“Daddy? I want a hamster.”
“You’re not a having a hamster.”
“The ant died.”
“The ant wasn’t even REAL.”
“It was real.”
“Look – if you put something down on the floor and it runs away, it’s real.”
When I finally decided that my dog had some sort of mental health issue, I didn’t mess around. I immediately splashed the cash and called in the professional: a £50 per day dog whisperer called Anita who lived on the borders of Kent and claimed to offer a life-changing service for pets AND their owners. This is the email I sent her…
Life can be like driving a very fast car in difficult conditions…and the bumps and scrapes can damage both you and the people around you. Between 1997 and 2016, I wrote twenty eight books and two short stories for a bunch of the biggest publishing companies in the world. This journey transformed me in many…
During the 80s, there were many reasons to hang out at Ramsgate Pleasurama that didn’t involve queuing up for Golden Axe or Double Dragon. One of these was to trade and collect something so priceless and valuable that you didn’t even need to name it: you simply stood there chewing the free bubblegum that came with each pack and waited for somebody to wander up with the question, the ultimate question, the question of Life, the Universe and Everything.
I grew up at the top of Bellevue Road in Ramsgate during the 80s. Everybody knew everybody else….even if they hated them. It was that sort of place. You could leave your front door open confident in the knowledge that half your stuff would be gone by the time you got back…but at least you wouldn’t be murdered. This one time, I actually heard of a thief leaving a ‘Thank You’ note in place of a microwave: you can’t BUY criminals like that, these days. In any case, I’m exaggerating (which is unlike me). Bellevue Road during the 80s was an okay place to be. My friends include my next door neighbour, Gem, Simon who pronounced every word with a ‘St’ in front of it (my name was ‘Stavid’ for example), Dianne (who was a Tomboy in the true dungarees and spiky haired sense of the word), Helena (who was very posh because she could pronounce long words and wore different clothes every day), Ginger John with all the Freckles (I was Ginger Dave with no Freckles), Big Wayne (there was no small Wayne), Hot Kim (there was no Cold Kim) and the Ghost Twins, Peter and Paul (who lived in the haunted Sycamore Hotel where they found the crashed train carriage in the tunnels beneath the basement).
The Shard stands alone, a rectilinear finger of defiance aimed at whatever carefully imagined god might be watching. I’m serious: it gives the London skyline the sort of gesture you’d make at a cabby who suddenly swerved in the street, dumping you and all your possessions onto the pavement in an unceremonious heap. It’s ugly,…
London late at night is pretty much like any other capital city late at night: by 2am, people are either making a mess or cleaning it up. Thankfully, tonight’s not my night to do the cleaning up. Fletch quotes aside, I never thought I’d find myself looking out on the twinkling nightlife of London from…
‘I just prefer the company of women. I’m a bit like Samantha in Sex and the City…but without the City….or the Sex.’
‘…right – and you think that’s because you were raised by two women?’
‘Partly…but it’s mostly because I don’t mix well with other men. I find guys really two-dimensional. As soon as I get a hint of football or beer, I’m out. Give me women any day of the week: women have emotional intelligence and they can REALLY talk.’
‘That’s stereotyping, David.’
It’s a cold morning. I’m at Enoteca on Ramsgate seafront, and I’m in a terrible mood. I’ve had the worst night’s sleep in living memory, as I woke in the early hours from a dream in which I was digging up a dead relative in order to prove that they’d put his shoes on the wrong feet. As it turned out, I was right…but that doesn’t mean much when you’re suddenly awake at 3am….
This is a post about fortune telling. This is not a post about me wearing my wife’s underwear…but I DO look cheeky in it.
On my days off, I like to visit Costa in Broadstairs to grab a small cappuccino and a roasted cheddar and tomato sandwich. Once I’m loaded up with my little takeaway bag, I head to the seafront and consume it on one of the benches just along from the bandstand. I don’t usually draw much attention with this regular routine but today, however, I feel like I’m being watched.
I hate waiting for people, and this guy is over an hour late. An hour late. It makes me wonder at what point you stop being late and start being dead. I know it’s morbid, and I know I’m a depressing b*stard, but there’s a certain point whenever I’m left waiting for somebody that I naturally assume they’re dead. You see, I have that level of misguided self-importance: I am, in fact, telling myself that the only reason someone would no-show at a meeting with me is naturally because they’ve died. Weirdly, I start to miss him….and I’ve only met him twice.
How much do you really know about coffee? Let’s find out.