Wednesday, 22 November 2017

Clare & Tina




As the number sixty-three bus made its way from Canterbury to Margate, Clare wished that she had stayed at home – even if her mother was a pain in the backside, and asked too many questions about her daughter's past and plans for the future – instead of agreeing to spend the evening with Tina. She liked Tina, but she didn't like the things which surrounded her. She enjoyed her friendship, but Clare hated the fact that Tina's father was a hopeless alcoholic, her two small brothers were little terrors and worst of all, she loathed the fact that Tina lived on a council estate in Margate. Sure enough, Clare acknowledged, as the bus entered Margate, she also lived on a grotty estate, in Canterbury, but at least Canterbury had a bit of class and a cathedral, whereas Margate had nothing to offer.

Extract taken from "Those Margate Days, Those Lonely Nights" - part 3 of the "But Bloody France!" trilogy of ebooks - available now for Kindle

Sunday, 5 November 2017

Gobshite 2



"...and nobody speaks English anymore. I think my street is what they call cosmopolitan - there's a bit of everything except your typical English family. My niece came home from school  in tears the other day, upset that she's the only white girl in her class. In ten years from now the English language will be forgotten. I mean, I took my niece to McDonalds the other day, and I wished that I had stayed at home.


It took me ten minutes to get my order across to the spotty-faced girl behind the counter. Apparently she's Polish and has no grasp of the language of Shakespeare. I'm not racist, but if a man can't order a Big Mac and all the trimmings, in east London, without the need to hire an interpreter, what is the world coming to? It's a bit like the guy at the garage where I do my weekly lottery. He calls everyone mate, as though we're his friends. I told him - I think that he's an Iraqui refugee - that the English are a reserved race, and that friendships aren't forged in ten minutes. Of course, he didn't understand a word that I said, but who would have expected him to?


 We're not even allowed to put a Christmas tree up in the community centre this year, because apparently the sight of a jolly fat man giving out presents offends certain religions. I wrote to my MP to complain, and he replied that I should accept change. Meanwhile, at the mosque at the end of the road anything goes. It's like we're strangers in our own country. They're banning porn more and more, but the government turns a blind eye to suicide bombers and the immigration crisis.

It will all end in tears. The world's gone bloody mad."


Wednesday, 4 October 2017

Gobshite


Résultat de recherche d'images pour "picture of fat guy drinking beer"











"...and I sometimes wonder what winning the war ever gave us...yes please love, when you're ready, another pint please, and one for yourself....I mean we're no longer in control of ourselves...I blame it on those European dogs who tell us how to do what we've been doing for years...hello Bob, how's things...a pint for Bob when you're ready love...I mean when I was a kid it was pounds and ounces...you knew where you were with five pounds of potatoes...but what's five kilos of potatoes...is it more or less to carry home in your paper bag...because they don't give out plastic bags any more...the world's gone fucking mad as a teapot...lovely my darling, another two pints when you're ready...I would love to go to work....but what with my back and the influx of Polish labourers...they've stolen what's rightly mine...awful people...should get the next boat back home...leave us our jobs...I could knock up a wall in no time...and I speak English....ooh lovely, look at THAT...you don't get pints like that in France...it's litres over there...is that more than a pint...seems right to me if it is...can't stand the French....they won't speak English over there...that's the thanks you get for saving them from Germany...two more pints when you're ready love...every time I switch on the tv it's all blacks and lesbians...it makes you feel like a stranger in your own country...where have all the normal people gone...hello Bill, a pint for Bill please love...and they get free housing, telephones and bus tickets...I get nothing for my back...all I get is enough for two nights drinking in the pub...that's the spirit of a real public house...you know what you can do with your coffee houses and pavement cafés...I can't even afford to go on holiday...that lot have seen to that...and the pensioners are treated worse than that...a whisky please Bob...that's very kind of you...it's my friends that keep me going...it all went wrong when we abolished the death penalty...that was a green light to rapists and perverts...make them sweep the streets...they'll think twice about doing it again...tv has ruined everything...there's no more honest people left...we're an island in a sea of misery...nobody speaks English in my street..."

Sunday, 1 October 2017

The Last Immigrant


So it's time to wheel the barbecue back into the shed, neatly arrange the garden furniture and thank the Almighty one for giving us a few sunny days in what was otherwise a misrable summer.

Goneth are the last rays of sun as the rain clouds cometh from all sides. The beer was good and the banter was of Brexit, Trumpy Trumpy Trump and those damn pesky immigrants who seem intent on staying for free in our magnificent land of milk and honey.


A lot of those immigrants would give their right arm to taste some of the food that makes our country great; you know, food like curry, fish and chips or a decent English breakfast. Thoughts of fine British nosh must fill their minds, as they attempt to cross the Channel hiding in a refrigerated trailer or clinging on for life under a forty tonne truck.

The numbers getting in are dropping quicker than flies in winter, and those already here have probably had a gutfull of being spat at and shouted at by drunken thugs, fuelled by strong lager and patriotism.


"FUCK ORF BACK HOME YOU GRUBBY BLEEDER!" cries Mister Smith, from number 42 Willow Drive, Bournemouth - a town as British as eggs, bacon and fried bread. "WE DON'T WANT YOUR LOT 'ERE!" adds little Timmy Spicer, an eight-year-old boy who's well and truly into Brexit and all it means.

SPEAK UP ALL OF YOU!


He WILL build his wall and we will make Britain GREAT again. We will rule the waves and stand up for ourselves in a world of dodgy, spineless leaders.


There's a change in the air...and it smells GOOD!

Tuesday, 19 September 2017

If only...



To earn a pathetic wage, Clare now worked in Asda, in Margate, which is certainly nothing to shout about. Before, when she was with Deano, she had worked in an office in Canterbury, which was certainly better than stacking shelves in a supermarket in Thanet. She also used to drive a red VW Golf, but now, because of the situation in which she now found herself, she was forced to go everywhere by bus. It's no wonder, then, that on the day of her thirty-second birthday, Clare Green was depressed.



If only she could have turned back the pages and avoided doing the things which had put her in such a terrible predicament. If only she hadn't cheated on Deano, with another GIRL, if only she hadn't blown all of her cash on white wine and comfort food and if only things in France had worked out much better, Clare Green would still be living in Normandy. If only...

Extract taken from "Clare's Holiday" & "Those Margate Days, Those Lonely Nights" - a book about love, life and missed opportunities.
Out now in paperback and ebook format for kindle.


Friday, 25 August 2017

Do you speak English?


 When the pretty girl returned with more drinks, Phil said that he was starving. He then looked at the girl, and smiling at her, he launched into conversation with her.
“Can we eat here, sweetheart?” he enquired, as Clare looked on. This, she thought, was going to be fun. The girl shrugged her shoulders, as she struggled to understand what Phil was saying.
“Eat,” he repeated, motioning with his hands that he was cutting imaginary food with a knife and fork.”
“Ah, mais oui,” replied the girl, smiling at the tattooed beast, before putting on her best English accent. “’ere we ‘ave some fine foodz. What does it you want?”
“Yeah!” replied Phil excitingly. “We’re getting there. Have you got any cheeseburgers?”
Clare burst out laughing. “Oh, Phil and his cheeseburgers. How lovely.”
“Comment?” replied the girl. “What is this cheezburgers?”
“You know,” said Sarah. “C H E E S E B U R G E R S.”

“Oh, mais non,” said the girl, registering at last what a cheeseburger was. “’ere we ‘ave steak and frize or just a sandweech.”


Extract taken from "But Bloody France!" & "Clare's Holiday" - a tale about friends on holiday in deepest Normandy, where there's not a cheeseburger in sight.
Out now for kindle & in paperback.

Tuesday, 8 August 2017

Burgerland


With that hungry look in her eyes, only a beast of a cheeseburger could put a smile back on her face.

And for the boy? A meal with a free gift in the form of a plastic car or a spinning top.

YES! All of life's problems can be solved with such sickeningly appalling food, served by spotty students who can always be replaced if they're not up to scratch.

And on rolls the beast...
...on it rolls regardless.

Have a nice day! Have a good day!

Saturday, 8 July 2017

A Teddy Bear From Hell


With his bloodshot eyes, broken nose and chipped front tooth, it's no wonder that our friend's success rate with women is LOW.

Is this the man you would introduce to your parents as your cuddly teddy bear cum future husband?

I think not.

Image the scene: a Sunday afternoon barbecue, with mummy, daddy, the neighbours and a few of daddy's colleagues.



The temperature is rising as the sausages sizzle, and the teddy bear from hell has had enough of talking politely about the weather. He has only one thing on his mind, and that is to get merrily drunk and to hell with the consequences.

His beer-drinking skills are impressive, and as one empty can follows another, the teddy bear unleashes a tirade of verbal abuse at mummy. The rest, as they say, is history.

THIS SUMMER, AVOID UPSETTING THE FUTURE IN-LAWS!

Be wise, be smart and be nice.


Wednesday, 17 May 2017

Unloved


"Tony's had a very successful morning pickpocketing, and even though it's cold outside, he managed to brave the harsh weather long enough to line his own pockets with some much-needed cash.
Of course, we all know that theft is morally wrong, with one of the ten commandments telling us that thou shall not steal.
But as the boy rightly says, nowadays it's the survival of the fittest, and if the only way we can say stay alive is by stealing from others, then so be it.
Today's haul comes to just over three hundred pounds, a couple of passports and a season ticket for the underground.
Tony has already made contact with Glen, our friend from the other side of the river, to see if he can do anything with the passports. Glen said that he'll be over later, because at the moment there's a place in the market for identity fraud.

Somehow, I just know that this year is going to be a great one for Tony and me."

Dave Cooper banging on about his friend, the much unloved Tony Joy.
Meet these characters, and others, in The Londoners trilogy of ebooks, out now on Kindle.

Monday, 8 May 2017

More drivel from the fat man


Thank God that the presidential elections are over in France. Intense politics can drive a sane man crazy, but I've always managed to keep my head up in such testing conditions.

Politicians are a funny lot - dishonest, thieving and sometimes homosexual - but it's this lot who decide how our country is run.

I reckon that I would have been a great world leader, if it wasn't for the fact that I swear a lot when drunk, I'm very fat and I don't like certain ethnic minorities.


Anyway, I've spent the last few hours thinking and drinking, and now I think I've got the five-point plan that could get most countries back on track, if they're in financial turmoil, and the natives are getting restless.


1: Long-term unemployed people should be seen but not heard. Why the hell do these parasites have the right to vote, when they offer nothing to the economy? Strip 'em of their rights.

2: Bring back flogging. Shoplifters to insurance salesmen would think twice before crossing the line.

3: Bring back national service. A young boy (or girl) who is groomed at a young age, and who has discipline drilled into them is an asset to a nation. Don't forget: war is here to stay, so we need a fighting force.

4: Ban mobile telephones in public places. It's a plague that's gonna bring us all down unless we stamp out the biggest menace since reality television.

5: Ban fast food restaurants. This craze is smashing through the traditional family way of life like a bazooka through candyfloss. Selling unhealthy, unappetising and overpriced food, these temples of sin are sending nations into a pit of obesity.

You know I'm right!

Tuesday, 2 May 2017

Have A Nice Day!


FOOD GLORIOUS FOOD!

Yep, whether it be from the finest restaurant in town or from a fast food restaurant overloaded with spotty students and screaming kids, food has never been so good.

There's all sorts of wonderful food to suit every budget, and there's all types of restaurants hoping to reel us in, feed us up and then spit us out.

When Bob Geldof and Live Aid sang "Feed The World" all of those years ago, they wanted to bring to our attention the famine which was sweeping across Africa like a tsunami. More than thirty years later, the black continent is still begging for food and bothering us with their hideous lack of personal hygiene and their mud huts.

You could throw billions of pounds at the starving masses for the next hundred years, and it wouldn't change a thing!

Lazy isn't the word to describe these idle bastards, who sit around all day making their numerous wives pregnant whilst before watching the day go by from the comfort of their hovels. Work is just a four-letter word to the blacks of deepest Africa, who feel that their problems are because of our lack of care and understanding.

And if you don't believe me, put me to the test.

I mean, go out now, grab a cheeseburger, wrap it up and airmail it to a famine-ridden, African country of your choice.

The recipient of this magnificent gift will no doubt complain that it's gone cold in the post, there's no fries and there's certainly not enough to feed his six wives and forty-three children. But because he's polite, he'll devour the burger in one go before throwing its carton container on the ground, leaving the flies to lick away the cheese and salad which our hungry friend didn't want.

Do not expect a thank-you letter in the post.

Charity, as they say, begins at home. And as they also say, you can help some of the people some of the time, but not all of the people all of the time.

CHEERS!

Tuesday, 4 April 2017

Sick

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.


Ward pulled from his pocket a telephone. It was Melissa Hall's telephone – the telephone she had dropped when he had attacked her from behind, before throwing her into the sea. He had, wisely, turned the telephone off after he had murdered the girl, for he knew that when a mobile telephone is switched on, it is quite possible for the location of the telephone to be detected by satellites. But now he had to switch the phone on, because he wanted to play a very sick game with Melissa Hall's parents.


Tuesday, 14 March 2017

Northern scum & foreign dross.

Ward swore to himself and made a beeline for the outer deck. It was ten o'clock at night, and apart from a few flickering lights, visibility was poor. He gripped the rail which prevented him and other passengers from falling overboard, and shaking his head from side to side, he bemoaned the fact that the boat was old and dirty. He then peered over the rail and watched as the foam from the black sea splashed against the side of the boat. He observed the sea and listened to the sound of the ferry's tired and aching motors, as they propelled the boat gently through the Channel. The air may have been cold and uninviting, but it was so much better than the air he had been forced to inhale in the bar. There, the sea of bodies stank of stale sweat, they belched, they coughed and they spread germs. The air inside was soiled by all of those fat and ugly bodies, by northern scum and foreign dross. The air outside was pure.


Extract taken from "After Dover" - an ebook for kindle by Luke Ryman.

Sunday, 19 February 2017

Chardonnay & Cheeseburgers


Warm, white wine. Iffy cheeseburgers. Hormones in overdrive. Day trips to France and holidays in America.

Springtime cometh.

Arrange your winter clothes and put away your heavy coat. Think BARBECUE and BEER!

Get out those t-shirts. Take in the sun and be happy that you've survived another winter.


Sunday, 22 January 2017

The World's Gone Fucking Mad (Part 1)


As temperatures plunge in France, this homeless man has nothing to consider except another night sleeping rough, in the snow.


Meanwhile, not too far away, in northern France, these migrants are preparing themselves a hot meal, in the kitchen of their new home, in one of France's many centres created to house migrants like them. And then, it's off to bed...


Is it me, or has the world gone fucking mad?

Now is the time to expel the parasites which are ruining this country, and the time to put France FIRST!