Andrew Chapman Tripping the Night Fantastic, Uncategorized

Tripping the Night Fantastic – Chapter 2

Knock, Knock, Knock. Simon waited for a few seconds.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Inside Charlie’s apartment something stirred under a bed sheet.

Bang! Bang! Bang! ‘Charlie!’

Charlie opened his eyes, a little confused and world weary thanks to a large bottle of Jack Daniels the night before.

Bang! Bang! Bang! ‘Charlie! Open the door!’

Charlie sat up and climbed out of his bed.

Bang!…

‘Shut up! I’m coming.’

Charlie un-chained the door and opened it. Simon Squeezed past him and went straight to the kitchen.

‘What?’ Charlie demanded wearily.

‘It’s Tuesday, we have to be at the studio in an hour.’

Charlie’s face tried to respond and failed, so far only his legs, eyes, part of his brain and at least one of his arms was completely awake. He tried speech ‘nmph?’

‘GMTV. I’ve got you three cups of coffee, drink this.’

Charlie took the coffee.

‘And a bacon and egg sandwich,’ continued Simon.

‘mm.’

‘Eat your sandwich and get in the shower, I’ve got you a new shirt and some razors.’

‘You’re ever so nice.’

‘I know, now get in the shower.’

Simon edged him toward the shower and gave him his second coffee as he entered and closed the door behind him.

‘Make sure you shave!’

‘Alright, stop shouting.’

 

Fifteen minutes later the shower door opened and out came Charlie. To Simon’s astonishment he actually looked close to presentable.

‘Right, you look good, let’s go.’

‘Wait, wait… wait.’

‘What?’

Charlie looked around his room and grabbed his keys, a small cantina and half a cigarette out of the ash tray.

‘Ok.’

 

In the underground car park Simon unlocked his car. Charlie looked at him with an expression like pity.

‘What are you doing?’ said Charlie.

‘Getting in the car.’

‘We’re not taking your car we’re taking mine.’

‘Really?’ Simon ran a disapproving eye over the trashed vehicle, ‘why don’t you buy a proper car?’

Charlie composed himself and prepared his fragile mind for coherent conversation.

‘It’s not about how new and shiny a car is that makes a car great. I’m not getting in your car; it has no handbrake and no keyhole, so in my book it’s not even a car. Having no keyhole is like a woman having no vagina.’

‘Charlie it’s a modern car, this button is the hand brake, and it doesn’t have a keyhole because you start it with a button.’

‘Your sexless freak of a car is the automobile equivalent of a blonde-tipped, spiky haired prick with no penis, whereas my fucked up little Jaguar is the car equivalent of dishevelled rough sex.’

Simon closed his car door and got obediently into Charlie’s.

 

Concise and in control is how Charlie would describe his driving. Most others would describe it as erratic, dangerous, fast, and suicidal. Neither is right, he actually drives in a way that is both oblivious to other road users and apparently, as he has never crashed, safer than flying. In-fact, his record is so clean that being driven by Charlie is statistically safer than driving. It is frightening nonetheless.

Charlie spoke loudly over the sound of the engine.

‘Now your wife has a good taste in cars.’

Simon looked at him suspiciously.

‘How do you know what my wife drives?’

Charlie took no notice.

‘A 1971 British Leyland pick-up 4×4. Cool car.’

‘I’ve never introduced you.’

‘It even has a damn snorkel and a roll cage!’

‘Charlie!’

Charlie looked at the slightly panic stricken face of his agent.

‘Not getting paranoid are we Simon? She dropped a box of books to my last book signing. You weren’t in so she offered.’

‘She’s been acting strange recently, that’s all.’

‘Of course she’s acting strange, she’s a woman. It’s when she starts acting normal you have to worry. It is a cool car though.’

‘It’s not hers her dad left it to her.’

‘Simon, fucking relax.’

‘You’re right. I’ll start acting like you shall I? Get drunk for days on end, eat shit, swear at everyone?’

Charlie pulled the car up outside the studio and stopped the engine.

‘Sure, if you want to.’

‘I wasn’t agreeing with you.’

‘Ok.’

Charlie gave him a friendly pat on the back.

‘You know, it’s a pretty easy life, just doing what you want.’

‘Yes, I’m sure.’

 

A man in a suit was waiting by the entrance of the studio. He noticed Charlie and Simon and waved them over.

‘Ok, that’s the producer. He’ll brief you before you go on. You must do what he tells you. Marcus, how are you!’ Simon called from a distance.

Marcus ushered them to hurry up.

‘Simon, I didn’t think you were going to make it,’ said Marcus.

‘It’s nice to see you again,’ said Simon.

‘And Charlie,’ said Marcus turning to Charlie, ‘I’m a big fan of your work, very funny stuff, glad to have you on the show.’

Charlie considered this interesting critique of his work and replied dryly, ‘My next book is about a blind alcoholic orphan. She gets raped by a ghost and spends most of the story sitting in a dark room swearing at the walls until she finally dies of aids.’

The good thing about people like Marcus, or anyone who has a job that involves holding a clip board and having a wire leading to your ear with people telling you to tell someone else to hurry up, is that they never really hear anything anyone says to them. This is why his response to Charlie’s reply was, ‘Looking forward to it. The green room is on the right. The makeup girl will be with you in a few moments.’

Charlie looked at him like a wizard looks at a clown.

‘I fucked your dad,’ he said.

‘Hm?’

 

Charlie sat in the green room staring at the mirror.

‘Simon.’

‘Yes?’

‘Do you really think people who watch GMTV actually want to read my books?’

‘Yes.’

‘The only people who want to read my books are either drunk students or bored serial killers.’

The makeup girl came in wearing a short mini skirt and a low cut top. I would describe her in more detail but I’m not sure it’s necessary.

 

To Simon’s initial relief Charlie seemed to be behaving himself on set. He answered the questions well with a light sense of humour and gave witty anecdotes about how the book was written. He even offered to sign a copy for the interviewer, Ben Shepherd. (It later transpired that Charlie had just drawn a picture of a penis with a smiley face on the tip and the word BEN in big letters along the shaft). The segment came to a close with a final question.

‘Thank you for coming on the show. We’re all big fans. What do you have planned for the rest of the day?’

Charlie smiled and said, ‘I think I’m going to fuck your makeup girl.’

Ben went red.

‘Err… sorry about that ladies and gentleman. We’ll see you after this short break.’

 

Charlie and Simon hurried back to the green room to get their things and get out before the producer had a chance to come down on them.

‘What the hell is wrong with you?!’ said Simon.

‘What? He was asking for it.’

‘How does Ben Shepherd “ask for it”? He’s the most unthreatening man on TV!’

‘He said he was a fan of my book.’

‘How is that a bad thing?’

‘He’s never read the book.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘It’s Ben Shepherd! He’s never read any book! He would struggle with The Very Hungry Caterpillar!’

‘What!?’

‘Exactly!’ Said Charlie.

‘You won’t be allowed on ITV again and the BBC probably won’t have you.’

‘I don’t really care.’

 

Andrew Chapman Tripping the Night Fantastic, Uncategorized

Tripping the Night Fantastic – Chapter 1

A monster, of indescribable horror – ravaged by booze and lack of sleep – sat at his laptop. Charlie Deavon; an unholy disgrace, stained shirt, stained boxer shorts, wild hair, harassed unshaved face, a dying cigarette hanging from his mouth, and on his desk beside his laptop, the potion that keeps his appearance so ruggedly shambolic; a half dry bottle of scotch.

The room was dark and his tired nicotine-aged face was lit up from the light of the monitor. He took a final drag from his cigarette and dropped it in a half empty glass of whisky where it turned grey and died with its two dead cigarette companions.

The cursor blinked. Only six words were on the screen:

Amelia Heart, is going to die.

 More words try to find their way to Charlie’s fingers but fail miraculously. Not because he has writer’s block, he is just a lazy drunk with no appreciation for deadlines; a common ailment for many writers.

He turned his head and stared impassively at his bed in the other room. He looked back at the monitor for a moment, made a sound like ‘mph’ and then closed the lid. He managed to slump from his study to his bedroom and land on his bed with less effort than is possible to describe.

His bed was a stained mattress on a carpet-less floor. The wallpaper was old and nicotine stained. The ceiling lights didn’t have light shades and the curtain was an old damp towel slowly getting heavier with mould.

The digital clock on the floor blinked slowly. He turned his head and looked at it, unsure if his eyes were tired, hung-over, still drunk or simply still closed. He could just about make out the time; 6:30am. He stared at the ceiling.

3 hours later the alarm went off. Not a nice tune or the radio, just a beeping drone. A few dramatic moments later and the towel landed heavily on the lawn outside followed by a shower of glass. Inside the towel the alarm clock beeped lamely on. A neighbour shouted the word ‘cunt’ in Charlie’s direction. Charlie stood naked in the smashed window. He showed his neighbour his middle finger and then headed into the kitchen.

The kitchen occupies the same space as his lounge. The fridge consists of one rasher of bacon, three cans of beer, four empty cans of beer and a courgette. In the cupboard are one can of beans, a full packet of pasta, a packet of custard creams (half empty), some tea bags, a jar of coffee, and a pile of newspapers. In the toaster is a failed experiment; it turns out that it is not quicker to cook an omelette in a toaster. In-fact it takes longer and is far more dangerous.

After several minutes of staring at the courgette, and wondering where it came from, he slammed the fridge door and stared blankly over at the laptop for a minute. He opened the cupboard again, stared for a while, and then came to a decision and grabbed the closest things to his hand. Tea with a spoon of coffee and a packet of biscuits would be today’s breakfast.  He sat on his couch and wondered once again why he doesn’t own a TV. He leaned back to reach for the half-full bottle of scotch on his desk, nearly knocking it over, and poured some into his coffee/tea. He made a sound ‘urghmph’ and had a sip of his brew.

A phone started ringing. A slight dread fell over Charlie’s brain. This ringing sound meant he would have to impart some brain activity, some physical movement, and finally speech. Three things he had absolutely no interest in doing. He looked left and then right and then down. He dug it from under him and looked at it. He answered it and put it to his ear.

‘Charlie?’

‘Eurh.’

‘Charlie! It’s Simon, what are you doing today?’

‘Mmpth.’

Charlie stared at his tea/coffee/scotch and wondered if he’d rather talk to that instead.

‘When can I come over and see a few pages?’ said Simon.

‘No.’

‘Ok. I’m coming over. I’ll bring Starbucks and some food.’

‘Fuck off Simon.’

Click.

 

 

Ring Ring.

‘Charlie, I’m in Subway, what sandwich do you want?’

‘Don’t come to my house.’

‘I’m having a Foot-long Meatball Sub, I’ll choose something for you shall I?’

‘I’m not letting you in when you get here.’

‘I need to see you.’

‘Fine. I’m coming to your office. If I get there before you I’m going to dismantle your desk.’

‘Charl…’

Click.

 

 

Simon put his phone back in his pocket, gave the girl behind the counter £10, and grabbed the sandwiches. He checked his genuine Rolex watch and ran outside and across the road to his car.

 

 

Charlie left his apartment and stumbled haphazardly into the bright offensive sunlight outside. He shielded his eyes from the day’s carelessly cheery mood and got in to his car.

Charlie’s car is a 1993 V12 Jaguar XJ-S. Its dark blue paint is faded from years in the sun, the passenger door is a faded race-car green colour from where it was replaced but never re-painted, the rear bumper is held on by wire ties, the air conditioning doesn’t work and only the driver side window goes down without requiring a mechanic to get it back up again. But the CD player works and the engine starts with the kind of rumbling purr that makes your heart fill your lungs.

Charlie sat in the driver’s seat. This is one of the only times during Charlie’s normally miserable day when his smile is actually genuine. Even the dry heavy feeling of a hangover takes a back seat while pure juvenile pleasure takes over for a while. This is Charlie’s perfect car.  The engine misfired causing the exhaust to vomit black smoke and the car turned a corner and drove off towards Simon’s office.

 

 

Simon parked in the underground car park of his office. He slammed the door of his brand new white Audi A4 and made for the fifth floor as fast as he could. His secretary was sitting at her desk looking slightly violated. Simon sent a questioning glance her way which was returned with a worried look towards his office door, which was slightly ajar. Simon relaxed and prepared for the worst.

He edged the door open and looked inside. Everything seemed in order. He looked to his right. Charlie was sitting on one of the comfortable chairs against the wall in his office with a smile on his face. Simon looked suspiciously at him and sat down behind his desk.

Charlie had his right foot resting on his left knee in the most nonchalant way imaginable. His boot-cut jeans were torn around the heel of his scuffed brown shoes. Three buttons remained un-fastened on his shirt, the sleeves were half rolled up in a way that suggests the wearer couldn’t care less if they were up or down and, although his shirt isn’t tucked in, you could just make out a brown leather belt being held tight by a pretty average and uneventful belt buckle. Simon looked suspiciously around the room. Charlie spoke.

‘I pissed in your plant.’

Simon looked over at the plant and then back at Charlie.

‘I got you a turkey Sub,’ he said, handing it to him.

‘What do you have in yours?’

‘Meatball.’

‘Give me yours.’

‘No.’

Charlie stared at him.

Simon gave in.

‘We can split it,’ said Simon.

Simon gave Charlie half of his Sub and took half of Charlie’s. Simon took a bite out of his and decided now was the best time to talk.

‘Mm, So, mmph, how many err, pages have you done?’

‘You’re the reason I hate people,’ said Charlie.

Simon swallowed.

‘I don’t mind if you haven’t written very much, I just need to see what you have written.’

‘If you carry on being nice to me I swear to god I’m going to kill you.’

‘Charlie, I’ve arranged an interview with GMTV for next week, they want to talk about the film deal and re-release of your first book and they’re really eager to hear what your plans are for your next book. And there will be some fans there so take a pen so you can sign things.’

‘I’m serious. I will throw you through the fucking window. I know there’s a bastard in there somewhere!’

‘Come on, Charlie, stop being a twat.’

‘Oh! Simon! That’s more like it! Come on, touch me.’

Charlie lifted his shirt and twiddled his nipple with a finger.

‘No. Are you finished?’

Charlie folded his arms.

‘I haven’t written anything,’ he said.

‘I know.’

‘How?’

‘You’re always like this when you can’t write.’

‘I can write. It’s just the lack of plot that’s the problem. And the lack of characters. Just the lack of book in general is the problem. What’s the rush anyway?’

‘If you’re off the shelf for too long people will forget about you.’

‘Good.’

Charlie opened a bottle of scotch from Simon’s alcohol cabinet and poured two glasses.

‘Are you finished for the day?’ he asked.

‘No, Charlie, it’s 10am.’

‘We’re going to the pub for a business meeting about drunks,’ Charlie smiled ridiculously at his own infantile sense of humour.

‘Charlie.’

‘Stop being a fucking cunt and drink with me! I’m shit bored and hanging out with you here is making me more bored so if we have to spend time together you have to be pissed! That’s the rule from now on. Ok?’

‘No.’

Charlie put a glass of scotch down in front of Simon and downed his own.

‘Charlie, I have a lot of work to do.’

Charlie put on his best Simon impression, which sounds more like Bugsy Malone than Simon, and shouted.

‘Receptionist, hold my calls! I’m going to be away from my office for the rest of the day!’

Charlie, feeling pretty proud of himself, looked smugly at Simon. Simon looked wilfully back.

Amanda poked her head into the office.

‘Do you want me to hold your calls?’

Simon threw what was left of his sandwich in the bin and brushed bits of sandwich off his shirt.

‘Yes, hold my calls, thank you.’

‘HA!’ exclaimed Charlie, feeling victorious.

Amanda left the office without looking at Charlie.

Simon picked up a schedule from his desk and walked over to Charlie.

‘I’m giving you a schedule, there are only two things on it, GMTV and casting auditions for the film, I need you to remember them.’

‘You’re not coming to the pub are you?’

‘I’ll pick you up on Tuesday morning at 6am for GMTV, please try to be awake.’

‘I make no promises.’

 

Charlie left the office and wandered around the building for a couple of hours trying to find something interesting to do or disrupt but no one took much notice of him. A receptionist gave him a funny look when the elevator opened to reveal Charlie’s rear mooning at her. A security guard told him he wasn’t allowed to beg on the premises, and an old writer friend stopped him to congratulate him on the success of his last novel to which Charlie replied, ‘Go fuck your book’. Finally he went home to immerse himself in his favourite, if only, past time; drinking.

Andrew Chapman An Authors Life, Short Stories

The State of Great Britain

I’m recovering from a terrible hangover.

When looking back over the events of 2016 I came across the news of Toblerone shrinking by ten percent. I went out to buy one to find out if the rumours were true, thinking it was surely a sick hoax.

I got back home and sat at my dining room table. I opened the packet slowly. Every second triangle was gone. This news by itself wasn’t particularly shocking but what it represented was. It was a glimpse into our future and the first casualty of our choices. It sent me into an alcoholic vortex that would leave me with a hangover the likes of which humanity had yet to experience.

tob-horror

When the boozing finally ended I found myself standing in my kitchen with a hangover made of hammers and remorse. I was wearing only jeans, a blue dressing gown, and a Jeremy Corbyn mask which I wore pulled back atop my head. Its vacant socialist eyes stared emptily at the ceiling. I woke up wearing it but have no recollection of why, or where it came it from.

I cracked an egg into a glass of warm whiskey and drank it in one gulp. I shuddered.

The floor swung sideways from under me but I managed to catch it with my right foot and steadied myself on the kitchen side. I shook my head and flicked the switch on the kettle.

It was quite possible that the kettle had already boiled for the third time by now without being poured. Short term memory was a distant one for now.

I tipped the coffee jar into a cup and spilt granules on the floor and onto my feet. I took a step back and leaned on the counter. My eyes were like a million butterflies trying to fly in the same direction. I picked up the kettle and filled the cup and shovelled in two sugars with a spoon.

Milk.

Where was the milk?

This puzzle was a stretch too far. I poured some coffee into the sink and topped it up with cold tap water and downed the coffee.

My head hung for a moment. With great effort I lifted a cigarette from the packet in my pocket. I lit it and inhaled. I smoked the whole thing without touching it. When the cigarette was done I let it fall out of my mouth into the sink.

The floor swung away again but this time I wasn’t able to steady myself and I slipped through a gap in reality. Time bellowed through my dressing gown as it evaporated into oblivion. Memories of life as I knew it took on a strange hue and rang around me like a bell full of shit. Donald Trump was there, in the darkness of nothingness, laughing and trying to grab my pussy. A pussy I don’t possess, but a pussy nonetheless.

When I came to I was in the same kitchen but there was a calendar on the wall that wasn’t mine. There was a picture of a flag on it. At first I thought it was the Union Flag but something looked wrong. There was a blue square in the corner full of stars. The year on the calendar was 2019. Somehow I had drunk myself into the future.

What had happened to me? I couldn’t know. This was probably just another terrible hallucination but things felt too real. I could feel the cold of the floor.

I tried to climb to my feet, reaching out for the fridge handle for purchase. The door swung open and I fell back. Out of the fridge fell a Peperami. It landed next to me, perfectly sealed. It offered sustenance that promised to lift me back to some kind of sensible state of being. I reached for it and tore it open but all that I found inside was that hideous thin sausage condom and the faint smell of meat. The sausage was missing entirely. I wondered if it faced the same weight-saving cut that Toblerone had, but taken to its absurd end.

Maybe all snacks had gone this way. All products now must be just empty packaging. Maybe manufacturers have given up entirely on their product and only sell packaging to a public that only have nostalgia left. I had to find out more about this future world I had travelled to.

I found a newspaper on the floor next to a bin overflowing with garbage. I leafed through it briefly and learned a lot. Much had changed. I rummaged through the bin and found two more from previous weeks. I absorbed every article with great interest and growing horror.

I found my way to the front door and wandered out into a vaguely familiar street. I figured the supermarket would be in the same direction as it used to be and headed for it.

Every front garden on the way had been turned into a vegetable patch and neighbours were sharing food over their fences. So it’s not all bad news. Poverty can bring people together.

There were thin people everywhere just standing around doing nothing. Some of them stared at me. Most were busy holding their trousers up and trying their best to stay upright in the calm breeze.

Now all the foreigners are gone all of the interesting takeaways have shut down and obesity is no longer a problem. Obesity is a privilege obtainable only by the 0.01%, according to the papers.

Without competition from foreign labour British men were able to charge what they liked for their services and so people can no longer afford to get taxis or make repairs to their homes. As a result nothing works and industry has come to a standstill. Most people are out of work and their toilets won’t flush and their homes are cold. Most people sit in their cars for heat. Petrol is cheap and bountiful now thanks to the relentless attack on nature instigated by Emperor Trump. The cars don’t move because no one has anywhere to go and many species have died along the new pipe routes.

I made it to the supermarket. Things were not good. Most of the food carried the “Trump Seal of Approval” which was privately viewed as an avoidance warning. You’d find a fresh chicken with a sticker of Trumps face on it with “TRUMP” in gold letters and the word “approved by Governor May” at the bottom. The meat had a faintly grey and damp texture.

Governor May. That’s right. You heard it here first. England is the 51st State. It’s too much to take in isn’t it?

The biggest shock came in the wine aisle. All foreign wines had been removed and all that was left was a small selection of Californian wine. I grabbed a passing shop assistant by the collar and shook her wildly. “How could you let this happen?!” I shouted, but she got the better of me and pushed me into a pile of loose pork scratchings, the only British snack food still readily available in England.

She started crying and slapped me in the face. “What’s the meaning of this!?” I shouted, trying to hit her back and missing by a yard. God damn these malnourished thin women!

“And that was the Shipping Forecast,” she said.

I looked at her like she was mad. I noticed a tattoo on her forehead that read Property of Wallmart and felt immediately sorry for her. If she wanted to hit me I was willing to be there for her. She could let her anger out on me. I’m ok with that. “Later on Radio Four a cow has a difficult pregnancy in The Archers,” she said, and struck me hard with a direct blow to my left eye.

“Lady, I feel your pain, but at least be coherent.”

“But first we are joined by Graham Guest. So Graham, you started a petition to prevent President Trump from making a State Visit to the UK-” she said.

Now, I have to be honest, as I lay there in the pork scratchings of a desolate supermarket in the future being slapped by an emaciated shop assistant, I couldn’t quite put the words she was saying into any kind of sensible context. It didn’t add up.

She hit me again and I fell sideways. Which was odd, considering I was lying on the floor. The supermarket, and the woman, shimmered and then stammered like a tape caught in an old cinema projector. The edges of reality crept forward. The girl burst into tears and then the whole scene was gone.

I was back in my kitchen. The kettle clicked off as it finished boiling. The radio was on. It was Radio Four talking to a man about a petition.

I stood there for a while. Not knowing what to do. After a few more coffees I got my shit together and got dressed for work. It was some kind of mad dream. It could never happen. The people wouldn’t let it. They have the ability to fight back. To not let the mad ones thrive. Surely kindness and intelligence will get the better of greed and ignorance.

I pulled on my boots and did up my jacket. I left the house and was murdered by a deranged seagull.

seagull

Andrew Chapman An Authors Life, Words and Writers

And should not be at the beginning of this sentence.

StrunkAndPtah

I don’t know what the key to this whole writing thing is. I’ve spent the last fifteen years trying to find out. I must have read fifty books on the subject. I think maybe its clarity. So much writing is just filler, or confusing sentence structures.

It becomes a kind of music. I know I break some grammatical standards but hopefully not in a way that jars. There is no sensible reason for a sentence to not start with and. Or begin with or. Here is some dialogue between two students whispering to each other in an English lesson –

“Why can’t a sentence start with and?”

“Because she said so. And maybe she’s right. Fuck it. I don’t know. And anyway, that’s not how we speak so why write like that?”

“But what if we lose marks by writing realistically.”

“You shouldn’t start a sentence with but,” says the Teacher, overhearing the conversation.

“Why?” says the boy.

“Because that is the rule.”

“You shouldn’t start a sentence with because,” says the boy, “It’s a subordinate conjunction that requires more than one clause.”

“I’m glad you’ve been paying attention,” says the teacher, “but my first clause was in the sentence you interrupted when I said; ‘You shouldn’t start a sentence with but’.”

“This is all very confusing,” says a drunk man stumbling into the classroom by accident.

“Can I help you sir?” says the teacher.

“None of this is real,” says the drunk.

Why did I write that in the present tense? The second most difficult tense for a reader after the second tense. I’ve never written in the second tense before. I think I’ll give it a go;

               You walk into the gents at the pub. A man by the urinal is touching   himself inappropriately. You enter the cubical with the broken lock. You drunkenly undo your trousers and let them fall to the ground. You sit down and pee. You would have pissed at the urinal if it wasn’t for that masturbating man. Why did you sit down anyway? Too drunk to stand. You focus on a round convex lens on the back of the cubical door and think to yourself, why is there a camera in here? And decide it’s time to stop drinking in this particular watering hole.

Good. That was fun. You know, as these blog posts get further down the page the empty beer can count on my desk gets greater. It’s no wonder I lose focus.

Andrew Chapman Short Stories

Lord Rochdale and the Station Hop Robbery (a short story)

It is my understanding that a train is a sort of stubborn bus. I’ve never seen one myself. I stood on a station once and waited to see one, to see what all the fuss was about, but was sadly distracted by a pair of mating pigeons. I heard it go by and turned quickly to catch a glimpse but by the time I realised I had turned the wrong way, the blasted thing had disappeared.

You’re probably wondering why I’m going on about this, and who the bloody hell I am anyway? And rightly so. You should know these things. They’re important to a story. My name is Charlie. I’m a dashing sort of chap, about so high, with a passion for ornithology. So, now the formalities are out of the way, let’s get to the nub –

A friend of mine, Lord Rochdale (a dastardly sort of bloke, you wouldn’t like him), called me on the phone and asked me if I would like to help him burgle one (a train I mean, not a phone). I told him they are probably hard to steal seeing as they tend to be fixed to the tracks but I’m free next Thursday afternoon so why not. Not much else to do on a Thursday.

Jump forwards a few days and there we are; Thursday. Time to do some burglary. I arrived at the small train station just outside of Kent as agreed. I was wearing my trilby hat and trench coat, as is sensible in this weather, and there at the far end of the platform was my cohort and accomplice, Rochdale. He was staring at me.

“What are they thinking!” he shouted.

“Who?” I replied.

“The Gods!”

“I imagine they are trying to help us in any way they can.” I said, having arrived next to him. The oncoming sound of a train was already present.

“I am uncomfortable and miserable. Had I known it was going to pour down I might have cancelled.”

“It’s not too late.”

“Bugger it. We’re stealing that damn painting if it’s the last thing we do.”

“I thought we were stealing a train.”

He looked at me like a wizard looks at a clown. “Steal the train? How do you propose we do that?”

I shrugged. “Jimmy it?”

“It’s not a Fiat Panda, Charlie, it’s a bloody locomotive. You can’t just “jimmy it”.”

“Right. No, of course. What painting?”

“On that train is a young man named Percy Witherbrick. Have you heard of him?” I shook my head, “He’s a cousin on my mother’s side. He has in his possession a painting by Gainsborough, I’m assuming you’ve heard of Gainsborough?”

“Paints faces?”

“Yes. Sort of. Portraits. Percy’s father passed recently and they found one in his attic along with a whole bunch of other paintings, mostly worthless. Witherbrick is on his way to get it authenticated. At this moment in time that painting doesn’t exist. If he gets to his destination they will register it. Real or not. This is our only chance to get our hands on something worth millions that nobody yet knows about.”

“Who is the painting of?”

“Percy’s grandmother.”

There was a hiss and the train stopped in front of us. “Alright, you go in front of me. I’m going to duck behind you so he doesn’t recognise my face.”

“Right ho. This way then is it?”

“Just keep walking. He’ll be in first class. Next carriage along.”

The interior of the train was dull, lifeless, rusty, clattering. The seats were faded blue and full of street urchins and criminals (one suspects. I tried not to look at them.)

We bustled down the aisle and made it to the entrance of the first class carriage. Rochdale peered over my shoulder. His moustache tickled my ear.

“There he is. Four rows down facing us. Do you see him?”

“The man with the goatee beard and cardboard tube?”

“The very same.”

“What’s the plan?”

“We’ll casually walk down the aisle, me hiding behind you, and when we get close enough I’ll reach round and punch him in the face. Got it?”

“It’s a very sophisticated plan.”

“It’s not at all sophisticated. Let’s get on with it.”

We snuck carefully down the carriage and stopped in front of Percy. He looked up and smiled at me. I smiled back. Rochdale walloped him squarely the face. It was quite something. His head went back, his eyes closed, and he started snoring. I gently took the tube out of his limp hands and we backed back out of the carriage. People witnessed the event but didn’t make much of it. They were upper middle class people, it’s not easy to shock upper middle class people.

We ran back through the urchin carriage to the doors just as we pulled up at the next station. We jumped out and ran for the street. There was a car waiting for us on the road, prearranged by the criminal genius that is Rochdale.

We bundled in. Rochdale slapped me on the back. “Good show old boy!” he shouted. “Perry, step on it!” (Perry is the name of the driver.)

He did step on it and we hurtled down the road and away from the scene of our crime.

“Champagne Charleston?”

“It would be rude not to,” I said.

Rochdale cracked open the champers and filled two glasses. We chin-chinned and downed the contents.

“Shall we have a look?” said Rochdale.

“I think we must,” I said.

Rochdale put his glass down (which immediately fell over and wetted our shoes due to the nature of Perry’s fervent driving) and carefully removed the white cap. Inside was a rolled up canvas. Rochdale withdrew the painting. He unrolled it. We stared.

“What the fu-“ (I’m sorry for his language, I won’t include it in the story. That sort of thing just won’t do.)

“Well it’s certainly not a Gainsborough,” I said.

His shoulders sagged and his fists clenched the canvas, tearing it slightly. “You think?”

“I think it’s quite obvious.”

“Perry! Stop the car.”

The car stopped.

Rochdale got out and closed the door. And then he reacted. I’ve been looking through my dictionary to find the right would to describe his reaction. Tempestuous doesn’t quite cut it. Impassioned maybe? He let the painting fall to the ground and screamed at it. I can’t repeat all of his words here but there was something about Percy watching too much Art Attack. It all ended with him tearing off his clothes and throwing his shoes at a passing cat. He then chased the poor feline, half naked and screaming, down the street, leaving me alone in the car.

I looked out of the window at the torn and soaked painting on the floor. It was a Jackson Pollock. Pity really.

Andrew Chapman An Authors Life, Words and Writers

The Periodical Son Returns

strand_blanched_soldierGood afternoon blog, and readers of blog. It’s been a while but here I am, back from the swamp of words that is novel writing. And I have some exciting news! So brace yourself. Sit back in your chair and hold on to your laptop for safety, this is bracing stuff. In a way.

I was thinking to myself, who are the greatest writers of old and how did they become popular? Charles Dickens and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle came to mind immediately. Both of these chaps first released their books in serial form. A chapter a week in a magazine or newspaper. So I have decided to do the same. The Accidental Scoundrel is being released one chapter at a time on Jottify.com. The first two chapters are there now and I will add a new one on a regular basis periodically. I’m not sure it will be weekly though. In the fast world we live in, and with all that is out there to grab our attentions, I will most probably add a new chapter every three days.

After the series is finished I will release The Accidental Scoundrel as a paperback and ebook on Amazon.

Pop over to Jottify via this direct link – http://jottify.com/works/the-accidental-scoundrel/ and have a look. I would love to know if anyone has tried this route themselves or if you think this is a good idea, or even a terrible one, let me know what you think.

Currently I am listed as the most read author of the day (yeah baby!). Help me stay at the top by reading and enjoying each installment as they come!

For now though that is all, I will try and come here more often and write interesting posts about wonderful things, but until then, have a good Easter!

Andrew Chapman The Other Stuff

Sexy Title Designed to Lure You In

The strange thing is, it’s not normally this easy to grab a reader’s attention. But there we are. I got you hooked. It’s lucky really because if you weren’t hooked and still reading these words I would look rather silly wouldn’t I? Still, here you are, still reading. And if you’re not still reading I’m still winning because if you weren’t you wouldn’t be able to read this to see just how presumptuous I am being. You see? Now, it is entirely possible that some of you will stop reading now to prove a point. Which is fine, go ahead and make your point, in fact feel free to comment and let me know just how disinterested you are. You were so unmoved be my post that you were moved to make a comment. There, you see, I win again. And now if you do comment I win, and if you don’t I also win. It’s win – win. Which is always a good thing. But somehow, and this may be a first, the wins are both mine. It’s actually win – win – lose. That’s 2 – 1 to me and all you’ve done is read a paragraph. And you didn’t even know you were playing a game. (If you’re wondering why it’s not 2 – 0, well, you get a point just for being here).

What is the point to all this? Who knows? All I know is there are an estimated 152,000,000 blogs currently active on the internet. That is a lot of competition. And where there is a competition there must be a winner, and so far (like I said) I am winning 2 – 1. Actually, since you’re still reading you can have an extra point. Now it’s a draw, 2 – 2.

It is remarkably difficult to write a blog post that immediately grabs someone’s attention and then keeps hold of it until the end. First of all you need something interesting to say. Unfortunately useful and interesting information is a key function of a blog that mine sadly lacks. People like to learn new things so what a really smart blogger would do is end the post either just before, or just as soon, as someone realises that they aren’t going to learn anything. I make that 3 – 2.

Andrew Chapman An Authors Life

Don’t Sweat the Petty Things, and Don’t Pet the Sweaty Things

laptop-freeze

I have been forced to write in my underpants. I have no choice. It is either that or I sweat all over the keyboard. Which would you prefer? Both things are not particularly pleasing to imagine. But I have been forced to write in my underpants, so you have been forced to imagine it. It’s the heat you see, right now it is 32°C (or 89.6°F if you’re American) and as a British man I am simply not equipped to deal with that sort of thing.

I stood in front of the freezer for a while earlier, which gave some relief, but I had to stop because my laptop was beginning to freeze. I’ve started writing a children’s book called The Wonderbottom Family Animal Rescue Centre for Exotic and Unusual Pets (Book 1 – The Small Door) just because I was bored of reading kids stories with some kind of moral message at the centre of it. I want to write a book that is absurd and wonderful with the intention to make you laugh and nothing more. It is not deep and has no hidden lesson or moral backbone. But it’s hot damn it! (Not the book, the atmosphere). My eyebrows are failing me in their evolutionary role to protect my eyes from my forehead sweat! It is not the best condition to be writing humour!

So instead of marching forth with the odd tale about a curious boy and his pet platypus I have decided to order a kebab and have a glass of whisky and ice instead. I’m not suggesting the kebab will cool me down but if I’m going to be a sweaty mess anyway I might as well make the most of it. Soon I will be squelching on my leather couch with a spicy kebab, a glass of whisky and something exciting to watch on the telly.

God forbid I have unexpected visitors. Their dreams will be hellish for months to come.

Goodbye dear readers, drunken squalor awaits me.

Andrew Chapman An Authors Life

The Proof Copies Have Arrived!

The Proof copies for The Accidental Scoundrel have arrived!! Here are some photo’s that document my initial thoughts of the book –

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Initial reactions are good –

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But oh no, what’s this? A grammatical error! –

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Luckily the sublimely witty and humorous prose wins over –

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And also, doesn’t it look great on your bookshelf? –

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The release date will be announced just as soon as my proof reader captures and snares every spelling mistake and grammatical error that lurks in its wonderful pages.

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The Accidental Scoundrel… Coming soon

 

 

Andrew Chapman An Authors Life

The Manuscript Thief

So there I was. It was Christmas Eve. Two days earlier I had finally finished my second book. The first draft had been printed off. The plan was to leave it, to forget about, to not even look at it, for a few months. Then, on one lonesome evening, I would pick up the manuscript and go through it with a red pen. But something dreadful would happen before I got the chance.

It is important that no one sees a freshly finished novel, you see, you get so close to the material that after a while all the mistakes become invisible to you. You know the story so well that it doesn’t matter how much you concentrate your mind fills in the blanks. If I write probable instead of probably I won’t notice it. My brain knows what word to expect and my eyes will pass over it without seeing the mistake. This is why you need a few months after finishing the book before you start proof reading it. And that was my intention with A Scoundrel for Love (the first in a series of humorous books based at the stately Rochdale Manor).

As I was saying, it was Christmas Eve. Some of my parent’s friends were round for drinks. One of them, a man named Steve, asked me how my writing was going.

“It’s going well,” I said, “In fact I’ve just finished a novel.”

“Oh, I would love to have a look at it.”

“Sure, why not.” I said, and scurried off to fetch it. That was my mistake. I blame the booze.

He read the first paragraph aloud (at least this much was error free);

“It’s strange being killed. I never thought I’d say it but it is. It’s annoying. Especially when you have no idea why you are being killed. Here I am, standing at the toilet with my pyjamas around my ankles and in walks a man with the intent to do harm. Perhaps I’m somehow to blame? Who knows? Either way, whether I am to be blamed or not, adjustments to my situation must clearly be made. Being drowned in a toilet is not something I take pleasure in. And it is certainly not the way I wish to uncoil my mortal spring, as they say. In the throes of death the automatic instincts of self-preservation set forth a plan of retaliation. My limbs reacted accordingly on my behalf.”

Everyone chuckled. There were positive murmurs.

“Oh, hold on, there’s a disclaimer before the first chapter,” he said, and then read on;

“As a result of lazy research the descriptions of the Whyte and Mackay distillery are entirely made up and so any attempt to carry out the heist described in these pages would be completely idiotic and utterly fruitless.”

More laughs. Things were going well.

Steve put the manuscript down and said he would have a proper look later. After all, the night was early and this was a Christmas gathering not a reading circle. I snuck away and left them to it.

When I went back to my parents lounge a few hours later (having spent some quality time being drunk with my brother) I discover my parents sitting alone watching TV.

“Have they gone?” I said.

“Yes, they left about ten minutes ago.”

“Oh, is my book in here somewhere?”

They frowned. “No, Steve took it with him to read on the train.”

“What?”

“What?”

“It hasn’t been edited. He’s going to think I’m an illiterate idiot!”

I rushed off and switched on my laptop just to read the first few chapters. And there they were, the glaringly obvious mistakes you become blind to. The word Authorities where it should have said authoritative. And for some reason (unfathomably! A relic from an early change perhaps) the word bucket instead of cave (how can that even be!). I had also written the word to instead of the. And, oh no, at some point, when I was just getting started with this book one of the characters was called Uncle Henry. It soon changed to Uncle Harry. But it looks like I missed a mention of him early on and within a few pages his name suddenly changes from Harry, to Henry, and back again!

For New Year’s Eve my parents met Steve and his wife for dinner. He mentioned it. He asked my dad if he thought I would mind if he went through it with a red pen and pick out the mistakes.

And actually I don’t mind that. I did have a friend of mine who teaches English to proof read it for me anyway. At least now when I do send it to him he will think I’m capable of producing a far more polished piece of writing than I actually am.

Still, it is a lesson learned. And if Steve turns out to be a good proof reader at least I might be able to rely on him for that in the future. All published authors have an editor and a proof reader. It must be accepted that a writer can’t write tens of thousands of words without the occasional error (there may be one or two exceptions out of the millions of published authors but they will be an extreme minority).

I’m glad in a way that my unfinished manuscript was accidently stolen from me. It will mean that when I send it out to agents and publishers it will be the best it can be.

I’ll let you know when I get the manuscript back exactly how bad the damage is.