I’m going to write and publish a collection of short stories – and if you pre-order it, you could get to choose the title of one of the stories. More about that further down.
What can I guarantee from it all? There’ll be loads of stories, they’ll be organ-shatteringly funny (to me if no one else) and there’ll be lashings of swearing. Also, your name will go in the back as a beloved collaborator. And it’ll be published some time in 2015.
I’ve already got titles and ideas for some of the stories sketched out – titles include ‘The Loft Custard’, ‘Steve The Prick’ and ‘What Level 42 Did When Their Holiday Got Cancelled’. Hopefully you’ll be able to come up with better titles. If not, I’m fucked.
No, it’ll be great – trust me. So here’s the bit where you get to pre-order it…
If you want the eBook version (all known formats), that’ll be £4.00 please. Pretty much the price of a pint (see title of this post). Click below.
If you’d like to do a ‘pay what you want’ thing and pay EVEN MORE than the prices I’ve listed above, click here. You’ll get the print book, the eBook and my undying devotion.
With the ‘pay what you want’ thing, chuck in a sum above a particular amount that I’ve got stored in my head and I promise that I’ll ring you up/Facetime/Skype you and read some of the book to you. Triple it, and I’ll come to your house and read to you in person. Possibly.
If you’d like to suggest a story title, just put your requested story title in the box where it says ‘Add special instructions to the seller’ when you do the Paypal thing.
Let’s do literature!
Britain 2014. A nation that is in the grip of a million types of crisis. Need and want is evident wherever your eyes dare to wander. Today though, a new, desperate voice has been heard. A voice that roars, ‘Who will babysit my sourdough starter?’
To the uninitiated, this sounds like the confused howl of a lunatic but in fact a sourdough starter must be ‘fed’. You can’t just bang one out in a few hours like it’s a white tin loaf or something, you fucking tit. Jesus. Something something yeast, something something bacteria – OBVIOUSLY.
If you’re lucky enough to have a job or go on holiday, you’re screwed. As with a cat or dog, the sourdough starter needs to be nurtured, otherwise it’ll die. And like a dead cat or dog, the stink will soon become unbearable and there’ll be maggots everywhere. Probably.
Just like ghoulish, silver-topped human penis Paul Hollywood, we’re stuck with the cult of the sourdough starter, and it could be a 2015 election-winning issue.
Victory might hinge on whether Cameron or Miliband have the (dough) balls to introduce paid paternity leave for fathers of sourdough starters (because it’s mostly blokes, right?). At the very least, free nursery places for fledgling sourdough starters will surely be on the agenda.
Meanwhile, UKIP will dodge the issue as it’s too modern and weird, and a newly-independent Scotland will be immune, too concerned with fully utilising its shortbread mountain.
Britain 2014. A nation that is up to its neck in bread trends and can’t stop. A nation that has become an artisan bakery junkie, forever chasing that next, more elaborate, hit.
A nation that needs to get a fucking grip and just send off for some sea monkeys instead.
So, anyway, I’ve written a few pieces for the Daily Mirror’s website lately (mainly TV reviews), and hopefully there’s a lot more to follow. Why not go and have a look? You’ve literally got nothing to lose.
“The ball’s gone over the top, the defence have stepped up but there’s no flag. After that it’s a one-on-one biscuit race between Owen and the keeper.”
“When you’re taking a free kick, the wall’s a bit like a porn film. You’re better off ignoring it or else you’ll just get distracted.”
“You’ve got to blame the defence there. The left-back came home early for his tea and got jam in his eye.”
“You can’t legislate for skill like that. He’s done a right Pan’s People on John O’Shea there.”
“Seven hours Palace fans have waited for a goal, and when they get one they’ll probably spell it wrong.”
“He’s gone up and given the centre-half a short back and sides there. Look at the replay, there’s dead hair all over the six yard box.”
“Blanc’s been caught by the quick ball over the top there. He was expecting The Troggs and they’ve gone and hit him with a right Frank Zappa.”
“Villa’s midfield’s like a handful of premium bonds. They’re there but you’re not quite sure why.”
“Zola’s split the defence with a birthday ball there. Candles, the bumps, and a sloppy kiss off his Auntie Rita. The lot.”
I scripted these. Tim Major drew them.
Yesterday, a great man passed away. Beastie Boy Adam Yauch, aka MCA, aka Nathaniel Hornblower died at the criminally young age of 47. The outpouring of grief around the world can be measured by looking at social media – at one point in the US yesterday evening, nine of the top ten trending topics were Beastie-related.
As I tried to get a handle on the shocking, sorrowful news, I remembered my own period of hardcore Beastie Boys fandom – hearing Slow & Low on an EP that was given away with Record Mirror in 1985 and having my 13-year-old mind BLOWN; avidly buying up everything they released over the next year or so; being disappointed when they broke into the mainstream with Fight For Your Right (it wasn’t hip hop – I didn’t like it). Yes, I liked them before you did – I’ve always been hipper than you.
But this morning, my sadness has turned to blind rage after seeing and hearing the ‘tribute’ to Yauch from those unwelcome suppliers of lite-rock corporate shite, Coldplay (the Hamfatter that somehow made it) – a piano-led cover version of the aforementioned Fight For Your Right. Here, look… see… cringe…
In case you don’t have the stomach to play the video, what Chris Martin and his gang of humming building society cashiers have done is take a goofy, dumb-as-fuck, rock anthem and clinically removed everything about it that made it great, before infusing it with their trademark empty, soulless earnestness. Yes boys, you’re sad; we get it because we’re ALL sad – just don’t apply the standard Coldplay filter to what is the Beasties’ best-known song and instantly rip apart everything that it represents.
The only thing they could have done that would have been LESS appropriate than this fucking fiasco would have been to break into the morgue, find Yauch’s still-warm corpse, flicked his penis into some kind of vague erection and then wanked him off while Chris Martin played the harmonica and tapped his foot on the floor to keep time.
NOW look what they made me do….
So, I made an advert for a top firm…