Never try to bite Sue Clark - She bites back!

It was late night in the forest.

The woodland animals slept after their busy days of scurrying through the undergrowth searching for food.

I was doing the same, searching for food that is.  I haven't scurried through the undergrowth since my brief sojourn into lycanthropy.  That ended up being a nightmare.  What sane man would submit himself to monthly torture, in spite of the thrill of the blood lust, and the fear in the eyes of the villagers at nearby Nether Bottom.

No, tonight I was looking for something to cook, rather than to eat raw like a wild dog.  Tonight I was looking for something for the pot.  Badger, fox, ferret, anything would do.

I carried with me my trusty shotgun, Nigel.  I named him after the man whose cold fingers I pulled it from (The last would be hero from the village that came to 'kill the beast from the castle').

The bag over my shoulder already carried some swag for the night.  Nothing special, a few squirrels, the odd woodpecker, and a penguin (quite what a penguin was doing in the forest is a story which I will retell to you another time).

Anyway, my night was nearly over, thoughts of penguin pie filled my head as I began to make my way back to my castle on the hilltop overlooking the forest.  Torches had been lit on the battlements by my butler, Manson, a sign that my bath was run and my supper prepared.

Suddenly there was a rustle in the bushes to my left.  I stopped and raised the barrel, pointing it in the direction of the movement.

The subsequent exchange with the creature in the woods is recounted ad verbatim.

Who’s that in the bushes?  Come out and tell me what you’re doing skulking around in the woods at this late hour?  Who are you?  Be quick, my pea shooter is loaded.

Greetings, kind sir. I mean no harm. I was taking Mr Chasington for his evening stroll when he ran off. By the way, I would advise you not to approach if you stumble upon him. He’s two metres tall with ginger fur, orange eyes and a somewhat bloodthirsty temperament. My own invention: a vizsliraptor, a creature with the unswerving loyalty of a Hungarian vizsla combined with the flesh-tearing teeth of a velociraptor. When I’m not hybridising unfeasible monsters in my laboratory under the Waitrose car park, I’m a humble scribbler. 

 Another writer?  It’s a plague, a plague I tell you. Very well then, explain yourself.  What’s your book called and what’s it about?  Sell it to me.

Do you ever laugh? No, not that chilling cackle. A proper laugh. If so, prepare to give your chuckle muscles a work-out while I tell you about my comic fiction, Note to Boy, to be published later this year – I confidently predict – by Unbound.

Let me take you back to the 60s. No, not the 1860s, silly boy! The 1960s. Swinging London and all that, when my main character, Eloise, then young and sexy, was the talk of Carnaby Street with her outrageous fashions and even more outrageous behaviour.

But Eloise’s heyday is long past. When we meet her, she’s old, lonely, penniless and bitter. Into her life slouches Bradley, a down-trodden, surly teenager with his own reasons to be pissed off with the world. After a rocky start, they forge an unlikely friendship, and set about creating mayhem as they right wrongs and wreak revenges. There’s chaos, misunderstandings and flying crockery, as well as plenty of laughs. Hope that doesn’t sound too upbeat for you.

Ok, you’ve passed the first test, as you’ve not been shot yet.  Now for the difficult questions.  You’ve been chosen to be part of the next great chapter in British space exploration.  You’ll be sent on a long journey to the other side of the galaxy.  The trip may take a while and you are only allowed to take three people with you;

a.       Someone you’d rather not leave behind

b.       Someone to entertain you on the journey

c.       Someone who you will be allowed to push out of the airlock once you’re a safe distance from earth

Who are your lucky/unlucky passengers?

How splendid! I’ve wanted to be shot into space ever since I first saw that film Alien. It looked such fun!

For my first companion, I’d choose Mr Chasington, of course. I couldn’t possibly leave him behind, even if I wanted to. He’d tear me limb from limb if I tried.

For entertainment, it would have to be a comedian. Not one of those lugubrious ‘tears behind the laughter’ types (Sorry, Stewart Lee). Someone with a naturally sunny and incurably optimistic disposition. Lee Mack? Count Arthur Strong? Jo Brand? And if they turned gloomy, I’m sure I could rely on Mr Chasington to deal with them.

For the one-way drop through the airlock – I suppose I’m not allowed to say every one of the political so-called leaders currently herding us towards catastrophe? Thought not!

OK then. I’ll go for the stranger in the Waitrose queue last weekend who fit more racist comments into a brief conversation with me than I would have thought possible. God alone knows what he says when he’s with friends and really letting rip! The inmates of my underground Zoo of Death can’t wait to meet you, Racist Waitrose Guy.


I hear you used to be a wrestler, tag team partner to Big Daddy, and winner of a brutal and ‘banned from TV’ bout with Giant Haystacks.  If there was one opponent that would lure you back into the ring, who would it be, and would you play dirty to beat them?

Your research is spot on. I was indeed once known as ‘Queen of the Back Body Drop’. Impressive enough in itself but almost unbelievable when you discover I’m a mere eight-stone stripling who barely came up to The Stack’s waist. But I had the advantage of stealth, you see, being small enough to sneak up under the flap of his vast gut, and lump him one.

Sadly, I was forced to retire from the ring due to a freak philtrum injury. For adrenaline kicks these days I go volcano boarding. We have a spare place on our next trip to Nicaragua, if you fancy it. Could be your next big ‘thing’.

I give you the power of DVLA!  You can thank me later.  What’s the first rule of the road that you would add to the highway code? And if you had to create a new road sign what would it be?


Easy. I’d ring the changes with traffic lights. On alternate days, say Mon, Wed and Fri, it would be red for go and green for stop, and on Tues … I don’t have to spell it out for an intelligent man like yourself, surely? Why? Firstly, it would add a frisson to the boring business of waiting at the traffic lights – you’d never be quite sure – and secondly, it would save me the bother of trying to remember which is which. Always have had trouble with that one.

Not so much a road sign, as a must-have, in-car accessory. I’d invent a gizmo that flips out and lights up, signalling ‘Sorry!’ to other drivers. No more red-faced shrugging and grinning.


I like a nice cosy night in, in front of the telly.  I love settling in to my armchair with a party bag of Wotsits and a cup of hot, steaming offal.  My favourite programme has just been cancelled though, after one hardly watched season (who knew that ‘Funking with Farage – Naughty Nige explores the history of disco whilst dressed as a panda’ would be so unpopular).  

I want you to create my next favourite programme to keep me entertained on those long lonely nights.  What’s it called and what’s it about?

I’m sure you, like me, are a huge devotee of Say Yes to the Dress. I’ve long felt there is much more mileage to be had from the franchise, covering other big lifestyle decisions, not just weddings. These are my off-the-top-of-the-head ideas. If you know any BBC commissioning editors, please do pass them on. Usual copyright restrictions apply. 

Say Perhaps to the Blazer and Slacks.

Say Hello to the National Trust Supersoft Merino Wool Throw.

Say Don’t Mind if I Do to Joining a Quechua Community That Worships Prince Edward in the High Andes of Peru.

Say I Really Shouldn’t Oughta to Random Acts of Slaughter.



My cook Dahmer is a wizz in the kitchen, there’s nothing (or no one) he can’t cook and cause me to salivate in a quite disturbing way.  Suppose you survive my questioning and I ask you back to the castle for a slap up three course meal, name your ideal dinner extravaganza.  What would you have Dahmer knock up for us both?

I’m an adventurous eater. I doubt Dahmer could dish up anything I wouldn’t have a go at. Just a couple of small provisos: no shellfish, red meat or poultry: no jelly, beetroot, anchovies or ice-cream (that is one pizza I’d like to forget!); no fried, spicy or raw food; no grains, dairy or refined sugars; and absolutely – I have to insist on this – no pufferfish, larks’ tongues or golden samphire.

Actually, make mine an apple. Organic. Unsprayed. Cox’s.


Imagine that you are the devil for a day, and have been asked to create a completely new plane of Hell.  There’s already a place for the thieves, one for murderers, and one for fornicators.  Which section of society are you going to create a special place for?


People with bad table manners, who chomp with mouths agape, giving all around them the benefit of seeing, hearing and feeling the splatters of their messy mastications. They are usually the sort who also don’t place their knives and forks neatly together on the plate to indicate they’ve finished munching. Oh, and those who drool fresh blood on my white damask. Such a nuisance to get the stain out. They can all head straight for that special place the Tusk man was on about.  


Art.  It’s a funny thing, some famous artists are obviously masters of creating beauty, and others would struggle in an under-fives finger painting competition. Is art really an individual thing or is some of it just bollocks?  Feel free to show your idea of the best and the worst.  (if you want to attach pics to your reply email to demonstrate that would be great, if not no worries)

I know what I like and that is … nothing that I could possibly draw, paint or otherwise physically create. I’m more in the ‘colour-blind one-year-old with poor co-ordination’ category when it comes to the visual arts. But, ask me to play a Chopin nocturne …?



You have dazzled with your answers.  I am further intrigued by you and will probably begin to stalk you on the interweb.  Where else can I find you?  Do you blog?  Insta?  Facebook? Tweet?  Let me know where I, and others can find you?


Feel free to stalk away, as long as when you lurk on my FB page, Twitter account, You Tube vid or Unbound pages, you and your misshapen cronies also pledge a wedge of florins (or silver guineas, I’m not fussy) to my comic novel, Note to Boy, which currently stands at 75% funded with Unbound.
www.twitter.com/SueClarkAuthor


And if you don’t … here, Chasy, Chasy, Chasy! Here, boy! Come to Mummy.

       Looks harmless, doesn’t he? But just look at him when his velociraptor blood is up!


I lowered my shotgun and backed away slowly.  Despite the rumours I am not a stupid man.  Cruel perhaps, violently ignorant at times, but not stupid.

"I'll be off back to my castle then."  I murmured, not taking my eyes from either Clark or her pet, each of which was as dangerous as the other in my book.

Each step backwards seemed to take an age, as I struggled to not make any sudden movements.  I was about ten yards away when I stepped on the twig.  The cracking noise although probably barely audible, resounded through the woods.

Their ears twitched and they bared their teeth.

I ran

Go d help me, I turned an ran as fast as my old and crooked legs would carry me.  Branches hit my face, leaves slapped my cheeks, but I ran.

I did not stop until I was safely over the drawbridge and the portcullis was down.  I had had a lucky escape.

I had not known fear like this since the last time I struggled to find toilet roll in any of the castles lavvies.  It was a cold sweat which ran down my back, a harsh twist of the guts that would not settle until much later on.

Please visit Sue Clark's Unbound page today and pre-order your copy of your book.  It will please her greatly and the world will therefore be a safer place.

Just click here, for mercy's sake unbound.com/books/note-to-boy

If you're as lovely as Sue Clark, and wish to visit Castle Holbrook for a chat, please email me at caraticuspholbrook@gmail.com and I'll get it sorted.

If you have enjoyed this blog and the others preceeding it, do also feel free to support my own spectacular new novel The Love of Death.  A sweet love story about the angel of death finding his true love.  Cklick here to find out more https://unbound.com/books/the-love-of-death/ 

Ta 

Paul x

The Jubilantly Jolly Jamie Chipperfield

Sundays are my favourite days for torture.

I don't know why this is; perhaps it's because it is traditionally a day of rest and my victims have a tendency to be more relaxed, and therefore more susceptible to pain.  Perhaps it's because Sunday is the day that I like to sort stuff out, clear out the rubbish, finish off any wavering prisoners clogging up the dungeon.  Who knows?

Whatever the reason, Sundays are always my most satisfying time, and the day in question when the following interrogation took place was no different.  Necks were snapped, bowels were loosened, and by the end of the day my 'playroom' was a much tidier affair.  I like to do most of the clearing of the room myself.  Yes, I know that it is a task I could pass on to my butler, Manson, but there is something very cathartic about shoveling up entrails yourself and mopping the floors of blood ready for a new week.

I was just busying myself sweeping up teeth, and scooping up the last of the week's fingers when I heard a groan from the corner of the room.  What was this? I wondered. I thought I had cleared out all of this weeks bodies, let alone ending their poor tortured souls.  I stared into the corner. There was a large dustsheet draped over the top of what seemed to be a moving head.  I put down my broom and approached with care.

Another groan came from underneath the sheet.  Had I forgotten someone?  Had Manson brought me down a new plaything and forgotten to tell me.  With a speed of movement not utilised by me since the last time the toilet backed itself up I darted forwards and pulled the sheet away.

There stood in front of me, wearing nothing but a pair of large metal trousers was a man, a man in obvious discomfort.

Our conversation, was recorded (as all groans, whimpers and cries for mercy are in my dungeon) as follows:


Oh dear, it would seem that you find yourself on the wrong end of my latest torture device, the Spiky Trousers of Doom.  Don’t worry I’ll make your interrogation as terrifying as possible.  First tell me who you are and something interesting about you?  Be quick I’m getting tetchy.

I’m Jamie Chipperfield and in the real world I am a carer, I am also currently making my first foray into the world of serious publishing. Apart from that there’s not much else in the claims to fame department. I’ve always been a reader and writer, but I blame Dan Abnett, it’s all his fault. Interesting fact? Hmmmmm. I was once offered an apprenticeship in hairdressing. Things would have been rather different I imagine. These trousers are chafing a fair bit you know.

So you’ve written a book?  I love authors, they taste great in gravy.  Tell me about your book?  What’s it called?  What’s it about?  Why should I buy it?

Red Soil. Part detective novel. Part conspiracy thriller. A routine week for one Mars lawman is about to escalate quite catastrophically. I wrote it in response to the growing involvement of private enterprise in space exploration, and examined it through a dystopian lens. Why buy it? Because you want to read it perhaps. Stephen Hawking thought we should colonise Mars of course, that’s a tenuous enough reason surely?


I want to talk to you about cats.  I believe they are the highest life form on earth, beating humans into submission, and making us obey their every whim.  Are you a cat lover or are you a fan of another form of pet?  And how will the human race ever free ourselves from the shackles of our feline overlords?

I am a horse-man myself, and not in the centaur kind of way. You can’t fit them through cat flaps though. Who wants to go outside when its pissing it down. The ancient Egyptians revered cats and if it wasn’t for them, we wouldn’t have pyramid teabags, so who are we to question feline dominion?


I like inventing things, usually torture devices, cooking implements, or ways of avoiding work.  Tell me, what do you believe is the greatest invention that the world has ever seen?  You must surprise me though, none of this boring wheel, microwave oven, television nonsense.  It must be obscure but all important.

Nail clippers, most definitely. Have you ever read the Guinness book of records? There’s always a page with someone who’s grown the longest nails, now imagine that for the whole of society. Horrifying. The nail salon industry would make a killing though.


I can see from your face that the spiky trousers are starting to pinch a little.  This is very good, don’t worry this torture will all be over very soon (as will you if you don’t amuse me).  Tell me a joke, make me laugh, I wish to have a little chortle, and not just at your expense.  I need you to tell me the funniest joke you know.


You have yet to know true torture, for at my disposal is some of the worst jokes in the history of man. Have you heard about garden psychics? They can see the fuchsia. What about the man who invented the sphere? He realised it was completely pointless. I could go on.

      Apparently music is the food of love.  I find that gin helps speed things along too though.  In your opinion what is the greatest love song ever written?  And alternately what is the greatest break up song?  Wrong and offensive answers only please.

The former would be Toxic by Britney Spears, and the latter, Hallelujah, whichever version you prefer. Hang on. Did I get them the wrong way around?


We each have five senses, I thought I had six but then I decided to go back onto my medication for the sake of everyone’s safety.  If you had to lose one sense what would it be, and what would you like it replaced with?


Smell. Anyone will tell you that, at one time or another, they could have done without it if you know what I mean. I would replace it with a ‘sense’ of unwavering confidence. See what I did there? It would be extremely helpful.


I am going to send you hurtling ten years into the future.  When you return, I want you to tell me four world changing events that you have witnessed.  The more bizarre the better please.


Amazon’s Alexa will be the head of a political party. Apple will release an implant that replaces your phone called the I-eye. The Isle of Man will change its name due to accusations of sexism. And last of all Wingdings will finally be taught in schools as a global language.

       Your torment is nearly over,  I am within a gnats chuff of either ending you or setting you free.  Convince me why you should be let loose upon the world again.  What wonders will you benefit the human race with if I let you survive.

Wonders? Pfft! Just think of the havoc I could wreak on the world with my terrible puns. Imagine the torment. My grandfather invented the lead balloon you know, it never really took off. I once considered emigrating to the moon but I hadn’t considered the gravity of the situation.

1    Stalking is fun, it’s a great hobby of mine.  Where else on the world wide web can I spy on you?  Do you insta?  Blog? Tweet?

You can find me on both Instagram and Twitter as @jchipperfieldwrites. As Matthew McConaughey the chosen one once said, “you gotta pump up those numbers, those are rookie numbers.”  Joining the twitterati is the done thing as a writer, but a friend convinced me of Instagram a few years ago when I was doing a lot of photography. I once had the Ministry of Sound liked a photo of nesting doves, not what I expected.

I pondered for a moment.  Should I free poor Jamie from The Spiky Trousers of Doom?  Should I let him walk free from the dungeon and wend his merry way out of the castle grounds and to freedom?  Or perhaps I should just tighten the trousers and be done with it?

In a moment of clarity and empathy rarely seen within the walls of Castle Holbrook, I chose the former and undid the trousers.  He hopped a little at first, bled, quite a bit, but eventually when feeling had returned to his legs he staggered towards the doorway.

"Run free, Chipperfield!"  I called after him.  "Go spread the news of your book."

That evening I visited the campaign page for young Jamies book which can be found here https://unbound.com/books/red-soil/  and I would encourage you to do the same.  Not many people are lucky enough to escape from my dungeon.  He must have something about him and he deserves to have his book published.  Go help him.

If you enjoyed this blog interview, why not read on and see the other poor fools that have suffered at my hands.  They're all mostly lovely and would enjoy your support. You could be one of them too if you're an author - simply drop me a line at caraticuspholbrook@gmail.com and I'll be along shortly to make your life a misery.

If you really wanted to have your name removed from my naughty list then you would also do well to visit the Unbound page of my own new novel The Love of Death here - https://unbound.com/books/the-love-of-death/

Its a funy and heartwarming tale of angels, demons and a lovesick Grim Reaper.

The Enormously Existential Eamonn Griffin

There was a foul stench in the air.

It was normally the kind found in my en-suite, after a particularly heavy night of beef curry and brown ale, but this was not the bathroom, I was stood on the staircase.

"Manson!" I cried, one hand covering my nose whilst the other held the bannister tightly for support.  My eyes began to stream, the water from my tears (a rare thing to be seen on my face) drawing the violent smell up through their channels and into my sinuses.  There was no response from the butler, something that would probably cost him a finger.

"Manson!!" I screamed as loud as my assailed lungs could muster.  "Manson, come here this instant!  You only have four fingers left and you'll be even more useless with three!"  Still no response.

There was a groan from downstairs, a kind of feeble last breath wheeze that I must admit was common within my house (I had even made such a noise myself after the last curry/ale experience).  It was not a groan that I recognised though and it appeared to be coming from down the hallway in the kitchen.

I cursed the soon to be three fingered butler and staggered down the stairs, the smell now so strong that I could have sworn that the skin on my face was beginning to peel, like some bizarre beauty treatment.  I could not imagine even the most desperate of Beauty enthusiasts ever being prepared to undergo such torture for their looks however.

The groans continued to emanate from the kitchen from where, as my nostrils began to melt and my lungs seizured in anger, I could tell was the source of the smell.  I coughed and spat, in an effort to rid my body of the horror which cursed it.  The kitchen should be empty, it was Dahmer the cook's day off, he had booked it the week previously to go on a hunting trip (and hopefully bring back enough 'food' to fill my chest freezer).  Who would it be taking up residence in the kitchen then, and what was that bloody smell?

As I reached the end of the corridor and the epicentre of the Terror that I saw him though, and saw what had caused such a foul odour to fill the halls of Castle Holbrook.  On the table was a large lump of cheese. At least I assumed it was cheese, or had once been.  In my understanding lines of green and blue should vein a more mature cheese not coat it.  It looked as though at any point it would raise itself up on green cheese legs and walk out of the kitchen itself, so offended by its own smell it would have been.  But cheese didn't have legs, cheese never had legs, I knew that.

The man in the parlour had his back to me as he rooted around the cupboards groaning at the stench of the cheese that he had found, but obviously still in search of something to eat.
A noise from behind me made me turn quickly.  It was Manson running down the corridor, gas mask over his face and swing bin in hand.  He raced into the kitchen, scooping the offensive dairy product into the bin and sealing the lid with gaffa tape.  He then whipped a can of Febreze out of his coat pocket and defumigated the room.  I watched him in almost admiration.  The man with his head in the cupboard did not turn, or stop his rooting.

"Thank you, Manson." I exhaled, allowing my lungs to operate normally once more.  "I think you may have just saved my life there.  I am in your debt."
The Butler pulled the gas mask off of his face and gave me a beaming smile, he had never heard words like this come from his Lord and Master.

His smiled faded a little when I cut off one of his few remaining fingers however.  It was only after dealing with the servant that I turned to my kitchen intruder.


Hello? Who let you into my parlour? Explain yourself?

Hi. I’m Eamonn Griffin and I’m a writer, which explains why I’m ransacking your cupboards looking for something to eat.

You've done what? Written a book?  Tell me all about it before I launch you into the moat!

Oh, I’ve written a few. The latest one, which was published in January 2019, is called East of England. It’s a noir thriller set in the mid-1980s. Debt collector Dan Matlock gets out of prison to find that his elderly father’s been kidnapped on the orders of a local crime syndicate as retribution for what Matlock did to end up in prison. So Matlock works to get his Dad back, by fair means or violent ones.  

Werewolf, Vampire, Witch or Zombie? Which do you think you would have the most fun being? What hijinks would you get up to?

Witch, I reckon. I’ve worked nights before, so I don’t fancy being a vampire. Werewolfery seems to be a bit expensive what with all the shredded clothing and that. Zombies never appear to be enjoying their undead shambling. So, witchcraft’s the way for me. I’d make a reasonable hedge wizard, I reckon. I’d live in a cave and dispense remedies and curses. Maybe the odd love potion. I’m not interested in summoning Beelzebub or anything like that. I’d keep it on the magical down-low.  

My first novel was about a photographer who took post-mortem portraits.  When he looked at them through the viewfinder they spoke to him.  Which deceased figure would you be prepared to photograph and if they spoke what would you ask them?

I’d take a picture of Robert Louis Stevenson. I’d ask him about his destroyed first version of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. I’m a bit of a Stevenson fan. To the extent of writing a Jekyll sequel titled Juggernaut.

Which musician/band would write and perform the soundtrack to a movie of your life? Give me the name of a couple of the tracks from the album?

I’d go for an actual movie composer or two. Randy Newman for the songs (hypothetical titles of tracks would include “Get Down From That Roof” and “Put The Knife Down, Shorty”. The score would be by his cousin Thomas Newman. Tracks to include: “Where It All Went Wrong In Wales” and “Bad Relationship Advice Blues”.  

I have created, in my laboratory, a very tasty potion which gives immortal life. I, of course, took it about 429 years ago, hence my eternal good looks.  Would you like a shot?  Will it bring you misery or would you use it to your advantage?  What benefits could it bring?

No thanks. I’ll take the three-score-and-ten and leave it at that, if it’s all the same to you. Only bad things would come of that kinda wish/curse.

ITV are bringing back Gladiators, complete with John Fashanu and Ulrika Johnson!  (They're not this is a hypothetical question, don't get too excited).  What would be your Gladiator name and how do you feel about a career in Lycra?

I’m not designed for Lycra. If I had to have a sporty sub-superhero name, I’d go for something like Queasy! or Dirigible. 

I have been told I have a Jekyll and Hyde character, switching from shy, quiet and miserable to loud, confident and vaguely amusing.  Is this normal? And how would you be described in 6 words?

Yep, we’ve all got different facets. And they reflect different lights. A six-word description? “Knows a lot about Sean Connery”.

Where else can I find you on the interweb? Do you blog? Insta? Tweet? Website? Where can I see some more of your lovely work?

I’m all over the internet like a slightly clumsy virus.

Website:  http://www.eamonngriffinwriting.com/

Blog bit of said side: http://www.eamonngriffinwriting.com/blog

Ongoing separate blog/diary projects:  https://255bookreview.com/ (current reading); https://255review.com/ (a collaborative movie review blog); https://benchesofllangollen.com/ (personal geography blog). The unexamined life, and all that…

Twitter is my main social media man: https://twitter.com/eamonngriffin or @eamonngriffin

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/eamonngriffinwriting/

I’m not on Instagram.

Also, I’ve got a mailing list here. Fresh news, warm and yeasty from the bakery oven. You can sign up to that here: http://www.eamonngriffinwriting.com/contact

As for my books, they’re all available from Amazon in paperback and ebook. East of England is available everywhere online, again in paper and electronic versions. See them all here at my Amazon Author Central page: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Eamonn-Griffin/e/B00XJEK2PC

Also, a direct sequel to East of England, titled Canine Jubilee, is being crowdfunded at Unbound. There’s details on that book and how to support it into print here: https://unbound.com/books/canine-jubilee/

I bade him take as much food as he could and leave this place.  I could not guarantee his safety and I still had to finish my punishment of Manson (one lost finger would only be the start of his torment).

Griffin filled a plastic Lidl bag with goodies and left the castle.  I waved him off, watching as he crossed the moat and away into the relative normality of the rest of the world.  After he left I invested in his latest novel Canine Jubilee, and I would encourage you to do the same.  But after reading it you will realise that the 'normal' world was not a safe place, not for you, not for I, and certainly not for Manson the Butler who would be on the receiving end of a thrashing he would never forget.


If you enjoyed this blog interview, why not read on and see the other poor fools that have suffered at my hands.  They're all mostly lovely and would enjoy your support. You could be one of them too if you're an author - simply drop me a line at caraticuspholbrook@gmail.com and I'll be along shortly to make your life a misery.

If you really wanted to have your name removed from my naughty list then you would also do well to visit the Unbound page of my own new novel The Love of Death here - https://unbound.com/books/the-love-of-death/
Its a funy and heartwarming tale of angels, demons and a lovesick Grim Reaper.

The Creatively Cathartic Claire Handscombe

It was a beautiful dream.

I shall not pass on to you the full details, the nooks and crannys, the wheres and whens, the blood and the ecstasy.  Some of you may be eating as you read this, and some may be of a nervous disposition, I do not want to be the cause of any stomach or psychological upset that will make me liable to deep cleaning or therapy costs in the future. No, let us just say that I was enjoying my dream immensely and would have quite happily remained in that dreamlike state until the end of time or beyond.

You see my sleep is not normally that enjoyable.  Normally it is a fitful experience; a mixture of cold sweats, screamed awakenings, and desperate cries for forgiveness for all the misery that I have thrust upon the world and those unfortunate to have met me.

I do not know why I slept so well, and had such a beautiful dream; perhaps it was because I had not tortured anyone for a week, maybe it was my newly found care and love for small animals (who had only just begun to creep nervously towards the boundaries of Holbrook Towers again after years of knowing that to come within half a mile of the walls of my castle meant certain extermination). 

Of course, this meant that during my waking hours, I felt that something was missing from my life, that this turning of a new leaf was depriving me of that which I had loved for so long, but I was sleeping better and that in a way made up for it.  Perhaps I really could be a changed man, perhaps I could redeem myself in the eyes of the world who thought me some kind of evil mastermind intent on creating misery and pain. It was a big ask, the list of my victims numbered in the thousands, perhaps more, but I had to give 'being good' and 'being normal' a try sometime.

But anyway back to my dream.  It was beautiful, it was joy filled, it was probably very disturbing should anyone look in on it, but it was also cut short by a rapping upon the front door.

I awoke with a start.  Who would dare to knock upon my door at this time of the morning?  Who had the temerity to interrupt my slumber? And where the bloody hell was Manson the Butler?  It was his job to see off visitors while I slept.

I fell from my bed in a heap of filthy duvet and angry temper.  Groaning loudly and muttering dark curses under my breath I stumbled through the halls of the castle to the front door.

The meeting which followed was recorded (as are all utterances, conversations, begs for mercy, and screams for mother which take place within the terrible confines of my castle) and is described as follows;



Ok, I’ve let down the drawbridge, I’ve pulled up the portcullis,  I’ve put the attack hounds back in their cages.  Tell me who you are and what you’re doing here.  Are you peddling a book by any chance?

*rubs sweaty palms together, shuffles feet nervously* Um… yes? I’m a debut novelist called Claire Handscombe. You probably won’t get the spelling right first time. That’s okay. 

What’s this book about then?  You have 40 words to break it down into a palatable mouthful which make me want to eat more.

It’s a smart beach read called UNSCRIPTED and it’s the story of an aspiring writer and her epic celebrity crush… and her detailed plan to get the object of said crush to fall in love with her. 

I am a kind and benevolent psychopath.  I give gifts to all who visit me (although they may not always live to enjoy them).  To you I give the gift of a superpower.  You can have anything but you must promise to wear an outrageously silly costume whilst using it, and you must also use it for bad as well as good.  What power do you want, and what good and bad things will you get up to with it?

Ooh, do I get to choose the silly costume? I would like teleportation please. I’d like to be able to spend more time more easily with the people I love who are increasingly spread around the world. As for the bad… I would teleport to bookshops and rearrange books. Is that bad enough? I hope so, because I’m a bit of a rule-follower. Specifically, I’d move the displays around and switch the face-out books up, so that instead of the bestsellers who already get all the attention, unknown books by good writers and/or my friends, and, let’s face it, my own, would be more prominent. Can I have invisibility too? I think that would help with this task.

I always do my best thinking whilst in the little boy’s room, or sometimes when I’m idly catapulting small animals from the battlements of my castle.  Where do you come up with your best ideas for things to write?  Are you a bunny catapulter like me? 

*wipes increasingly sweaty hands on trousers* I… no. I wish there was a guaranteed, failsafe way to get them, but it seems to be different every time! One idea came to me in a dream, which was pretty cool. Some come to me as result of writing prompts and exercises. And a lot of them used to come to me as I sat on buses listening to music and allowing myself to daydream. But I never do that anymore, because I’m addicted to podcasts… Perhaps there’s a lesson here. 

I was once trapped in a lift with possibly the most flatulent man alive.  It was a time of great torture that was only ended when I killed and ate him to survive.  You must have seen the looks on the fireman’s faces when they finally freed me from my incarceration after a full ten minutes of being trapped.  Who would you most hate being trapped in a confined space with?  And how would you make the time pass that little bit quicker? 

Oh man, I can immediately think of two people I probably shouldn’t write about. So let’s say… Jeremy Corbyn. Because I don’t think I could contain my wrath at how he’s handled the Brexit thing. I’d want to like him, and I’d want to still want to vote Labour. But after being stuck with him for a while, I doubt that’d be the case.
Oh, sorry. Was I not meant to talk politics?
Whoever I was stuck with, I might have to discreetly shove an earphone into my ear and carry on merrily with my podcast addiction… 

I’m starting my own political party.  Our manifesto is simple, a return to Victorian values, culling of peasants at regular intervals and all TV to be presented by Noel Edmonds.  I think people will vote for us by the million.  If you were to strive for governmental power, what would be the key points in your manifesto to enthuse the electorate? 

I suppose it was okay to talk about politics after all! I think let’s make all Mondays Bank Holiday Mondays for a start. Cancel Brexit, obviously. Restore Recommended Retail Price to books to ensure that authors get fairly compensated for their work and reduce the stranglehold of Amazon on the book business. Oh, and free wifi everywhere! And to restructure the Eurovision so that nobody knows which country is which – we might get some points at last if nobody knew it was us! 

Poetry is a wonderful and powerful thing.  It can inspire emotions in us like no other artistic medium, from love to nausea, insight to insanity.  I wish you to provide me with a haiku based on the best meal you ever eaten.  And then another based on the worst meal ever. 

A week: little food.
And then, high up in Portland:
Meat candy. Sublime.
Thanks to United,
A half-frozen turkey roll
With some cheese.


I love ironing.  Whether it be a shirt, a pleated skirt or the faces of my enemies.  There’s nothing I like more on a Sunday afternoon that to pout up the ironing board, slap some tedious crap of the telly and get lost within my work.  What is the most boring and mind numbing task that you secretly enjoy? 

I enjoy anything as long as I can listen to a podcast. I trust you’re getting the message on that by now.
But otherwise, I don’t know if this counts as a task at such, but if I’m in the right mood, I quite like sitting on the Tube. It’s great people watching.

I’ve started my own apocalyptic death cult. We meet for tea and biscuits every week and plan how we can take over the world and then destroy it in a shower of flame and urine.  Are you a fan of cults?  Do you want to join mine?  And if not what would your cult be about? 

I… think I might be in one? It’s a cult for West Wing fans. We talk solely in Aaron Sorkin quotes, listen to podcasts (I know, by now you are not surprised) about the show, and squeal with excitement when we turn on the TV in a hotel room and an episode is showing, even though we already own the episodes on DVD and iTunes and regularly stream them on Netflix.

You have made me happy, if a little scared.  Tell me where I can keep an eye on you in the future.  Do you blog? tweet? Insta? FB?  Where can the world find you?

I do all the things. And guess what! Plot twist. I have a podcast of my own. It’s called the Brit Lit Podcast and people can subscribe in all the usual podcast places. On Twitter, I’m @bookishclaire. It won’t be long before you bump into me online – I’m everywhere! And please buy my book, UNSCRIPTED. Thank you 

I had heard enough.

Although pleasant this discourse was, at the back of my mind thoughts of my dream remained within me, as well as the desperate notion that if I returned to bed quickly enough I might just carry on from where I left off.

I ushered my guest out through the gate and over the drawbridge with promises to buy her novel (this usually works with writers that come a bothering).  However I do admit that a copy of Unscripted now sits upon the shelves of my library and I would strongly encourage you to invest in a copy.  As she made her way down the driveway I thought of picking up the crossbow which was lent against the wall and sending a bolt after her.

But I remembered that I was a changed man.  No more would I be killing visitors in a quite gruesome way, No more would I send squirrels flying from the battlements of Holbrook Towers, no more would I lure unsuspecting passers by in though the gate only to have them dragged down to the dungeons never to be seen again.  This was the new me, a new good me, and never let it be said that Caraticus P Holbrook was not a man of his word.

I paused and smiled.  Bugger that, I thought picking up the crossbow and taking aim at Claire Handscombe as she strolled away...

If you want to support a comic masterpiece, a fantastic fantasy novel full of angels, demons, God and Satan, The Grim Reaper and the love of his very long life then please visit Satan, The Grim Reaper and the love of his very long life then please visit https://unbound.com/books/the-love-of-death/ you will not be disappointed and you might just be taken off of my naughty list.

If you would like to be interviewed by me in a quite bizarre way that no one ever lives to regret (because no one ever lives) then drop me a line at caraticuspholbrook@gmail.com

Go on, what in the devil's name are you waiting for?



The Shuper Duper Shona Kinsella

I was in the shower.

Now the thought of me in the shower is usually enough to make even the most forgiving of souls physically retch and attempt to blind themselves.  Many times has an unwitting fool wandered aimlessly into my temple of cleanliness, only to stagger out moments later screaming for their mothers and gagging like an old dog trying to swallow a toad.  It's an awful sight, trust me.  Even I have removed all mirrors from the room in an effort to stop myself from catching a glimpse and inverting my digestive system.  I think you get the idea.

That is why, dear reader, I shall not go into too much detail of my evening ablutions.  I should not wish to be responsible for some kind of worldwide viral giraffe flu, or whatever the next poor animal likely to get the blame for poor toilet hygiene and a lack of hand washing.  No, I shall spare you the misery of upchucking onto your keyboard or smartphone as you claw at your eyelids in a vain attempt to remove the mental image from your psyche.

Look at me being all kind and thoughtful?  Well, actually don't look at me, it is something that I would not wish upon my worst enemy (and I have a few).

Anyway, I ramble, as is my wont.  I was in the shower, I finished my shower, and I stepped out of my shower, let us just leave it there and remain 'Vom free'.

I was not wearing my glasses, of course not, why would I in the shower?  The room was awash with steam (my water temperature is usually set painfully high by my butler, Manson, on my instruction.  Its is the only way to burn the horror of the world from my pink and cloud-soft skin).  The steam was thick, not unlike a pea-souper from the good old days in London when I terrorised the east end back in 1888, but as I reached for my towel I saw a dark shape in the mist.  At first I thought it to be the butler, Manson would often sneak into my bathroom, knife in hand, to hilariously attempt to re-enact my favourite moment from Psycho, but it was the wrong shape, it was smaller, and a lot less 'knifey'.

I furiously wrapped the towel around me, it was an intruder!

The transcript of our encounter is recorded, as all sound within the castle, whether it be screams of agony or moans of boredom, as follows;

Good morning, nice to see you.  What’s your name and what IN THE HELL ARE DOING IN MY BATHROOM!!!

My name is Shona Kinsella and I travelled here through the steam from another dimension. My goodness, you must have been in the shower for a long time to create that much steam – what were you doing in there? No, wait, don’t tell me!

The less you know of my ablutions the better.  I think I’ve heard of you.  Haven’t you written a book or something?  Tell me all about it in 40 words or less.

My latest book is called Ashael Falling and it’s about a stone age medicine woman who has to protect her people from soul-sucking invaders from another world. It has magic, winged people, giant cats and heartbreak. 

Torture time.  Everyone who visits my house gets tortured in one way or another; sometimes the rack, sometimes the Iron Maiden, sometimes my poetry.  I have three rooms downstairs. One room is full of spiders, the second has a sound system which plays nothing more than Max Bygraves, and the final room is where is full of sarcastic hipsters with man buns.  Which room would you be least happy to spend an eternity in? And if you were to ever get your revenge on me what would be in your room of nightmares?

I would be least happy to spend eternity in the room full of spiders. They give me the heebie-jeebies, much as I appreciate that they serve a useful function which is more than I can say for sarcastic hipsters.

My revenge would be to trap you in a room with no books for all of eternity mwahahahaha… wait, no, that’s too cruel. I’d stick you in a room that played the baby shark song over and over again. 

Baby Shark?  You have a very dark side to you, Kinsella, very dark indeed.  What other cruel powers do you possess? What about hypnotism, is it real or just a way of twisting the feeble minded into suggestion?  If you had the power who would you use it on?

I do believe in hypnotism, but I think that some people are more susceptible to it than others. If I had the power, I would use it on my kids to make them clean up after themselves and stop talking whenever they saw my laptop open. 

If you were a pop star in the seventies who would you most resemble?

A Bowie – mysterious and too cool for the world

A Bolan – mystical and experimental, destined for a short life

An Osmond – squeaky clean and adorable to grandmothers

A Ferry – A supermodel partnered crooner

I would like to think it would be Bowie but I don’t think I’m cool enough. I would probably be most like an Osmond, despite my best efforts to be rebellious and cool. 

If you were to be offered to ghost write an autobiography of a famous figure from the music industry who would it be?  Would you drool like a fan girl at them, or of course behave very professionally?

Hmmm that’s a tough pick. I think I would go with James Hetfield, the lead singer of Metallica. I’m sure I would drool at first, but hopefully I would get over it pretty quickly and find my professionalism.

Aliens have landed!!!  Quick pack a bag and head for the hills!  What 4 items couldn’t you do without?

My kindle and portable charger so that at least I would have books with me.

A notebook and pen so that I could write.

You are a Goddess.  Not the one in total charge, mind you, I have that ultimate power.  In my All-Fatherly wisdom I have given you the power to control the next stage of human evolution.  What changes are you going to make?

I would make it physically painful for people to act with anything less than kindness and compassion. Then I might give people wings 

Step into my time machine.  Don’t worry about the exposed wiring, no one has died this week. Right, where are you off to and what are you going to do when you get there?

I think I might go back to Stone Age Scotland and see what it was really like so long ago. I’ve read a lot about that time period in research for my Vessel of KalaDene series and obviously, it’s all based on interpretation of the few preserved items that we have from that time period. I’d love to know what was interpreted correctly and what we’re way off the mark with. 

`

Where else on the whole blinkin’ World Wide Web can I find you?  Do you Facebook? Insta? Tweety? Blog? Let me know where I can stalk you in the future.

You can find me in all the usual places.

Facebook : www.facebook.com/ShonaKinsellaAuthor

Twitter: www.twitter.com/shona_kinsella

Instagram: www.instagram.com/shona.kinsella

And my website: www.shonakinsella.com

Ashael Falling is funding at: www.unbound.com/books/ashael-falling

I had had enough.  The steam was beginning to dissipate, and very soon Kinsella would begin to feel nauseous.  I would prefer not to be mopping up another room, I already have to mop up my own torture chamber after Manson threatened to get his union involved.

I asked her to leave with a promise that I would indeed be supporting her novel Ashael Falling (the link to which is above).  I had the pleasure of reading its predecessor Ashael Rising and found it to be the perfect way to forget about the awfulness of real life for awhile everyday.  With the current state of the world something similar would be a true blessing.

You should support Ashael Falling, I order it.  You will not be disappointed.

If you want to also support another fantasy novel full of Love, Death, Angels and Demons, you would do well to go to https://unbound.com/books/the-love-of-death/ and give my latest book a gander.  It's a comedy about my very good friend and often dinner guest The Grim Reaper, and what happens to him when he falls in love.

If you have enjoyed this blog interview and wish to star in your very own episode, please get in touch at caraticuspholbrook@gmail.com

Go on, what in Heaven's name are you waiting for?

 

The Ecstatically Erudite Ewan Lawrie

It was a beautiful sunny morning at Holbrook Towers.

Birds were singing and they swooped and climbed in the unseasonably azure sky, on the edge of the nearby 'Forest of Certain Death', small woodland creatures danced and played in the dappled light. 

I stood on the battlements soaking in the warmth of the day, and the first inklings of a smile began to work their way onto my face; what a time to be alive!

To the regular reader of this journal, this scene may seem unusual.  Why was I not stood there, foul of face, and shotgun in hand, peppering shots at the birds as the soared and dipped above my castle?  What was wrong with me that I was not hurling rocks and cannisters of burning oil at the woodland animals, gloating as the burned to a crisp?  Was I ill?  Had I been on the sauce ealry today?

The answer, dear reader, came from the experience that had befallen me before I had even looked out of the window that morning and seen how beautiful the world was.  In fact I had woken in my normal state, impossibly hung over, irately furious at my butler Manson for waking me with breakfast in bed, and murderously desperate to empty my bladder.

I had jumped threateningly from my bed towards Manson, picking up the nearest weapon to hand, which happened to be my favourite mace (I always keep my most favoured weapons of murder and senseless violence near to my bedside as you never knew who would be coming to my bedroom at night in search of notoriety or revenge).  Manson, breakfast tray in hand, back away nervously. He had been on the wrong end of this mace before, his false ear was testament to this.  He avoided my clumsy swings long enough for me to remember that my bladder was full to bursting and that if I didn't visit the little boys room, there would be yet another terrible mess to be mopped up. 

It was as I stood relieving myself, that I was disturbed by a noise behind me.  I was sure that I hadn't left a nearly dead body in the bath again, but I couldn't stop the job 'in hand' to turn around and look. There was a clunk, and a rattle, a scrape and a rustle.  It was all most confusing.

I finished with a flourish (of course) and swung to see who the intruder was.  The bathroom was empty, but it would seem that the noises were coming from my bathroom cabinet, a place usually frequented by industrial strength pile creams and horse tranquillisers.  I picked up my mace and approached it slowly.  Was it a rat?  Mice? Yet another oversized spider?

With a speed not often seen by me, much before lunchtime, I tore the cabinet door open, only to find a man.  Yes, a man, perched on one of the shelves and gorging on Colgate.

Our ensuing conversation, is recorded (as all utterances are recorded by a vast array of microphones placed around the castle) as follows...

Oh my Lord!  How did you get into my bathroom cabinet?  Stop eating the toothpaste and tell me who you are?  

I, dear fellow, am the former spy and creator of two novels featuring  Moffat the Magniloquent. As for eating your Colgate Spearmint toothpaste, eat it I must, for I was a Mint Spy. 

Books?  Tell me all about your latest? You’ll need to be brief though, I have the memory span of an earthworm. 

I have but recently written No Good Deed, the sequel to Gibbous House, which is currently the subject of a Tub-thumping -that is to say crowdfunding - campaign at Unbound. Shall I repeat that? What do you mean, repeat what? 

Have you brought me a present?  You better had, otherwise you’ll get locked in my attic with all my spooky dolls.  What is it?

    Coincidentally I have brought you a doll of my own… or at least part of     one. It is a doll I had occasion to use in several arcane ceremonies,     however the voudoun never did work on my Squadron Commander. His     head is still connected to his body as far as I know. (see picture) 

I am not a man without manners.  I have a present for you as well.  I give you the gift of Van Dyke. You are able to impersonate any accent in the known world, everyone understands you, you are able to converse with the world.  What is your message to the people of earth?

   

    “Klaatu barada nikto” I fear it will be no more effective than last time.

I love the movie Groundhog Day, however the most infuriating thing about it is how Bill Murray has to wake up listening to Sonny and Cher every morning.  If you found yourself in Bill Murrays shoes and had the choice, which song would you open your eyes and greet the world to every morning? On the flip side, which song would have you crawling from your bed every morning like a grizzly bear with an arrow in his arse?

    A song that ALWAYS makes me smile is Chemistry by Semisonic. A tune guaranteed to give me toothache, sore head and other sundry ursine provocations is… Whatsamatta You, by Joe Dolce

          

   

Have you ever thought about what it would be like to live forever, until the end of time?  I have, in fact I intend to be the last man alive on earth. If you could bestow this gift on anyone who would it be and would it be a curse?

    Yes, I have. I think it would be boring. I know the Devil is bored and it seems as though God has Alzheimer’s, so maybe immortality isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

Waterworld – not just an overblown and greatly derided Kevin Costner movie from the nineties, it’s actually going to come true.  Do you think you could live in a world without land; no trees or hills, mountains or fields. Just you and your boat, roaming the flooded wasteland? 

I have a confession to make: I am the worst swimmer ever to be allowed to fly as aircrew in the Royal Air Force, so no. 

You have been given $300m by a major film company and told to create the greatest ever action movie, think Seagal but with special effects, Van Damme with a budget, Norris with acting skills.  Here’s the rub though, it has to be based on a Dickens book. Pitch me your best shot, who stars in it? How will you turn Victorian Britain into a Hollywood style. Popcorn muncher? Is it brutal and realistic, or layered with more cheese than a Frenchman’s larder?   

“Sidney Carton, Charles Darnay: the rôles Schwarzenegger was born to play. Set against the background of Revolutionary France, Arnie plays the effete French lover and the duplicitous barrister with his usual erudition. With Olivia Colman as Mme. Defarge, “A Tale of Two Twins” is both boffo box-office and a shoo-in for the Oscars” 

Let’s do Blind Speed dating!  With a difference! Behind the screen are four eligible people, both male and female.  You have to spend a long weekend in an isolated log cabin with one of them. Which one do you choose?

Steve – Steve likes long walks in the country, cuddles with his dog, and cooking fine cuisine for romantic nights in.  He is also a fan of farting loudly, collecting his urine in milk bottles, and knitting scarves from his pubic hair.

Rick – Rick is possible the most physically attractive man that the world has ever seen. He works tirelessly for world peace and an end to poverty.  He also likes to wander naked and loves showing off his great helicopter trick.

Sarah – Sarah is undeniably fun to be around. She has a joke for every minute of the day, and not a day goes by without her making everyone around her laugh.  Also not a day goes by when she washes herself and she is followed by flies wherever she goes.

Michelle - Michelle is like a walking encyclopedia. There is nothing she does not know it can discuss at length.  She is warm, friendly and has an infectious smile. Michelle may be responsible for the brutal deaths of both her parents and a long list of hitchhikers, woodland animals and past boyfriends.

Could I not invite them all and murder them one-by-one?

Where are you in the great and virtual world of the interweb?  Do you tweet? Insta? Blog? Tell me where you are for heaven’s sake!

    I have been known to tweet @EwanL, I am on Facebook here  , however my marketing agents Please Allow Me Inc maintain a page here . My blog is here and charts my life in Spain, the leaving of Spain, sundry book reviews and general bloggery. 

He was beginning to look a little uncomfortable, crammed as he was on the smallest of the shelves and I pulled him out so that he could stretch his limbs once again and restore the blood in his extremities.

Here was a kindred spirit to I.  Here was a man who relished writing tales of brutal murder and uncompromising violence.  Here was one that I probably shouldn't have dragged kicking and screaming down to the cellar and my vast array of torture toys.  I paused for a moment, weighing up my options.  What point was there in a long but satisfying torture session, the man would probably revel in the experience.

Against all my cruel natures I led him up to the battlements of my castle, where we stood in the beautiful morning sun and gazed out over the idyll of the grounds and forest below us.  I promised him that I would read his newest book, as it transpired that I had already read and thoroughly enjoyed his first.  I would encourage you to do the same, you can find Gibbous House here;

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Gibbous-House-Ewan-Lawrie/dp/1783520892/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1553415242&sr=8-1&keywords=Gibbous+House 

and you can go and support his latest tome here;

https://unbound.com/books/no-good-deed/ 

But was it this discourse with a fellow writer that had brightened my mood so unussually this morning , I hear you ask?

Had finding a like-minded author brought about a warm happiness within me, a sense of wonder and awe at the world around me that had not been apparent on my visage in many a year?

No it was because once I had had enough of the conversation, I pushed him off the battlement screaming and flailing into the cold dark water of my moat below.  I think he survived the fall, and even perhaps the crocodiles.  I'm not totally sure as I had already spun on my heel and gleefully descended to my bedroom once more, to soundly beat Manson for waking me.


If you don't want to suffer the fate of Ewan Lawrie, or Manson the butler for that matter, you would also do well to go to https://unbound.com/books/the-love-of-death/ and give my latest book a gander.  It's a comedy about my very good friend The Grim Reaper, and what happens to him when he falls in love.

If you have enjoyed this blog interview and wish to star in your very own episode, please get in touch at caraticuspholbrook@gmail.com

Go on, what the devil are you waiting for?