Thursday, July 12, 2007


... right, these days you're not anybody in the blogging world unless you've got a book contract.

So I'm sure you'll all congratulate me on my one and a half a million quid deal with Pan Books, right? After all, the blogging world is full of love and encouragement. I wish I could give both of my readers a virtual hug and a glass of Asti Spumanti by way of celebration and a big THANK YOU for your continuous support!

I sweated my metaphorical bollocks off writing my debut "arty bonkbuster" for at least two weeks and, let me tell you, it wasn't easy. Every spare minute was spent drafting, re-drafting, worrying, on the phone to my proof reader, my agent, my publisher, the editor of the Barnehurst Xtra, the 3AM Girls at the Mirror trying to whip up some publicity. Honestly, you ordinary people don't realise what hell it is to be an author! We torture ourselves every day but THE WORDS MUST COME OUT!!

Soooo ...

My first erotica novel, Staring At The Moon, will be available for only £3.99 as part of a special promotion at W.H. Smith in Luton Airport for a month from next Monday. I'm thrilled to provide you with an EXCLUSIVE extract from the book here.

"Only her tremulous lower lip betrayed Cressida's real feelings - the torrent of thunderous desire that coursed through her blood vessels like some kind of delicious agony. She pressed the palm of her hand under Jacob's fawn coloured Gabicci cardigan and marvelled at the exquisite hardness of his nipple beneath his jersey Simon shirt. Slowly, her eyes moved down to visually feast on the contours within his Terylene worsted slacks."

There you go. I've hit the jackpot at last so I'm too important to blog anymore. Off for drinkies with Bobby Davro and Paul Potts now. Ooh, and got to get my stylist to choose a frock for the TV Quick Awards!

Be seeing you around, perhaps.

... with thanks to Garfer for this post which I in no way ripped off or anything.

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...but I WANT a signed copy!
Bill - certainly, if you would like to send a £250 pound cheque to the usual address. Or attend my book launch signing at W.H. Smith in Luton Airport on Monday! Get there early to avoid queueus!
I bow before your literary magnificence.

May I humbly suggest that include the phrase 'bulging trousers' in the second edition of your masterpiece.
i fervently hope you've used the expression, 'his breath came in short pants'
So Jacob had erectile nipples eh? What with the Terylene slacks - it was probably the static.

Oh and I believe Bobby Davro is very partial to polyester smocks with glitter leggings and you'll need a pob of course.
Garfer - "bulging trousers" ... now that phrase puts me in mind of Paul King singing Love And Pride on TOTP back in the mists of time. He appeared to be juggling two plums and a banana.

Rivergirlie - "his breath came in short pants" sadly would probably lead to me helping the police with their enquiries and getting petrol bombs put throught the window by local vigilantes!

Kaz - Jacob was standing on a nylon backed carpet at the time so you can imagine the sparks that were flying (literally).

Re: Bobby Davro, don't worry, I wore a pink psychedelic patterned smock from Krisp (B'heath boutique which seems to only sell said items). Bobby is a hugely charismatic man, but only about four foot three.
Don't forget to remind the stylist: Must accessorize with a scarf.
I'm going to wait for the serialisation in the Sunday newspaper.
Is Pan Books still going? I hope you've not been the victim of an Internet hoax....
Arabella - I think a scarf could be a bit over the top. Now my star is in the ascendence I have to keep reminding myself - "Understatement! Understatement!"

Doris - the problem with Sunday newspapers is that they misrepresent you. So there will be a couple of excerpts available in the Erith Shopper instead.

Bookpacker - well, I'm kickstarting the all-new Pan Books as, er, they wanted to re-brand the company for the noughties while keeping their reputation as THE place for rubbish literature.
That extract from your so called book was a load of rubbish! If that's the sort of thing they pay you one and a half million pounds for, I'm glad I moved away from Britain.

I think I will be sticking to my Black Lace books in future, thank you very much.
Glenda - whatever. I won't make the obvious feeble remark about Agadoo, but I'll hazzard a guess that the pages of your Black Lace books are already fairly sticky.
Ooh Pan - Fearne does like a nice Pan to dip into now and again. Will watch out for it. Fancy coming on and reading an excerpt next week?
Whoever it is off GMTV - ooh, rather! I'll get my agent on the case! I noticed last week you were the first people to interview Liam Connor (aka James Collier Rob James). Do you think I could take him back home so I could do some *research* on him for my next novel?
Ooooo, but have I walked the length and breadth of this metropolis for a fawn coloured Gabicci cardigan. Have I chesnuts.
Phew! My comments are working at last! WTF!

Er, anyway ...

Boz - we used to encounter a bloke in a local pub occasionally who we nicknamed Gabicci man. He once wore a patterned fawn coloured cardi, fawn coloured slacks (slax?), grey slip on shoes and had a grey seventies "Terry Wogan" hairdo. Very dapper.
You've got metaphorical bollocks!!! How does that work?
Reg - that's the beauty of the written word. You can have metaphorical bollocks without having to have them in real life. Mind you, some people have expressed the opinion that I'm probably really a man. Probably because women who blog are only supposed to write about handbags and cake baking.

Enough talking bollocks. On a serious note, I think you are adopting an outmoded style with your romantic fiction. You need to reach out to "the kids". Might I suggest:
"Cressida put down her chips, drained the last of her WKD and then reached down to pull out Wayne's knob.
"'God it was cold round the back of this fucking kebab shop,' she mused. Her cheese-slicer-cum-G-string began slipping down her purulent, white thighs under its own sodden weight and then she whispered those magical words in Wayne's ear which she knew would see their passion satiated. 'Doe do me up the shitter like last time, yow fucking arsehole'.
"Wayne, who had drunk 28 bottles of Magners and was about as able to get a hard-on as he was able to get CSE General Studies, began trying to stuff his flacid member into what he believed was Cressida's front bottom. 'Fuckin' 'Ell, Cress! Yo ay arf bastard tight tonight!' Looking down in his drunken haze, he realised he had, in fact, just slipped his bellend into the letterbox at the back of the kebab shop. He vomited - in a manly, confident and almost arrogant way - slapped Cressida on her voluminous arse, causing the "n" on one cheek and "b" on the other to undulate soothingly in the moonlight, belched 'That's yer lot, bitch' and staggered off to the High Street, enormous, rap-style jeans still round his knees.
"Making use of the tub of swarfega she always carried in her clutchbag, Cressida dabbed gently at her rash-covered womanhood with the discarded chip paper and broke wind as only a woman who is truly in love can do.
"'Dozy bastard!' she thought to herself, dreamily. 'I just wanna get babbied up and get on the benefit! I think I'll give that bloke lying on the pavement a go.'"
Reg - you don't fool me. You've nicked this story from an old Girl With A One Track Mind post, but changed the names. She really is a racy old sort, isn't she?
Bleedin' typical. Nick my idea and get 20 comments.

I'm of a mind to come round and slap you with a wet kipper.
Most of the comments were by me anyway.

You turn up with a wet kipper and I'll retort with a wet giant marlin.
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