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In this last blog before the Christmas holidays, we've handed it over to one of our authors to get her take on one of the stories from Christmas. All views expressed are those of the author and aren't necessarily those of Selfishgenie Publishing. Note: This is a work of fiction.  The first Christmas Day - a hillside near Bethlehem - night has fallen. “It’s a cold one tonight, alright.” Dave said as he returned from checking what the sheep were up to out on the side of the hill. He stretched his hands towards the fire and rubbed them to restore his circulation. He saw that the food was cooked and took a piece, savouring its delicate musty flavour. “You’re not wrong there.” Another Dave replied. “If it gets any colder I’ll have to wrap a fleece around my shoulders.” “Shhhh!” A different Dave hissed, pointing towards the sheep. “If they hear you say that they’ll get upset. You know how easily upset they get and seeing your drape the skin of one of their half brothers around you will get them in a really bad mood.” “Sorry, wasn’t thinking.” Another Dave apologised. He popped a morsel of food into his mouth. “Hey!” The first Dave said, pointing towards the sky. “What’s that bright light?” “Where?” A different Dave replied, searching the heavens, but looking in entirely the wrong direction.  “There, you idiot! Over there, near where that bright star’s been for the last few nights. But this one’s moving. Look, it’s getting bigger and it seems…” realisation dawned on him. “It seems to be coming straight for us.” “One of those burning rocks we sometimes get.” A different Dave responded, disinterestedly. “Hang around on this hillside long enough and you’ll see plenty of them. Course, you’ve only been a shepherd a few weeks, but us old hands, like another Dave here, we’ve seen it all, haven’t we?” Another Dave nodded his head. “We sure have. But I have to say this one looks a bit different. For a start, it’s a lot brighter looking, and it isn’t moving in a straight line like they normally do. This one is sort of … well, zig-zagging a bit, like it's looking for someone to hit.” “Hang on,” The first Dave said. “It seems to be slowing down, sort of hovering like.” “Kneel before me, Puny Humans.” A voice boomed out of the brightness.  “No need to shout mate. We’re right here. We can hear you, you know. And turn the brightness down a bit while you’re at it.” Another Dave shielded his eyes from the glare. “Oh, sorry.” The voice got quieter and the light dimmed, to reveal a figure within it. “Now, where was I? Oh yes. Kneel before me, Puny Humans.” “Do you mind if I don’t” A different Dave said. “At my age the old knees give me a bit of trouble if I kneel. If it wasn’t for the herbs I chew, I’d be in constant agony.” “Oh, OK. But you other two ….” “I kneel before no man!” Another Dave pronounced, taking up a pugnacious stance. “Women though, that’s different. I’ll kneel before a woman anytime, if you get my meaning.” He leered and let out a dirty chuckle. “Well, if you two aren’t kneeling, I’m certainly not.” The first Dave chipped in. “I am the Archangel Gabriel!” The voice figure turned up the volume to booming level again. “I am the Messenger of God. Why do you not quake before me?”  “Look mate, no offence or nuffin’, but we’ve ‘ad Canaanites, Hittites, Assyrians, Babylonians, Egyptians, Sumerians, Greeks and now Romans through here. They couldn’t make us kneel, so you’ve got no chance. You may be the Messenger of God, but you ain’t God, so we ain’t kneeling. Nor are we quaking, trembling, worrying or hurrying.” Another Dave said his piece and sat down at the fire once more, his back to the Archangel. “Oh, well … erm, OK, I guess you don’t have to kneel then.” The Archangel admitted defeat, the volume of his voice once again reduced to a more conventional level. “I must say, you make a nice change.” A different Dave said. “Normally we get burning bushes or columns of fire that talk. It’s nice to have an Archangel for once.” “There was that talking frog, that time. remember?” Another Dave said.  “Oh yeah. We heard that after we ate those funny mushrooms we found on the hill.” “In fact, we generally hear things when we eat the funny mushrooms, come to think of it.” The first Dave observed. “I wonder if the two things are …” “If I might get us back on track.” The Archangel interrupted their reminiscences. “I’ve got a city to destroy for failing to obey the Word of the Lord and if I don’t deliver this message first, I’ll be late.” “Oh yeah, you go ahead then.” The first Dave said, sitting back down next to the fire, opposite another Dave but facing the Archangel. He popped another morsel of food into his mouth. “Hang on a minute …” The Archangel said, puzzlement in his voice. You …” he pointed at the first Dave. “Your name’s Dave, right?”  “It certainly is. Dave bar Dave, that means son of Dave, seeing as you’re a stranger around these parts.” “I know what ‘bar’ means.” The Archangel replied testily. “I’m not a moron.” “That’s a matter of opinion.” Another Dave muttered. “And you … You’re Dave too.” He pointed at another Dave. “That’s right. There’s Daves in our family going all the way back to Noah.” “And he’s Dave?” he pointed at a different Dave, who thought the dark shadows away from the firelight concealed the fact that he was picking his nose. “That’s right. Everyone around here is called Dave. ‘Cept the women of course. They’re all called Davina instead.” “But why? Isn’t that a bit confusing?” “’Spose it is a bit.” Another Dave conceded. “But this ‘ere …” he swept his arm around to encompass the nearby city. "This ‘ere is the City of David, so we’re all called Dave, or David if we’re on our Saturday best behaviour.” The Archangel shook his head, but wisely decided not to pursue the subject anymore. Instead, he refocused himself on delivering his message.  “This night, in the City of Bethlehem, a child was born. He is the Son of God and he shall be called Emmanuel.” “Emmanuel, eh? Sounds a bit French to me. Why can’t he be called Dave like everyone else?” Another Dave asked. “Because God wants him to be called Emmanuel and, as he’s God’s son, I think God has the right to name him!” The Archangel was clearly losing his patience. “Alright, alright. Keep your wings on Archie. Anyway, what’s this got to do with us?” “You are commanded to go to Bethlehem, to the stable where the child was born, and there to pay Him homage and to worship Him.” “A stable, eh?” The first Dave said. “Doesn’t sound too hygienic for a new-born baby. And if he’s the Son of God, you’d expect him to be born in a nice private hospital, wouldn’t you?” “God wanted it this way.” The Archangel snapped. “Look, are you going or aren’t you? Because if you aren’t, I’ve got to find someone equally as common … I mean humble … as you to go and bear witness to the child’s birth.” “But why us? Why should we go?” “In years to come, there will be a need for men to bear witness to the circumstances of His birth, that’s why. You’re as good as anyone. Oh, and there are three Wise Men on their way too. They will be witnesses as well.”  “But we didn’t see him being born.” A different Dave objected. “We’re only finding out about it now. And, anyway, one baby looks just like another baby. They all look like little Buddhas.” “For heaven’s sake don’t drag Buddha into this. We’ll be here all night. Look, go, don’t go. I’m past caring.” With that the Archangel turned up his brilliance again and shot skywards, fast dwindling into a distant speck of light, which then got lost amongst the stars. “Bloody Archangels. Think they’re God’s gift.” Another Dave muttered under his breath. “I suppose they are really; God’s gift I mean.” The first Dave said to no one in particular. “That would explain the bright star hanging over Bethlehem. It's a wachamacallit … a sign.” A different Dave said. “Yeah, I suppose it is. But I didn’t think it meant ‘Son of God born here.’” “Are we going, then, to Bethlehem?” The first Dave asked. "I quite fancy a night out." "There’s no point.” A different Dave said. “How can we be witnesses? No one ever comes up here, so we can’t tell them what we saw. And we can’t write it down ‘cos we can’t write. If we could write we wouldn’t be shepherds, we’d be Wise Men, or at least postmen. So let the Wise Men be witnesses. Or the postman, for that matter.”  “That’s good thinking, that is.” The first Dave said. “Those Wise Men are bound to write down what they saw and then the whole world will be able to read their eyewitness testimony. Maybe they’ll get their own section in the Bible, when it’s updated of course. You know, Bible 2.0.” “Yeah,” said a diffident Dave said. “They’ll probably get a whole book to themselves, like Isaiah or Deuteronomy. Who was Deuteronomy, anyway?” “Wasn’t he a cat?” The first Dave answered, sure he’d seen him in a show at some time. “Besides, there’s no one to mind the sheep. I think the whole thing’s a scam anyway.” Another Dave stated, throwing another log on the fire. “What do you mean?” The first Dave asked. “Think about it. It’s obvious, innit? That Archangel comes down here, spins us a yarn about the Son of God being born in a stable, so we go rushing off there to see it. Then, when we come back, the bugger’s nicked all our sheep while we were gone.” “But what about the Wise Men?” The first Dave persisted. “That’s the biggest clue of all. The only Wise Man you’ll ever see in Judea is the one that looks after his sheep and doesn’t let some passing Archangel nick ‘em!” “Yeah.” The first Dave mused. “Maybe you’re right. Got any of those funny mushrooms left? Or did we scoff the lot before that Archangel arrived?” If you have enjoyed this blog and want to make sure you don’t miss future editions, just click the button below to sign up for our newsletter. We’ll even give you a free ebook for doing so.
We’re taking a break over the Christmas and New Year period, but we’ll be back with a new blog on a publishing, book marketing or author based theme, on Saturday 7th January. In the meantime, all the staff here at Selfishgenie Publishing, and all our authors, wish you a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.
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This week we have lent our blog to the famous advice columnist (also know as an Agony Aunt), Auntie Vera*. Read on to discover what advice she offers the lovelorn, the confused and the downright bewildered.  Dear Auntie Vera, I love dancing and like going out dancing on a Saturday night, but my boyfriend just wants to stay in and watch Match Of The Day. What should I do? Signed, Dancing Queen. Dear Dancing Queen, Get a new boyfriend.  Dear Auntie Vera, When we first started going out, my boyfriend used to dress smartly, talk to me about my interests and pay attention to my needs. Now we’ve been going out for a while he just wears trakkie bottoms and a filthy tee shirt, talks only about football and ignores me unless he wants sex. What should I do? Signed, Peeved Dear Peeved, Get a new boyfriend. Dear Auntie Vera, My girlfriend has just dumped me because I wear trakkie bottoms and a filthy tee shirt, talk only about football and she says I ignore her except for when I want sex. What is her problem? Signed, Gooner. Dear Gooner, Look in a mirror. Would you date you? Dear Auntie Vera, I have often thought that I might make a good agony aunt. I like people, I’m a good listener, I have a lot of life experience and people listen to what I have to say. What do you think? Signed, Auntie Velma. Dear Auntie Velma, you sound like a crashing bore. You will probably do well but stay off my patch or you’ll get a visit from the boys!  Dear Auntie Vera, I’ve just met this fabulous footballer and I think I love him, but I’m not sure I can trust him. He has a bit of a reputation and I’m worried that if I marry him he might cheat on me. What should I do? Signed, Football Flirt Dear Football Flirt, get a pre-nup, marry him and then wait for him to do the inevitable. You’ll get half his money in the divorce settlement. Dear Auntie Vera, I’m a very rich footballer and I can have any girl I want. Indeed, I’ve already had most of them, but I’ve just met this gorgeous girl and I’m worried that she’s only after me for my money. What should I do? Signed, Fickle Footballer. Dear Fickle Footballer, You’re arrogant, overbearing and you have the personality of a crustacean. Of course she isn’t after you for your money. She loves the real you. Marry her. Agree to whatever she asks for in the pre-nup.  Dear Auntie Vera, I post lots of things about myself on social media, including photos and most of my personal issues, my likes and dislikes and my political and religious views. I really like the publicity so much. But that isn’t my problem. My problem is that the newspapers keep writing stories about me as though they know me. Do you think my phone is being bugged? Signed On-line Celebrity. Dear On-line Celebrity. Are you really that stupid? Dear Auntie Vera, Whenever I go on social media I get bombarded with advertising. But the puzzling thing is that the advertisements are all for products I have done searches on, or I have posted comments on in other people’s posts. I’ve even shared some of them. I did a quiz about 1970s pop bands and then got advertisements for products aimed at people in their 60s. It's almost as if the advertisers know me. Is this a coincidence?  Signed Social Media Junkie Dear Social media Junkie. Are you really that stupid? Dear Auntie Vera, The world is going to rack and ruin. What should we do? Signed Desperate. Dear Desperate, Go to Tenerife instead.  Dear Auntie Vera, I am an author plagued by feelings of doubt about my talent. I don’t think my work is good enough, despite the fact that lots of readers buy my books and post nice reviews about them. What should I do? Signed, Doubting Wordsmith. Dear Doubting Wordsmith, The short answer is “grow a pair”, but I doubt that this will satisfy you. So, here’s the psychobabble answer. There is nothing unusual about doubting our own abilities. In fact, it is healthy to do so as we then try to do better. But don’t let doubt cloud your belief in yourself. Let others be the judge of your talent, as they will see it through different eyes. Only if the readers say you have no talent should you re-think your life choices. Dear Auntie Vera I have just signed a book deal. How much am I allowed to brag about it on social media? Signed Proud Author Dear Proud Author. Brag about it as much as you like. Nobody of social media gives a you-know-what anyway and it is better than boring your family and friends with the news.  Dear Auntie Vera, I’m a member of a writing community that uses the hashtag #WritingCommunity on social media. They all say how much they support Indie authors, but very few seem to buy any of the work by them. Is it all talk? Signed Puzzled Tweep Dear Puzzled Tweep. Yes it is all talk. Everything you see on social media is all talk. That’s why social media exists. Social Media "communities" give the illusion of providing support or taking action, while not actually having to do anything. But you can be different and take action by buying the books of other Indie authors. But you probably won’t because that requires you to take action too and if you wanted to do that you wouldn’t be asking me questions to which you already know the answers.  Dear Auntie Vera, No matter which political party I vote for, the same politicians seem to get elected. I don’t mean they are from the same party; I mean they just do as little as the previous lot. Is it me? Signed Frustrated Voter. Dear Frustrated Voter. No, it isn’t you. To quote Emma Goldman “If voting changed anything, it would have been made illegal”. Politicians stand for election because they have failed in just about every other walk of life. If they were clever, they’d be working in commerce or industry earning twice as much money. If they had real compassion, they’d be working for a charity on half the money and making a real difference to people’s lives. There is a famous line from George Bernard Shaw’s “Man and Superman”. “Those who can, do. Those who can’t do, teach.”** I’ll add to that with my personal view, “Those who can’t teach become politicians”. The people they are elected to represent have no further say in what the politicians do, at least until the next election, when they probably won’t vote him (or her) out of office because they could never vote for “the other lot” (regardless who the other lot are). This is a consequence of tribal behaviour and and the need to feel that we belong somewhere. This is why people also support failing football teams and talentless celebrities. So, we keep getting governments made up of people who lack any real talent, who rely on their manipulative Civil Servants to do most of the work, who want to please their financial backers more than they want to solve the nation’s problems and who cling onto power by making it seem they are doing something when whatever they are actually doing will change very little and which will benefit their financial backers the most. This applies to all the political parties, not just to the one that is in power at the moment. It probably also applies in all countries. Please remember all that the next time you step into a polling booth. But whatever you do, don’t stop voting. One day you may vote for that rarest of beasts, a politician that really wants to make a difference, instead of one that just says they want to make a difference. * Auntie Vera is not a real person and all of the above is intended as satire. Please do not take either the questions or the answers too seriously. However, satire is based on real life and usually carries its own lessons within it. ** Any teachers offended by this quote should complain to George Bernard Shaw, not to Selfishgenie Publishing. We happen to think teachers are great and do a wonderful job. Is that enough grovelling yet? If you have enjoyed this blog and don't want to miss future editions, then sign up to our newsletter. We promise not to spam you and we'll even let you choose a free ebook for doing it (T&C apply). Just click the button below.
This week we have turned our blog page over to one of our authors - and a golfing nut - Robert Cubitt to take a lighter look at his favourite game.  As a bit of relief from the seemingly endless politics and talk of war, this week’s blog is for the golfers amongst you, but I hope that non-golfers will also enjoy it. My thanks to all my fellow golfers who have unwittingly contributed to this page with their comments and jokes, on and off the golf course. Not all of them were meant to be funny, but so many of them were. A husband and wife, both golfers, were discussing the future when the wife said “If I died, would you marry again?” “Well, my dear, a man gets lonely so I might. But I could never find another like you,.” “You wouldn’t let her wear my clothes, would you?” “Of course not, my love." “You wouldn’t let here wear my jewellery, would you?” “Of course not, my dear.” “And you wouldn’t let her use my golf clubs would you?” “They’d be no good to her; she’s left handed.  They stood at the altar, waiting to be married. The bride-to-be looked down and saw a set of golf clubs beside her new husband's feet. "What on earth are you doing with those golf clubs?" she whispered. "Well," he said, "this won't take all afternoon will it?" I don't say my golf game is bad, but if I grew tomatoes, they'd come up sliced. I was playing so badly that I decided to throw my golf clubs in the lake – and missed. “How was your golf game?” “Oh. You know, hit and miss!”  Golf, bloody golf! Golf is what you take up when sex becomes too demanding. Golf is the ultimate triumph of hope over expectation. Don't buy a putter until you've had a chance to throw it. Never try to keep more than 300 separate thoughts in your mind during your swing. When your shot has to carry over a water hazard, you can either hit one more club or two more balls. If you're afraid a full shot might reach the green while the foursome ahead of you is still putting out, you have two options: you can immediately shank a lay-up or you can wait until the green is clear and top a ball halfway there. No matter how bad you are playing, it is always possible to play worse  The less skilled the player, the more likely he is to share his ideas about the golf swing. The inevitable result of any golf lesson is the instant elimination of the one critical unconscious motion that allowed you to compensate for all of your many other faults. A golf match is a test of your skill against your opponents' luck. Counting on your opponent to inform you when he breaks a rule is like expecting him to make fun of his own haircut. The shortest distance between any two points on a golf course is a straight line that passes directly through the centre of a very large tree. You can hit a two acre fairway 10% of the time and a two inch branch 90% of the time.  If you really want to get better at golf, go back and take it up at a much earlier age. Since bad shots come in groups of three, a fourth bad shot is actually the beginning of the next group of three. The Pro's say you should take a divot the size, shape thickness of a dollar bill. Mine are the size, shape thickness of a rugby ball. When you look up, causing an awful shot, you will always look down again at exactly the moment when you ought to start watching the ball if you ever want to see it again. Every time a golfer makes a birdie, he must subsequently make two triple bogeys to restore the fundamental equilibrium of the universe. To calculate the speed of a player's downswing, multiply the speed of his back-swing by his handicap; ie. back-swing 20 mph, handicap 15, downswing = 300 mph. Hazards attract; fairways repel. If playing a "provisional ball" always results in a shot that is far better than the original, why don't golfers play their provisional ball first?  The ball you can see in the rough from 50 yards away is not yours. If there is a ball on the fringe and a ball in the bunker, your ball is the one in the bunker. If both balls are in the bunker, yours is the one in the footprint It's easier to get up at 6:00 a.m. to play golf than at 10:00 a.m. to mow the lawn. A good drive on the 18th hole has stopped many a golfer from giving up the game. Golf is the perfect thing to do on Sunday because you always end up having to pray a lot. Golf balls are like eggs. They're white. They're sold by the dozen. And you need to buy fresh ones each week. If your opponent has trouble remembering whether he shot a six or a seven, he probably shot an eight (or worse). It takes longer to learn to be a good golfer than it does to become a brain surgeon. On the other hand, you don't get to ride around on a golf cart, drink beer, eat hot dogs and fart if you are performing brain surgery.  When practicing your putting on your living room carpet always remember that the ball will break towards furniture but away from walls. You have just missed a fairway that’s fifty yards wide, so what makes you think you’re going to be able to hit your ball through a gap in the trees that’s less than a yard wide? 10 Things in Golf That Sound Dirty...... 1. Look at the size of his putter. 2. Oh shit, my shaft’s all bent. 3. You really whacked the hell out of that sucker. 4. After 18 holes I can barely walk. 5. My hands are so sweaty I can't get a good grip. 6. Lift your head and spread your legs. 7. You have a nice stroke, but your follow through leaves a lot to be desired. 8. Just turn your back and drop it. 9. Hold up, I've got to wash my balls. 10. Damn, I missed the hole again.  Caddies are the unsung heroes of golf. They have the golfing knowledge of an encyclopaedia, the patience of a Saint and the wit of Oscar Wilde. Golfer: "I think I'm going to drown myself in the lake." Caddy: "Do you think you can keep your head down that long?" Golfer: "I'd move heaven and earth to break 100 on this course." Caddy: "Try heaven, you've already moved most of the earth." Golfer: "Do you think my game is improving?" Caddy: "Yes sir, you miss the ball much closer now." Golfer: "Do you think I can get there with a 5 iron?" Caddy: "Eventually." Golfer: "You've got to be the worst caddy in the world." Caddy: "I don't think so sir. That would be too much of a coincidence."  Golfer: "Please stop checking your watch all the time. It's too much of a distraction." Caddy: "It's not a watch - it's a compass." Golfer: "How do you like my game?" Caddy: "Very good sir, but personally, I prefer golf." Golfer: "Do you think it's a sin to play on Sunday? Caddy: "The way you play, sir, it's a sin on any day." Golfer: "This is the worst course I've ever played on." Caddy: "This isn't the golf course. We left that an hour ago."  Golfer: "That can't be my ball, it's too old."
Caddy: "It's been a long time since we teed off, sir." Golfer: “I don’t think my game could get any worse.” Caddy: “Give it time, sir, give it time.” Golfer: “Can you give me any suggestions?” Caddy: “Have you considered taking up fishing?” Robert Cubitt has taken another irreverent look into the golfing world with his book “The A To Z Of (Amateur) Golf" and some of the illustrations from that book have been included in this blog. To find out more about the book, just click on the cover image. If you have enjoyed this blog and want to be sure not to miss the next edition, why not sign-up to our newsletter? We promise not to spam you and we'll even give you a free ebook for signing up. Just click the button below. For the next few weeks we are featuring blogs by guest bloggers on a wide range of subjects related to reading and writing. All the opinions expressed are those of the blogger and are not endorsed by Selfishgenie Publishing. Enjoy!  The circus is in town and a wizened little man goes into the big top during rehearsals and approaches the ringmaster. “I’ve got an act and I want to join the circus.” “Ok” says the ring master. “Show me what you’ve got.” So the man goes into the ring and climbs the tent pole all the way to the top. When he gets there he lets go and stretches out his arms and starts to flap them. He then proceeds to fly round the inside of the big top, doing loop the loops and barrel rolls, swooping and soaring, all the time flapping his arms for all he’s worth. After five minutes he settles gently onto the ground in front of the ringmaster once more. “What do you think?” The little man asks. “Is that it? You do bird impressions?” Boom boom. My apologies to the long running TV series M*A*S*H for stealing that joke. But did you laugh at it? If nothing else, it does show you how up to date my TV viewing is these days.  The reason I ask is that comedy in the written word is very hard to do. What one person finds amusing will pass over another person’s head and may be misinterpreted completely. Stand-up comedians spend hours practicing in front of test audiences above pubs and in tiny comedy clubs making sure their material works before they unleash it on their target audience, whether it is in a larger comedy club, at The Edinburgh Fringe or in the 02 arena. A writer doesn’t have that luxury. If he gets it wrong then it could cost him his audience forever. It’s a one-shot deal. The writer may have an editor that may question the suitability of a joke, its comic value, its relevance to the plot and so on. What appeared hilarious when being written in the solitude of the author’s kitchen may fall as flat as a pancake when it reaches the editor’s desk. So what does the writer do? Do they trust to their instinct and go for the laughs, or do they play safe and keep the story serious? Is there room for both?  Another problem is that it’s tough to sustain comedy over a long period. A stage comedian works at a rate of two or three laughs a minute. Story telling comedians may string a joke out for three or four minutes before getting to the punchline. So how many jokes does the writer need to put into a story to give it that humorous feel? Is it one per page? One every thousand words? One per chapter? Let’s say it’s the latter. My books generally run out at about 25 chapters. Some have more and some less. At the rate of one significant joke per chapter the sums are easy enough. 25 jokes for a stand-up comedian, therefore, is about ten minutes worth of material. Perhaps half the duration of a comedy club slot. That’s a lot of jokes and every one of them has to hit the mark. Of course, not all the humour in a book has to be in the form of joke. Some of it can be situational. The writer gets a lot of leeway in this area, painting pictures of absurd characters or giving them funny things to do or say. The writer can make his characters do silly things. He can make them stupid to the point of imbecility. He can make them accident prone. He can make them pompous or self-important. But he still has to maintain the humour for over 80,000 words (that’s about the acceptable minimum length for a novel these days). That’s a lot of jokes to have to write. Name one well known writer who is noted mainly for the humour in his novels. Difficult, isn’t it? There are plenty who write short pieces for newspapers and magazines. The now defunct Punch magazine was known for them. But ask them to extend that to a full-blown novel and you would start to see the panic in their eyes.  There have been some, of course. Terry Pratchett managed to achieve this in many of his works, but not all of them by any means. The late Keith Waterhouse wrote Billy Liar and I’ve already mentioned M*A*S*H, which made three outings as books for Richard Hooker (real name H. Richard Hornberger). Twelve others in the franchise were ghost written by William E Butterworth and were less critically acclaimed because of it. But when we talk about humorous writing we are often talking about satirical works or parodies, rather than books that are intended solely to be funny. I’ve read a few books recently which, according to their “blurbs” on Amazon, were laugh a minute works. I have to say that they generally failed to make me laugh. The jokes often descended into slapstick and that is a visual media, or it became very juvenile in nature, which is not the sort of comedy that will appeal to an adult reader. More often the jokes were non-existent. So, as someone who likes to introduce a lighter note into my books, that makes me a little bit nervous. What if my readers don’t get the jokes?  I’ve hedged my bets a bit by not claiming that my books are funny. That way at least I’ll be managing expectations. But that is a double-edged sword. A lot of the time we laugh at jokes because we know they’re jokes and we’re waiting for the punch line. If they were told in a more serious tone of voice with no comedic preamble, would we automatically laugh? Maybe, but maybe not. Like most people I have preferences when it comes to comedy. I laugh at some comedians more readily than I will laugh at others. We all know that humour is a very personal thing, as evidenced by the joke I started with. Some people will have laughed and others won’t. That makes life difficult for an author, because they need to appeal to their entire readership, not just to the few people who will understand their humour. So, humour in a novel is fraught with difficulty, for both the writer and the reader. All I can say is that if you find yourself laughing at my books then the jokes were intended. If you don’t laugh then the book is a serious work of fiction and therefore not the place for me to start telling jokes. Either way I hope you enjoy them. Would you like to be a guest blogger for Selfishgenie? Just email us with your idea for a blog. The address is on our "Contact" page. Did you enjoy this blog, or find it interesting? To be sure of not missing an edition, just sign up to our newsletter. We'll even send you a free eBook for doing it. Just click the button below.
 I have to thank Hannah Heath and Sue Falagade Lick whose blogs I have pillaged to find some of these questions, but they served only to remind me that I, too, have been asked them. I have added a few of my own and, of course, the answers are all mine. Q1. Are you still writing? There are many ways of answering this, most of which will be sarcastic. If I say I am a writer, or an author, then the answer will remain “yes” until I tell you that I am no longer a writer or an author. Q2. Is your new book out yet? My new book is always out, until I have a new new book, then the old new book becomes the previous book.  Q3. Where do you get your ideas? I find them in my breakfast cereal (sarcasm). Story ideas are all around us, all the time. What a writer has to do is pay attention to the world and find a way of turning the mundane into something interesting. Q4. Do you ever want to go shopping/to the beach/out to breakfast/(insert other distractions)? No. I’m too busy writing. Unless you want a game of golf. Q5. How about tomorrow? Still busy writing (unless you want to play golf). I’ll have time for diversions when I’m no longer a writer (or golfer).  Q6. What do you do all day? Oh please! Q7. Would you collaborate with me on this idea I have for a book? Do you mean “Give up the work I know I can earn money from to work for you speculatively for free for 6 months and then give you half the royalties on whatever comes out the other end”? I think I’ll pass. Pay me and I’ll think about it.  Q8. How much money do you earn from writing? How much money do you make from what you do? You show me your bank statement and I’ll show you mine. But here’s a clue: I drive a 6 year old Hyundai and when I go on holiday I fly on budget airlines. 99% of all authors are like me (only the model of car varies). Q9. Can I get a free copy of your book? Yes, if you ask your local library to buy a copy and put it on their shelves, then you can borrow it for free. I do this for a living, not as charitable work. But I’ll sign your copy for free if you buy one. Q10. So, like, you're going to be the next Lee Child? I would like to say yes because he is a good writer, but the truth is I’m going to be me. I may be influenced by other authors, but the presentation will always be mine. Q11. You write sci-fi? Why don't you write something real? Sci Fi is just the vehicle I use to tell my stories. It allows the reader to see issues from another perspective. Imagine if you were an alien and arrived on Earth, what would you make of some of the things we do to each other and to our planet? What would you think of the way we might treat you? By the way, I don’t just write sci-fi. I have also written a fantasy, a political thriller, three action adventures, a 7 book series set during World War II and a parody of a Charles Dickens book.  Q12. How do you fill your time? (This answer may be accompanied by physical violence, so please stand well back) I sit painting my nails. What do you think I do all day? Have you ever tried to write a thousand words that are interesting to read and which keep the reader sufficiently engaged so as to want to read the next thousand? Q13. So which character is you? It’s the hero, isn’t it. It’s a thinly disguised autobiography, isn’t it? No it isn’t. That’s not how it works. Each major character is made up of a set of character traits that allows them to function within the environment that I create for them. If they are good it is because I make them good and if they are bad it is because I make them bad. Q14. So which character is me? The one that dies horribly in Chapter 1. Sorry, did I say that out loud? Please refer to Q13. I may borrow some character traits from people I know, but none of the characters are wholly one person or another. If I do base characters on real people’s character traits then they are usually mixed and matched to suit the story.  Q15. Writers are really weird. You know most of them go crazy? That's not strictly a questions but I'll answer it anyway. There is no such things as normal, so there is also no such thing as weird, other than in the purely subjective sense. As for going crazy, it’s only by writing that I actually stay sane. Sorry, does me holding this knife make you feel nervous? Q16. How do you go about writing a story? I have an idea, I sit in front of my PC and I start to write. It’s easy. I may change the idea as I go along, or I may stick with it. I may scrap the whole thing and go back to square one. There are no rules. It’s one of the reasons I enjoy writing. Q17. Can anyone be a writer? Yes, but if you are asking these sorts of questions, it probably means you aren’t cut out for it.  Q18. Do you ever suffer from writer’s block? Writer’s block affects many writers at some time, but there are ways of dealing with it. My own way is to take some time off writing and return to it refreshed, or when some new idea drives me back to the keyboard. There are also numerous other tricks that can be used, such as using “writing prompts” to get the words flowing, then diverting the flow back towards my work in progress. Q19. Would I like your books? (Variations include “would your books appeal to me?”) I don’t know. Why don’t you buy one and find out? It will cost you less than the price of two pints of beer and will keep you occupied for much, much longer. Q20. Would I have read anything by you? I don’t know. Look at the covers of your books; if my name is on any of them then, yes, you have read something by me. Q21. Will you put me in one of your books? Yes. Then I’ll kill you in the most horrible manner I can think of, then I’ll resurrect you so that I can kill you again.  Q21. How do you come up with the names for your characters.
Telephone directories. Except in my sci-fi novels. There the character names are created from a sort of Scrabble approach. Q22. When will you give up writing? When I’m dead or when I run out of ideas for stories, whichever is the sooner. If you have enjoyed this blog, or found it informative, be sure not to miss future editions by signing up to our newsletter. You will even get a FREE ebook just for signing. Click the button below.  Between now and Christmas we will be serialising Robert Cubitt's satirical version of the old Charles Dickens classic, a Christmas Carol. Christmas Morning, about 10 a.m. Smooge struggled awake, the warm blankets encouraging him to return to slumber, if only for a moment. He shook his head, trying to clear it, wondering if the dreams he had experienced were real or just his imaginings. Perhaps he had suffered from indigestion, and all those ghostly visitors had simply been a manifestation of that ailment. Smooge shivered, wondering where a draft might be coming from. He glanced across at the window and saw it gaping open, a pool of melted snow on the floor beneath it. He knew he had closed that window before retiring the evening before. On the far side of the room something caught his eye. Was that a laurel leaf? Perhaps some part of a ghost’s head dress? And there, on the floor, was that not golden glitter which might have been dislodged from a ghostly girl’s chest? And where was his gold watch and chain? So it had been real, apparently. Smooge climbed from his warm bed and approached the window, meaning to pull it down, but he spied an urchin trudging through the snow below him. “Hey, you there, boy.” The urchin stopped and looked up at him. “Oo’ are you callin’ boy, you old fart?” “Tell me boy. What day is this?” “Well bless me guv’nor. Don’t you know it’s Christmas time at all?” But thanks for the Sovereign.” Christmas. Of Course. That was what his nocturnal visitations had been about. “Wait there boy.” Smooge’s head vanished from view and returned a moment later. Gold sparkled in the air as he threw a coin down to the boy. “Ouch. That hurt. You wanna be careful, old man, or I’ll ‘ave the law on you for that. I’m entitled to compensation.” The boy raised a filthy handkerchief to staunch the flow of blood from the gash on his head. Dropping to his hands and knees he searched the snow for the fallen coin with his free hand. “Now, boy. I want you to hurry to Mr Fortnum and Mr Mason’s most excellent emporium and buy me the biggest goose they have.” “You’re a loony mate.” The boy shouted up, having retrieved the coin. “It’s Christmas Day. The shops are all shut and the first Asian mini-market won’t open for another hundred and twenty years. But thanks for the Sovereign.” He turned and ran away before Smooge could consider coming down the stairs to recover his money. Damn and blast, thought Smooge. Well, he’d remember that boy’s face. Now now, he chastised himself. Peace on Earth and goodwill to all men. Even dirty faced urchins. After closing the window he made his way into the kitchen and opened the door to the cold larder. There on the shelf was the fat goose that he had been planning to cook for himself and Elisa Scratchit. It would have to do. Quickly Smooge dressed and left the house. He made his way through the empty streets to his nephew’s house. His knock was answered by Tamsin, his nephew’s wife. “Well, here’s a sight for sore eyes. And how are you this fine morning Uncle?” “I am well. Now, yesterday, Justin invited me to share your festive lunch.” “He did indeed, in the full expectation that, as usual, you wouldn’t attend.” Her face fell as realisation dawned. “You are attending, aren’t you?” “I am indeed. However, I must first run an errand. I will return forthwith and enjoy the day with you. I’m afraid that I haven’t had time to buy presents for you or children. How are little Agatha and Brian, by the way?” “Priti and Boris. They’re fine. As they weren’t expecting a present from you they won’t be disappointed.” “I shall make restitution some other way, perhaps some small financial contribution may be appreciated. Now, I must go, but I’ll be back shortly.” “Don’t hurry yourself Uncle.” Tamsin responded sourly. “I’ll let my husband know you’re coming. He’ll be so pleased.” The sarcasm was lost on Smooge. If Smooge noticed the aggression with which she slammed the door he chose to ignore it. Instead he strode off through the snow to his next port of call. Under his breath he hummed a familiar carol. His knock was answered by Elisa. “Mr Smooge. Well bless me but we weren’t expecting to see you this morning.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’m not free till this afternoon, you randy old goat.” She hissed. “Now, now, children. No need to be alarmed.” Smooge beamed at her. “Fear not Madam, I haven’t come for my curtain fitting. I bring you this fine goose so that you may enjoy the festivities.” He held the dead bird up by its neck. Elisa's mouth dropped open with shock, but she recovered her wits quickly. “You’d better come in then.” Elisa stood to one side then ushered Smooge into the tiny, badly lit parlour. “I’ll tell Bob you’re here.” She said as she left the room. Seeing their father’s employer enter the room the children cried out with alarm and backed themselves into the furthest corner. “Now, now, children. No need to be alarmed.” Smooge gave them his warmest grin, which succeeded only in drawing fresh cries of alarm from them. “Now, why don’t you come over here to your Uncle Smooge. You. What’s your name little girl?” He singled out a child dressed from head to toe in shocking pink. “I’m Beyoncé” She stammered in fear. “OK, Beyoncé, why don’t you introduce me to the rest of your brothers and sisters.” Emboldened, the girl moved forward slightly and pointed at each child in turn. “That’s Dappy, he’s the oldest; Jagger, Britney, Elvis, Bono, Amy, Norton is the one with the frilly pink shirt, that’s KD in the boiler suit, Freddie, Ringo and finally Tiny Tim.” “God Bless us everyone.” Piped Tim from the back of the crowd. “Yes, alright Tim. Don’t milk it.” Said the one identified as Elvis. At that moment Bob Scratchit entered the room, brushing snow from his shoulders. “I must get that hole in the privy roof sorted.” He told the world at large. “Well, this is a surprise, Mr Smooge.” His face took on a worried look. “You haven’t come to sack me, have you? You did agree I could have the day off.” “No need to worry, Bob. I’ve just come to give you this fine goose for your lunch and to wish you the season’s greetings.” He handed the bird over to his employee. The children eyed it with open mouthed awe. They’d never seen so much meat in one place before. “Oh, Bless You Sir. Can I get you a drink?” “Why, that would be wonderful Bob.” Scratchit left the room and returned a few minutes later without the goose but with the bottle of beer he had been looking forward to enjoying with his roast rat. He offered it to Smooge, then ushered him across to the seat by the fire. The only seat in the room since the rest of the furniture had been burnt to provide warmth. Fortunately the Scratchit family had been unaffected by the recent rise in gas prices. You had to have gas for that to affect you. They sat in embarrassed silence while Smooge drank the beer. The children whispered together about the mystery of Smooge turning up with food for them. Smooge drained the last drop from the bottle and rose. Scratchit almost fell over with relief as he escorted his employer form the house. “Have the merriest of Christmases, Mr Smooge.” “Thank you Bob, and the same to you and your family. Please tell your lovely wife not to bother with my curtain fitting this evening. We can arrange it for another time, I’m sure.” “Why thank you, Sir. She will be pleased.” I won’t be though, thought Smooge. He wished someone would hurry up and invent the internet so he could download some Christmas porn. Instead he pasted a smile onto his face that succeeded in frightening a passing horse, then made his way back to his nephew’s house. As the door shut Smooge heard Tiny Tim’s voice. “God Bless us every one.” “Oh do shut up.” The other children shouted in chorus. That's the end of Episode 6. The 7th and final episode will be posted next Saturday, 18th December. Can you guess how it will end? If you want to be usre not to miss Episode 7, then why not sign up for our newsletter, so we can send you a reminder. Just click the button below. And if you want to know more about the books written by Robert Cubitt, the author of "An Alternative Christmas Carol, then click the button below to go to the "Books" page of this website.
 Between now and Christmas we will be serialising Robert Cubitt's satirical version of the old Charles Dickens classic, a Christmas Carol. Yes, it's still Christmas Eve, but now about 3 a.m. After the two spectral visits, Smooge couldn’t bring himself to go to sleep again. Instead he pondered on what he had been shown. The visions were worrying. He wondered if he might be developing a conscience and, if he did, whether it might mean the end of his banking career. After all, who had ever heard of a banker with a conscience? The clock chimed three and Smooge sat up expectantly. Nothing happened. Nothing continued to happen as the clock struck the quarter hour. After another five minutes a figure slouched through the wall and into the bedroom. Smooge noticed that this ghost was female. Her long raven black hair was streaked with bright blue. Small white protrusions were emanating from her ears and in her hand she held a rectangular device, with which she was deeply engrossed. The girl’s thumb rubbed over the device in strange, jerky motions. Her mouth moved in a rhythmic chewing motion, reminiscent of cattle at rest. “Wat you lookin’ at, you pervert?” “You’re late.” snapped Smooge. “Whatever.” The girl said without looking up. “Well, don’t you have some sort of message for me?” The girl gave a long, all suffering sigh and reluctantly slipped the small device into the pocket of her baggy cardigan. She fished out a card and read it, her lips moving slowly as she did so. Satisfied that she had memorised the contents of the card, she thrust her hands into her cardigan pocket and spoke somewhat petulantly. “I am the ghost of Christmas Yet To Come. I bring you a warning of your fate should you not mend your ways.” The message delivered, the girl drew out the small device and recommenced her fiddling with it. She giggled at something and then started moving her thumb more rapidly. Smooge examined the girl more closely. Apart from the baggy cardigan she wore some sort of tight shirt, above which an expanse of chest sparkled with gold glitter and below which her belly button was exposed, showing a gold ring pierced through it. Her skirt was a strip of denim that stopped in a ragged fringe well above her knees. Her legs were encased in thick pink and green striped nylon stockings that had holes torn in them in a number of places. She wore shoes that went to a point at the toes but also had a heel that was at least six inches high. Were she solid Smooge guessed that the heels would make small holes in his hard wood floors. Smooge’s bunions started to throb in sympathy. “Wat you lookin’ at, you pervert?” The girl realised she was being examined. “Your clothing. I have never seen such strange garments on a female.” “I don’t follow no fashions. No one tells me how to dress.” The girl stated angrily. “I’m an individual. So are all my friends. We all dress like this because we're all individuals. Wat are you, my Mum or somefing?” Smooge wisely decided not to pursue the matter. “I suppose you have somewhere to take me?” “I do, but you’ll have to make your own way. My Dad will have to give me a lift 'cos I ain't got my licence yet and if he sees you with me he’ll think you’re some sort of paedo out to groom me.” The girl waved her hand and Smooge found himself flying over the town once more. He had to admit it was a very convenient way to travel and far less polluting than a horse drawn carriage. After a while he started to descend and was deposited in a field. There was nothing in sight in any direction. The girl appeared beside him. “Sorry ‘bout this. We’ve got a bit of a walk from here. They used Brianair for this trip so we couldn’t get no closer. I hope you only had hand luggage otherwise you’ll get a bill for the excess.” Smooge looked down at his empty hands, wondering what the girl was talking about. She turned and floated across the field leaving Smooge to struggle through the snow behind her. For some reason he was feeling the bitter cold this time. He wished he had dressed for the weather as his silk pyjamas and slippers weren’t up to the job. At last they arrived once more at Bob Scratchit’s house. Smooge counted the children and only managed to get as far as eleven. The house was dark and Smooge noticed a black wreath hanging on the door. “Who is this for?” He asked, already knowing in his heart. The girl didn’t answer, but waved her hand and the door swung open. In the tiny parlour the family were gathered. Bob Scratchit sobbed quietly and the children whispered together, casting occasional glances at their father. Smooge counted the children and only managed to get as far as eleven. He searched the faces to identify the missing child. “Tiny Tim.” He exclaimed. “Where is Tiny Tim?” “He is the one the wreath is for.” The ghost explained. “And Elisa?” “Oh Elisa.” Scratchit wailed. “Elisa why have you abandoned me?” “Run off with the man who provided her with curtain material.” Explained the ghost. “Before or after Tiny Tim’s death?” “About five minutes ago.” The scene faded and Smooge found himself in a windblown graveyard. Beside an open grave stood the solitary figure of a clergyman holding an open prayer book. As he muttered prayers he took occasional glances towards the gate of the graveyard, hoping that someone would come to mourn the grave’s occupant. “Whose grave is this?” Smooge asked the ghost. “Yours.” “Will no one come to mourn my passing?” “Wait.” The ghostly girl commanded. Smooge heard a murmur and turned his own head towards the gate. There he saw a sight that filled his heart with joy. “People are coming to pay their respects.” He said as he watched the growing crowd. So many people. It looked as though the whole town had turned out for him. “As if.” was all the ghost said, apparently reading his mind. The crowd gathered round the open grave. Smooge saw Bob Scratchit step forward to speak to the Vicar. “You better get the grave filled in, Vicar.” He said. “Why, my son. What is the need for haste?” The Vicar replied. “Well, we can’t start dancing on it until it’s been filled in, can we?” For Smooge the world went black. End of Episode 5. Episode 6 will be posted on Saturday 11th December. Click the button to sign up for our newsletter and we'll be happy to send you a reminder. And if you'd like to find out more about the books by the author of "An Alternative Christmas Carol", Robert Cubitt. Just click the button below to be taken to the "Books" page of this website.
Between now and Christmas we will be serialising Robert Cubitt's satirical version of the old Charles Dickens classic, a Christmas Carol. Still Christmas Eve, but now it's about 2.00 a.m. “Oy, wanker. Hands off cocks and on with socks. Time for your next visitation.” Smooge sat bolt upright, startled awake by the uncouth shouting. “I beg your pardon. How dare you wake me in such a rude manner.” “Ooh, ‘ark at him. Anyone would think you were something special, instead of a greedy wanker with no mates. Now, come on, I’m on a tight schedule. There’s old ladies waiting to be mugged ‘cos I’ve been detailed to this. Know wat I mean?” “Do you mind telling me who you are first.” “Never you mind who I am. Just let’s say I’m the ghost of Christmas Present. That’s the ghost of now, not the ghost of the present you got last year that you didn’t like and don’t know what to do with. Do what I do and give it to someone you don’t like, you get me?” “So I guess I’m supposed to follow you then?” “That’s right, innit.” Smooge rose from his bed and went over to the window. He climbed through and plummeted to the ground below. Above him the ghost’s head appeared through the window. “Personally I’m going to use the door, but you know your own business best.” The ghost called down. Smooge thought he heard the word ‘wanker’ again as the head disappeared from view. Now, now, Tamsin my love. You should not encourage our children to think badly of their Great Uncle. Smooge groaned and pulled himself from the snowdrift that had fortuitously cushioned his fall. Beside him the ghost materialised. Smooge took a second to examine him. He was young, his face covered in volcanic pimples. He wore strange clothes. On his head perched a cap, the peak sticking out sideways as though his head had turned but the hat had stayed static. On its dome the initials N and Y were intertwined. Below that was a loose short sleeved shirt of bright red, emblazoned with the words "I'm not a gynaecologist, but I don't mind taking a look if it helps out!". At his hips were loose fitting trousers that sagged and barely clung to the youth’s buttocks. Every few seconds he would hitch them up to prevent them descending further. Finally there were the soft white fabric shoes he wore, a strange tick like mark adorning the sides. They were totally unsuitable for the deep snow in which they now stood. “Now, Bro, you gotta follow me. You get me?” The youthful ghost intoned, his head tilted to one side. The question was accompanied by a strange flick of the fingers of his right hand. “Er, yes, I think I understand.” Why the ghost needed to ask for confirmation of understanding all the time, Smooge couldn’t work out. The youth of today, with their strange language. The ghost rose into the air and Smooge found himself rising with him. “This is sick” The ghost shouted. “Almost worth being killed in that drive-by.” “I’m sorry you’re feeling nauseous.” Smooge sympathised. He’d had no idea the occupants of the spirit world could feel mortal discomfort. “What you goin’ on about dude? Never mind. We’re ‘ere nah, innit.” Smooge recognise the small, slightly shabby house of his nephew. The walls melted away to allow Smooge and the ghost to enter the living room. Within it were gathered his nephew, his wife and their two children. “Don’t worry, they can’t hear you or see you.” The ghost advised Smooge. “Now, Priti, Boris, just one more parlour game and then you must go to bed. If you don’t then I shall summon your Great Uncle Smooge to scare you to bed.” The children raised their hands to their face and shrieked in terror. “Now, now, Tamsin my love. You should not encourage our children to think badly of their Great Uncle.” “I’m sorry, Justin, but the old miser does nothing to earn either our affection or respect. I would encourage our children not to emulate him. Why, I would rather they were,” she paused for dramatic effect, “poor rather than that they became bankers.” “Uncle Ebenezer isn’t that bad, you know. Why, he may yet turn out to be a good egg.” “That is what I love about you Justin. So kind; so forgiving; so deluded. But your Uncle is a lost cause. He cares only for money. He will die alone and unloved.” “Much as I would like to believe differently, I fear you’re right, my love.” “In these times of trouble he does nothing to ease our plight, does he?” “He is of the belief that we’re all in it together, so why should he help us if he doesn’t help others?” “Yes. Well, some are more in it together than others, apparently.” The scene faded as the ghost took them away from the house and they drifted high above the roof tops . “Surely you wouldn’t burn the boy’s crutch.” Bob protested. “Where are we going now?” Asked Smooge. “That’s for me to know and you to find out, copper. Oh, sorry, I mean you’ll see in a moment.” Smooge blinked away the cold night air and when he opened his eyes once again he found he was in the tiny, dingy living room of Bob Scratchit’s house. Gathered around his clerk were the twelve children he believed were his own. “I don’t mean to be rude, Father.” The eldest boy was saying. “But haven’t you and mother ever heard of birth control?” “Now hush, Dappy.” His father said. “You know what joy you all bring us. Besides, if we had fewer children we’d lose our housing benefit.” “What’s housing benefit?” asked a small, shrunken looking child. “That’s money you get if you have too many children and can’t afford to pay your rent, stupid.” The oldest boy cuffed his sibling round the ear in a friendly manner, sending the small boy tumbling across the room. “Now, don’t be unkind to Tiny Tim.” His father intervened. “God bless us every one.” The small child said, shaking his head to clear the ringing in his ears. “Yes, that’s right, Tiny Tim. Now, where’s your mother?” “Upstairs with Mr Grace doing a curtain fitting.” Dappy reported. “Well, who’d have thought that his curtains would fit our windows.” Bob beamed at the child. The child rolled his eyes at his father’s stupidity but said nothing. “Now, what is Father Christmas going to bring us this year?” Bob smiled around the circle of children. “A doll,” said a small girl who appeared to be addicted to the colour pink. “Toy soldiers.” Said a medium sized boy. “A hair dryer.” Said another boy, holding up a mirror and patting his hair into place. “A Set of plumbing tools.” Suggested a rather stocky little girl wearing a boiler suit. “World Peace.” Said Tiny Tim. “Ah, Tiny Tim, would that were true.” Bob ruffled the hair of his youngest son. “God Bless us every one.” Tiny Tim said. “Yes, Ok, Tim. No need to keep repeating yourself.” The front door slammed and Elisa Scratchit breezed into the room, buttoning her blouse. “Right then Bob Scratchit. What have you brought us for our Christmas Dinner?” Elisa demanded to know. “Well, my pay doesn’t go far, as you know my love, but thanks to Mr Smooge’s nephew’s benevolence I have managed to obtain a large, juicy rat. If I slice it thinly there will be enough for a piece each.” “Oh, father.” Tiny Tim exclaimed. “You are so good to us. It’s been ages since we last had rat.” “Well, you can all enjoy a little more. Mr Smooge has asked that I go around to do another curtain fitting tomorrow so I shan’t be here for lunch. Perhaps Mr Smooge may take pity on me and feed me a morsel from his own table.” “You work so hard, Elisa. There is so little I can do.” “Perhaps ‘do little’ should be your last name.” the woman sneered. “That would make me Mrs Doolittle. Mrs Elisa Doolittle. It has a nice ring to it. Wouldn’t it be loverly.” “We shall miss you Mummy.” “Do stop your whining, dear Tiny Tim.” Snapped his mother. “Now, where did you leave your crutch, we’re nearly out of firewood.” “Surely you wouldn’t burn the boy’s crutch.” Bob protested. “Of course not. I just want to send the little tyke out to get some wood from the yard. The older lads "accidently" broke one of the neighbour's fences today. We may as well make use of the scrap wood.” “Oh, that’s OK then. Off you go Tiny Tim.” The boy hobbled obediently to the door, his more able brothers and sisters sniggering behind their hands. Smooge turned to the ghost. “Will they truly eat rat on Christmas Day?” “Unless there is a miracle.” The ghost gave Smooge an inquiring look. “I knew I paid that man too much.” Snapped Smooge. The ghost gave his curious flick of the fingers and the two were immediately transported back to Smooge’s bedroom. “Now be warned Bro. The third and final ghost will be with you at the strike of three.” The apparition faded into the night, taking care to pocket a gold watch and chain as it left. End of Episode. Episode 5 will be posted next Saturday, 4th December. If you want to be sure not to miss Episode 5, just click below for our newsletter and we'll email you a reminder. If you would like to find out more about Robert Cubitt's writing, just click the button below. This will take you to the "Books" page on this website.
 Between now and Christmas we will be serialising the satirical version of the old Charles Dickens classic, a Christmas Carol. Still Christmas Eve - but it's now about 1 a.m. Smooge couldn’t be sure if what woke him was the chiming of the church clock or the strange green glow in the corner of his bedroom. Either way he struggled to consciousness and examined the light more closely. A thick fog drifted around it, making it difficult to see what was at its heart. There was a loud coughing and spluttering and the fog started to disperse to reveal a green clad figure waving frantically. “Sorry about that. Damned special effects machine’s on the blink again.” The apparition waved some more and Smooge was able to make out a large man with a bushy beard. Crowning his snowy locks was a garland of evergreen leaves, which his waving arms had managed to tilt slightly sideways giving him a rakish appearance. His fur trimmed green suit looked vaguely familiar, as did his shiny black boots, but Smooge struggled to place them, though he felt a sudden desire for a cold fizzy drink. “Who are you, and what the fuck are you doing befouling my bedroom?” Snapped Smooge. He supposed he should have felt fear, but for some reason felt only annoyance. If I wasn’t a banker I’d be the nasty judge on Strictly Come Dancing “Oh yes. I suppose introductions are in order. I am one of the three that was foretold. I am the Ghost of Christmas Past. I come to you like the last stale sausage roll on the plate which no one will eat.” “Very nice for you, I’m sure. Now what the hell do you want?” “I come to remind you of the way things used to be, before you turned into the creature you are now, cursed and hated by one and all.” “That is an image I nurture and cherish. If I wasn’t a banker I’d be the nasty judge on Strictly Come Dancing.” “Be that as it may, but you weren’t always like that. Now come, follow me.” The ghost rose and walked to the outer wall of the bedroom and continued straight through. When Smooge didn’t immediately follow, he stuck his head back through the apparently solid bricks. “Come on. I haven’t got all night. I’ve indigestion to deliver to half the population of the Western world. Climb out through the window. It’s perfectly safe.” Smooge threw up the sash window and climbed through. He stepped gingerly onto thin air and found, to his surprise, that his weight was supported. The ghost grabbed his arm and pulled him upwards and over the roofs of the houses. “Where are we going?” Smooge shouted against the wind. He was surprised to find that he had no feeling of cold, despite the steadily falling snow. For some reason Smooge thought he heard singing, an annoying high pitched voice that grated on his nerves. Something about walking in the air, but he couldn’t quite make out the rest. “All in good time. Ah, we have arrived.” The ghost lowered them to the ground outside a window. The house was brightly lit, all the gas lights blazing and a thousand candles twinkling to add to the brilliance. Smooge peered through the open curtains at the festivities inside. Dancers swirled to the sound of music and there was laughter from a hundred throats rising above. “I know this place. It’s the home of my former employer, Mr Fizzypop.” “That’s correct. This is his house before you and Jacob Harley drove his business into bankruptcy and bought it back for a fraction of its true value.” There’s even rumours of a Peerage in the New Year’s honours list. “That’s standard business practice. I learnt it from the owner of a major chain of High Street shops. By the way, if this is supposed to be my Christmas past, where am I?” “Ah yes. Where indeed Ebenezer?” The Ghost grabbed Smooge’s arm and they drifted upwards and slightly sideways. “Now, look.” Smooge found himself looking through the window of what was obviously a bedroom. The turbulence of the blankets covering a large bed indicated that strenuous activity was being indulged beneath them. A ringlet adorned head popped into view on the side nearest to them. A second appeared further away. Both seemed to be gasping for air. “The Fizzypop twins. Such nice girls, and so enthusiastic.” A young male head appeared between the two females, handsome despite its dishevelled state and also gasping for breath. “And there I am. I remember it well.” Smooge leered at the ghost. “Do you recall what happened to them?” “On the night? I remember the noises they made. What a pair of wild cats. Their father nearly caught us. I had to hide in a cupboard. But after that? No. I seem to recall that I lost track of them. What became of them?” “Well, of course, when their father lost his business the whole family was thrown onto the street. Eugenie, that’s the nearer one, found herself pregnant. By you, before you ask. She gave birth in the workhouse and died of complications and bad hygiene. She should have gone private but they couldn’t afford it. Her son was named Oliver. He was given the last name of Twist. A term to do with financial trickery, I believe.” “And the other?” Smooge struggled to recall her name. “Bridget. She was called Bridget.” “Beatrice actually. She fared no better. In order to support her destitute father and mother she took to a life of prostitution. She died gin soaked and disease ridden. You passed her in the street once and didn’t even recognise her.” “That could hardly be my fault. Fizzypop was an incompetent fool. Harley and I did no more than any self-respecting usurers would have done.” “There is no need to be so defensive. No one blames you. Indeed old Fizzypop’s last words before he expired were ‘I don’t blame Harley and Smooge. They did no more than any other greedy unethical bankers would do.’” “Well, my friends in Parliament didn’t think we had done anything wrong. Had they done so they would have shunned us. Instead they allowed us to make even more profit. You know, it’s amazing what a donation to party funds, the funding of a private office or the sponsorship of an MP can get you in return. For a pair of Wimbledon tickets I can get a question asked in the House, you know and dinner at the Garrick Club will get me the ear of the Prime Minister. There’s even rumours of a Peerage in the New Year’s honours list.” “Yes, indeed it can get you a lot in return. I’m sure the Pope will summon you to be canonised as the first living saint. How many former MPs now sit on the board of Smooge and Harley?” “Quite a few, but that is mere coincidence. In fact that reminds me, it’s time we culled the more useless ones.” “Then I doubt it will leave many still serving you. Now, it’s time for us to leave.” The house faded into the night and Smooge found himself back in his bedroom, sitting on his bed. “When the clock chimes two.” The ghost droned, “You will be visited again.” The room filled with fog once more and the ghost disappeared in a fit of coughing and spluttering. Episode 4 will be posted on Saturday 27th November. If you can't wait until then, you can buy the whole book by clicking on the button below. And if you want to make sure you don't miss the next episode, why not sign up for our newsletter so we can remind you when we post it next week.
Episode 2 of Robert Cubitt's less than reverent take on the Charles Dickens Classic. Christmas Eve, around 9 pm. “Ah, Mrs Scratchit. Right on time. Are you ready for my curtain fitting?” “I am Sir.” Elisa unbuttoned her heavy Winter coat. As she opened it wide Smooge staggered in a mock faint, clutching at his heart. Elisa giggled as she removed the coat, then struck a pose. She was a striking woman. Her twelve pregnancies had left her with a figure that was best described as ‘statuesque’. Her curves undulated from her shoulders to her knees, shown off to their best advantage by the tight basque that she wore above white silk stockings. No burlesque dancer could match her at that moment. Smooge reached out to grab at the large parts of her that were thrust towards him but Elisa took a step backwards, wagging her finger at him in mock scolding. “Now, Now, Ebenezer. Food first. You know I can’t fuck on an empty stomach.” * * * Smooge lay back on his feather mattress and snuggled into the crisp, clean sheets. That had been good, and so inexpensive. He made a mental note to dock Scratchit’s pay to compensate for the small outlay to Scratchit’s wife. You give with one hand and take with the other and that’s how the world goes round, he mused. His eyelids grew heavy as he listened to the church clock chiming eleven. A muffled thud made him sit bolt upright in his bed. He craned his neck, trying to locate the source of the sound. He was pretty sure that it had emanated from the upper floor, not the ground. He relaxed slightly, satisfied that his fortune wasn’t in peril. A second thud came and the gas lights dimmed. The fire, already burning low, started to belch smoke into the room. He coughed and spluttered, wiping tears from his eyes as the fumes spread. Strange. That had never happened before, at least not to his knowledge. “Don’t be such an arse.” A voice said, A third thud, louder now, came clearly from the parlour. There was nothing for it, he had to go and look. Stepping gingerly from his bed, Smooge felt around with his feet, sliding them into the fleecy lining of his slippers. He reached into the fireplace and grasped the warm metal knob of the poker. “Who’s there?” He challenged the night. There was no reply. He crept slowly towards the door, the poker raised and ready to strike at the first hint of trouble. Using his finger nails he eased the door open, then swung it hard, crashing it back against the wall. “Ah ha.” He shouted as he sprang into the dim light of the parlour. “Don’t be such an arse.” A voice said, originating from somewhere near his chaise longue. Smooge peered into the gloom cast by the dying embers of the fire. There, stretched out on the chaise, was a figure. It looked familiar. It wasn’t alone. He crept closer. The gaslight flared, illuminating the scene and showing a man reclining. He wore a winding sheet around his chin and a suit that was ten years out of fashion, moth eaten and dusty. Smooge thought he saw movement within the threads. On the floor near the figure’s feet sat a scantily clad girl, while at the other end another almost naked girl sat plucking grapes from a stalk and feeding them to him. “As I live and breathe,” whispered Smooge. “Harley. Jacob Harley.” “The one and only. Your one time partner and now resident of the underworld.” “But you’re dead. I buried you myself.” “You did, and I note approvingly that you spent barely a penny on my interment. The plot you chose was the coldest, most remote in the cemetery, the stone you erected so tiny you can barely read my name. I congratulate you. I would have done no more had the boot been on the other foot.” “What magic is this that brings you to my parlour in the dead of night.” “No magic, Ebenezer. I have been sent.” “Who sent you?” “You would not wish me to break a professional confidence, would you?” Jacob Harley raised a disapproving eyebrow. “That is not the way of Harley and Smooge.” “Smooge and Harley. I changed the name the day I buried you.” “Ah yes. Of course. How is business these days? “Not bad. I plan to take on new partners; A Mr Goldman and a Mr Sachs. They tell me that there are shed loads of money to be made advising the government on privatising its assets then undervaluing them. We plan to start with the health service.” “That sounds very promising. However, I’m not here to talk business. I was sent to bring you a warning.” “What warning could you bring me.” “Change your ways Ebenezer. Change your ways this very night.” “And if I don’t?” “Then you will end up like me.” You’re a randy old goat. I was most impressed. “That doesn’t look too much like a hardship.” Smooge waved his hand to indicate the two barely clothed handmaidens. The one by Harley’s feet plumped up her pneumatic breasts in case Smooge hadn’t fully appreciated them. “Appearances can be deceptive. What you can’t see is that I no longer have any genitals and these two beauties have what I used to have, only twice the size and encrusted with hard scales. If you can imagine what they might do with those then you will get some picture of my torment, which I must endure throughout eternity. Or until Wales wins the Rugby World Cup, which is likely to take just as long.” “Ah, now I understand your warning. But I’m not fearful. I am righteous, I cannot go where you went. You lived a dissolute life, Jacob, whereas I am abstemious in the extreme.” “What you were doing to Elisa Scratchit could hardly be classed as abstemious. You’re a randy old goat. I was most impressed. Did she say how my children are?” “You fathered her children?” “Not all of them. Numbers three through five I believe are mine. Twelve is almost certainly yours by the way. The sickly one.” “So at least Scratchit fathered the others.” Harley choked on his laughter and would have died had he not been dead already. “Goodness gracious no. He is, perhaps, the father of the first. The others are mine, yours or of unknown provenance. Anyway, back to matters at hand. You are a greedy old lecher” Harley intoned. “You will be visited tonight by three shades. Listen carefully to them and heed their warnings. If you do not then you are doomed to join me in my eternal torment.” Harley faded out of existence, but the two girls stayed where they were, eyeing Smooge up as though trying to work out how much he would fetch at a fat stock sale. Harley blinked back into the room again. “Come on girls.” He hastened his companions. “Strictly’s on in five minutes.” Smooge shook his head to try to clear it of the vision of Harley and the two women. Hallucination, he concluded, brought about by indigestion, which in turn had been brought on by fornicating on a full stomach. He went over to the sideboard and dispensed a very large brandy from the decanter. He poured it down his throat, which he had to say was an insult to the makers of such a fine cognac. Noticing that he was still holding the poker he realised that maybe it hadn’t all been in his imagination. Smooge made his weary way back to his bedroom and climbed into the bed, though it now felt cold and clammy. He struggled to find sleep but eventually was able to succumb, but only after he had spent half an hour mentally evicting people from the houses he owned. Episode 3 will be posted next Saturday, but if you can't wait until then, you can purchase the whole book by clicking the link below. Or if you want to make sure you don't miss the next episode, why not sign up for our newsletter to receive a notification when it goes live. Just click the button below.
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