Wednesday, 29 July 2015


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


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.