults. Wondering why I wasn't in the pub.

Behind these windows were some very violent people. Aylesham ex-miners. Unemployed. They had borrowed their money - and they weren't going to repay it. Evil people with aggressive dogs. And then there were the foul-mouthed kids who would attack you with stones as you walked up their garden path. And then there were people like Bob and Brenda - two hopeless parasites - who showed warmth and kindness, by offering me poor-quality lager, if I didn't bother them too much about the arrears on their massive debt. Bob and Brenda. He was unhygenic and she was fat. And then there was their dog...
Of course, I soon lost interest in my marvellous job, and decided that sitting in a pub, getting drunk, was much better than trying to collect debts from people like Bob and Brenda, the Sunday before Christmas, when the debtors of Dover, Aylesham and Folkestone had other things to spend their money on.

And so, some twenty years later, nostalgia got the better of me, and thinking of the awful lager they offered me, and their stinking home, I decided to make space for Bob and Brenda in my very first book.

See Bob and Brenda in "Dave Cooper Is Unemployed" - An Ebook for Kindle, by Luke Ryman.

Tuesday, 27 November 2012

We Always Have Time For Our Friends


If it appears that Mr. Joy and myself spend most of our time either in our favourite pub, or eating unhealthy food in dirty cafés, this is certainly not the case.
Some of our time - although not a great deal - is allocated to visiting friends in need of support and help, because as Tony rightly says, without friends the world would be a terrible place.
Regular readers of this blog may already know some of our buddies, and probably ask themselves why we associate with miscreants and no-hopers, such as Kevin - the potato peeler from hell - and Andy, a man who is terribly dull, but also very rich, and therefore a fine friend to have when one is down and out, and wondering where the next drink is going to come from.
We recently visited another of our friends in prison, where Jim finds himself incarcerated after carrying out another arson attack.
Jim is no stranger to life behind bars, and although the thought of visiting him hardly had me frothing at the mouth with excitement, Tony reckons that visiting people in prison makes one realise the importance of freedom.
Needless to say, Jim was hardly the life and soul of the party, as he sat there in his prison clothes, banging on about the terrible food which he's forced to eat.
Mercifully, the visit was short, and on bidding our friend a cheerful farewell, I was only too glad to get to the nearest pub, to flush the taste of prison from my mouth.
Tony said that I'm a heartless bastard, but agreed that Jim's his own worst enemy, and that if you play with fire, you will eventually get burnt - and in Jim's case, you will also burn down a supermarket.

Read about more of our attempts to help bring a smile to Jim's face, in "The Londoners 2" - an Ebook for Kindle, available via Amazon.


Friday, 23 November 2012

Dirty Plates & Grease On His Chin



The cardboard sign in the window promises "GREAT FOOD & CHEEP TOO."
Mr. Joy chuckles to himself, for even he knows that CHEEP should be CHEAP.
But we have not come to criticise our host's ability to spell, because filling our stomachs with fine English food is more important than educating a man, and after another evening spent getting drunk and making fools of ourselves, greasy food is the only way to get our bodies back on track.
The Polish girl behind the counter smiles at us. The Turkish man in the kitchen gives us a cheerful wave. Tony opts for the table by the window, because he likes to watch the world go rolling by, as he stuffs his face with bacon, fried eggs, mushrooms, fried bread, tomatoes and baked beans. And then, after his meal, he will light a cigarette, because here, in this café, smoking is both permitted and encouraged.
Yes! The food is GREAT, and it's also CHEAP, and if you don't mind dirty plates, stained tables, a server who can't understand a word of English and the sight of Mr. Joy wiping grease from his chin with the back of his hand,  a fine breakfast in such an establishment is one of life's pleasures.
But now, because the world has gone slightly mad, what should be a generation of café addicts, like Tony and myself, tend to target more refined establishments offering hygiene, chrome tables, French pastries and thirty-seven types of coffee.
Coffee and a croissant may be a delightful way to start the day in Paris, but here, in south-east London, greasy food and cold tea wins every time for two useless layabouts like Anthony Joy and David Cooper.
David Cooper getting very emotional about dining in style. He and Anthony Joy eat in such an establishment, at the beginning of an awful day, in "The Londoners 2" - now available for Kindle, via Amazon.
Future postings, coming soon:
Jim - A Convicted Arsonist Having A Terrible Time In Prison
When I Was Younger...


Sunday, 18 November 2012

Another Sunday In The Lives Of Cooper & Joy



The stench of stale lager. The stench of terrible food. The stench of defeat, after losing at darts to some very excited French students. The stench of the toilets. The stench of the street.
Ahhh...disgusting it may be, but to Tony and me this is life.
And after our lunchtime in the pub, tonight we will dine on the finest frozen pizzas our money can buy.
YES! Frozen pizzas, cans of lager, cigarettes and perhaps another trip to the pub.
Those dear French boys and girls wiped the floor with Tony at me.
Still - and for once in his life - the fattest man in Catford showed that he can be a good loser, and took defeat on the chin. After all, and as Tony rightly says, we may have lost at darts, but was it not the Duke Of Wellington who made an entire nation proud, as he punished Napoleon, and gave Abba the inspiration they needed to record their first number one hit.
That's Tony all over - in the hour of defeat, he can still find something to smile about.


Wednesday, 14 November 2012

After Love Comes Hate...




...for it is hatred, and only hatred, which can focus a man's mind, and help him achieve all of his ambitions.
This is what Tony Joy believes, and this is what Dave Cooper must also believe, if he is to move on in life.
But whilst Tony may be naturally unpleasant, Dave is at heart a loving man, who really wants nothing more in life than a woman to love, and to break free from his miserable existence in south-east London.

Forget about love, David, and join Tony in the real world - because if you don't, you're on your own.



"The Londoners 2 - After Love Comes Hate" is now available for Kindle, via Amazon.



Tuesday, 6 November 2012

Real Love






She was already controlling me, and it was scary. Nobody or nothing had ever controlled me before. There had been other women, but only for quick excursions into their loose c*nts. The dirty slags who come into the pub every Saturday night, looking for free drinks in exchange for a few seconds of intercourse in an unmade bed or the back of a car. The slags who outnumber the classy, refined ladies, like Jill, and who give womanhood a terrible name.

Dave Cooper happy to be in love with a refined woman. Extract taken from "The Londoners" - An ebook for Kindle, by Luke Ryman.
 

Thursday, 25 October 2012

We Haven't Always Been Idle

Apart from our stint as removal men, Tony once worked in a local pizzeria, which, because he likes eating pizza, he thought sounded like a good job for him. The pizzeria in question is a few streets away from where we live, and I think that my fat friend was probably carried away by images of sunny Italy, and people sitting outdoors, eating their food, whilst watching the world go rolling by. In reality it was nothing like that, and when Tony wasn't stood in a filthy kitchen, trying to make the perfect pizza, he was expected to shoot around south-east London, on a ridiculously undersized moped, delivering orders to the restaurant's customers. His career in pizzas didn't last a whole week, and since then, Tony has decided that catering isn't for him.

Tony's very brief career in pizzas. Extract taken from "The Londoners" - An Ebook for Kindle by Luke Ryman.
***Coming Soon - "The Londoners 2"

Thursday, 18 October 2012

Shrine


Tony's bedroom was just as he left it all of those months ago, when we had excitedly left our flat in search of some fun in Las Vegas. His bed was unmade, because as he said at the time, he was more interested in boarding our flight to Vegas, than worrying about making sure his bed looked neat and tidy, before leaving for our holiday of a lifetime. I remember that I agreed with him, and told him that an unmade bed is not as bad as what our mothers had made us believe.

Strewn across the bedroom floor were Tony's t-shirts and underpants, together with his much-loved Arsenal shorts, which he had stolen from a sports shop during a Christmastime shoplifting spree. He was really proud of the fact that he had managed to get away with the shorts, without being caught, and said that while he agreed that shoplifting is immoral, he got a real buzz from walking into a shop and helping himself to whatever he wanted.

He had even left an unfinished glass of lager on his bedside table, and after peering into it, I saw that a film of dead insects and mould had started to develop on the surface. All of a sudden I no longer had the urge to go to the pub for a pint of lager, and not wanting to vomit all over myself, I backed away from the table, and continued to look for any cash that Tony may have inadvertently scattered throughout his bedroom, in the same way a squirrel hordes nuts, so in barren times it always has something to eat, and doesn't have to worry about where its next meal is going to come from.

But Tony had left nothing of any value lying around, unless his stash of pornographic magazines had some sort of resale value. But even then, there was no way I was going to touch his magazines, because soiled magazines containing pictures of nude women are on the same level as unfinished glasses of lager.

I kicked one of his socks across the floor and swore loudly. He was in Florida, doing very nicely for himself, and I was in London, doing not very nicely. I then took a final look around his room, and told myself that he wasn't coming back, and that his room was going to stay as he had left it, in the same way that parents leave the rooms of children who are killed in road accidents, or tragic drownings.

It was a shrine.

Dave Cooper feeling terribly lonely, realising that his only friend in the world, Tony, is enjoying a new life in the U.S.A.
Extract taken from "An American Adventure" -By Luke Ryman. Ebook & paperback version available from Amazon.
God Bless America!

Thursday, 11 October 2012

Peeling Potatoes For A Living

I'm thirty-seven and live above a pub, in a very small, but well-equipped flat. The rent's cheap, because I work in the pub, where I spend my days peeling vegetables in the kitchen, occasionally working behind the bar, and doing other things for the landlord, Tom. The pub has got to be the best one in town, because it's always packed, especially at lunchtimes, and is perched on the edge of a cliff. I would like to say that my room overlooks the sea, but it doesn't, because it's at the back of the building, and all I can see is the backyard, which is full of overflowing dustbins, empty bottles, and plastic crates. It's a shit view, but it's better than having nothing at all to look at, which is what it would be like if I was homeless, and living under a cardboard roof in the middle of the nearby woods, with the immigrants.

Kevin, happy to live on the coast, in "The Londoners" - an Ebook by Luke Ryman.

Sunday, 7 October 2012

Glen

Glen

I was born and raised in London, and apart from the occasional trip to the coast, when I was little, I have never been any further than here. I'm not even sure why my old man and mum found it necessary to go to the seaside, especially when they didn't really have the money to pay for the train tickets, and I was so young that I didn't really appreciate – what the old man referred to as – the change of air. After all, I've done okay up to now breathing in the shit air that hangs over London, so why the hell he made such a fuss about a trip to the coast is beyond me.

I come from a rough part of north London, from an estate that should have been demolished years ago, but is still standing, because people have to live somewhere. Dad was a hopeless alcoholic, who never did a days work in his life, and was never going to be a role model for me. Mum was a cleaner at my school, and when I think about her leaving home every afternoon, when I returned from school, to clean the classrooms, and brush the shit from the inside of the toilets, it makes me think that if having a job is all about doing things like THAT, then I'm glad to be unemployed.

My teachers gave up on me after a year, saying to my parents that I was a lost cause. They probably realised when they saw my old man, that with an alcoholic father, and a mother who cleaned toilets in the very school where I was meant to have been educated, that I hadn't been given the best start in life. So when dad died of liver failure, and mum turned to drink to ease the pain of losing her good-for-nothing husband, my life certainly didn't get any better – and I was only fourteen.

Trouble came when I was fifteen, when I was caught vandalising cars on the estate. The police came and told mum that the next time I was caught I wouldn't get off so lightly. I just carried on, and so when the police returned to our slum home on the seventh floor, they kept their word, and said that I had one foot in a youth detention centre, and that people like me were better off locked up, and out of the way. Mum couldn't have cared a less, because all she wanted to do was die. I managed to calm myself down, and although I still played with fire, I was too smart to get my fingers burnt.

At sixteen I got a part-time job at a garage, a mile away from where I lived, where I helped the mechanics repair cars, and kept the workshop clean. I've always been interested in cars, and I think the garage owner, Mister Green, probably thought that I was in fact a good lad, who hadn't been given the best possible start in life. For the first few months I kept out of trouble, but people like me can't stay good forever, and so when I stole the day's takings from the garage, it was start of things to come. Mister Green couldn't understand why I had done such a stupid thing, because he thought that he had always treated me like his own son. That made me laugh more than anything else, because I was nobody's son, but just a young man who couldn't avoid trouble for long, and who repaid human kindness with a kick in the balls.

The youth detention centre did nothing to cure me, and like most prisons, I came out even worse than I had been before I went in. The council gave me a flat in a tower block, on a crime-ridden estate, and from there I was supposed to reconstruct my life, and make myself into something that I could be proud of. What a load of fucking rubbish that was, and so having no interest in rebuilding myself, I set out to make money through whatever means I could.

I used to catch a bus to Oxford Street on Saturdays, in the summer, to see if the pickpocketing skills I had acquired in prison were any good. At first I was useless, but after practising my technique and throwing caution to the wind, I soon started to line my pockets with stolen wallets and purses. Then came the mobile phones, the portable computers, and whatever else I could get my hands on, to sell to one of my buyers on the market. After a while I decided that the time I was wasting in taking a bus to Oxford Street was time I could have been spending in the pub. So, I promoted myself, and after recruiting a couple of black kids from my estate, I told them that they could get fifty percent of whatever they managed to steal – BUT they worked for me.

That's how I know Tony. He's not from my estate, but every now and then, whenever he gets his hands on any credit cards or 'phones, he gives me a call, and we'll do a deal. Tony's a good at pickpocketing, because he knows where to look, what he wants, and is not too greedy. He'll do the trains on the underground, all Saturday afternoon, because he knows that's where the money is to be made. He keeps the cash for himself, but cards and 'phones he can't do anything with, so he'll pass them on to me. Passports are another thing that I can work with, because with a passport you can open up so many possibilities.

These days, I move around a lot more than before, and so when Tony gave me a stolen underground season ticket, it made me smile. He said that I know longer had to remain static. I didn't even know what static meant, but when Dave explained to me, I laughed. I prefer Tony to Dave, because Tony is like me – he would steal from his own mother, and to hell with the consequences. He's idle, a drinker, and doesn't care about what he says. Dave likes to give the impression that he's the same as us, but he's never been a pickpocket, and for me he's too cocky. The other thing with him is that he'll never look in your eyes when he talks to you, whereas Tony will stare at you, to show you that he doesn't give a fuck about how big you are, or who you are, because he's just the same.

I think that Dave does okay thanks to Tony, but their friendship is all one way. It's not Dave that goes out to steal, and it's not Dave who comes to see me with credit cards and mobile 'phones. He just sits at home and waits for Tony to come home with the money. I reckon that Dave thinks that we're just kids, getting a laugh from stealing from tourists, but when I showed him my iron bar once, and said that I wasn't afraid to use it, he knew that sometimes we have to take care of ourselves, and that a life of crime isn't without risks.

I know Tony would help me out if I really needed a hand, because him and me have got the same sort of background – raised on a crap estate, crap parents, and a shit start in life. He knows that it's on the streets where the money is to be made. But most people prefer Dave, because he's clever with words, not violent, and just another face in the crowd. I think he knows that I've got him worked out, which is why he's not so cocky when I'm around, and literally stands behind Tony if he's nervous of anyone around him. But he won't ever bother me, because I've got nothing that he wants, and he's not got anything that interests me.

Tony and me are the same age, and we both act like a couple of teenagers. I mean, he spends most of his life in his favourite pub, and me in mine, and we act and think like people twenty-five years younger than us. The crime and violence is something I've always wanted, because where I come from, there are no jobs, and that's how people survive. I don't even think that it's wrong to do what I do, because if I didn't do it, I would be a burden to society, and be costing the tax-payers thousands of pounds. Instead, I'm self-sufficient, and don't bother the authorities that much. It's years since I was at the detention centre, and since then, I've not once been in trouble with the police. My flat isn't even in my own name, so I'm fairly certain that I don't even appear on any government records. I'm just a man that's seen about town, going about his business, and not causing too much trouble. Okay, so I live off immoral earnings, and somewhere there are thousands of people who've had their pockets picked over the years, but they're still alive and breathing, and apart from being a bit poorer, those people probably got over having their money stolen, and moved on in life.

I don't like mindless violence, and I only use my iron bar if I really have to, and only when I need to protect myself. It makes me laugh when people talk about Glen and his iron bar, as though I spend most of my life laying into people for no apparent reason. Well, that's not the case, and because I steer clear of drugs, and shit like that, I seem to get by, without being involved in anything that I'd rather avoid. Criminals operate on different tiers, and whilst I take my hat off to those who deal in drugs, and make loads of money, I think that there's a good life to be made from pickpocketing. Tony agrees with me, and often says that greed is the downfall of many a criminal, and that all the while he's got enough money to buy a drink, and have a bit of fun, then that's good enough for him. It's a shame that he has to share his money with Dave, because Dave does nothing to bring any money into their flat, and seems to view Tony's activities as wrong, but necessary. I think one of these days Tony will realise that he can get by on his own, and Dave is just another of life's parasites.

Glen is a character appearing in "The Londoners" - An Ebook for Kindle by Luke Ryman

Monday, 1 October 2012

Having A Drink With A Parasite Called Bob

When she opened the front door we were greeted by their pet Alsatian. Bob swore at the dog, and told it to fuck off. Brenda looked at Bob and asked him if he had removed the dog shit from the front garden. As he took off his tracksuit top in the hallway, Bob looked at his wife, and told her that he had been too busy. Then he changed the subject, and asked me if wanted a beer. I said yes, which seemed to please him. I followed him to the kitchen, and sat down at the table. His last meal had been a Chinese takeaway, as the table was strewn with tinfoil containers. He gave me a beer and said he adored Chinese food. Brenda added that it was expensive, but even unemployed people could treat themselves every now and then. As I opened my can of lager she added that they had not had a holiday in over twenty years, as their unemployment benefit paid for just life’s necessities. She picked her nose and blamed the government. Bob sat back in his chair and said he needed a break. I took a swig from my can of cheap lager, and smiled at the pair of them.

Dave Cooper spending a "pleasant" moment in the company of Bob and Brenda - a pair of parasites from a rough housing estate. Extract taken from "Dave Cooper Is Unemployed" - an ebook and paperback book by Luke Ryman.

Monday, 24 September 2012

The Londoners

The Londoners - An ebook for Kindle by Luke Ryman
A tale of love, hate, sex & insanity set in the tower block world of south-east London.

Friday, 21 September 2012

The World's Gone Mad!



I mean, this isn't fucking Los Angeles, so why the hell do people want everything to be so different? Why do things have to be written in neon, covered in cheap plastic, and written in ten different languages, so foreigners – God bless them – can understand what I sell, and what they can eat? The world's gone fucking mad, but if you want to survive, so you've got enough money to retire on, you've got to follow the crowd.

I'm too old for this new stuff, which is why I think the old days were the best. You know, people would come into the pub, buy a drink, smoke a cigarette, and have a chat. Perhaps they would then buy another drink, have another cigarette, and then be on their way. I sold beer or spirits, and wine by the glass was unheard of, because people in south-east London didn't drink wine back then. Food was a packet of peanuts or nothing at all, and certainly not salmon, new potatoes and a green salad. But it's all changed, and because I'm old and too slow to keep up with things, I really wish that I was no longer here.

Sid, the landlord of our local pub, having to deal with change. Extract taken from "The Londoners" - by Luke Ryman.

Monday, 17 September 2012

Dave's First Day At Work



Once I joined the main road I knew that my days of fun and laughter were slowly coming to an end. I was just a few minutes from the industrial estate, and the biscuit factory in which I was going to work, to keep Jill happy, and prove that I wasn't an idle bastard. I spat on the ground as I walked the last few hundred metres of freedom, until I turned the corner, and walked into the estate where the factory was situated. It was then that I knew that Dave Cooper was about to write a new chapter in his life. And that chapter would be the one which would cover my descent into depression and misery, after having spent four years enjoying myself, in a wonderful state of unemployment.

Dave Cooper heading towards his first day at work. Extract taken from "The Londoners" - by Luke Ryman.

Saturday, 8 September 2012

Love In Las Vegas


Tony moved closer to Tammy, and stroking her arm, he asked her if she was cold, as she had just come out of the pool. I looked at Tony and then at Tammy. How the hell could anything that fat feel the cold? Even if it had been minus thirty inside, with a blizzard battering us head on, Tammy had enough blubber to keep her body temperature at where is should have been. But I could see that Tony had fallen for Tammy, and he was only doing what men in that situation always do, if they want to keep the woman of their dreams in their lives.

Tony Joy is in love with a fat girl from Florida. Extract taken from "An American Adventure" - By Luke Ryman

Friday, 31 August 2012

A Londoner Called Kevin



I live on the south coast, in a town which is only eighty minutes from south London, if the trains are running on time, and nobody's committed suicide by throwing themselves onto the line. Only last week an immigrant decided to end his days by doing just that, and because the police had to come to inspect the scene of crime, and then had to pick his body parts up, the trains between the south coast and London were running a few hours late. The selfish bastard could have just taken an overdose and be done with it, but because he probably had a big chip on his shoulder, and he thought that England hadn't treated him in the way he had hoped, he chose to go out with all guns blazing, and fuck up the lives of a few thousand commuters.

Kevin - A Londoner. Extract taken from "The Londoners" - By Luke Ryman

Thursday, 23 August 2012

Dinner In Vegas, With Dave Cooper & Tony Joy



We started to eat our steak and fries before everybody else had been served. We knew that it was impolite, but as Tony said, as he stuffed what seemed like half of his steak into his mouth, he was fucking starving, and the beer had started to go to his head.

Tony had also emptied half of the bottle of red wine into our beer glasses, telling Justin that he thought the Bordeaux had been a good choice. Justin frothed at the mouth when he saw a seventy dollar bottle of wine disappear down our throats, saying that he had never come across such vulgar people in his entire life.

It was four o'clock in the afternoon and we were spiralling out of control. Tony was starting to get affectionate with Sharon, who he announced had something that he wanted to try, but he wasn't exactly sure what it was. She was confused, but took whatever he said as a compliment, even though he was slurring his words, and shouting loudly at the top of his voice that he wanted more beer.

Getting rowdy in a Vegas restaurant. Extract from "An American Adventure" - By Luke Ryman.

Sunday, 19 August 2012

You Can't Get Much Lower Than This



There are only sluts in this part of the world. All of them unemployed. All of them without a future. Their only entertainment is sex. Kez is one of those sluts. Sadly she was now pregnant, and so she was unwanted. In the eyes of people like Tony, she is now even lower than a slut.

Drunken slags enjoying themselves. Extract taken from "The Londoners" - By Luke Ryman.

Tuesday, 14 August 2012

A Very Gay Affair


And so there we were, thousands of miles away from the sanity of London, sat in a wedding chapel, on the outskirts of Vegas. I looked at Tony and asked him just how much worse our holiday was going to get. He didn't reply, because he didn't need to. As far as he was concerned, his face said it all. It said that it was going to be impossible to plunge to even lower depths, because nothing but NOTHING could be as bad as being sat in a wedding chapel, on the outskirts of Vegas, taking part in a gay wedding.

Attending a gay wedding in Las Vegas. Extract taken from "An American Adventure" - By Luke Ryman.



Sunday, 12 August 2012

Sammie Didn't Like Rough Sex


Tony's eyes were bulging with disgust. Girls like that will never be able to satisfy a man. I agreed with Tony. It had been a mediocre experience.

Tony reacts with disgust on hearing that Sammie wasn't that keen on violent sex - An extract taken from "The Londoners" - By Luke Ryman.

Tuesday, 7 August 2012

An American Adventure - By Luke Ryman


The style of the restaurant was the same as the one back in Frostproof, with the exception that here, in the window, was a life-size cardboard cut-out of old Buck himself, welcoming his customers with a massive grin and twinkling eyes. I chuckled at the sight of the cardboard version of Buck, fading at the edges from the hours of sunlight it had endured, and doing nothing to convince me that Buck's Burgerland was the best place in town for a decent meal.

Buck's Burgerland in Haines City, Florida - as seen by Dave Cooper in An American Adventure

Saturday, 4 August 2012

An Extract From "The Londoners" - by Luke Ryman


On a street corner, somewhere in south-east London

I turned left after the furniture shop and started to walk faster. I had covered a mile in what seemed like only a few minutes, and now my mind had turned to Jill's cosy flat, situated halfway up in a depressing tower block, on an estate overrun with drunken teenagers and single mothers. God, it's an awful place, but people have to live somewhere. Teachers, hotel receptionists, salesmen, plumbers, and low-ranking police officers. They all have to live somewhere, even if home to them is a tower block in south-east London. People have to live, eat, and fuck somewhere in life, and we can't all live in posh streets, in fancy houses, and drive big cars. Only a small percentage of people are lucky enough to fuck in massive beds, on sheets made of silk, in bedrooms that overlook fantastic and breathtaking landscape that make you glad to be alive. The rest of us fuck in small beds, on cotton sheets, in bedrooms that overlook slag heaps or junk yards.

Tuesday, 31 July 2012

An Extract From "Dave Cooper Is Unemployed" - by Luke Ryman

In a pub, somewhere on the Isle Of Wight


At about ten o’clock, when everybody was well and truly drunk, we were joined by Walt and Doris, the two Americans we had met on the ferry, who pushed themselves through the crowded bar to be with us. When Walt finally crashed down in his chair, he mopped his brow with a handkerchief, and complained that the heat was too much for him. Doris leaned against the back of her husband’s chair and said that she was hungry. Walt coughed and spluttered, and after asking us all how we were doing, he asked Dave if his wife could have a couple of sandwiches. Dave passed the platter to Doris, who, smiling at Dave, proceeded to finish off the rest of the food. Walt sighed, and asked us if we wanted a drink, before asking Chris in a booming voice to serve us whatever we wanted.


Whilst waiting for the drinks, Walt explained that he and his family were staying in a bed and breakfast, just down the road. He added that the place was the pits, and that the owner looked like Adolf Hitler. Dave chuckled, and as the drinks arrived, he told Walt that we were all staying at the same place. After toasting our health, Walt continued, and said that he thought the owner was a goddamn pervert, as he had taken a more than a reasonable interest in his two daughters, Stacey and J. C...

Friday, 20 July 2012

A Sad, Mad, & Bad Ending

Dave and Tony are dead.
Their time to leave us came last week, as the two friends enjoyed a camping holiday with a few of their friends, in the rain-sodden Cornish countryside.
The mini-bus in which they were travelling was involved in a collision with a second vehicle, and despite the best efforts of the local emergency services, Dave and Tony succumbed to their injuries at the scene of the accident. The driver of the other vehicle, a Polish man in his early twenties, was found to have been driving whilst under the influence of alcohol.
Having known Dave and Tony for a few years, I'm fairly certain that if they had been told that their days would have ended in a Cornish country lane, the two friends would have exploded with laughter, and would have insisted that they would end their days in a blaze of glory - full of beer, and at home in London.
Sadly, there was no blaze of glory at the end, although I would like to think that they would have been merrily drunk - as was often the case - when they traded their lives for death, and deprived at least a few people of two colourful yet sadly tragic friends, who lived for the day, and didn't give a damn about the consequences.
This is the End, but life goes on.
Luke Ryman

Friday, 6 July 2012

When Everything Comes Together

Tony and me at last have something to celebrate, after the two of us won nearly two thousand pounds on the lottery.
YES! It's wonderful news, and as can only be expected, our good luck means that tonight's trip to the pub will be extra special.
Tony reckons that the alignment of the planets may be behind our much-needed windfall, and that God has at last decided to give us something to smile about.
I think that my fat friend's belief that divine intervention is to thank for our good luck may be unfounded, especially when Tony has been known to steal from churches, and urinate in graveyards, after a heavy night's drinking in our favourite pub.
But we're not going to blow all of our winnings in the pub, because that would be foolish, especially when with so much cash the two of us can at last have a decent holiday.
So, tomorrow morning, we're off on our travels with a few of our cronies, when we'll be heading to a campsite on the south coast, for a well-deserved ten day camping holiday.
I think we're going to have a GREAT time, and as I write, Tony is packing his case, whilst whistling a jolly tune.
I can only apologise in advance to any other campers who will be at the site at the same time as us, and whilst Tony, the gang, and me will try and respect your wishes, and act responsibly at all times, I honestly believe that after drinking all day, and partying all night - for ten long days - if you're looking for peace and quiet, it's probably a good idea if you go on holiday somewhere else!
We'll be back - soon.

Monday, 25 June 2012

Football Crazy

So, with England's exit from the European football championship, the boy Tony and me find ourselves once again with nothing much in life to excite us.
It's at times like this that the power of football becomes apparent, and makes us wonder if there's anything more important in life than our national sport.
Porn, cheeseburgers, pizzas, alcohol, war movies and gambling have always given Tony so much pleasure -but nothing can beat watching grown men kick a ball around a pitch.
My fat friend blubbered last night - like a small child - when we were eliminated buy the Italians, and I was left wondering if he would ever get over such a traumatic experience.
Mercifully, however, the vast amount of beer we had bought, to drink during the match, helped ease Tony's pain and suffering, and although defeat was difficult to accept, the power of alcohol helped Tony pull through his painful experience, and gave him the will to carry on with his miserable life, the morning after.
I don't know why Tony's puts his mind and body through so much stress, and doesn't start following another sport, such as croquet or badminton.
Anyway, we're now off to the pub to analyse why England failed, and see if there's any decent women on offer, to share an evening of wild sex and a four seasons pizza with us.

Saturday, 16 June 2012

In Search Of Love

Tonight is singles night at our favourite pub, and because we've nothing better to do with our time, and Tony is in the mood for an evening of wild sex, we're going to see what south-east London can offer two guys like us in the way of potential partners.
I have to admire my fat friend's enthusiasm, because the womenfolk in this part of the world are not the sort to get one's hormones active, or the type that you would want to be seen with in a public place, during daylight hours.
Still, as Tony says, fussiness has never been one of his qualities, and after ten pints of lager, he doesn't really care who he takes home - just as long as they let him have his wicked way, and stay around long enough to prepare his breakfast, and do a bit of housework.
You probably think that such an attitude is outdated, but even if Tony likes to treat his women like slaves, for some unknown reason, he's never had any problems in capturing members of the opposite sex in his web of charm.
Anyway, as I write, Tony is dousing himself in cheap aftershave, and getting ready to show the world that the art of seduction is still alive and kicking, and that fatness and vulgarity shouldn't prevent a hot-blooded male from charming the birds from the trees.

Friday, 8 June 2012

Fat, Forty-Something & Useless

My only friend in life, Tony, has spent all week considering the benefits of a crash diet, as he struggles to keep his expanding waistline under control.
He reckons that his love of fast-food and are all to blame for making him the fattest man in London. I told him, to make him feel better, that he comes from a family of overweight layabouts, and that his obesity is a result of inheriting his father's genes, and that although a diet would be a good idea, the fat bastard has got about as much chance of losing a few pounds, as I have in walking on the moon.
The other day he took time to read a blog written by an anorexic woman, who claimed that she ate only one lettuce leaf and half a tomato a day.
Tony chuckled at that, and said that he once thought about becoming anorexic, but fortunately he saw the light, and devoted his life to double cheeseburgers, pizza, lager, whisky, peanuts, chocolate bars, hot-dogs, ice-cream, bacon sandwiches and anything else that keeps his spirits high, and makes him the fat, jolly boy that he is.
I can't really blame him, and although he's now too fat to get a job, as he rightly says, it's better to be fat and out of work, than thin and in permanent employment.
Now, I know I've said it once before - but I'll say it again: I'LL DRINK TO THAT!

Friday, 1 June 2012

Neighbours From Hell

As our fine city prepares to be inundated by thousands of tourists - all keen to catch a glimpse of the Queen, as she celebrates her Diamond Jubilee - my fat friend has decided to join in the fun of the moment, and hold the mother of all parties.
The festivities kick off tonight, and as I write, Tony is in the kitchen, trying to cram as many cans of lager into the fridge, so that they're chilled to perfection for our guests.
We've invited our usual load of cronies, and all were glad to be invited to our cramped apartment, to help us celebrate this marvellous occasion. The only absentee will be Andy, because he's once again behind bars, after a minor scuffle in our local fast-food restaurant.
We haven't invited any of our neighbours, because we hate them with a passion, and which is why the music we'll be playing tonight will be very loud. Tony only hopes that fifteen hours of the Sex Pistols, at full blast, will help to only worsen relations with them upstairs, across the hall, and downstairs.
Of course, some people would say that Tony likes to provoke trouble, but as he rightly says, it's not every day that Her Majesty celebrates sixty years on the throne.
I think he has a point, and if any of our neighbours feel like complaining, they know where to find us - and they're more than welcome to join us, as long as they don't arrive empty-handed!

Sunday, 27 May 2012

The Fattest Man Is About To Get Fatter

A new pizzeria has opened just a few streets away from where we live, and so Tony has decided that tonight we're going to try its pizzas, and see if it's worth adding the pizzeria to our list of favourite places to eat.
For Tony, the opening of a new pizzeria or fast-food restaurant is always a major event, because eating is probably the only that he has any interest in, and is the only thing - apart from drinking vast amounts of lager - that he does well.
My fat friend has always been a lover of the finest crap food money can buy, and when he heard that another pizzeria had opened for business, in our part of the world, I thought that he was going to literally explode with Joy.
Mercifully, he didn't explode, because Tony is my best friend, and I couldn't imagine spending the rest of my days without hearing his vulgar jokes, his constant belching, and his opinion on all subjects known to man.
Anyway, after much contemplation, the Fattest Man In London has decided that tonight he's going to try a Four Seasons Special, which the pizzeria describes as a fusion of Italian hams, mushrooms, red peppers and charcoal-grilled chicken, served on a mouth-watering bed of fine Italian tomato sauce and mozzarella. I've decided to go for the same thing, but with an additional topping of sliced pineapple.
We're now waiting patiently for the hour to arrive, when we'll satisfy our hunger, and decide if the Pizzeria is going to be a regular feature in our lives, or if it should be avoided like dogs with rabies and people who work in insurance.

Sunday, 20 May 2012

Go North, Young Man

Tony has abandoned me this weekend, to visit a girl he met on Facebook, who lives in the north of England.
Before catching the early train yesterday morning, my fat friend showed me a photo of Helen, who hails from Yorkshire, and who is studying psychology.
I wasn't that impressed by Helen's looks, but if Tony is happy to be seen with such an ugly creature, then I'm more than happy for him.
God only knows what Helen will make of the fattest man in London, because when it comes to charming the women, Tony is in a class of his own.
But Tony hasn't gone north for nothing, and although he would like to indulge in some wild sex this weekend, the fact that Helen's father owns a pub may well be the reason for my friend's departure.
Anyway, because I'm all alone, and there's only rubbish on the television, I'm off to the pub for a pre-lunch drink, and to prepare myself for another week of glorious idleness.
CHEERS!

Monday, 14 May 2012

One Foot In New York

We had a great evening in the pub last night - and thanks to Lyndsey and Shannon, from New York - Tony's dream of visiting the Big Apple could become reality, if the fattest man in London plays his cards right.
Our two new friends are visiting London with their parents, and after Lyndsey and Shannon charmed us with their natural assets, their father - Doug - was only too pleased to ply Tony and me with vast amounts of lager and whisky, in exchange for information on what's hot, and what's not worth seeing, in our fine city.
Of course, our knowledge of London soon impressed Doug, and after giving him and his wife a list of all of the best things to visit, he said that he was glad that he had come across two decent guys like us.
Now - and as you probably well know - Tony has been called many things in the pub before, but decent isn't usually an adjective that's aimed at him (fat, useless and lazy - yes, but not decent).
At the end of the evening we were all merrily drunk, and although Tony would have liked to have shared his bed with the delightful Shannon, he managed to resist forcing himself upon the poor girl, and made do with an exchange of email addresses.
Tony was more than pleased with his evening's work, and as Doug seems to be the sort of man who we'd like to have as a friend (he's apparently the owner of a very successful chain of pizzerias, and therefore very rich), Tony hopes that with his charm, and powers of persuasion, the pizza king of New York might pay for us to fly out to New York, as a way of thanking us for the hospitality and friendship we showed him and his family.
I'm not getting too excited about anything, but because Tony is always of a positive frame of mind, and he believes that miracles do happen, he thinks that in a few weeks time we'll be saying goodbye to London, and hello to New York.

Tuesday, 8 May 2012

From London To Wales

Tomorrow, Tony and me are off to Wales, on another cash-in-hand and ask-no-questions furniture removal job.
It means an early start, and a long drive before we get to our destination, but because our cash-flow is currently worse than that of a third-world nation (such as Greece, Spain or Portugal), Tony and me must make the effort if tomorrow night we want to be in the pub, drinking beer, and not stuck in our flat, drinking tap water.
Lifting heavy furniture can play havoc with one's back, and if the thought of crippling myself for a few tax-free pounds isn't bad enough, going to Wales hardly fills Tony and me with enthusiasm.
Tony said that he once spent a weekend in Cardiff when he was a small boy, and if he wasn't of a strong and robust mental character (they're his words), he would have ended up mentally scarred by the experience.
I reckon the boy's probably right, but at a push, I'd rather be going to deepest Wales tomorrow morning, than some other God-forsaken part of the British Isles (anywhere north of London falls into this category).
Anyway, if all goes well, and we're not mauled to death by any wild sheep, and our driver manages to get to where we're meant to be going, tomorow night Tony and me will be a few pounds richer - and probably very drunk!

Friday, 4 May 2012

Back To The Eighties

Tony reckons that the eighties was the best period of his life - with so many jobs on offer, the explosion of the property market, and the general feel-good factor that gave people a real reason to live. Also -as he rightly adds - beer and cigarettes cost much less than they do today.
It always makes me chuckle when my fat friend thinks about the past, because even if the eighties was a great decade, Tony hardly benefited from anything that was going on around him.
For a start, whilst there were thousands of job opportunities available, and unemployment was lower than it is today, the idle bastard didn't bother to get a job, because - as he often says - the stress of working for a living would probably be enough to kill him.
And the property boom? Well, Tony never invested in any property, because renting a flat or house - according to him - would have played havoc with his cashflow, and given him less cash to spend in the pub.
However, I think the boy is right about the feel-good factor, because as I stare from our window at the street below, I can't help think that most people look terribly depressed.
Anyway, the eighties are over, and nothing is going to change that. So now, we're both off to the pub to drink ourselves senseless, and try not to think about how much a pint of lager and a packet of cigarettes cost today, and how cheap such luxuries were all those years ago.

Tuesday, 1 May 2012

The Fat Man Is Ready To Win!

Tonight Tony is playing in a poker tournament - organised by our local casino, and open to all poker players, young or old, male or female, amateur or professional .
To be fair to my fat friend, he's no fool when it comes to high-stake card games, and if he manages to steer clear of strong lager, avoids drinking whisky, and isn't distracted by any pretty girls ( that shouldn't be too difficult - because where we live, there aren't that many), Tony could be a thousand pounds richer, by the end of the day.
Tony reckons that gambling is what he does best, and that with his nerves of steel he has all that's required to beat the opposition, and boost our finances with some much-needed cash.
The boy has often thought about turning his back on England, and moving to Las Vegas, to carve out a career as a professional pôker player.
I told him that it's probably a lot harder than it really sounds, and that whilst the bright lights of Vegas seem appealing, behind every success there's a thousand failures.
Tony agreed with me, and realises that although south-east London is nothing like Nevada (never has a truer word been spoken), IT is home to us.
Anyway, I'll be cheering Tony on tonight, and making sure that he concentrates on what he does best, and walks away with the first prize.
HE says that he can do it - and when the fattest man in London is in the right frame of mind - anything is possible!