I finished my last (and first!) book a few months back – it’s not published or anything, but I’m pretty fuckin’ proud of it. Anyway I was in Goa back in March and was slapped by an idea for a new story that I’m really excited about. I’ve been trying to write it while travelling, but between writing my travel diaries and doing a bit of freelance work and being drunk all the time, I’ve written about a thousand words in three months. It’ll get done eventually. But I just finished the first few pages and I’d like to share them, because I feel giddy and proud. It’s a first draft, so of course I will loathe it entirely in a day or two’s time, but for now I’m quite happy with it. Have a gander, if you fancy x
Do you think you could beat your father in a fight? What about when he was in his prime? My uncle asked this very question at my father’s birthday dinner last weekend, and my father, without a hint of irony or humour, gazed straight into my eyes and told me he would ‘massacre’ me, even now. He’s 59 years old with a hernia and a beer gut, I am 25. The hubris. This simply won’t stand. Something must be done.
I am going to break your nose, old man. Not now, not today, while you’re old and feeble and your best years are behind you. There’d be no satisfaction in that, there’d be no challenge. No, father, I’m going to go back to the 1980’s, I’m going to find you, and I’m going to make you wish I’d never been born. Continue reading
I did my fly up and rinsed my hands in the sink. My paper hat was skew-whiff in the mirror. I took it off, parted my hair, repositioned it, then for the fifteenth time checked I hadn’t got any sauce on my shirt. I shook my hands dry as I turned, and through my own interminable bad luck I found myself flicking water over James Dean’s groin.
“Shit, sorry man,” I murmured as I bustled past.
“Ah, it’s nothin’,” he shrugged, undoing his belt and slinking past me into a cubicle. Continue reading