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.