How not to write a book.

A while a go I decided to write a book.

Then I found out how hard it is to get a book published.

Then I found out that you hadto sell your House/Car/Wife and Children,and your favourite Aunt to be able to afford to publish it.

On the other hand you could publish each chapter as a blog.

So here goes Chapter one.

Who the Hell?

Right, first things first. You may be thinking who the bloody hell is this bloke? Why does he think he can write a book, and can he even write?

Well that’s my picture on the blog. Once you have finished with this you can leave it out to scare the kids at Halloween, or, keep the bailiffs away. You can even give it to your best mate, but I doubt he would read it, so ignore that last comment.



I tried thinking once, with disastrous results, and decided it was too dangerous for the world, and mankind, to let me do it again, without the aid of a safety net. Saying that, though, they do let me out on my more lucid days, which can’t be a bad thing can it.



Can I write? It has been said, frequently, that I never stop talking, so all I have to do is turn those rambling thoughts and comments into the written word, and Hey Ho, Robert is your Mother’s brother. A book.



Well, that is the theory side of it investigated, and these are my words you are reading, so I am sure you will find out in the next few pages, whether it was worth the effort. If you think “what a load of old testicles”, then you have possibly acquired a new doorstop, and, a cheap child and bailiff scaring device. If you think, “what a brilliant piece of literature, who is this guy, and when’s the next book out?” I’ll have made a few bob out of the deal too. It is a win, win situation all round.



Anyway, a bit of background. I am sure you are eager to be learnamicated. I am just an average very good looking, modest bloke, married to a woman, we have two kids, and an easily emptied bank account. I just wanted to have a go at writing a book, that tells an account of the goings on inside my head, the UK, the Whole Wide World, or just some subject, which I thought about, and have no knowledge of, or right to talk about whatsoever.



An account from the perspective of a man, who once again, failed to get the lottery machine, to dish out the correct numbers to win the jackpot. When I do win, it’s “Watch out World” Until then, I am as broke today, as I was yesterday. Even more so, because I had to pay for the bloody tickets in the first place. Maybe we should have a free lottery, where Mr Brown and the government just give you money.



Hang on a tick. What was I thinking of? Hasn’t that been done already? I think they call it the banking system. Okay then, I shall try again. Here is another idea. We could all open our own banks. Then declare we cannot carry on, due in part, to lack of capital. This will mean dear old Gurning Gord will have to tell his mate Mr. Sweetheart, or whatever his name is, at the treasury to bail us out to the tune of trillions of quid’s. Not those horrible Euro things that seem to be so popular when you are on holiday.



So being Mr Perpetually Skint, I will do absolutely anything, and I mean, anything, to help fill my wallet, and pay the rent. Also from time to time, feed the family on something more substantial than cardboard. Possibly, even earn enough money to take a holiday further away than the bottom of the garden.



I thought to myself (and thank God, I am not telepathetic), write a book. It can’t be that hard. I learnt to write a bit at school. Not a lot, I grant you, but I still manage to be able to put pen on paper most days. Even if it is just fiddling my works time sheet (Crime sheet, may be more appropriate). It may turn out to be just another one of those get rich quick schemes that I occasionally dream up, which her Ladyshipness reckons is doomed to failure, before it actually starts. God knows I try. Nevertheless, if I don’t even give it a go, I’ll never know, will I?



If I can persuade enough gullible people, sorry, literary scholars, to buy a book that I have writed, I may become rich, and possibly famous. I could have my handsome good looks recognised by complete strangers wherever I go. Even, maybe, have my very own stalker, instead of me doing the stalking.



I’ll have money in the bank, if it still exists this time next week, and also some left over to bail the kids out when they get themselves into debt (like I’m always in). Even my bank manager has asked if we can possibly revert to the old type of banking, where I leave my money with him, and not he leave his money with me. Well just, excuse me Mr Bank Manager Person. I think you will find that, you and your mates, down at the Bank Managers’ R’ Us Club are actually using my money to pay for your dinner and drinks. Thank you very much. It’s no use saying sorry now, either, cos we don’t believe you. I mean, I didn’t really mind the arrangement we had. I think it was working rather well indeed. Then you chaps came, cap in hand, to Uncle Alistair. “Please sir: Can you help us out a little bit. We seem to have made a monumental cock up in the sub-prime market, and accidentally spent all of Britain’s money on some American houses that just blew away. A bit.” I don’t know why you’re so worried. It is only the world economy after all. Nothing serious. Just leave that nice Barry O’Barma, the new Irish African American Japanese Indian, President to sort it out. There you go. Credit crunch dead in its tracks. Single-handed. That’s me! Doing my bit for the good of the whole world. What a guy. I shall take your applause, and give them to the poor people. Oh! That will be me then, I think.



There you go. I did a think. It’s a strange and dangerous concept. Most people who know me, won’t believe that I can put my brain into gear long enough to actually do it. Unless it is to ask directions to the nearest pub.

This I no longer need to do either. As I am now all technologied up, with a satnav. This gives me all the directions I shall ever need, and a few that I don’t. No longer, for me, the joys of being lost in some strange town. Going round roundabouts six times, before I know which exit is the one I should take. Then half a mile down the road realise it was the wrong one, and have to back track. Okay, that’s fine, if you are in your car. But not so good if you’re in a bloody great articulmalated truck like mine, which takes longer to turn round than the Exxon Valdese, and we know what happened there, don’t we kids! If you do see a large articumalated vehicle trying to turn round on your front garden, spare a thought. I only got lost because some local chap told me the industrial estate was, “Down there on the left, driver. You can’t miss it”. Don’t worry. It’s only grass. It’ll grow back. Eventually!



Today (Sunday, first one of the year) I find myself with a dilemma. Do I shower and dress in my scruffs, ready to drag my sorry, lazy, fat arse outside into the freezing realm that is, MY front garden, to bring in the Christmas lights, or do I shower and put my Sunday finest jeans and t-shirt on, just in case her Ladyshipness decides we need to pop out to do some more shopping.



What is it with these girlies and shopping? The age old, hate of us men. (Unless, of course it’s for cars, or gadgets, -big boys toys, - as we know them.) The shops were closed for ONE day. Yes, ONE whole day, so now they have to go out and make up for it. The girlies need to be out there shopping, with all the other girlies. Fighting over a pair of knickers or pillowcases, in a sale at Woolies, that’s closing down tomorrow, because nobody went shopping there when there WASN’T a sale on. Maybe they should have taken a leaf out of the DFS philosophy. “If we aren’t having a sale, there’s no point in being open. So, it’s the last few days SALE before the next one starts.”



Oh, how I long for the good old days, when Sundays were all about the long lie in. A bit of early morning nookie, Sunday roast (so called because it’s a roast, and it’s Sunday). A snooze on the couch. Some late afternoon nookie. Then, Time Team with Tony Robinson in the evening, explaining how the Romans invented everything, and, why they were better than we are. How right can one man be? How right indeed. But no. No lie in. No nookie. No Sunday roast. No nookie. No Time Team. Just shopping.



Do these female girls not know anything? The Romans never went shopping on a Sunday. It is a day of rest. Either that or they were all out killing people or, were off inventing things, for example, the Aqueduct, Education, The Roads. They go without saying. “And remember what it used to be like round here before the Romans ?” Oh, yes! I love Monty Python too, but it’s too sophisticated for the girls. Mainly because they are out shopping.



On a serious note, though. Most of the roads in Britain, the major ones, that is, generally follow old Roman ones.The A2, Watling Street, to Londineum from Dover. The A5, (also called Watling Street. Damned clever those Romans, keep it simple, keep it subtle), from Londineum to Holyhead. The A10. The A1 that goes “up north”. They at least in part follow on from our Italian friends. The shortest route between two points is after all a straight line. Except when you’ve had a drink or twelve. Then it doesn’t really matter.



Bet you weren’t expecting to be edumafied by me, were you? So for the rest of this book, lock the door, check for paper (if there isn’t enough, don’t panic. There will be some emergency spare pages at the back of the book to help out), sit back, read a while, and wash your hands afterwards.

Be preparified to be astounded by facts you never knew you needed to know. Some of which are probably made up, due to lack of research, on my part, and a few that may have strayed in, inadvertently without me noticing. There will be, littered throughout these pages, strange words that look vaguely like words you already know, but are a bit odd. This is because, I am, a bit odd. There will be references to bodily functions and certain parts of said bodily.



Have no fear, as all of the events and eventualities described here, within these covers will have already, most likely, happened, and the world is still turning.

If it seems like I don’t know what I am talking about. Don’t worry, this is one of those rare facts I mentioned. Generally, I don’t usually know what the hell I’m talking about.



Ask the wife.







































(I was only hurt a little during the making of this chapter………She hit me.)