guest story - The White Falcon by Dennis J. D’Amato

Andy Cosmo is an old geezer now. You can usually find him at the music store downtown where I work.

The place is different from the way he remembers it. The hangers on the pegboard walls that once held saxophones and violins and clarinets for display now carry Les Pauls and Fender Jazz Bass guitars. He always complains about the floor and all of the drum kits and newfangled amplifiers that get in his way when he tries to walk around the place. It is a running joke that he can’t wait to get to the back to the bathroom to take a piss. Seems like he is always taking one or telling somebody he needs to. If you really want to hear him go off, all you have to do is mention somebody like Eric Clapton to him. He can’t stand anybody who started playing guitar after he was born. He tells me that rock and roll really screwed up music and put “real” musicians out of work.

“How the fuck can you listen to that crap?” he asks. “You know how many guys can’t get a fucking job because of that crap? That Clapton guy can kiss my ass!”

I pretend not to hear him. Besides, when I don’t answer him, it just pisses him off more. The rest of the guys in the store always get a kick out of that. Instead I usually choose to engage Andy in some meaningless banter.

“Hey Andy, how’s it hangin’?”

He responds with the predictable expletive.

Like I said, the guys at the store just get a kick out of the old bastard when he’s mad, and I know how to get to him madder than anyone else. He stops by the music store from time to time. I guess it gives him the chance to re-live his career, which, if you ask him, is quite impressive. You see Andy is what is known as a “cat.” A jazzman. You’ve seen guys like him in those old movies about big band leaders. You know, the guy sitting down holding an old Gibson or Gretsch wide body jazz guitar, strumming away and holding the rhythm section in check. Of course, you never realize how important that guitar guy is. He’s usually just window dressing for the band leader or the sort of fictional Frank Sinatra character in Pal Joey. Those days are long gone though. Now he’s a cantankerous old son of a bitch who seems to be mad at everything and everybody. Today he has a particular problem with Tommy Dorsey.

“Dorsey? Yeah, I played with him. He was a real prick”

This is news to me. Everybody I know who knew Tommy Dorsey can’t stop telling me what a great guy he was to work for.

“Why do you say that?”

“He wouldn’t let my wife go on the road with me and the band, so I had to make a decision.”

“And?”

“I chose my wife of course.”

“But you got to stay with the love of your life, right?”

“Nah, the bitch left me a month later. Fucking Tommy Dorsey was a prick!”

He’s not exactly the most attractive person you ever saw either. He’s bald with those red things that old guys get on their heads sometimes and he tries to hide them with a comb over of about ten long hairs. He’s got stubbly grey beard hairs that struggle to the surface but don’t seem to make it. He walks like somebody hit him with a baseball bat across his knees. All bent over rickety. He moves as if he’s using one of those walkers, but he doesn’t have one. He probably should get one I guess.

His fingers are all bent out of shape from arthritis and he can hardly use them anymore. The only thing I ever see him use his hands for is to light up one of those el squillos stinky little cigars you see mafia guys smoke in the movies. That, or to flip somebody a feeble finger when he’s mad enough. Which is pretty much all the time.

I sometimes see him getting off of the Chapel Street bus around the corner from the store. Takes him about ten minutes to climb down the three steps to the sidewalk. He’s usually screaming at the bus driver about not taking his transfer or some such. If he’s not getting off the bus and screaming at the bus driver, he’s hobbling down State Street screaming at anyone who is passing by about whatever he thinks is the issue of the day. Usually at the top of his lungs. He always wears this green plaid woolen CPO jacket over a black t-shirt and a pair of stained dungarees. The holes in the jeans seem to move around from day to day, so I think he might have a few of them. But I’m not really sure. Anyway, no matter how he gets here, I can usually tell he’s around by the sound of his screaming voice. Or from the smell of those stinky cigars when he opens the door and enters the store.

In spite of all that, I have to say that I kind of like the old bastard. I kind of think he likes me too. Or at least he likes me as much as somebody as miserable as he is could possibly like anyone. He always seems to find his way over to me when he comes in. Maybe it’s because he knows I won’t put up with his attitude. Or maybe it’s because he knows I can give back anything he can dish out. Whatever the reason, I’m usually the guy he bothers when he’s here. The other guys at the music think he’s full of shit. I can see why. After all, we are talking about a guy who once told us that he knew Les Paul before he invented the famous guitar.

“That Les Paul son-of-a-bitch! I taught him every fucking thing he ever knew. I shuldda married Mary Ford before she got hooked up with that bastard.”

We all looked at him with predictable disbelief.

“You taught Les Paul how to play guitar?”

“Yeah, I showed him. That prick couldn’t hold a candle to Django. Django. He’s the best you ever wanna see. All these Les Paul bastards are just little pricks!”

He loves to call people pricks for some reason. And if they are really pricks, he loves to call them little pricks. I can’t disagree much with him about Django though. Django Reinhardt is the best I ever heard. He invented a style of guitar playing called “Gypsy” music. He lost fingers on his left hand in a fire or something, but he played stuff that people with twenty fingers haven’t been able to play the way he did. Andy always says that “Tiger Rag,” a song Django did with legendary violinist Stephan Grapelli, is the best music ever played. I can’t really disagree with him on that either.

Anyway, the only time Andy smiles is when he’s talking about Django. If you listen to Andy, Django is the only guitar player he didn’t teach how to play. 

Andy’s dissertation on Tommy Dorsey ends abruptly when he notices the Gretsch White Falcon on one of the guitar racks. His distraction is somewhat understandable. After all, a White Falcon is a thing of beauty. It’s a pure white lacquered semi-solid classic jazz guitar with all gold appointments. I think it was one of the first stereo guitars too. They say the new ones are not as good as the first ones made in the early fifties. I’ve never played one of the old ones so I can’t really say. The new ones are just fine for me though. I promised myself a couple of years ago that I would save up enough to buy one of those things. Maybe someday I will. Most guitar players kind of smile when they see a White Falcon. Of course, Andy is not like most people. His response is something different.

He pulls out one of his stinky cigars and starts to light up. Chucky the drum guy protestd before Andy could get a match to the stinker.

“Oh, come on Andy. Give us a fucking break with that, huh? It’s bad enough we have to smell you in here.”

Andy blows the match out and leaves the box of cigars on the glass display cabinet and returns his gaze to the White Falcon.

“I had one of those fucking things. They gave me the first one they made because I was the best guitar player around.”

This is just too much. The first one they made? Andy explains that back in 1954, Gretsch wanted him to promote the guitar. He said that because he taught Les Paul everything he knows and that he taught every guitar player in the world beside Django how to play that he was the only man who could get their new guitar off the ground. Total bullshit of course. Even by Andy’s standards. Doesn’t matter though.  It’s still quite a story.  

“Andy, you still got that thing or what?”

“Piece of shit! I gave it to some bum about thirty years ago. I think he used it for firewood.”

He waives his hand as if to brush the memory of the thing away. Obviously, he doesn’t want to talk about it. Andy notices that the others are not interested in his tall tales and figures it’s time to end the bullshit session until next time.

“Fucking bus is coming. You little pricks don’t know jack shit about jack shit. “

Andy stumbles his way to the glass door onto Chapel street, to the corner to wait for the bus. As he walks out the door, Chuck the drum guy yells to Andy as the door closes behind him.

“I forgot to tell you, Clapton called and he wants to take lessons.” Everyone laughs.

As the bus pulls up, I notice that there is something on the glass display case.  

“Hey, Chuck, what’s that?”

“It’s the old man’s pack of el squillos. I guess the maestro forgot them.”

I try to get out to the bus so I can give the old guy his stinkers, but it’s too late. The bus pulls away before I could get the driver’s attention.

I know where he lives though. I could drop by later and bring the things to him. I’m pretty sure nobody wants them polluting the air in the store for the next couple of days. And I sure as hell don’t’ want to hear him if he comes in looking for them if somebody throws them out. 

Like most weekdays, business is a little slow at the music store. Rock star wannabees can’t get their parents to spend money until the weekend, so on nights like this we get to spend most of the time jamming. We like to call it quality control. Somebody has to make sure our customers are getting the best product possible. Some of the regulars come in and join us. It’s really a pretty cool place to work when you are a musician. In honor of Andy, I choose to check out the White Falcon hanging on the wall. I don’t know how nice the older ones are, but I can’t imagine them being any better than the one I’m playing. Plugged into a Fender Twin Reverb and cranked up to eleven, it sure works for me. It’s particularly fine for fat blues rhythm stuff. Not exactly the kind of thing you would use to shred, but perfect for the blues. Unfortunately when we are busy jamming, closing time comes around like a flash. We have strict orders to make sure the place is shut down on time. We don’t’ want to cut into the owner’s ongoing poker game downstairs. So we make sure we follow this one rule to the letter. Register counted, money in the safe, lights out, alarm set and me and the rest of the guys are ready to boogie. We’re halfway out the door when Chuckie points to the counter.

“Hey, don’t forget Cosmo’s stogies.”

 “Oh yeah, thanks for reminding me.” 

I am able to grab them just before the alarm is set, and we all get out before it goes off. We say our usual good-byes and make plans to maybe hook up later to slug some brews and see who is playing around town. Bands love to let us sit in. They figure they can snag a bigger discount if they do. We let them think that. It’s just one of the perks of working at the place. I’m kind of looking forward to playing later. Sometimes no matter how much you play, it just isn’t enough. I had just enough time to stop at Burger King for a Whopper and a Coke and to take a quick shower before meeting the guys downtown. Oh, and I had to drop off Andy’s stinkers on the way. That would only take a minute. I’m sure Andy isn’t the kind of guy who is going to invite me in for a glass of wine or anything. 

Andy lives in this apartment building on Elm Street. You know the kind. The entry is finished in old art deco tile that probably hasn’t been washed in about fifty years. It reminds me of Grand Central Station’s bathrooms. It sort of smells likes that too. Andy’s apartment is on the first floor and has windows looking out over the busy street. I wonder how he gets any sleep in there. It’s hotter than hell out, and his windows are wide open. The rusted old air conditioner is not on. Probably because it doesn’t work or Andy can’t afford to run it. I have to admit that I’m curious about what he does in there all day by himself, so I sneak up to one of his windows and hear a familiar tune playing on his radio or record player or something.

Of course, it’s Django’s “Tiger Rag” playing. It’s kind of strange though. I don’t hear Stephan Grapelli playing along. I never heard of a version with just Django. Now I’m really curious. I move closer to the window and poke my head in.

I’m amazed at what I see.

Andy Cosmo is sitting with his back to me in one of those old tapestry covered over- stuffed chairs you see in funeral homes and old black and white Scrooge movies. And he’s holding it in his hands. Its white lacquer has yellowed with age, and the gold appointments are worn and faded. But that’s it for sure. There can be no mistake. He’s playing the White Falcon. The reason there was no Stephan Grapelli on the record is because it wasn’t a record at all. It was Andy Cosmo playing “Tiger Rag” on the White Falcon.

No, he’s not playing it. He’s making love to it. His disfigured fingers are flying over the ebony neck with great ease, as if it were that day in 1954 when he first got it.

He’s playing the most beautiful music I’ve ever heard.

Every note true to Django’s original rendition.

But with the kind of heart and soul that can only be captured by the greatest of masters.

Suddenly, I reach into my pocket and I remember why I came here. The el squillos. Of course. I came to give them to him.

The melodies and chords continue, though, and I find that I do not want them to stop. No. The stogies can wait. I think I’ll give them to him tomorrow. I’m too busy listening to Andy playing “Tiger Rag.”

Maybe he’ll do “Sweet Georgia Brown” or “Honeysuckle Rose” or some other Django classic. The Whopper and the guys downtown can wait a few minutes. Right now, I just want to listen to Andy Cosmo play that White Falcon. And you know, I think maybe he actually did teach Les Paul everything he knows. Maybe Tommy Dorsey really was a prick. I’m not so sure anymore. I’ll wait until I see him next time to ask. For now, I’ll just listen. And I realize that I can’t wait to hear his next story.

Story 21 - 2 Worms

Two worms were fighting over a strawberry. It was first one to get to the top. One worm battered the other with a magnificent headbutt to send him flying onto the ground. The victorious worm then slid his way to the summit. “I’m the king!” he shouted. “I’m the king.”

Just then the fallen worm spotted, out of the corner of his eye, a starling.

“Over here, over here,” he yelled, before burrowing his way into the mud. Even before he was fully submerged he could feel the beating of the starling’s wings as she swooped down upon his tormentor.

Story 20 - Hungry and Homeless

There’s a sign in front of me saying hungry and homeless.

“How did you come to be hungry and homeless?” a woman asked me.

“Poor girl,” she must’ve been imagining; wanting to say; most probably a Christian; she was certainly giving off a motherly impression of, “There, there.”

I told her I’d lost my job along with my flat but was on a waiting list for a new one. I said there were a couple more weeks for me to get through ‘cause I could tell she was sorry for me and it being a good opportunity to get money. I wanted to make her feel she could make a difference so she’d go home happy; a lot less depressed than the sight of me was obviously making her. Unfortunately all I got was a cup of Starbucks coffee, a toasted cheese sandwich and a phone number.

“If you need someone,” she said. I thought: “For what?”

The truth is a lot simpler; much less dramatic than what I tell most of my mates: I was never kicked out of home, my parents never hit me and I’ve had plenty of chances to go back.

The fact is I’m stuck. At the very suggestion of getting my act together my veins fill up with inertia. I panic, and then tell myself there’s no hurry, that maybe one day.

Afterwards I remember there’s more important things to be thinking about. Like where I’m gonna sleep tonight; where, how, who with, how much, and is there a need for me to be begging for any more money?

It looks like it’s gonna rain soon. I’ll sleep round Steve’s if I can. Unless Tanya and her mates are there again it shouldn’t be a problem. Otherwise it’s the launderette on Wicker Street if I’m lucky enough for it to be unlocked tonight; and the doorway to Sam’s Café if I’m not. There’s twenty-seven pounds, thirty-eight pence on me. Two half cigarettes left (will more butts need to be gathered before everything gets wet?)

As the sky now rumbles with distant thunder the shoppers around me speed up, eager to be getting back to their warm homes. If I didn’t look such a mess I’d head for the shopping mall, but the security don’t like me in there. Think I’m gonna cause trouble. Harass the customers. Disturb the customers more like. Distract them from the ambience designed to make them feel rich, successful, happy and willing to part with their money. Perhaps I should dress up all nice and wave a flag saying you’re rich, life’s great, you’re great, and then people would be more eager in donating their loose change.

I need to collect some cigarettes for later; though there’s enough cash to treat myself to a new pack: Could do. Why not? Money is for food, drink, drugs and emergencies. A rule I made up last year. It’s how I’ve lasted this long: However, now as dusk sets in I’m starting to feel cold; and also slightly starving in a passive sort of way.

The folded cardboard hungry and homeless sign goes into the pocket of my duffle coat as I pick myself up from the floor. It’s started spitting now so I pull out my small Mickey Mouse umbrella from another pocket which explodes into life at the press of the magic button. I’m not your typical homeless girl. I have a magic Mickey Mouse umbrella.

The rain gets worse as I head to the kebab shop. Outside there’s a guy selling The Big Issue. He’s wearing a green parker with the hood up and is shifting from one foot to the other to keep warm. I don’t know him; or more precisely, haven’t seen him around here before; and he doesn’t recognise me yet.

We ignore each other as I go inside; ask for two kebabs with lots of mayonnaise please. There’s a TV on the wall but nowhere to sit. The news, but I can’t concentrate fully on what’s going on because of feeling tired and a little spaced out. I drink a Dr Pepper and stand, gazing at the TV screen while my two wrapped up kebabs sit on the counter.

It’s pouring with rain when I exit the shop. I offer the Big Issue guy one of my kebabs, hoping to make a new acquaintance but he refuses; and then disappears into the rain with a shout of, “You’re all good, yeah?”

Sitting on the floor up against the wall, under my umbrella I eat the two kebabs. After that I’m getting my cider at a different offie this time. In the rain everyone often appears worn and weathered; which usually works to my advantage ‘cause I look a little more ordinary. Less shit. On entering I for once can sense that to them I’m just a normal customer.

After sketchily making a show of browsing around I treat myself to a packet of Amber Leaf and get a one litre bottle of White Lightening; on impulse adding some M&M’s and bacon flavoured McCoy’s.

I decide against going to Steve’s but the laundrette is open thank God. It’s nice lying down in the dark - I daren’t turn the light on of course because of not wanting to give away my position - behind the row of washing machines with my little picnic. Outside the rain is pelting against the windows. Shadows of swaying trees dance against the wall while I smoke a rollie and briefly think about how lucky I am: the food, the shelter, the cosiness, the independence and that warm feeling inside brought about by the cider…

Although on waking up in the morning I’m being kicked by two old men. I’ve overslept, you see: a mistake on my part. A dishevelled old woman in curlers and a nightgown is in the background, looking on gratefully.

I hear the word, “Scum,” and there’s a moment when I’m spitting on the floor; and then it’s out into the fresh morning bitterness of a new day.

guest story - Unseen by Ray Tullett

For the boy it had been a great Sunday afternoon, the first time he had ridden his bicycle without stabilizers. He could still feel the exitement as he thought back to the moment he realised his dad was no longer holding the back of his seat but better still was the look of pride in his dad’s face. Once he was off there was no stopping him and he spent hours riding around the park until he was exhausted. That was why he had put up no fight when told it was bed time. Now lying under the covers he looked up at the picture on the ceiling of an elephant spraying water over its back from the trunk, he wished he could go on a safari.

He rolled over to reach for his teddy bear but found nothing there. Confusion took him for a moment before he remembered putting it on the shelf. He felt a little guilty but now his stabilizers were off he was grown up and should not have a teddy bear in bed any more.

Watching the boy flick the switch on the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness, he allowed his eyes to adjust to the gloom; this did not take long as his night vision was very strong. He looked across the now dark room at the mound in the bed: anger did not come close to how he was feeling. He wanted to cause pain and suffering and could feel the urge building as the rage intensified, he had tried very hard to repress the urges he felt each day.

Waiting now was difficult but his past experience had taught him patience and if he was going to have his fun he would have to wait. The room was quiet; not even the ticking of a clock disturbed the peace. The only sound was the sound of the boy breathing, although it was not yet the slow steady breath of deep sleep.

The day had seen the boy riding solo for the first time and the boy had talked of nothing else since. He had already been in the bedroom and listened to the talk of the day, at one point the boy had come unexpectedly to the room and only some fast reflexes had kept him from being discovered. Thinking about the shock now only added to the anticipation of what was going happen later, he was not fully sure of how this was going to play out but feeling a fresh surge of rage that he barely managed to suppress, he knew it was going to be messy.

Daydreaming those pleasant thoughts made him miss the change in breathing but now he was focussed, the little snores coming from the small bed told him all he needed to know. Soon he would make his move and the fun could begin… but patience was still required as the parents were awake and downstairs watching T.V. He wanted to take his time with this one and make him pay in pain.

Time drifted on and in moments there seemed to be no hope of them ever going to bed. There had been a false alarm earlier when the dad had got up to put the kettle on. Listening to the kettle ping in the kitchen had been a real nightmare as he knew that there was probably going to be another hour of waiting. Passing the time by counting the boy’s breaths he waited and waited until finally there was movement downstairs and the T.V. was turned off.

The parents took their cups to the kitchen, rinsed them out and then came upstairs. This was it, finally the waiting was over and the rage was to be unleashed in a violence this house would never see again. He heard the mum go into the bedroom and the toilet flush in the bathroom as the father finished his business.

Footsteps on the landing and a soft light bathing the boy on the bed as the father opens the door to check on his precious boy. Holding his breath he waits for the door to close so he can make his move but he hears the father chuckle and sees him step into the room.

The father starts towards him and he holds himself dead still, he feels the father’s hands as they pick him up and carry him to the bed. He is tucked under the boy’s arm in his usual place, the footsteps retreat and the door closes and night once more enfolds the room…

Review - Semi Detached by Gareth Jones

Twenty-six years old, bored with the nine to five and looking for adventure, Gareth takes off to South America and into backpacker land. Brazil, Argentina, Peru, Chile… if you’ve ever been there yourself, you’ll know the routine. Go to a city, wander around feeling bored, then get pissed and have fun. At least that’s the way he does it.

What I liked about the book is that it wasn’t written by a journalist. There’s no in depth descriptions of the history and politics of every place they go to. And there’s no travel program isn’t this wonderful? bullshit. It’s a proper young person’s hedonistic flight into the sort of mad life such “holidays” can bring. A South American On the Road for the modern generation.

Gareth and his mates may not be everyone’s sort of people. Their sex, drugs and rock’n’roll lifestyle can sometimes be shockingly over the top. And the way they pretty much abuse the fact that they’re in a poor country by treating it like a playground is not exactly moralistic. But there again, this is what most young people do on their “year out.” (Plus there is a half-hearted epiphany or “realisation” of this towards the end).

If you’re looking for a travel book that doesn’t get bogged down with a lot of dull information or heavy plotlines then this is for you. Nice and simple. And a lot of fun.

This is a self published novel and could do with a bit of editing to tighten things up, but it’s still worth checking out. As with the other books I’m reviewing, this won’t be on the bookshelf of most shops, but will be available to order.

Interview with Jonny Gibbings, author of Malice in Blunderland

So this month I’ve the pleasure of interviewing up-and-coming writer Jonny Gibbings. He’s the author of the hilarious Malice in Blunderland, and has been described variously as the new Irvine Welsh; the new Chuck Palahniuk; the new Will Self; the new Charles Bukowski; the new… well, why not judge for yourself?

You’re a surfer, a writer, well travelled, a family man… you had a difficult upbringing, you’ve been homeless, worked for a crime syndicate, spent time in prison… ever thought about writing an autobiography?

I get asked that a lot lately. To be honest, there are a lot of uncomfortable memories and a memoir would mean revisiting things that I’ve invested a hell of a lot of money in booze to try to forget. Lidia Yuknavich [author of Dora: A Headcase - CM] has done some amazing words recently and in light of that I tried an essay on my childhood, but that was enough. Way too much pain in there to dwell on. I’ll stick to making folks laugh.

It’s a fairly routine question but for those who haven’t heard of Malice in Blunderland can you give us a quick summary of what it’s about?

Well I like to think of it as a transgressive nihilistic comedy, written as a farce. I only say that because it makes me sound smart. It’s the tale of a guy down on his luck. He makes some really bad choices and things go from bad to worse: in the farce tradition, his every decision is the wrong one. So from one drunken night, he ends up wanted by the police for rapes he didn’t do, hunted by the Ukrainian Mafia and London gangsters, and violently assaulted by a transvestite. Oh and he accidentally appears in a snuff movie.

I think that in life we’re all just a couple of steps from disaster. So it’s a lot like the bible but with fewer beards.

To make your book more authentic you included a few “deliberate” mistakes. (Mixing up there, their and they’re, it’s and its, with the occasional spelling error thrown in.) Were these left in from the original manuscript or was it a case of them being purposely added to the final draft? Did you have to be careful to not include things that would confuse the reader?

This is a funny one. It all came about because of the actor Christopher Walken! When he gets a script, he has all of the punctuation removed so that when he reads it, it ensures his distinctive unbroken flow. Originally, the manuscript felt too manicured so I took out a bunch of words and it began to sound like the ramblings of a police confession rather than prose:

“Four chairs were fixed by bolts to the floor, the cold reflective plastic, etc” became, “Four chairs bolted to the floor. Shiny plastic.”

I felt it added urgency in places. Paul at my publisher is ex Harper Collins. He loved it and suggested the spelling errors after reading a quick draft update that wasn’t proofed. We even started the first page on the left hand side, which is cardinal sin in publishing, so it’s a sort of ‘fingers up’ to the literary establishment.

I wanted it to feel like you’d found the journal of a man in breakdown, like a voyeuristic peek at private mad drunken scrawls. In that respect I love the spelling. It’s a fun book, so we had fun with it and I wasn’t bothered about confusing the reader. Like with Trainspotting and A Clockwork Orange, it’s good to make the reader do some of the work.

As well as being the comedic tale of an antihero gate crashing his way through one awkward situation to another, there’s also a darker element to Malice. Mostly this is about the protagonist’s fall in self confidence related to the break up with an ex girlfriend who he refers to intermittently throughout the novel. Did this come naturally in the writing or was the back-story something you later added to give the book some extra depth?

Well, having been homeless and in prison, I was hardly a catch (being vagrant you’re about as popular as cock flavoured lollies) so I’ve never had the luxury of being a ladies man. But the protagonist needed a reason to be in a hole and heartbreak seemed as good a lever as any.

As for the darkness (such as considering jumping from a bridge, the violence and drug use), that was important. He needed to be someone who you initially hated but thought was funny enough to make you want to read him. The idea was you’d see him grow, learn he isn’t a bad person and empathise with him. Most people so far have ended up loving the guy.

It’s all as a set up for the ending of the book to be honest. I wanted to write a comedy, but I also wanted to subtly make the point about judgement and writing people off. When I was sleeping in doorways, I’m sure people thought that was by choice.

Word’s getting around that Malice is to become a film. A dream come true for many authors. But I put it to you: if you had the choice of your book becoming a successful but awful Hollywood blockbuster which made you lots of money or a fairly respectable independent film that premiered at Sundance but disappeared into the abyss soon after… well, what’d it be?

Oddly, exactly that happened. My publisher was approached by two film companies. A big group from Hollywood and an independent group from the UK. The American team (I say team, as there was a shit load of them) met in a conference room in London. There was a guy called Luis ‘from legal’ who had so much paper for me to sign, like it was the fucking Magna Carta. I would’ve had to hand over all control. Quickly it turned out they wanted the film to be a 15A certificate. They wanted to take out most of the drugs, violence and shock humour. They wanted to sanitise everything.

When booking into the hotel with them, for a joke I asked if there was porn in the room. When the receptionist told me the porn could be disabled, I said, “That sounds kinky – yes, give me the disabled porn!” They were horrified. That was the first clue that things wouldn’t work out.

If I was in it for the money, I’d have probably written a memoir. It would’ve been all moody and tragic and I’d probably be a shit load more successful because of it. But then, if I wanted to make quick money, I could also throw on a blond wig and start blowing sailors! I’d rather be loved by a few than liked by the many. The London team got it. We left the hotel, went to a vegan café in Camden and got pissed. And laughed a lot. Malice is a massive challenge. Making people laugh was important to the London boys. They want to make something to be proud of first, over the money it makes, and I respect that integrity. So it’s all going ahead with them.

So your blog, as well as being hilarious is often quite political. How about putting your political hat on for a moment and telling us the best (no cheating!) and worst thing that our current Prime Minister has done for this country so far?

Cameron? I despise that shiny faced shitty little twat-weasel. Why is he always so shiny? Is his face buffed up before he appears on telly? Why is his mouth too small for his head? I can’t think of one good thing to say. It amazes me that taxpayers have bailed out the banks to the tune of billions. Yet, if you are wealthy you get free banking. If you are poor or in debt, you have to pay for banking. It is immoral. How can he let that happen? Cameron is full of shit. Full of promises and failed to meet even one. “Read my lips, I do not break my promises,” he pledged. Promised to protect the NHS, even though they have just forced through a bill to fuck it and have enforced massive cut backs. The promise of 3,000 more police officers, instead we have redundancies. The promise to keep the future jobs fund – then axed it. The promise to keep the education maintenance allowance – then axed it. Unlike the promise to scrap tuition fees – and they went up. The promise to keeping the Child Trust Fund – then axed it. It’s bullshit. The UK is the world’s 6^th biggest economy; we give £170m to China, the world’s second biggest economy. China has a space program, we don’t. You don’t have to be an economist to work out that is just stupid. He might as well have knocked on my door, and when I opened, just pissed on my feet. I can’t stand these elitist, upper class Oxbridge pricks with no idea how hard it is for most people. These are the people who are supposed to have integrity, the bastions for inclusion and against class and sexist practices. Yet Cameron, Osborne, and Boris are members of The Bullingdon Club. A secret society dining club where women and poor people are not allowed. This is the 21^st century for Christ sake, not Dickens. It’s shameful that a Prime Minister would associate with that kind of shit. He has let banks off paying tax to the tune of £19 billion! It’s bullshit. His own government austerity advisor Sir Philip Green, the chief executive of Arcadia, skirted an estimated £285 million in tax through his wife’s tax-free status in Monaco, yet he has a pop at Jimmy Carr? Meanwhile they penalize the poor and the elderly. It is immoral.

Ok, deep breaths. Back to your blog again: the golf cart incident, being arrested in Vegas for pretending to shoot a transvestite, going missing in London, pissing off company executives, and even a few trashed (all be it accidentally) hotel rooms… it seems that some of these are the sorts of situations your character might have found himself in. Is this life imitating art or art imitating life?

Yeah, I must admit, I’m not the best decision maker and have put myself in stupid situations. Though, I believe you should live every day like it’s your last. Because one day you’ll be right. The Golf Pimp disaster was fairy typical, and I’m 40 now. I know I should grow up, but can’t quite stop wandering down the ‘That’d be funny’ path.

My book is an exaggeration of myself in many respects, especially the choices he makes. But I think, if when you died, you had to write an essay on your life, what would you say? “I worked really hard in an office for 60 years and gave up on my dreams.” Or would you say, “I did things, got in trouble, had adventures and laughed?” Cos I prefer the latter.

I have a tattoo: ‘LIT’ (Life is Temporary). We are not white goods like fridges that are here to perform repetitive tasks, then consigned to landfill. Do shit, take risks. You don’t stop laughing because you get old; you get old because you stop laughing.

You’ve said in the past that the gift of being able to tell good jokes has often won you friends and got you out of trouble. Do you have a particularly favourite joke you’d like to share?

This is a great question. You know, I’m not so much a joke teller, just that I have funny stories and see things a bit differently to most people. Things tend to happen. I was in Subway getting a roll, there was a queue and I was with some people from a signing. One guy cut the bread… then everything ground to a halt. I asked what the delay was, and the second guy had walked out. He was the guy who does the fillings. I told the first guy to just put the shit in the roll, but he said, “I don’t know what to do?”

How can you not know how to make a sandwich? Why in Subway does it take three people to make a sandwich? I’ve never been hungry, buttered bread and gone, “What next… I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO!!”

Till and sauce guy couldn’t help because he was till and sauce. So I went around the counter and dicked about serving people.

I think I just see the funny side of things, and I’m not embarrassed to look an idiot for finding it funny. Most think what I think, they just don’t say it.

My jokes are never mean though. I’ve been compared to Frankie Boyle and Tucker Max recently due to my flavour of humour and that bothers me a bit. Boyle is very funny, but mean about people, making jokes outwardly about them. Tucker Max is the memoir of an arrogant frat guy who got girls drunk, abused them and wrote about it. In Malice in Blunderland, the jokes are all on him, though the subject matter is dark, he is the only victim.

Lastly, being a bit of a whiz at self publicity (don’t be modest!) can you offer any words of advice to authors who are looking to create more awareness for their books?

I wouldn’t call myself a whiz at anything. If I was going to give advice it would be to be humble and be honest. There are too many authors now who feel it’s more important to be taken seriously and respected as an author than for what they’ve written. Sort of an X-factor narcissism. It does nobody any favours. If you post everywhere ‘read my book’ and use social media as an advertising platform you will be seen as spam. You’ll get blocked and hated.

Engage. That’s all I have done. When people do the ‘My book is free on Amazon – help me become a best seller,’ it’s just desperate. To be a best seller it has to be sold, not given away. It’s just a needy want to be a best seller for egotistical reasons. It’s bullshit. And downloads do not mean read!

Also, have an opinion and stick to it. I’m vegan, into animal rights, am political and talk about these things. This will gain you friends by association. I say friends because I hate this ‘fans’ crap. If ever I say I have fans – KILL ME.

Friends. It’s two way. My blog, goodreads, twitter… I’m talking and having fun all the time. It’s never one way, I’m asking what people have read; why they liked it, etc. Making jokes. I’m not pretending to be an author. I’m your average nobody who happens to have a book out.

Since the film thing, I’ve been asked by students in media: ‘What happens at script meetings?’ I was honest and told them I know naff all about film. So I let a bunch of them come along, getting involved in the process. Why not allow folk to piggy-back on your successes for free? It costs me nothing. Share the opportunity I say.

You can’t make anyone buy your book. You can be open, let people hear what you have to say, see if they like you. And if they like what you’re about, allow them to find a route to your book if they want one. My book has all five star reviews on Amazon because the people who buy it are pre-conditioned to the content. There are no shocks. They know it is black humour and very explicit. My efforts of simply being myself, acted as a filter. Like panning for gold. The people, who make it through, like what they read and so word of mouth kicks in. It’s organic. There’s no magic to it.

Some great advice there from the one and only Jonny Gibbings. Malice in Blunderland is available in kindle and paperback from all good bookshops. You can also follow Jonny on twitter, goodreads, check out his blog, and keep up to date with news via his website.

Review - If Errands Could Kill by Jim Bronyaur

So here’s the next indie review. If Errands Could Kill by Jim Bronyaur

It’s a self published kindle book and I was a little sceptical at first but ended up thoroughly enjoying it. (And I've since found out it's also available in paperback).

There are a few typos but don’t let that put you off. It’s well written, perfectly paced, and an extremely warm and fun book to read. The family life of the protagonist is rather “ideal” in an Enid Blyton sort of way but this works as advantage because you genuinely enjoy being a fly on the wall in the household. Reading about a happy marriage, well brought up kids, it’s a nice world to be entering. (We can’t be fascinated with the dark, messed up lives of others all the time now, can we?)

And then there’s the non-offensive murder mystery which keeps you turning the pages as any book in this genre should. Especially when the action hits in at the end. Back to Enid Blyton though, I actually think this would serve rather well as a kids book.

So whether you’re young or old, if it’s light reading for your kindle that you’re seeking then look no further.