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The 49 Series gets a Spooky Addition

Hello, and BOO!

Book Twelve in my cartoon excuse series is going to be covered in cobwebs and brewed in a witches cauldron. That’s right, I’m going to take on Halloween.

Spiders, vampires, more candy you can shake a broomstick at, werewolves, pumpkins, zombies, and the occasional Math Teacher. It’ll contain my trademark advice on how to increase your candy haul and get the most out of the spookiest night of the year.

Here’s a first look at my current doodles:

My current working title is 49 Excuses for Bagging More Candy on Halloween. I’m working hard to get it ready for release by the end of October (obviously). I’ll let you know once it’s ready for pre-order in the coming days.

Until then, happy reading 🙂

The First Three Chapters of My Next Book

I’m currently working on a brand new middle grade series. I’m one and a half books in and planning to wait until I have the first three written before I publish them in one go.

And, because I have the self-control of a door mouse, I’ve decided to release the first three chapters of the first book. The release dates will hopefully be March 2020. No official title as yet, but it’ll likely be something like How to Defeat a Dragon Overlord.


Chapter One – Nothing Ever Happens

There once was a quaint little town on the south east coast of England called Sandwich.

Yep, no need to re-read the last sentence. You read it correctly.

This story is not about a normal town like Cambridge or Durham or Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch (a lovely Welsh village which roughly translates as ‘The Church in the valley of fluffy unicorns next to a muddy puddle owned by St Bob the Third, King of all the ginger biscuits).

There is a real place called Sandwichand, if you read on, I’d be delighted to tell you more about it.

Here is a map of Sandwich.

[Drawing of a Map of Sandwich]

All the street names are sandwich fillings, like Coronation Chicken Avenue and Egg Mayo Road and Hoisin Duck with Cucumber and Spring Onions Street.  There is a meandering river, a dentist, a lovely-but-crumbly church, an orphanage and a sandwich shop called The Sandwich Sandwich Shop.

If you could imagine a sandwich filling, Mrs Wrinklebottom would make it for you. For example, you could ask her for a tuna sandwich and she would reply, “the fish or a snack while I sing Ba Ba Black Sheep?”  Mrs Wrinklebottom looked and smelt like she had sampled all the fillings in her shop, including the out-of-date ones.

Mr Dickens suffered from cross-eyed syndrome. Everything he saw had a nose in the way, his nose to be precise. The poor man also had a shaky hand, believed ghosts lived in his cupboard and had an irrational fear of being licked by small children. So naturally he became the village dentist, partly because it paid well, but mostly because nobody else wanted to do it.

Every Sunday morning Reverend Nightingale began her sermons with the words, “lettuce play”. This is because a) her favourite sandwiches are lettuce sandwiches and it amused her as it sounded like ‘let us’, and b) she struggled to pronounce her r’s. Her congregation did not mind as they were all asleep anyway, tucked up in their homes having a lovely lie-in.

In the orphanage sat one lonely child. She was the only orphan in the whole of Sandwich. And to make it even worse the orphanage was a massive old stately home with hundreds of old, dusty rooms. It was the perfect place to play hide and seek, but only if you had someone to play with.  

Nothing ever happens in Sandwich. Believe me, more interesting stuff happens in your maths teacher’s pencil case. It is the most boring place in the whole world. So much so that a plaque was put up in the town square which read ‘On 29th March 1918 in this spot nothing happened.’

And so, the people of Sandwich carried on with their boring lives, eating strange sandwiches and not doing anything of any significance. As always nothing happened for the next one thousand years and that was that.

The End.

(Oh wait . . . there was this one thing and that’s what this story is all about. Silly me!)

It all started to go wrong after Mr Fitz left town.

Chapter Two – Mr Fitz and his Suitcase of Marvellous Medicines

“Roll up, roll up!”

A confused villager heard the command and rolled up their sleeves.

The travelling salesman chuckled, “that’s not what I meant, me duck.” Mr Fitz put down his suitcase and shouted a bit louder. “Come on you lazy slobs, don’t be shy. Roll up! I ain’t gonna say it again.”

The village folk are a simple but curious bunch. Nothing interesting or noteworthy ever happens in their neighbourhood. So naturally, they were the nosiest people in the whole world. A crowd began to form around the out-of-towner and his mysterious suitcase.

“This is my suitcase of marvellous medicines. I’ve got potions, lotions and ointments for every ailment under the sun. For example, this miraculous cream,” said the salesman as he picked up a small brown tin from his suitcase, “will cure any kind of ache.”

“Would it cure my headache?” asked a scruffy-looking villager.

“Of course.”

“What about my back ache?” asked another villager.

“Yes indeed, and your front ache too.”

“Surely it couldn’t cure my tooth, ear and belly ache,” scoffed someone at the back.

“Oh yes it could,” he replied with a smile. “And it would cure all three quicker than a rocket-fuelled rat wearing rollerblades.”

The crowd mumbled with interest. Mr Fitz felt their excitement bubbling, and so he kicked it up a notch. “Or is it the undesirable smells from behind that ail you? Then fear not, as only here in my marvellous suitcase will you find the antidote.” The skinny man, dressed in a purple velvet suit, picked up a green bottle and held it high for all to see. “Uncle Pete’s Anti-Gas reacts with your stomach acids preventing the process during which food turns into unpleasant gas. In just one week you’ll be trumping daisies, guaranteed.”

The crowd grew bigger and bigger. Everyone wanted to see what else was inside the suitcase. Toes were stepped on and beards were pulled, and backbones were used as makeshift stepladders. No one cared as long as they could see that next shiny-looking object being lifted upwards.

“But, ladies and gentlemen, you’ll be pleased to hear that I have saved the best till last.”

Mumblings and mutterings spread across the crowd like jam on a warm crumpet. What could possibly be better? Everyone in the whole village was now standing in the village square hanging on the salesman’s every word.

“Do you suffer from tiredness, paleness, coughs, a runny nose, aches and pains, hair loss, fevers and chills? According to the quacks with fancy university degrees, all such ailments are symptoms of the common cold. They also claim it to be uncurbable. Well, after years of painstaking research I have perfected a medicine.” He then reached down and opened his suitcase revealing hundreds of little, clear glass bottles (and if you had the time to count them, you would notice that there was one bottle for every villager).

“I call it Mr Fitz’s Fabulous Formula. Not only does it cure you from the common cold for the rest of your natural life, it also reinvigorates your vitality, increases your intelligence and even restores your hair.” He turned to look at a man in the crowd who blushed whilst rubbing his smooth head. “I myself used to be a bald cripple with a cough that could deafen the neighbour’s cat but look at me now! As I like to say, whatever you’ve got, it’ll cure the lot. Now come and get it while stocks last.”

The crowd rushed forwards with shiny silver and golden coins at the ready. Everyone wanted to get their mitts on the formula, except for one inquisitive little girl.

“Excuse me,” the girl asked politely,” “but aren’t you supposed to say, ‘any questions’ at the end?”

“No, no, young lady,” said Mr Fitz as he exchanged bottles for coins. “You’re confusing me for a teacher or a plumber. I’m a salesman, and everyone knows you can trust a salesman. We’re honest folk.” The sides of his mouth awkwardly curled upwards like a caterpillar doing a sit-up.

“But I’ve got a question.”

“Well I’m a little busy at the moment, kid.”

“It’s just that there is a lot of tiny writing on the label of your formula. Why does it have to be so small, I can hardly read it.”

Mr Fitz froze and began to sweat all over. “Read it? I thought none of you country folk could read.”

The people in earshot laughed. “You can ignore little Penny here,” explained a happy customer. “She loves reading and writing and all that educational stuff, but she’s the only one. The rest of us can’t even read our own names.” The villager then took a hearty swig of the formula, “amazing, I can feel it working already.”

“Thank the heavens,” sighed the sweaty salesman. “That, my dear, is what we call in the business ‘the small print’. All the bona fide medicines have them. That’s how you can tell they’re the real deal. As I always say, the smaller the print the better the product.”

“Oh,” said Penny. “I suppose that makes sense. And what about these funny little symbols? This one that shows an upside-down rat with its feet in the air and an ‘x’ where its eye should be is a bit worrying, wouldn’t you agree?”

Her question floated away with no reply. The salesman had just sold his last bottle and vanished into thin air. The crowds began to disperse, each one pleased with their new purchase, as they happily glugged down the formula. Every last drop.

Well, everyone but Penny.

Chapter Three – Earl

Penny skipped home after her unusual morning.

She was excited.

For the first time in her life, something had happened in her hometown and she was clutching a bottle containing it.

The bouncy girl was a proud Sandwichdeerian (which is what you call someone who lives in Sandwich or someone who eats far too many sandwiches). Her parents lived in Sandwich. Her grandparents lived in Sandwich. In her opinion it was the best place in the whole world and the Queen should put Buckingham Palace up for sale and move in next door.

Penny noticed that everyone she passed was glugging Mr Fitz’s Fabulous Formula like a can of fizzy pop. They pulled all sorts of funny faces as they gulped. Some looked as though a hippopotamus had sat on their big toe. Others looked as though a hedgehog had settled down for a nap in their underwear.

She skipped past The Sandwich Sandwich Shop. It was full of customers looking for the perfect lunch. What could she smell this morning? Was it baked beans? Was it brussels sprouts? Or was it blue cheese (a wonderful ingredient which is highly stinky only slightly toxic). The most likely answer was that it was all three happily mingling together inside a freshly baked brown bap. Mrs Wrinklebottom stood behind her shop counter and was slurping her bottle through a straw.

She skipped past Sandwich Church. It was an impressive building with a big stone spire and a large stone graveyard and a long stone wall surrounding it. Reverend Nightingale was playing badminton with her favourite member of her congregation. It was a very one-sided match as Mrs Pratt was now dead and under a tombstone, and therefore struggled to hold her racket. The minister was taking a short break and enjoying a refreshing swig of Mr Fitz’s Fabulous Formula.

She skipped past the dentist. To most it would look like a very normal-looking house. However, Penny knew it was the dentist because of the sounds of low-pitched boredom, medium-pitched drilling and very high-pitched screaming. That and the big sign, which was a giveaway. Outside stood a glass recycling bin full of empty bottles.

She turned the corner and instantly recognised where she was – Cornish Pasty Lane.

She skipped towards a well-used cardboard box. A pair of hairy legs that belonged to Earl, stuck out the box. He didn’t have a house. He didn’t have a job. He didn’t even have any socks or shoes or sandwiches for that matter. The people of Sandwich had become very good at pretending he didn’t exist. But he didn’t care because he still had his words.

“Sharpen me nose and calls me a swordfish! It’s my good friend Penny.”

“Hi Earl. You’ll never guess what happened in the town square this morning.”

“Erm, nothing?”

“Nope,” smiled Penny. “In fact, quite the opposite. Something happened.”

Earl zapped into the air and landed in the handstand position. “Lick me kneecaps and call me a lollypop!”

Penny explained exactly what happened. About the salesman and the suitcase of marvellous medicines and the bottles of formula that everyone bought. And the more she explained the redder his face became (because he was still doing a handstand).

“Well, scratch me armpit and call me a chimpanzee!”

Penny laughed. She knew this was the way Earl liked to talk so she did not scratch his armpits or call him a chimpanzee. If she did then she would probably lose her fingers to gangrene.

“I was wondering what all these bottles were for.” Earl waved his leg towards the pile of bottles he had collected. “And now that I know they had the formula inside I shall crack one open and lick it until it’s as clean as a whistle.”

Earl walked on his hands over to the pile of bottles and grabbed the closest one. Just as he was about to dribble a drop of formula onto his upside-down tongue Penny kicked the bottle out of his hand. The bottle flew through the air and smashed into a million (and twenty-four) pieces.

“Oy! What did you do that for?”

“I don’t think it’s very safe. See, look at this little symbol on the bottle,” explained Penny as she held up her bottle to Earl.

Earl inspected the symbol and said, “ahhhhh, look at the little rat is having peaceful little nap.”

“Well, I think the rat is having a not-so-lovely death. And just look at the all the small print on the back. I don’t think a formula should have words like ‘dangerous’ and ‘caution’ and ‘only in extreme circumstances’.”

“So that’s what all those squiggles are.”

“Don’t worry, Earl. I’m going to test the formula and I know just the person to be my hamster.”

“Oh, you flatter me,” blushed Earl. “Nobody’s ever called me a nicer name than hamster in all my life.”

“No, no. Not you, Earl.” Penny patted Earl on his stubbly chin and mischievously wiggled her bottle of formula. “I meant Headmistress Lucinda”.


Thanks for reading. Let me know what you think by adding a comment.

(P.S. I’m struggling for a title so your suggestions are more than welcome.)

Take a Look Inside My New Book

Here it is . . . sample chapters (the first and second) from my new book – The Boy Who Stole One Million Socks.

Release date: 05/07/2017

Amazon, iBooks, Barnes & Noble, Kobo, Smashwords

CHAPTER ONE: AN UNEXPECTED OBJECT

There was a boy called Seaweed. He had a serious problem.

It was not the kind of problem boys normally face. He did not have a spotty forehead or a squeaky voice. He did not forget his lunch money or accidentally walk into the girls bathroom. He was not allergic to peanut butter sandwiches, nor was he  the greatest sock thief the world has ever known (well, not quite yet, but we will get to that later).

His problem was much more . . . explosive.

He was holding a BOMB.

Top government scientists have a theory. They believe that holding a bomb that is seconds away from exploding is the most terrifying thing for a human to experience. Unfortunately, their theory remains unproven as none of the test subjects have been able to fill in the questionnaire afterwards.

Seaweed looked around. The annual Picklington Parade was in full swing. It was the one event of the year that everyone attended, even the local pigeons. The townsfolk had gathered together to celebrate the greatest invention of modern civilization – electricity. There were hundreds of fabulous floats sparking with limitless voltage parading through the high street. A thunderstorm of electrical brilliance rained down over the people. The crowd was mesmerised.

Nobody had noticed the boy holding a bomb. Nobody ever noticed him, and not through lack of trying. Seaweed was the only citizen of Picklington who thought that things could be different. He believed in global warming and carbon footprints and renewable energies. He believed we should look after our planet. He wanted to show his town how to use less energy, and perhaps then the Mayor would not need to build the new Nuclear Power Station.

So there he was, walking through the parade with a shoulder bag full of leaflets entitled ‘Ten Easy Ways to Lower Your Carbon Footprint’ folded into paper aeroplanes. That was how he came to hold the unexpected object. He had reached into his bag for a harmless piece of folded-up paper and pulled out an explosive.

Deciding they would prefer not to be a part of any hair-singeing experiment, Seaweed’s forearm hairs uprooted and stampeded to safety under his armpit. Thankfully, his instincts kicked in. He bowled the bomb backwards, wore his shoulder bag as a helmet and did his very best impression of a shy hedgehog.

Everyone in the crowd was too distracted to notice. They were smiling and clapping and cheering and completely unaware of the rolling bomb. Seaweed clasped his bent legs and stapled his eyelids shut whilst his forearm hairs huddled together and said their goodbyes.

Then the bomb exploded.

 

CHAPTER TWO: THE PICKLINGTON PARADE

The Mayor of Picklington watched the parade from the safety of his office.

He suffered from an illness called Absolute Power – a condition where the afflicted becomes addicted to the authority they wield over others (usually contracted by corrupt dictators of oil-rich countries and the occasional maths teacher). He oozed the many symptoms like a snotty tissue.

Having governed the town for thirty years, his condition was now terminal. That was the problem; once you have been sitting on the throne of power for as long as he had, your bottom falls asleep, and your legs go stiff, and your fingernails get lodged into the armrests. In fact, it had reached the point in his condition where the Mayor believed he had become the throne, which in turn meant he could treat everyone else as his footstool.

His advisors sat respectfully around the boardroom table. The Mayor strode into the room, ignored his advisors’ mumbled greetings and continued to once again stare down at the parade.

“I see you have done a fine job on security this year, Mrs. Jones,” he commented. “Double the manpower, dog patrols, security cameras, very impressive work indeed.”

Mrs. Jones straightened her back, but only slightly. Praise was always followed by praise-eating piranhas.

“But, as we all know, the star prize goes to whoever captures me a Carrot Bandit.”

Everyone in the room flinched. Those two scary little words crawled under the advisors’ skin and wriggled about until all their insides were thoroughly jumbled up. The Mayor, on the other hand, was completely unflustered. It took more than two little words to jumble his insides, mainly because he had a large amount of insides in the first place.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the Mayor’s Advisory Panel,” said the Mayor to his advisors. “Today is going to be a good day. Today I will strike back. Today I will show this bunch of amateurs that no one terrorises my town. Nobody can stop me from switching on my Nuclear Power Station in one month’s time.”

Since the Mayor had announced his controversial plans, a meddlesome group of activists had been causing trouble. It was controversial because he announced the major one-year project to build a Nuclear Power Station one month ago. He thought it was a good idea because he was using the promise of unlimited energy to become re-elected, and it was working. Picklington Lake, which had been bubbling away with a toxic green vapour hovering over the surface due to a disastrous radiation leak, strongly disagreed.

They called themselves the Carrot Bandits. They were a sneaky bunch, always managing to ruin the Mayor’s plans without being caught. However, he was a man well accustomed to vengeance. Evil anticipation flowed through his veins.

“But, sir, don’t you think,” muttered a wobbly voice behind him, “and I mean this with the deepest respect, that ignoring the Carrot Bandits’ threats to sabotage the parade and endangering the public by not cancelling seems a bit, well . . . immoral.”

The Mayor sighed. “Thank you, Mr. Dean. That’ll be all.”

The entire boardroom slouched a few inches. To the untrained ear, that sentence could be mistaken to mean the Mayor valued Mr. Dean’s opinion or even appreciated it. However, may I point out that all the other advisors turned their heads towards the victim and mouthed ‘it was nice working with you’. Mr. Dean sheepishly stood up, collected his things and reached for the door knob.

“Before you go, I could do with an extra pair of eyes on the ground. I can see the perfect spot right at the front that will do nicely. Now run along.”

Everyone in the room gulped. The furniture creaked. The plant in the corner withered slightly. The condemned advisor scuttled off. The pigeons perching on the ledge outside courteously cooed to fill the silence. The Mayor congratulated himself with a satisfied smirk.

Suddenly, a paper aeroplane whizzed past the window. The Mayor traced it back to the source and found himself staring at a scrawny boy. Never before had the word scrawny been a more fitting description. The boy was the only person partaking in the parade on foot. Everyone else was using fossil fuels and the electricity provided, like good citizens.

He cast the insignificant boy aside and checked on his main attraction. At the centre of the parade stood an eighty-foot-high Plasma TV pyramid advertising his Nuclear Power Station’s Grand Opening Ceremony one month from now. It was the light fantastic. The people of Picklington were absolutely awestruck.

The wonderful thing about propaganda was its overall ease and effectiveness. Simply advertise all the good stuff, neglect to tell anyone about the bad stuff, throw in some juicy lies and project it all on huge TV screens. The people of Picklington always believed every pixel, without fail. Nobody needed to know that the Nuclear Power Station had a list of safety problems roughly the size of his enormous belt. He also found that a catchy theme tune helped.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed something rolling away from the boy. Then there was a loud BANG . . .

. . . followed by another BANG . . . and another . . . and another.

A chain reaction of explosions spread across the panicked crowd.

“Release the armed  security team,” growled the smiling architect of chaos, “and make sure they capture the boy alive.”

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New Book – The Boy Who Stole One Million Socks

ISBN: 978-1-5213-8224-0
Published: 6th July 2017
Ebook: £2.99 / $3.99
Paperback: £7.99 / $9.95

Mark your calendars! My next book – The Boy Who Stole One Million Socks – is on sale and available to pre-order now.

So, what can I tell you:

  • The boy (who stole all the socks) is called Seaweed
  • Front cover is blue, dark blue
  • It’s a story about good intentions and bad choices: sometimes doing the right thing can lead you down the wrong path, but no matter how far down the path you walk you can always turn around and walk back.
  • It’s also really funny!
  • Inside you’ll find 40 illustrations, including a wrecking ball, paper aeroplanes, and lots and lots of socks!
  • Word Count: 33,399 (and yes, I did try to hit 33,333)
  • For those of you who read it you’ll also find bunny rabbits, stale biscuits, pigeons, wheelbarrows, smoke bombs, a bad guy, advanced mathematics, paper aeroplanes, tasers, carrots, thugs, tea bags, mild risk of death by nuclear explosion and a few juicy sneezes

And, for the first time, the book is available as a Paperback as well as in the usual Ebook format. It took a lot of extra work but it was certainly worth it. You can see some of the illustrations from the book here.

You can get your copy now from Amazon, iBooks, Nook, Kobo and Smashwords.
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The New Arrival . . . 49 Excuses for Not Eating Your Vegetables

I’m pleased to announce another book in the 49… Series is now out and available to buy. Here’s some facts about the book:

  • It’s green.
  • It contains a piece of broccoli wearing earphones, a snail police chase, and a frog with a silly hair-do.
  • It’s the 8th book in the series.
  • At the back of the book is a sample for my next children’s fiction book (two whole chapters, with illustrations).
  • It’s probably the best thing to ever happen since the invention of the heated toilet seat.

You can get your copy now from Amazon, iBooks, Nook, Kobo and Smashwords.

I’m now making the final adjustments to my next children’s fiction book, which will probably be called Seaweed and the Carrot Bandits (although I’m very tempted to call it Help! My Pet Bunny Rabbit is a Criminal Genius). It’s already been through the editing process and needs a little polishing before release . . . but it won’t be long before you get to see it, I promise.

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Introducing Book Four in the 49… Series

Blog Four BooksAnother book has appeared… and this one is purple.

’49 Questions to Annoy Your Parents’ has finally arrived and is available for pre-order today now from Amazon & Kobo (so far, iTunes, Smashwords and Nook to follow).

By now most people probably know the deal with these little cartoon books I’ve been writing and drawing for the past two years, but for the sake of being thorough here’s what you will find inside:

  • 49 annoying questions
  • 49 silly cartoons
  • All linked together by more silliness
  • Plus somewhere inside you’ll find a killer onion, a butterfly reading a book and the letter ‘k’ with a goofy grin

Needless to say book 4 in the 49… Series was extremely fun to make (he typed with an even goofier grin on his face). Much like the last release I’ll upload some snippits and sneak-peaks so be on the look out!

Progress Report Cont.

Writing Progress 2

It may seem like progress has been slow over the winter period, and I am willing to accept this statement (with a clenched jaw and a healthy collection of excuses). So I am hoping that using the Star Wars font in my graphic will make the progress I have made more note-worthy/dramatic/exciting-enough-to-keep-your-interest.

My biggest achievement would be finishing the first draft of my next children’s fiction book – Seaweed and the Carrot Bandits. A huge milestone but also a sobering one. You see, now that the first draft has been completed the next stage is to edit every chapter, paragraph and word so it all makes sense. Here is the breakdown:

  • 27 chapters
  • 87 pages (in 11pt font)
  • 40,805 words

While editing I will also start drawing the next instalment in the 49… Series – 49 Annoying Question to Ask Your Parents. So when I start pulling my hair out over sentence structure and plot continuity I can escape the editing nightmare by picking up a pencil and drawing silly pictures. . .  drawings like this. . .

Hand and Brain Desease Security Vault

So over the next few months I will be editing, then drawing, then editing, then banging my head against the desk, then drawing, and so on. Hopefully, if I have enough brain cells left, both books will be published by the end of the summer (I predict 49 Annoying Questions to Ask Your Parents will be first). I will let you know once they are coming out, of course.

Thanks for keeping an interest.

Press Release: 49 Excuses for Not Doing Your Homework

New eBookRelease Date: 30/10/2014

ISBN: 9781310954818

Available from the following stores: Amazon, Kobo, B&N, iTunes, Smashwords, and Scribd.

Today I am one proud little author (see drawing above).

My latest eBook in the 49… Series has gone on sale today. Here’s just a hand full of reasons why I think you’ll enjoy reading it:

  • It’s full of cartoons (49 to be precise)
  • It pokes fun at homework (but includes a tasty little moral at the end)
  • It’s a fast-paced read (around 30 minutes if you read like me)
  • It’s a bargain! £1.49 (less than a coffee or 150 penny sweets)
  • It’s definitely the best one yet.

If you’ve read the previous two books in the 49… Series then I hope you’ll agree. If not, please download the first in the series for FREE and decide for yourself.

You can also download samples from all the websites listed above. If you do buy my latest eBook please consider leaving a review on the website you purchased it from as this is by far the best way you can support me! For those Good Reads folk, you are most welcome to review the eBook here.

Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy  the eBook.

The Latest Addition to the 49… Series

Other Books by JW

I’d like to introduce you to the newest, shiniest member of the 49… Series – ’49 Excuses for Not Doing Your Homework’ – available for pre-order now from Amazon, Kobo and Smashwords (and also B&N and iBooks soon).

Inside you’ll find 49 drawings and 49 excuses (as per usual). I think I’ve really kick it up a notch this time; everything just feels better:

  • the illustrations are more daring than ever before
  • the ideas hit a new level of silliness/cheekiness
  • even the eBook production is more professional

There’s no point in pretending that the inspiration for this one was a strenuous process. All the ideas for these excuses came naturally thanks to 12 years of the British Educational System and the inability to remember my homework. I was a willing student. I did my homework (most of the time). Sometimes I even enjoyed it. The problem was my wonderfully written homework would sit on the desk in my bedroom because I had forgotten to put in my school bag.

So I hope that the end result (this collection of humourous excuses for forgetful kids like me) shows the added effort that went into this addition for my little cartoon eBook series. Most of all I hope everyone who opens it will enjoy it!

~~~Review Copies Available~~~

For the first time ever I’d like to give away some eBooks for honest reviews. It’s simple really… you let me know you’re interested… I’ll send you the eBook in the format of your choice for free… you read it… then review it online wherever you like!

If you’re interested please drop me an email – cjwarwood-at-hotmail-dot-com.

Going on a Writing Break

Writing Break

Small announcement everyone… I’m going on a writing break.

It’s been a while since I’ve got some serious writing done, so I’ve set myself the ambitious task of taking on 3 writing projects. Here’s a closer look at each of them:

Seaweed and the Carrot Bandits:

Following on from my first children’s fiction book – The Grotty Spoon – will be this little cracker.

The main character (Seaweed) is a little campaigner for Energy Saving in a town where the average household owns 12 TV’s, 156 plug sockets, 3 cars, and one solitary energy saving light bulbs (usually found in the garage). The power hungry Mayor has big plans to build a huge Power Station that will feed the electricity greed of the town. Seaweed is the only one against it. Every campaign to stop the Power Station fails… until he joins a rogue terrorist group called the Carrot Bandits.

I’m really looking forward to sharing it with you all. It’s going to be really fun, extremely silly, and will actually feature a well-thought plot.

49 Excuses & 49 Questions:

These two books will follow on from the surprisingly successful first two in my cartoon series – 49 Excuses for Not Tidying Your Bedroom and 49 Ways to Steal the Cookie Jar.

It’ll be more of the same silliness alongside even sillier drawings. I’m not going to lie to you so I’ll tell you what I feel in my gut… these are going to be tough to finish but they’ll both be worth the effort.

Unfortunately I wouldn’t be able to keep up the momentum of churning out a cartoon every week. I’ll try my best to throw at least one your way every month but I can’t make any solid promises if I want to finish these 3 writing projects. Anyone who has made it this far into this post most certainly deserves a reward. So here’s a tiny snip-it from Seaweed and the Carrot Bandits:

“W-whoever y-you are I have a b-b-baseball b-bat and I’m not afraid t-to use it”, quivered a familiar voice.

Seaweed could smell the fear dripping from his pathetic father’s forehead (the very same man who once locked himself in the downstairs cupboard for several hours because a spider was sighted in the neighbour’s garden). The frightened voice spoke up with the authority and charisma of a door mat.

“I’m t-turning the light on now so you b-better start r-running.”

“I wouldn’t do that yet”.

“Why n-not”, quivered dad.

“You need to scare me some more before you switch the light on.”

“D-d-do I?”

“Well, I know you’re holding a baseball bat but you haven’t told me want you’re going to do with it yet. So come on, make me shake with fear.”

A short pause followed in which the faint sound of a squeaky hamster wheel drifted down the stairs.

“I’m a little out of p-practice at th-threatening b-b-burglars so if you could s-start me off I w-would be very g-g-grateful.”

“You know, ‘I’ll break both your kneecaps you little toerag’ or ‘you’ll never walk again after my baseball bat is through with you’. That kind of thing.”

“Oh r-right.”

He cleared his throat and dropped his vocal chords down a couple of semi-tones.

“Y-young man, you should have b-brought a w-w-wheel chair along for this r-robbery because I used to be in my schools r-rounder’s team and although I always m-missed the b-ball I had lots of p-practice at accidently w-whacking my sh-shins, and I can tell you they r-r-really h-hurt and would occasionally leave some very n-nasty bruises.”

If it wasn’t so dark in that hallway you would’ve seen Mr. and Mrs. Tumbleweed and their seven children rolling between Seaweed and his dad on their way to the annual awards ceremony for the best family tumbleweed act.

“You’re not very good at this are you?”

“It’s the n-nerves talking, give m-me another g-go.”

“I think you’ve just missed your chance.”

“Please s-sir. I know I c-can do b-better. You’ll be s-shaking in your b-b-boot this time.”

Seaweed could never miss an opportunity for a good chuckle, which with a father as feeble as his was an hourly occasion.

“Ok bozo, but let me give you a few tips first.”

“Th-th-thank you s-sir.”

“Never, ever thank a burglar! Slap yourself hard in the face.”

SLAP. “I feel b-better already, a-anything else.”

“Keep your threats short and snappy, don’t babble on and on like a Geography Teacher. In fact I have a better idea, a man of your appearance should play to his strengths so forget talking altogether and act like an angry Orangutan.”

“Right, I m-mean… Ook.”