Today, the Squidge family purchased our holiday books. (Except
Mr. Squidge - he doesn't read. Unless it's the 'Engineering'
magazine or something he needs to look at for the
Jenny B's choice:'Geekhood - Close Encounters of the girl kind', by Andy Robb. Bought mainly because she is a self-confessed geek, and although the book has romance in it, it's not all girly and yucky. (MC is a boy)
Tom's choice: 'Skulduggery Pleasant, Death Bringer.' It's book No 6 and he's not read No 5 yet (I feel a trip to the library coming on here), but he likes the series. Yet to be convinced myself...it's one of those series that you have to read in order, or you won't understand the many characters that keep cropping up. As I've only read 1/2 of book 1, I'm onto a loser here.
Squidge: A confusion of Princes, by Garth Nix. I've tried his books before and found them a bit too surreal, but the blurb sounded good on this one so I'll give him another go. I think I might have to sneak a Pratchett in my case too, as one book won't keep me going for the whole holiday. Or maybe the new Artemis Fowl - all three of us will read that!
So, cloudies...what will you be packing in your suitcases to while away the airport hours or fill lazy days on a sun-kissed beach?
Shot Down ….In
Jesus, Prop, you were
only gone seven days, drunk most of it and on line when you
weren’t sleeping, eating or molesting Her-indoors.
Yes, yes, all true. Well
while we are in the mood for true confessions, and Malta being
the place where the Luftwaffe suffered a total destruction in its
stated objectives and was shot out of the skies in great numbers,
I chose to confess that I …too was shot
We were at the pool and sun terrace on the roof. I was thoroughly enjoying ‘Shattered Sword’ by ~Parshall and Tully, an in depth study of the technical aspects and command structuctures of the Imperial Japanese Navy which may have influenced their operational doctrines enough to contribute to their total defeat at the pivotal battles of Coral Sea and Midway during the second world war.
Her-indoors was in the deck chair to my left and snoozing lightly under her sun hat after drinking half a glass of our shared bottle of rose at lunch. I was drinking beer again as they only served wine in very small glasses at the pool bar and I didn’t fancy making a trip to the bar every eleven minutes.
I was just digesting a section of the book which discussed IJN Kaga’s engine refit in 1932 and how her increased speed and that of the IJN Akagi, the flagship of the 1st Mobile Strike Force meant that their increased speed made them too fast to be escorted by Admiral Kondo’s heavy force of battleships which then stripped them of heavy anti aircraft gun protection and thus lead to their downfall.
The new power plants installed in IJN Kaga developed a total horsepower to weight ratio of…..and then they walked out on the terrace. Four of them…. Walked isn’t the word… slinked maybe…no…they stalked… like four lionesses looking for an easy kill…
Three of them were blondes all seemed just under 6 foot tall. The one in front was a red head… but in the way that Marilyn was just a Blonde… she defined what being a red head means…
She was wearing a black bikini that seemed to have come from a spray can. Her hair was cut short at the sides and combed strait back. She wore sunglasses, the kind which are less tinted at the bottom of the lens and seem to reveal more of what may be happening underneath them.
The pride walked the long way around the pool area to their chosen lair and that happened to be right past me. My earphones were playing an old Don Henley classic, ‘All She Wants to do is Dance’ and the beat seemed to fit their movements. She, the red head, lead them to some unoccupied deck chairs on the other side of the pool.
And then they sat down, in sublte, graceful movements and adjusted themselves to the sun. I have had lap dances which weren’t as stimulating as watching them put on sunscreen. I discovered that I had quit breathing and had to take a deep breath.
Red stood up and seemed to be asking the others what they wanted from the bar and walked past me again on her way to the bar…. And all she wants to do is dance …and make romance
I looked down at my beer and drank down my remaining 2/3rds of a pint and stood up. I held my beer belly in and looking somewhat like a constipated silverback gorilla, I too strolled to the bar.
I nodded to the barman for another beer and turned to Red. She was even more stunning up close. I said to her “Hot today” remarking on the wind chilled, 18C temperature on the roof,
She turned to me and parted her lips and said “Svenska, greisklip schvbolern kitnghj “
Being the worldly gent that I am and great student of languages of the modern world, I knew immediately that she had said either “I want to have your babies, take me now” or “Tomorrow is bin day, make sure you stand by the curb in the morning or they will miss you”.
I returned to my deck chair, still holding my belly in and sat down. Her indoors said from under her sun hat as I sipped my beer, “Lost some weight, Dear?” in that knowing, condescending yet affectionate tone that wives save for their husbands when they catch them out doing something completely stupid….
I grumbled under my breath, raised her sun hat and gave her a kiss. I said “Fancy a game of ‘Hide the Sausage” later in the room?”
She replied, “I was just thinking that too….maybe we’ll hide it in the toaster” ……..and she smiled that insufferable smile she gives when she is totally right.
I returned to my beer and my book about poor Japanese command decisions and contemplated that Admiral Nagumo had been the victim of fate, bad timing, and a poor application of too much horsepower too.
Malta has been great. The wine was first rate. The food was ok. The local cuisine is not well represented in the restaurants in the tourist areas. The inevitable mix of Grills, Tratoria, Chinese and pub food seems to provide the bulk of the sustenance choices for those not eating in their hotels.
We spent a fantastic Friday morning and afternoon walking along the vast sea front promenades which extend from Spinola Bay, below the bar district of Paceville, through St Julian and all the way down to Sliema ferry ports just across the bay from Valetta. Coffee shops along the route provided the early scenic rest stops and we bravely resisted wine until almost 11 o’clock as we slowly plodded along in the wind cooled sunshine.
I found a great pub near the boat yards that seemed grungy enough to provide me with a good drink without the pretentiousness that the ones catering to the Cruise Crowd of the more well off European tourists off the MV Costa Still-Afloat which was docked on the other side of Valetta.
The pub had resisted the obvious rustic fishing nets and old lanterns décor despite it’s location next to the boat yards at Manoel. There were a few tourists in it and a few, not exactly locals but not typically tourist types either. The low murmur of several conversations competed with the harbour noises and that of local motor traffic on the facing road.
I resisted more wine and ordered a Strongbow, raising an eyebrow and a hint of a smile from Her-indoors. Shockingly, she had a half of cider as well and a bottle of water. My one became three in a little over an hour. We had easy conversation and laughingly joked about our usual empty, holiday promises to live our lives more on our terms next week when we return to the fog our real live working world next week. We had, as we do everywhere, looked at the windows of local property sellers shops to determine if it was ever going to be economically feasible for this place to become our ‘place in the sun’ without the benefit of any bonus balls. It isn’t.
We talked about health issues among ourselves and family members. We talked about holiday plans to next year’s British Lions tour to Oz and contrasted that against other places we had not been yet. We talked about our friends and work mates, my failing golf game, MOT’s for the vehicles this year and perhaps taking the youngest Grandson away for a holiday this summer.
And oddly, easily and with surprising cohesion, we talked about which of us would die first and how the other would cope. Statistically, I will go first. Looking at family histories, the biggest threat to my family has been the German army, other than that, cancers have taken those who had survived bullets, bombs and Becks. I figure that I will be lucky to see past 70 years as long as the Germans don’t kick off again in the mean time.
Her side on the other hand, live long, very long, and healthy lives if they are not taken by accidents, industrial mishaps, and those who did not come back from their wars.
Her-indoors and I had taken dinner in our hotel early in the week and as I had previously mentioned there are a large preponderance of people older than us. Being a student of human interactions I had noticed, as she had, the diversity in age and in manner of those who shared the dinning room with us that night.
We noticed during dinner and in the bar afterward, that many couples had aged at vastly different rates leaving one or the other almost in a carer role. There were couples of varying ages who seemed to ignore each other as they ate or drank, while others carried on seemingly lively conversations.
We noticed a surprising number of lone diners. Most seemed to be women as many of the single men seemed to sit almost mess style at two large tables near the middle. Without staring at them outright, it was a compelling scene to observe. Some lone women would read while they ate, others might exchange the odd word with diners nearby. Many of them seemed comfortable happy and confident with their circumstances. But some seemed to give off an almost palpable silent scream. These ladies were all turned out immaculately and seemed to have lively eyes and be enjoying reasonable health…. but alone. Their eyes betrayed all of their apparent misfortune to have been put in this circumstance of dining alone.
Her-indoors and I have travelled extensively. We have seen how widows are shunned to a horrible underclass in some areas of India and other places. It was once an accepted practice there for a widow to cast herself on the funeral pyre of her husband in order to show her loyalty to him and spare the family the burden of a spare mouth.
We have a close friend who had moved with her husband to India just after their retirement and built their dream home only for the man to die suddenly in their first year there. The change in her status in the community forced her to flee back the UK.
In other places, most recently Auckland, New Zealand, we have seen groups of elderly women who travel together every year and they seemed more like a rugby tour than some of the ones I have been on. We have seen women travellers alone in remote islands of the Philippines as well as along the Kerala coast in India enjoying their own pace and circumstances. But it is relatively rare.
The UK, given to it’s penchant for wiping out whole generations of men in frequent wars seems much better adapted to the need to include single women into the social fabric of our way of life. Several recent decades without wholesale slaughter of the male population may have slightly changed that but there are still many outlets for widowed or single women to enjoy their place in our society.
In that bar in Sliema, Her-indoors and I traded our observations and conclusions and I have discovered that she has very few quality friends of the sort to sustain her zeal for life. She says she would probably not enjoy travelling alone but she could not articulate the reasons.
I think she needs to quit hanging around the emotional train wrecks and needy, useless, self centred losers that are her ‘friends’ and to start planning on life after Jeff by hanging out with more like minded people. I suggested this as well as a vow of celibacy on my demise. She countered by saying that vow could begin immediately if I didn’t change the subject.
If, after I fall off this planet and invade the next life, the remaining family pack her off to Malta for a few weeks to get her out of their misery, will she end up drinking a glass of wine, immaculately dressed, in some dusty hotel dinning room and silently screaming inside……
With that in mind, I am enrolling her in naked Zumba lessons, a PADI open water diving course, and roller-tennis lessons on our return.
She will thank me one day.
A bit of physio for my hangover this morning and my twisted fingers which I blame for my abysmal spelling... All the while youngest grandson is hitting me over the head with a plastic golf club..... Thank you all for sharing my hangover.....
We had been away long enough to have forgotten the joys of the extended family’s soap opera script of problems. And I no longer thought of 2 inch 90 degree bends and non-return valves while I had my first coffee of the day…We were on HOLS!...
Having been through the package-holiday-with-the-kids-to-Greece-or-Spain-or-no-actual-fucking-difference years, we now put much more time, money and planning into our sojourns.
These were the payoff years. We still had health, mobility, a bit of cash, and enough seniority at work to bully four months off in the winter. This year we were ‘doing’ Hong Kong, New Zealand, Oz and then a few days in Singapore on the way out.
Hong Kong had been great. We had a rooftop terrace dinner and drinks for Her 50th birthday. TST , Lang Kwia Fong, and SoHo had provided entertainment. Central provided meals and Mongkok provided Her-indoors a shopping experience which required her total focus and determination. It reminded me of an ant hill with the top kicked off. The whole week had been one continuous laughing session. I used the long flight to Christchurch, New Zealand as rehab and only had five beers and two whiskeys.
New Zealand was a fantastic blur of long scenic train journeys, glaciers, beaches, hot springs, great bars, brilliant people and rugby.
The first six glorious weeks in Oz brought Sydney at Christmas and New Years, the Great Ocean Road to Adelaide and the Ghan overland train to Alice Springs.
Alice was as hot as predicted but the reality of 40 degree heat always shocks. The place had wide, old American west style streets with covered walk paths. There were an unsurprising collection of ‘Native’ art galleries, none of which where owned or run by ‘natives’.
There were ‘outback’ pubs with corrugated tin ceilings and walls decorated with rusting tin cans and buckets. We found one and entered, found a table and looked at a menu,
I returned to our table with some beer in a small pitcher and two extremely small glasses. I said “Just like having a pint and a steak in my workshop except they don’t do pints”.
She said “Workshop!? I have never seen any work done there if you are referring to your shed back home”.
“It’s a ‘Man’ thing, you wouldn’t understand” I countered.
“Hmmm, I hope we can book an Outback tour to Uluru and Ayers Rock. I read about several in the LP guide and it sounds really great” she said.
I had also read the blurb on these tours although not with any enthusiasm. My days of staggering around in the desert with a great big fucking pack on my back were long gone……. or so I thought.
“Three Day Uluru Experience, See King’s Canyon, the Olgas and Ayer’s Rock” Food and drink provided, two nights under the stars.” A$260 “
“I think this would be lovely, don’t you?” she said, her mind made up.
“Marvellous” I said while looking at a 1 hour helicopter over flight, champagne included, which would have had me back by the hotel pool bar by four o’clock the next afternoon.
And so, we booked. Pick up from our hotel was at 5:45 the next morning, and not by helicopter….
I heard/felt Her get up at o’stupid thirty the next morning to begin the massive logistics operation required to repack her kit after one night in a hotel and prepare for the day.
I had short listed some things for her to keep in her day sack so she wouldn’t have to dig through 16 kilos of hair products to find the bug repellent and other ‘useful’ things.
About 5:30 I heard a banging on our sliding glass door. I stuck my head out of the bathroom to see Her begin to unlock the door to a shape in the darkness. I stepped out quickly grabbing a towel and grabbed her hand as she started to open the door.
I looked out into the darkness to see a ‘native’ wobbling back and forth in the darkness. He had seen her through the glass and had thought that her company would nicely round off his all night drinking session.
I stepped out and shouted at him to fuck off, didn’t like his response, and I hit him on his left ear with a very good right hook while I tried to hold a towel around me. Thankfully he staggered left, fell over a potted plant and shuffled away holding his head.
I turned to Her-indoors and said “Wanna tell me about the boyfriend?”
She said, “I thought he was from the tour guide bus to pick us up, and you didn’t have to hit him”.
‘Great’ I thought, three days of staggering around the dessert with ‘Mary Poppins’.
We gathered our rucks and cleared the room. I sorted the checkout at the reception and I mentioned the “native” gentleman who seemed to be having difficulty finding his room. The receptionist replied that some of the locals were a bit of a problem sometimes….
As we waited in the lobby for the all terrain tour bus to pick us up, Her-indoors asked “Are there any snakes, spiders or other nasty things out there where we will be?”
There have been quite a few significant character building changes in my life in the past one year. Not all of them were welcome since I have a natural resistance to change, very un-evolutionary (if that is a word) I must say. So I fought and kicked and screamed and yelled bit ( really hard), and yet I was dragged by the hair kicking screaming and rebelling all the way to the middle of 2010. My life is full of very independent and confident people who know what they want and have created very successful niches for themselves in the world. These wonderful people happen to be my parents, friends and of course my dearly beloved who has achieved enough commendable heights to rightfully say “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn”. However I am still running after all that jazz while it daintily eludes my time and again like a feather in the wind. My academic life of late is like a stubborn bit of burnt cooking at the bottom of the pan which refuses to leave. Not that I do not want to research!!! It is still a part of my grand plan to be a successful person.
In the past few months life as I knew it is rapidly changing, I am contemplating finishing my Mphil research, leaving hyderabad, getting a job, getting married, applying for further studies, moving to a new country, making my marriage work, studying or working, travelling and continuing to run behind my life as the years fly past like a constant panorama of colours. Like a continuous reel of film a movie where I am the flawed protagonist who wants all of it with a bit of romance, tender loving care and romance thrown in.
In search for that missing bit of spice in my life I have resorted to a lot of trashy novels which help me dream. Learnt to live alone and re-confirmed my knowledge that I am not a loner but someone who needs a lot of space, I am extremely attached to family and friends who are as good as family. I don’t care where I live as long as this basic need is fulfilled. South India hasn’t been the same since the 23rd of January. I suffering from withdrawal symptoms of tender loving care. I have spent a lot of time away from research trying to regroup myself, making new friends, travelling and turned into a suspicious person who craves for attention.
I am not sure what will help since I know what I should be doing. Maybe retail therapy will help but I doubt it, I just need a shove in the right direction and a listening ear and a helping hand. Is it too much to ask.
Guero blips the car open and climbs inside. Hiding behind dark glasses, his eyes gritty, his hair still wet from a hasty shower, he glances at the clock on the dash.
Sunday morning, Rioja still flowing guiltily through his veins, two a.m. indecently recent.
Still, a promise is a promise.
Today the Tourist arrives, expecting to be met at Gatwick airport. And he’d promised.
Guero turns the key in the ignition and points the car south-west.
The screen in Arrivals says BAGGAGE IN HALL –
Damn, probably not enough time to grab a coffee.
Sure enough, the Tourist appears within a couple of minutes. They greet each other, say their good to see yous, and set off for the car park. The Tourist pulls behind him a compact bag covered in a clear plastic security wrapping and wears a small backpack.
As the morning sun rises higher on the open roads, Guero and the Tourist chat amiably on the journey back into South West London, renewing an acquaintance and asking after mutual friends. With traffic still light, the return trip passes quickly and soon they’re parked outside Guero’s house.
Guero shows the Tourist inside and begins to make coffee.
‘What?’ Guero asks.
‘I can’t believe this.’
‘I’ve got the wrong bag.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘This bag isn’t mine,’ the Tourist says.
He pulls away some more of the plastic wrapping and reveals a name tag that plainly isn’t his.
The Tourist, now turning a shade of grey that can’t all be put down to a lack of sleep, begins to pace about Guero’s kitchen.
Guero fetches his laptop –
Guero googles Gatwick –
Guero finds a phone number.
The Tourist punches the number into the phone and stands listening to recorded messages. The bag looks accusingly at him.
‘Look, it’s ok,’ Guero says. ‘Let’s drink this coffee and head back to the airport.’
‘Shit, man, I’m so sorry,’ the Tourist says.
‘Hey, no problem. Ten minutes, we’ll be on our way.’
Thinking bastard bag –
Thinking you stupid –
Gatwick North Terminal looks just as it had when they’d left it an hour or so previously.
The Tourist and Guero find an information desk, and the Tourist explains his mistake. He produces travel documents from his backpack to prove he’s who he says he is and gets given a number to call. Two minutes later, and his bag’s on its way back to him.
Sighs of relief all round.
Presumably except from the guy whose bag still glowers at the Tourist from behind its ripped plastic wrapping, but hey, shit happens and hopefully it’ll find its way back to its owner –
Guero and the Tourist sit in a coffee shop to await the arrival of The Correct Luggage and slurp Americanos.
Ten minutes pass and an airport security guy appears, checks the Tourist’s documentation and reunites him with his bag.
That bag looks nothing like the one he took, Guero thinks. One’s blue, the other’s black and – oh, feck it, so what, let’s get home.
The citizens of South East England are now out in force and clear roads have now become busy ones. The journey takes longer and Guero and the Tourist make jokes about the bag swap to pass the time.
Two thirds of the way home, a journey that’s now taken over forty-five minutes as opposed to the twenty-five that the same part of the drive had taken previously, the roads are at a standstill.
And then –
Guero: ‘Oh, well, drama over. You’ve got your other bag, though, right?’
The Tourist: ‘Yes. I – um, yeah, I – ’
The Tourist starts to look around in the clearly empty foot well of the car. Abandoning this obviously fruitless attempt, he looks wildly over his shoulder at the bare back seat.
‘Did you put it in the boot with the main bag?’ Guero asks.
‘Yeah. No. I don’t know.’
Ahead, the lights turn red again. The Tourist opens the car door, asking ‘Is the boot unlocked?’
Guero watches helplessly in the rear view as the boot lid rises and a frantic scrabbling is heard.
The Tourist slides back into the passenger seat with the look of a man whose DNA’s just been found at a major crime scene.
Guero: ‘You are joking?’
‘It’s not there. Shit, it’s got my passport, my travel documents, my money, my credit card – ’
‘When did you last see it?’ Guero asks. ‘I mean, did you have it with you when we got back to the car park? Did you put it on top of the car when you put the other bag in the boot, or on the floor, or – ? ’
‘I don’t know, I don’t know,’ whispers the ghost. ‘I don’t know.’
Guero checks in the rear view, flips the indicator and performs an illegal U-turn on the A23.
As Guero approaches car park 6 North Terminal for the third time in as many hours, he slows and tells the Tourist to go back to the information desk quickly. Guero will meet him there once he’s parked the car.
The Tourist leaps from the car, a man for whom adrenaline has become rocket fuel. Guero drives to the barrier, takes a ticket and begins to wonder whether suspicion of running an unlicensed taxi service carries a large penalty. He is beginning to build a collection of tickets from car park 6 and has noticed that the security system is sophisticated enough that each one has his registration number printed on it.
Car parked, Guero walks to the Arrivals hall. It occurs to him that a cigarette would be a good idea. It then occurs to him that he didn’t bring any with him.
In the hall, there’s no sign of the Tourist or any recalcitrant backpack. Guero waits for ten minutes, eleven, twelve, until at last the Tourist reappears.
‘They’ve got it,’ he says. ‘They found it in the coffee shop.’
‘Great,’ Guero replies, relieved, ‘where is it?’
‘At Lost Property. South Terminal.’
‘Yeah. Is that far?’
Guero and the Tourist walk.
Staircases, walkways, travelators, down the plate glass corridors and across shiny floors, following signs that say ‘Shuttle.’
They wait for the Shuttle –
They board the Shuttle –
The Shuttle shuttles.
They leave the Shuttle and walk, more staircases, more walkways, more travelators, deep down into the basement offices of Gatwick Airport.
South bloody Terminal.
After a while they discover the lair of the Lost Property Mistress.
Thankfully she’s a cheery soul and amidst banter and an increasing air of amused sarcasm, she fetches the relevant forms. Paperwork completed, the Tourist is reunited with his backpack.
Back in car park 6 and Guero is insisting that the Tourist delve into his bag and retrieve the carton of Marlboro that had been a gift from the Tourist but are now rapidly becoming Medical Supplies.
The Tourist obliges, and the two men move out of the confines of the car park and light cigarettes.
The Tourist had announced pre-trip that he’d Given Up –
The Tourist doesn’t look like he’s Stuck At It –
It’s been a stressful time.
Back in South West London and the Tourist says he’s going to take a shower. Guero shows him where the bathroom and the spare room are and goes downstairs to cook something. He’s arranged a trip for the Tourist to The London Eye but first would like some breakfast. It now being 1.30.
As he sips a coffee and waits for the grill to warm, Guero hears a muffled shout.
Fuck, no, fuck, no. fuck, no –
Not again, not again, not again –
Guero calls up the stairs. ‘Is everything ok?’
‘I put my bag down on the floor and heard something smash.’
Guero thinks you PUT your bag down. From a height?
‘It’s the whisky. It’s kind of everywhere.’
It does that, Guero thinks, liquid. Once released, it travels. Everywhere.
Guero climbs the stairs wearily. The Tourist is kneeling on the floor of the spare room, gingerly picking broken glass from his Scotch-sodden clothing. Every item of clothing. The (soft) bag lies on the (hard) slate-tiled hearth.
Guero mentions washing machine –
Guero mentions food –
Guero offers beer.
Guero silently prays to a god he doesn’t believe in that the Tourist has now exhausted all the disasters of what is planned to be a five week, Europe-wide trip.
The Tourist is staying in a central London hotel tonight. Guero left him there this afternoon, wishing him well and saying how much he’s looking forward to seeing him again mid-August when he returns to the UK before flying back to South Africa.
Guero wonders just how far he’ll get.
Today, I have a guest post from fellow indie author and Word Clouder Tony James Slater.
I first met Tony at a writer’s conference in 2010. Neither of us remember much about the encounter, which is a testament to the hard working bar staff of York University.
I was trying to snag an agent for my historical novel, and he was hitting the same brick wall with his account of his exotic adventures in Ecuador. When I heard Tony was self-publishing, I was delighted, as I knew how hard he had worked the traditional route, with no joy.
I also knew that if his book was half as funny as he was, he had a hit on his hands. He posted a sample from the beginning of the book near the end of May. As soon as I read that, I knew I would be buying his book.
It came out last Friday, and I grabbed a copy straight away. It’s hilarious, and touching. A very human, and very funny story. And if you don’t want to take my word for it, here isanother sample from the middle of the book.
Tony was planning some fireworks for his launch day, but was very cryptic about it. When I saw him race up the charts on his very first day, I knew I was going to have to get him to tell the story of how he did it.
Well, the dust has finally settled after my launch on July 1st. By quite a margin in fact – it’s practically August! Alas, not everything moves at digital speed and I have been at the mercy of more fundamental forces recently.
Here’s a description of my launch day, followed by some figures and a bit of analysis. I was going to call it a ‘brief’ description, until I’d finished it. Then I realized it’s about as brief asWar and Peace, and not quite as riveting – so feel free to skip ahead or skim read! I’ll probably never know…
I was planning a truly epic day of promotion for the launch of THAT BEAR ATE MY PANTS! I’d hardly slept in a week, sitting up till 6:00 am, planning strategy, and creating lists of people, groups and sites to target.
I’d done almost everything on my own. I’m a control freak and perfectionist of the highest order, so delegation isn’t really in my nature. But my family would never let me do something like this without their support.
They decided to rent a bear costume and run around the town centre, handing out flyers and trying to draw as much attention as possible. Which I imagine is quite a lot when you’re dressed as a bear!
My sister returned from her honeymoon just in time to suggest we
incorporate a gigantic pair of underpants – with her inside –
into our strategy. It sounded unbeatable! If you wouldn’t take a
flyer from a chick in a bear suit, how can you refuse one when
it’s handed to you by a pair of y-fronts with
[SNIP - I can't post the whole thing here, it would take up the whole page! However, I simply insist that you click the link below and read the whole hilarious, bittersweet story of Tony's launch day]
No! Wrong movie, sorry.
This one is about a soon-to-be-successful writer and the project which is his pride and joy.
Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls; dogs, cats, guinea pigs and at least one person who has a profile picture of a walrus; my book, 'THAT BEAR ATE MY PANTS!' is finally available for public consumption*
*Do NOT attempt to eat this book. A Kindle may look tasty, but it has small bits which will get up your nose. Tony James Slater cannot be held responsible for injuries sustained in such a manner.
Anyone thinking of buying it, please go here: http://amzn.to/thatbear
(You may have to cut n' paste - I still can't figure out how to make a link.)
You have my deepest, most sincere thanks.
Anyone not thinking of buying it, thank-you anyway. But think hard - you've got all day to change your mind. Tony still loves ya baby!
And here is a picture of the front cover, to tantalize your taste-buds further. But please see above for rules about not eating it. Food for thought...