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  1. Another Taster......

    This is the first page of another short story of mine.......

    Carimba, caramba, my friend Jack.
    Jaime wends his way through the sweating, coupling crowd like a bulldozer with manners, never quite causing offence, but not feeling the need to stop and check either.

    Like the air before a storm, the space immediately before him clears, as if advance notice of his progress has reached it and though there are some dark scowls and muttered threats, they never ...
  2. A Taster.....

    This is the introduction to a short story of mine....

    Bingo, bongo, in the Congo.
    "Oh God, the flies ! The eternal flies ! I swear they have followed me here from Mesopotamia. Look ! I recognise that one ! The one with the blue eyes and the quiff !"

    So spake Julian "Bingo" Jennings, as he sat sipping something soothing at a pleasant café near to the Vatican, one lovely, sunny autumn day.

    "You were never in Mesopotamia, ...
  3. The Irish Tales (3)

    Corked ! The Lost weekend (Part Two)

    Before I know it, we are outside on the street, after stepping respectfully around the sleeping body of the red-haired fucker and I am vaguely disconcerted to find that I am accompanied by two Tomases.

    "Bernie is going to open up the place and let us look for the phone," one of them tells me.

    Being a little cunning, I smile at the one whilst addressing the other, as it seems the safest way.

    Tomas ...
  4. The Irish Tales (3)

    Corked ! (The Lost Weekend.)
    It is a cold and wet Friday in late February, or perhaps it is a hot, sunny day in June ?
    Who can say ? Not me, for sure. Not after all this time.

    All I know is that I am on a mission to succour my friend and rival Tomas, who cannot ride to save his life, but now seems to have a cancerous growth in his stomach, even after the poteen cask has been removed.

    And so I board the silver bird and fly the across the Irish ...
  5. The Irish Tales (2)

    Tomas and Ivor (Part Two)

    It was a typical September night in Ireland; misty, moist and magnificent.

    The road to Wellington Bridge from Foulksmills was a single-laner, empty of traffic, but full of demons.

    "Slow down there, Kate !" yells Ivor. "It’s a tricky bend ahead of you now!".

    The road refused to comply, carrying on straight as an arrow.

    "Ah, jesus! Be steady now, darlin’. Big right-hander ...