Tuesday, 15 December 2015

Defeated...

...but not forgotten is what we must think of Marine Le Pen.

Defeated in last Sunday's regional elections in France, Le Pen is a victim of the spineless and dithering population which whilst brave enough to vote for Le Pen in the first round of the elections, decided that playing it safe and not ruffling too many feathers was the way to go in the second round.

Shame on all of you who have decided that the way ahead for France is to stick with the same old bullshitters and bastards who seem content to drive this country into the ground.

YOU people are probably the people who think that Angela Merkel is a great leader, and that her efforts to bloat Europe with masses of immigrant dross is what's best for this continent, whilst boosting her own popularity.

Believe me when I say that Merkel is nothing more than a vile manipulator, who seems to have snared Francois Hollande in her web.

YOU people may as well have voted for Father Christmas, because he has the political brain of a no-hoper and the vision of a blind socialist. However, Father Christmas does at least work one day a year, which is one day more than the refugees intend to work, once they get their grubby feet under France's table.

Le Pen would have curbed the influx and would have restored the lost values of France, and she would certainly have put the French people first. YOU people who voted against her have in all honesty voted for the continual destruction of a country which is slowly becoming nothing more than a broken down mess, populated by parasites and idle bastards.

I hope YOU people won't complain when the refugees arrive on your street, because YOU'VE made YOUR bed, so now lie on it!

Vive La France and let's hope that common sense prevails at the next opportunity to change the way that this country is governed.

Thursday, 5 November 2015

Balls, Beer & Bedlam






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

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

Tuesday, 6 October 2015

Killing and Laughing


Up to the time when he had claimed the first of his victims, there had been no reason for him to have committed murder. The girl – she was twenty-two, with a pretty face and soft skin – had wanted to dance with Ward in a backstreet club. They danced and shared a drink, and when the evening was over and too much alcohol had been consumed by the girl, he had offered to walk her home. It was on that walk to her home that something must have been said, or his advances had been refused.

He hit the girl over the back of her head with a brick and left her to die. Blood ejaculated from her mouth as he slid his right hand inside the front of her jeans. He played with his victim's cunt for five minutes until a barking dog scared the life out of him. It rained heavily that night, and as Ward calmly walked home, he occasionally arched back his head to allow the rainwater to enter his mouth.

And so that had been his first murder. It was a crime which made the news the following day, and the story lingered for a while until it faded away into obscurity. It was a crime that went unsolved, probably because at that time forensic science was not as advanced as it is today. Occasionally, Ward was haunted by the girl's face, but whenever he felt remorse he just laughed, before telling himself that no-one is immortal.

Extract taken from "After Dover" - a short story for kindle, by Luke Ryman

Sunday, 13 September 2015

The MacRefugee


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

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


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

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

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


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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





Monday, 7 September 2015

A Little Bit Of Vegas...





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

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

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

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

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

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

What will the members make of this?

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

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

Click here to buy the book.

Thursday, 20 August 2015

Pizza


Tony and me live in a flat – a small flat, sandwiched between those on the first and third floors of the building in which we live – which is awful, but because the rent is low, and there's a pub at the end of the road, Tony and me can just about live with the constant damp, the noisy neighbours and the rest of life's problems that come from living in accommodation at the lower end of the market.

When we first came to London four years ago we knew, that with a limited budget, we weren't going to end up in Mayfair, and that our future home would probably be a very small flat, in a part of London that is littered with high-rise tower blocks, vast expanses of dreary and cold concrete and very little to get excited about. Well, we were absolutely right, because we've got the high-rise tower blocks, the dreary and cold concrete and not a lot else.

Fortunately, we avoided living in a high-rise flat, because we stumbled upon a vacant property, in a reasonably well-kept building, in a road that provides us with all that we need in life. Our favourite pub is just a few minutes walk away, there's a pizzeria opposite us, and next to that there's one of those shops that sells everything and which is open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Of course, such independent convenience stores are more expensive than their bigger rivals, but, as Tony says, our nation was made great by shopkeepers of the independent variety, and by doing our shopping in such shops, we're helping to keep alive the Davids in a world where there are too many Goliaths.

Dave Cooper has a lot to be happy about, but is there more to life than pizzas, pubs and twenty-four hour mini-markets? Find out the answer to this question, and others, in "The Londoners" trilogy - the first in a series of ebooks by Luke Ryman.

Wednesday, 29 July 2015

Dover







The hotel was on Dover seafront, behind a fa├žade of fake palm trees and a line of parked cars. That morning the sun reflected off the sea and sharp beams pierced the windows of the rows and rows of houses which looked out to the Channel. These houses had long ago been converted into bedsits, and these bedsits were home to hundreds of immigrants, whose first port of call when arriving in England is Dover.

Dover had died many years before – beaten by a disease which has destroyed so many English coastal towns – and now it was just limping along. The council had spent thousands of pounds in sprucing up the depressing seafront, and on the day Peter Ward was in town, it seemed that perhaps there were worse places to be. But if the seafront seemed picturesque and the fake palm trees appeared to be real, all of this was an illusion caused by the sunlight which appeared to fill every dirty corner of the town.

At night the immigrants left their bedsits and roamed aimlessly along the promenade and through the town. The men drank beer and spirits from stolen bottles and the women stayed in groups, intimidating local residents with their malicious looks and foul language. Some of the immigrants smashed shop windows and some pissed openly in the park. Some had dogs, and these dogs shit on the pavement and barked for no apparent reason. The police drove round in circles and the residents were afraid. When the sun had set and darkness descended upon the town, Dover was uninviting and unappealing.

Extract taken from "After Dover" - a short story, by Luke Ryman, about a cold-blooded killer. Available now from all Amazon sites for Kindle.

Sunday, 26 July 2015

You Are What You Eat


Mussolini

He may have got Italy's trains to run on time, but when Mussolini was hung from a lamp post, no-one bothered to thank him for making the 16:25h weekday service from Rome to Milan reliable and punctual. It seems, as he swung gently in a light breeze, that his people were just glad to get rid of the fat bastard, whose successes in the last war could be noted on the back of a very small postage stamp. And when the crowd had seen the dictator lynched by an angry mob, everyone - except Mussolini and his other half - returned to their tables to finish their pasta and pizzas. He was gone, but when you've got a four-seasons special to tuck into, who gives a fuck about a fat wanker who couldn't have organised a piss up in a brewery - let alone win a war.

"GERMANY WILL BATTLE ON" screamed the headlines, when the Daily Mirror announced the death of this vile dictator, whose only aim in life was to take over the world. Angela Merkel may well be harvesting dreams of fulfilling Hitler's ambitions, but the she-boy from Berlin certainly won't have the support of her people. No - all Germany's population wants now is beer, sausages and football, and to hell with invading France. Angela needs her people to get behind her, but as the master race are fed up with shit storms and her love affair with Francois Hollande, she should watch her back - and indeed her neck, if she doesn't want to end up doing a Mussolini.

Two fried eggs, two sausages, a fried tomato, bacon, beans and fried bread: eating this, my friends, is the BEST way to start the day. Forget your croissants, cheese and ham, forget your yogurt and fruit salad, and just get stuck into a full English breakfast. The world will be yours for the taking, and life will seem so much better as you wipe egg yolk from your chin and you savour the flavour of sizzling bacon. A nation is built upon its people, and a nation is great because of its people. Yes - we may be crap at football and our trains may well run late, but there will always be bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover, fish and chips will live on for ever and dictators, fascists and smelly girls called Angela will never change that!

Happy holidays!

Friday, 17 July 2015

The Holiday




What do you want, Baby?” enquired Deano, turning to Clare.
“That handbag, for starters,” she laughed, before realising that she was testing her boyfriend’s patience. “Or if not, a glass of white wine.”
Sarah laughed. “You won’t catch me drinking wine. It gives me terrible headaches, and after too many glasses I start to lose control of myself.”
Phil looked at his girlfriend and grinned. “I know what your next drink’s going to be then – five pints of Chardonnay.”
“What’s that?” enquired Sarah, as she crunched on an ice cube.
“It’s a popular white wine,” replied Clare, as she took a sip of wine from her glass.
Sarah turned to Deano and laughed. “You’ve got yourself a right one there, Deano. She’s into handbags and wine. I bet she costs you a fortune to run.” She then pulled down her top, so that the curve of her breasts caught Phil’s eye, before asking her boyfriend for another drink.
“Coming right up,” he said, before attracting the attention of the barman. “The same for everyone?” he asked.
Clare, who had by now removed her sunglasses, stared at the side of Sarah’s head. The next time, she thought, that the trashy bitch said something even remotely nasty about her, she would be on the receiving end of a well-aimed punch in the mouth.

What a holiday this is going to be, with four friends planning two weeks of fun in Normandy. Surely they'll have the time of their lives - won't they?
Discover if Clare's holiday will be one to remember, in this ebook, out now, for Kindle.



Sunday, 14 June 2015

Summer


As summer officially comes into view, and spring prepares to pack its bags for another nine months, now is the time to start planning just how to fill those sunny days which are heading our way.

What I need is a holiday! I hear you cry, as you drool over the pages and pages of bargains which can be found on the internet. Your better half has her mind set on Bali, where the days are bathed in constant sunshine and the beaches are long and sandy. You, however, prefer seven days on some Godforsaken Greek island, because, and as you quite rightly say, the sun in Bali is the same as the sun in Greece, but for only £99 per person, for seven days, a week in Lesbos is much better for the budget.
OUR RATING IS 4/10: Cheap it might be, but Greece is drowning in debt and illegal immigrants. Hot it may well be, but with most pubs and bars unable to pay their suppliers, what is the point of going somewhere where the only drink on offer is tap water. Avoid this nation of hairy women and abandoned resorts, and leave Lesbos for the locals.

Oh I do like to be beside the seaside...you sing, as you contemplate a long weekend in Great Yarmouth. The kids will love it, the wife will hate it but you, after finding a pub where happy hour is every hour, won't really care what your better half thinks. Ah!!! The smell of fish and chips, the stench of sewage as it spills into the sea and the used syringes which cover the sand is what holidays are all about. Then there's the dog shit and broken bottles, the guest houses from hell and the the cold wind which rolls permanently in from the disgusting and ice-cold sea.
OUR RATING IS 2/10: This dump of a seaside resort is nothing like it used to be. Crammed with immigrants and unemployed drug addicts, spending a weekend in Great Yarmouth is as bad as premature ejaculation and chronic toothache.

Let's go camping! you cry, as you picture you and your family in a tent, in a unspoilt and charming part of England. Barbecues upon barbecues, lazy days under the sun and walks in the woods. You've found a four-star campsite in Cornwall, not too far away from Lands End. The campsite has won numerous awards and prides itself on it's amenities. But can this paradise on earth really be this good...
OUR RATING IS 6/10: If the campsite is clean and the campers are well-mannered, this could be a good idea. Watch out however for Albanian immigrants and noisy German bastards. Also, don't forget that the weather can make or break such a holiday.

Let's have a party! you say, as you imagine having the mother of all garden parties. The fridge is crammed with beer and Chardonnay, the sausages are sizzling and the music is at full blast. The kids are having fun, the ladies are getting merrily drunk and you and your friends are already hopelessly slaughtered. Your neighbour, an elderly German man, asks you politely to turn the music down. Your friend - a tattooed beast with a dislike of anyone not English - decides to urinate over your neighbour's roses, before leading the rest of your guests into a rousing version of Land of Hope and Glory.
OUR RATING IS 910: This is another way to relax which can be a complete success or total failure. Keep the beer flowing, keep the sausages coming and to hell with the Germans, and this will be one hell of a way to celebrate summer!

Happy Holidays!!!

Sunday, 31 May 2015

The first time...


Up to the time when he had claimed the first of his victims, there had been no reason for him to have committed murder. The girl – she was twenty-two, with a pretty face and soft skin – had wanted to dance with Ward in a backstreet club. They danced and shared a drink, and when the evening was over and too much alcohol had been consumed by the girl, he had offered to walk her home. It was on that walk to her home that something must have been said, or his advances had been refused.

He hit the girl over the back of her head with a brick and left her to die. Blood ejaculated from her mouth as he slid his right hand inside the front of her jeans. He played with his victim's cunt for five minutes until a barking dog scared the life out of him. It rained heavily that night, and as Ward calmly walked home, he occasionally arched back his head to allow the rainwater to enter his mouth.

And so that had been his first murder. It was a crime which made the news the following day, and the story lingered for a while until it faded away into obscurity. It was a crime that went unsolved, probably because at that time forensic science was not as advanced as it is today. Occasionally, Ward was haunted by the girl's face, but whenever he felt remorse he just laughed, before telling himself that no-one is immortal.


Extract taken from "After Dover" - a short story about a cold-blooded killer, written by Luke Ryman. Out now on Kindle via Amazon.

Friday, 15 May 2015

He drove a bus...

Home was hell!


Dad was a bus driver, and although he often told me that driving a bus was a responsible job, that required a great deal of care and attention, his weekly pay never reflected the fact that people entrusted him to get them from A to B, safely. I think my old man made a big thing about how careful he had to be when transporting his passengers, and it sometimes sounded like he was actually a Jumbo Jet pilot, and not a lowly bus driver, who earned very little, and didn't even get the opportunity to drive his bus anywhere else other than on the estate where we lived.

But driving a bus was a steady job, that came with a uniform, the right to cheap bus travel and four weeks holiday a year. It wasn't exciting, but it WAS a job, and as dad told me every now and then, as though I hadn't heard it a hundred times before, having a job was the most important thing in life. Mum used to tell him to shut up when he started asking me what I wanted to do when I left school, telling him that I was a smart kid, and that I would end up doing something better than driving a bus for a living. I think if my wife had insulted me, like that, I would have laid into her, but because dad liked to avoid confrontation, and rarely listened to what my mum said, he just smiled, and say that there was no shame in being a bus driver.

Extract taken from "Dad drove a bus" - an ebook for kindle.
By the same author, in the same series: "The Londoners", "The Londoners 2 - After Love Comes Hate" & "The Londoners 3 - No Turning Back"

Friday, 1 May 2015

But Bloody France!








Clare clearly remembered the first time she had seen her boyfriend, even if it was now over a year ago since they had first met. He had danced badly all night and had smelt like a bloody poof. He had been wearing smart designer jeans and a plain white t-shirt. There was a hint of a fake tan, which made Deano stick out like a sore thumb, because in Margate people with tans like he had are thin on the ground.

But there was something about this bad dancer which had caught Clare’s eye, as she and her friends danced themselves senseless in a grotty Margate nightclub. The following Saturday one of her friends was going to get married, and so, to celebrate this life-changing event, Clare, Suzy, Chloe, Emma, Selina and Penny had decided to organise a drunken evening for Julie, by the end of which the girls would finish completely smashed, and Julie would be wondering if getting married was really her thing.

Emma, wanting to show off the result of her recent breast enlargement operation, was unsurprisingly chased across the dance floor by a number of teenage lads all wanting to get their hands on her prize assets. Of course, she had been flattered to have been pursued by so many testosterone-fuelled admirers, but the guy she really wanted to accept a drink from was the tattooed beast hovering next to Deano.

Clare cringed when realised that one of her best friends wanted nothing more than to spend a night with a shaven-headed monster, who had spent all evening pouring lager down his throat at an impressive rate, whilst laughing and joking with Deano. Clare hated men with tattoos, and after trying to persuade Emma that she was aiming her sights too low, she gave up when she saw that the tattooed one had moved in for the kill, and was already plying Emma with expensive cocktails.

Extract taken from "But Bloody France!" - part 1 of the "But Bloody France!" amusing trilogy, following the ups and downs in the life of Clare Green, twenty-something, from Margate in Kent.
Get the complete trilogy in "Clare's Holiday" - out now for Kindle via Amazon.

Sunday, 12 April 2015

Merkel's Turtle



When she's not doing a spot of gardening, or watching repeats of Kojak, Angela Merkel likes nothing more than to dream of ruling Europe.

"War is a terrible thing," she says, but if you've ever been near her when she unleashes one of her violent farts, you'll agree that the gas which seeps from her body is almost as bad as grown men shooting at each other.

Either way, there's a huge shitstorm heading our way, and unless we put a stop to this hideous beast - with her hairy armpits and male genitals - Europe may well one day succumb to Angela, fifty-something, from Berlin, who has a passion for turtles and rough sex*

But what must we do to put this little turd back in her box?

Well, a tsunami would be an effective and cheap way to wash away the land of beer and sausages, but because Germany is in the heart of Europe - there's no chance of a killer wave reaching its cities and towns.

No, what's needed here is a radical approach to a simmering problem.

"But what do you propose?" I hear you cry.

BOMBS, my boy - and lot's of them! Let's bomb these buggers with stale turds, rotton fruit and constipated pigs. Let's unleash our own shitstorm, and cover Germany in the finest human waste our bodies can produce.

"And when should this assault begin?" I hear you ask.

Well, Angela is always at home on Friday afternoons, so Friday afternoon sounds fine to me.

So, bombs away!!! Let's stick two fingers up to Europe's most famous she-boy and let's smile, smile, smile...

*This is how she describes herself on her Facebook profile.

Coming soon: The worst town in England

Saturday, 4 April 2015

Feed 'em Now!


There's no denying that global famine is still a problem, which won't go away, unless world leaders do something to tackle the crisis, and help millions of starving people emerge from the shadows of despair and misery.

Why not send millions of pounds in cash to these poor nations, I hear you cry, as you write out a cheque for fifteen pounds, made payable to "END FAMINE IN AFRICA."

Well, yes, this is a very kind thought on your behalf, but are you sure that you're doing the right thing?

Of course you're not! No, what's needed here is some positive action to bring a smile to millions of sad faces throughout the planet. So after guzzling seventeen pints of lager during lunchtime, I have finally come up with a five-point-plan which will end world famine forever.

Number 1: Fast food is fast money to be made. Be the first to open a McDonald's restaurant in Somalia. A simple Happy Meal will for some hopeless child be a HAPPY MEAL!

Number 2: Call your local pizza restaurant tonight and ask for a four seasons special to be flown out to Ethiopia.

Number 3: KFC is finger-licking good! So let's bomb Africa with some of Colonel Saunder's finest flame-grilled chicken wings. Don't forget to add a few family meals, because big families are all the rage in the poorest continent on earth.

Number 4: Open a chain of tex-Mex restaurants in Ethiopia, for a decent spicy meal never did anyone any harm.

Number 5: Do nothing, because the more you give to certain people the more those people want. Instead of lying around all day, having sex and and then sleeping all afternoon, why don't the laziest bastards on the planet get off their fucking backsides, get to work and get their countries out of the shit in which they find themselves.

Yes, charity is a wonderful thing, but for me it BEGINS AT HOME!!!

Next week I'll be focussing on why Germany should be bombed.




Sunday, 22 March 2015

Oxney Bottom









The local population are familiar with the legend surrounding Oxney Bottom, with the legend feeding the fact that Oxney Bottom is considered one of the most haunted places in Great Britain. There are tales of the ghosts of highwaymen being seen on this stretch of road, and numerous accounts of sightings of the Grey Lady, the ghostly image of an old woman seen by the roadside, witnessed by passing motorists. It is for this very reason, that when driving through Oxney Bottom at night, drivers have a habit of accelerating through the bends, because they want to get through Oxney Bottom as quickly possible, to get away from the air of uneasiness which hangs over the place.

Davis Hochard and Emilie Guerin approached Oxney Bottom via a series of fields which run from St. Margaret's Bay to Ringwould. Hochard had read about Oxney Bottom's history, and as he and his French girlfriend walked along a narrow lane, to a wooded area about a mile or so ahead of them, he seemed impatient to discover if there was any truth in the legend. Emilie Guerin, starting to tire from the hike, had no interest in ghosts, but was secretly pleased that their visit to this part of the world was during daylight hours. Hochard stopped briefly, also tired from walking in unseasonally hot sunshine, and smiled when he realised that very soon he would be in the heart of Oxney Bottom.

When the couple arrived at the edge of a heavily wooded area, Emilie Guerin seemed to think that the sky had clouded over. The trees had seemed attractive from a distance, but now, as the sunlight grew weak and feeble, the part of the world in which Davis Hochard and Emilie Guerin found themselves seemed cold, unfriendly and uninviting. However, unperturbed by his girlfriend's lack of enthusiasm, Hochard walked ahead, occasionally looking up at the sinister sky. His rate of breathing increased with every step that he took, as though he was scared but also eager to discover the secrets of Oxney Bottom.




Extract taken from "After Dover" - an ebook about a cold-blooded killer, by Luke Ryman. Now available for Kindle via Amazon


Monday, 9 March 2015

Bonjour!!!


The drive from Calais to the Normandy coast had taken just under four hours. Deano had raced Phil all the way, with Deano’s silver Mercedes claiming victory over Phil’s ageing BMW, when the two cars finally arrived at a charming village, not too far away from Bayeux.

“Is this it?” enquired Clare, as she peered through a rusty gate.
“Yep!” replied Deano, enthusiastically, as he looked through the gate to get a better look at the property at the end of the drive. “This is going to be our home for the next two weeks.”
Phil and Sarah joined their two friends at the gate, and avoiding dirtying her top, Sarah leaned forward to get a better view of the house.
“It looks old, doesn’t it, Deano?” said Sarah, as she tried hard to focus on the building which had become the centre of their attention. “It’s looks big and old.”
“This is a typical Normandy property,” replied Deano, as he pushed open the gate. “This is where we’re going to get a real taste of France.”
“Did you notice that everything’s shut?” said Sarah, as she took hold of Phil’s hand, before following Deano and Clare along a narrow path. “All the shops are shut and the village is dead.”
“What were you expecting?” snapped Clare. “Did you think that in rural Normandy it’s all shopping centres and casinos?”



Everything's shut and there's not a supermarket in sight. What a fine holiday this will be in Bloody France! Get "But Bloody France!" - part 1 of the trilogy - for your Kindle, via Amazon, and see just how Deano, Clare, Phil and Sarah will try and amuse themselves in a village which time has forgot.

Get the whole trilogy in one ebook - "Clare's Holiday" - out NOW!

Sunday, 8 February 2015

Peter Ward


Sitting on a bench, watching the ferries sailing back and forth across the Channel, Ward allowed the weak heat of the sun to slightly warm his pale face. Less than twenty-four hours earlier he had killed a thirteen-year-old girl. Killing the child had been a quick and violent act, and her death was of no consequence to him. For Ward, the pleasure in killing someone came from the pain and suffering he caused the parents, relatives and close friends of his victims. He knew, as a stray dog ran past him, that right then, somewhere in Canterbury, the parents of Melissa Hall would be sick with worry, not knowing if their little angel was alive or dead.


Extract taken from After Dover by Luke Ryman - a new ebook for Kindle about a cold-blooded killer.

Tuesday, 3 February 2015

B is for...

Bush, as in Kate
Bacon, with eggs and sausages and fried bread
Bexhill-on-sea, a seaside town so typically English
Blanc, as in Mont, on the road to Italy
Blackjack in Vegas
Barbecues in summer
Bed after work in deepest winter
Bloody France!
British Rail
Beef and horseradish
Blowjobs
Backstreets, as in London
BBC
Broadstairs
Bonbons
Baguette
Bonne chance!

Monday, 19 January 2015

Static






"...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 no 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."
As told by Glen - a hard bastard from north London who prefers to have friends like Tony Joy rather than Dave Cooper.




Two's company but three is certainly a crowd. Meet Glen, Tony and Dave in "Dad Drove A Bus", "The Londoners", "The Londoners 2 - After Love Comes Hate" and "The Londoners 3 - No Turning Back."

The Londoners: A series of ebooks for Kindle about the loves and lives of some unpleasant men.

Thursday, 8 January 2015

Little Angel



The buck-toothed girl – there, at the table just beside him, playing cards with her parents and her little brother – was so ugly, that no-one would mourn her passing. Her teeth made her look ugly. Her acne made her look ugly. Her supermarket clothes made her look ugly. The way she spoke made her sound ugly. No-one, he reassured himself, would mourn her passing. No, what he wanted – and what he wanted more than anything in the world, at that very moment in time - was to take the life of someone whose death would bring a family to its knees. What he wanted, as the swell of the English Channel gently rocked the ferry from side to side, was to bring heartache and misery to a family. So what he had to do, he knew, was to kill a pretty child, to deprive a family of its little angel.

Little angel is how parents of murdered children refer to their butchered and raped offspring, when men like Peter Ward live out their wildest fantasies. He knew this was true, because he had read so many newspaper articles over the years on the subject. The headlines would read: OUR LITTLE ANGEL IS NOW IN HEAVEN or SHE IS NOW WITH THE ANGELS. And then, without fail, a photo of the smiling angel would be beneath those tear-jerking words, for all the world to see. And when all the world saw that little girl, and understood that she was now with the angels, the reaction of horror, grief and sadness would be the same the world over.

Sunday, 4 January 2015

After Dover


There's a killer on the rampage and he has no time to lose. Death and destruction he will bring to those who cross his path, and to hell with the consequences. In forty-eight hours Peter Ward will destroy many lives. The world would be better off without him - but right now, somewhere in England, the world is his for the taking.

Catch him if you can, before it's too late...

Click here to get your copy of this short story about a cold-blooded killer. After Dover by Luke Ryman. Available for Kindle via all Amazon stores.