One Percent Dog
Guy Bradshaw's random act of kindness in attempting to rescue a dog seemingly trapped in a car on 'the hottest day since 1485' goes horribly wrong. A few misunderstandings, an altercation or two and a non-lethal use of a pick-axe all conspire to land Guy in court, losing him his hated job as an estate agent and dumping him home in Snaubs - his name for his home-town St Alban's - for the forseeable future. But he gets a call via various channels, including a seemingly mad old man in a home, a picture of Laurel and Hardy in the desert and some comic advice from a British Army recruiter too busy with Christmas to bother with him. Is Guy really going to join the Foreign Legion?
My picaresque novel One Percent Dog is scheduled to be published later this year under the wing of a new UK publisher. This page will feature a few excerpts and teasers, and my usual inexhaustible supply of photos.
Identity Crisis
Guy started to check in a drab place called the Hotel du Pont. Faced with the new challenge of a compulsory form to fill in, he decided to give himself the name Brian da Mage. He duly wrote it. He was about to give his place of residence as London – which had always been his habit anyway, nobody outside Hertfordshire having heard of Snaubs – but then, to be on the safe side, he wrote Madchester.
The clerk was a stocky guy in a blindingly white shirt open at the collar. He had dark, curly hair, and very dark eyes. After a glance at the form, he looked up at Guy, a little smile on his face. He said, “Your passport, please, Mr Damage.” He said that in the native English way, so Guy knew at once that he’d been sussed. His claim that he didn’t have a passport on him – “Not right… at the moment.” – was dismissed icily by the clerk with the raising of his eyebrows but the lowering of his eyes. In a precise tone that could have been officious or just plain bored, he recited the regulations and requirements firstly set out to govern travelling regulations within the EU. “To get here,” he explained to Guy’s impatiently spread hands. “By train or plane, or even by car or on foot, a passport.” Then he reminded Guy of the rules set out by the French authorities governing the establishment of travellers’ identities in places of temporary residence.
“Places of… what?” Guy shook his head.
“Hotels, pensions, guest-houses, inns,” the clerk explained.
“Inns?”
The clerk sought a word, snapped fingers when he found it. “Coaching inns.” He betrayed his pleasure at the discovery. “Motels. Road houses.”
“Right.”
“And such like.”
“Sure, pal.” Guy, alarmed at this mention of authorities, got his phone out and pretended to study its screen. “Whatevs.”
“Is that an app for finding your passport, sir?” the clerk enquired. He muttered, “Very useful, I’m sure,” and screwed up the form Guy had filled in. He whizzed it expertly, and without looking, into a bin behind him.
The clerk was a stocky guy in a blindingly white shirt open at the collar. He had dark, curly hair, and very dark eyes. After a glance at the form, he looked up at Guy, a little smile on his face. He said, “Your passport, please, Mr Damage.” He said that in the native English way, so Guy knew at once that he’d been sussed. His claim that he didn’t have a passport on him – “Not right… at the moment.” – was dismissed icily by the clerk with the raising of his eyebrows but the lowering of his eyes. In a precise tone that could have been officious or just plain bored, he recited the regulations and requirements firstly set out to govern travelling regulations within the EU. “To get here,” he explained to Guy’s impatiently spread hands. “By train or plane, or even by car or on foot, a passport.” Then he reminded Guy of the rules set out by the French authorities governing the establishment of travellers’ identities in places of temporary residence.
“Places of… what?” Guy shook his head.
“Hotels, pensions, guest-houses, inns,” the clerk explained.
“Inns?”
The clerk sought a word, snapped fingers when he found it. “Coaching inns.” He betrayed his pleasure at the discovery. “Motels. Road houses.”
“Right.”
“And such like.”
“Sure, pal.” Guy, alarmed at this mention of authorities, got his phone out and pretended to study its screen. “Whatevs.”
“Is that an app for finding your passport, sir?” the clerk enquired. He muttered, “Very useful, I’m sure,” and screwed up the form Guy had filled in. He whizzed it expertly, and without looking, into a bin behind him.
