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Discussion in 'Military History and Militaria' started by convoy_cock, Jul 19, 2004.

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  1. Morning all.

    Myself and a friend have just completed a book. It's been proof read and we're now hoping to foist it on to an unwilling public.

    We've spent the last year and a half writing it under a single pseudonym and are now looking to get it published. We're sure we've written something that people will want to read. It's the story of a lad joining the army and his adventures over the years that he's in. The thing that we feel that we've brought to the table thats new, is that the book is entirely comedic. No serious points are made AT ALL.

    Anyone whos read my posts in the NAAFI bar will catch my drift. The book focuses completely on the aspects of army life that have always made me laugh.

    As we've been writing, we've been passing on bits and bobs to a couple of site members (MDN, Aunty Stella etc) to make sure we're hitting the spot, and the feedback has been very favourable so far.

    We're now going to tread the weary path of turning the manscript into something that can be bought on Amazon! We'll take the usual route and will self publish if we can't find an agent/publisher. All I ask of ARRSE members is if you know anyone in the industry or of a way you might be able to give me a nudge in the direction, to give me a shout on PM.


  2. why not email the guy who wrote "Jack Speak" 3rd edition?
    will let you know his name when i log on from home tonight....

    might be a publishers name and number inside the cover too?

  3. Cutaway

    Cutaway LE Reviewer

    I think that was Rick Jolly wasn't it ?

    The firm that did his first book was Century Publishing Co. Ltd.

    76, Old Compton Street,
    W1V 5PA

    Look their number up on the web.
  4. Yeah thats him. Good Drills saves me having to dig my book out..

    theres another guy (a Matelot again) who wrote "when i was on the Tartar" which if a funny book full of black cats. get hold of that book too as the publishers will like military humour or they wouldnt have taken a chance.

    Best of luck with it and let us know what its called so i can look it up in WH Smith.

  5. Cutaway

    Cutaway LE Reviewer

    "Look it up in WH Smith ?"

    B0LL0CKS !

    I want a signed, hand-written, hardback, Moroccan bound copy for gratis as thanks for my help !

  6. Have seen a few snippets of the book and its a wheeze a minute, written by a true squaddie.

    Its better than all Convoys best posts.

    I have asked a small favour of the authors, that I recieve a free copy, skiffed by both writers.

    All the best with the book mate, if justice was done it should make you wealthier than Mcnab, Ryan and all the other clots put together.
  7. sounds like a cracker , hope it goes well for you , i can see the crowds queueing up in WH smiths now for the signing , and all coming away with big smiles , and a pooey tache.
  8. Yep, I can verify, in my best Sunday Times book review voice, that it is as funny as fcuk :D

    Of course, having got my hands on a lot of it in raw form, I have already copyrighted it as my own work and intend to sue Convoy for every penny he has the second he releases it, just do me a favour and don't tell him yet.
  9. Can we have a couple of tasters like Auld Slappers stories.
    Best of luck guys
  10. Yeah, go on convoy, stick a chapter up....
  11. I'm off on the sick today, but i'll put a bit up when I get into work tomorrow.
  12. My 24 hour malinger is complete.

    As requested, this a small taster of the book and is the start of Eddys Belize tour.

    The distance from APC to Holdfast was about seventy miles and it took a couple of hours to complete the trip. We turned in to camp at about 5.30pm, just in time for tea. We were met by the two lads from 216 who we were to replace. Andy Roundtree and Jase Geaney had been in Holdfast for six months and it showed. They both had mahogany tinged tans and wore nothing but shorts and flip flops.
    “Alright lads, welcome to paradise,” greeted Andy as we jumped from the truck and started pulling our bags off. We all shook hands. Andy and Jase could barely contain themselves. They’d obviously been having a good time, but their flight home was only a week away, and me and the Dalek showing up, was making that date all the more real. He carried on,
    “Right, Eddy, Derek, this is the script. I’ll show you your bedspaces and take you over to tea. It’ll be getting dark in a bit, so you need to get your longs on, or the mozzies will eat you. I won’t bother giving you the work briefing tonight, you look ballbagged.”
    He was quite right. It had been a long haul, since flying out of Brize and I could have probably done with a good nights sleep, but Andy wasn’t finished.
    “So what we’ll do is have a few in the NAAFI, then go down to San Ignacio.”
    My heart sank, as I knew it was going to be a right Saturday night sesh, and quite frankly, I just fancied a kip. But who was I to spoil the party? The lads would be going back home to their families in seven days and they were in the mood for partying. We were shown in to a bright, cool and well-lit room. There were seven beds down each side, separated by lockers. A few of the beds were occupied by blokes sleeping off a big tea. Three ceiling-mounted fans, lazily circulated the fart enriched air. I was given the space nearest the door, and Derek dropped his bags in the pit straight across the room from me. Andy and Jase waited for us outside, and we quickly moved off to the cookhouse, once we’d dropped our bags. The cookhouse could have been in any UK based barracks. It was no different at all. The same, sour-faced sloppies stood behind the hotplate, hoping to leap on anyone taking a liberty with the amount of food they thought they were entitled to have. The food on offer was the same as well. The Army was demonstrating its fierce resistance to any local culinary customs being assimilated, by providing us with jam roly poly, three and a half thousand miles away from home, bless ‘em.
    Despite promising not to talk shop until the next morning, Andy couldn’t help himself, and gave us a bit of a briefing about the camp and its inhabitants, while we were eating.
    “It’s a spot-on camp, honestly. You’re the only two signals blokes here, so you’ll get left alone. You’re the only people allowed in the Commcen, so if anyone’s giving you a bit of gip, you can just go in and lock the door behind you. ******* hell, Derek, give it a rest.”
    The Dalek had just pulled his finger out of his nose and was reaping the nasal benefits of having just driven seventy miles down a dusty road. The thing on the end of his digit looked like a green Monster Munch. For once, he thought better of it, and wiped it on the underside of the table. Andy shuddered, and continued.
    “The Glosters are the duty infantry battalion. The lads are sound, but the seniors and rodneys are dicks. Just try and keep away from them as much as you can. Aside from that, there’s a battery from 29 Commando. They’re a great laugh, all mad bastards. There’s a troop of Engineers, nice fellas, but they tend to keep themselves to themselves and there’s another troop of Blues and Royals. They’re the same detail as the Glosters, watch out for anyone higher than your rank, Eddy.”
    I nodded, and asked,
    “Is that everyone?”
    “More or less, there’s a handful of REME lads and there’s an RAF geezer who POL’s the helicopters. He’s a good lad actually, but he stinks of AVTUR all the time. The good thing is, most of the units have got they’re own little bar. They don’t like lads from the bigger outfits coming in, but ‘cos there’s only two of you, they won’t mind.”
    “So there’s plenty to do on camp?” I asked.
    “It’s alright. They show shit films in the NAAFI bar every weekend. The usual thing to do is have a few beers in one of the bars and then head down town. San Ig’s a good laugh. There’s loads of restaurants and bars, and a couple of nightclubs. The Blue Angel’s probably the best. We’ll show you that one later. Any questions.”
    Before I could say anything, Derek jumped in.
    “Is there an hooerhouse?”
    Andy smiled,
    “Oh yes, my friend. It’s only a little bit down the road as well. It’s called Caracol Farm. It’s out of bounds of course, but nobody really gives a ****, as long as you don’t cause any trouble. The going rate is seven US dollars for a shag and twenty for the whole night. We’ll go later if you want.”
    I thought Derek was going to get his money and knob out there and then, he looked so excited. His unsavoury habits meant that he didn’t get much action in Aldershot. I’d never been in a brothel but was keen to expand my knowledge in this direction.
    “Jesus, Davros, calm down”, said Jase, laughing.
    By this time, we’d finished eating and headed back to the block. Andy looked at his watch.
    “Right it’s half-six. Get scrubbed up, and we’ll see you in the NAAFI at half-seven.”
    With that, they shot off back to their own room. We did as instructed, and arrived in the bar, just after Andy and Jase. There was a huge TV in the corner, blaring out CNN news. There was a table in the opposite corner, so we got sat down there. Andy remained standing.
    “Right then, me in the chair. You’ve got a choice, beer or rum?”
    I’d only drank spirits once before and that experience had taught me to keep well clear.
    “Beer please, mate,” I replied.
    “******* both,” said Derek.
    “I’ll have a beer, Andy, cheers,” chimed Jase.
    “Roger, out.” Andy headed off to the bar. He came back with the round and we started drinking. They showed us a great evening. I soon forgot that I was knackered ......................
  13. oooh you little tease , sounds good so far though mate , very well written.
  14. sorry about the way it scans, but i've just cut and pasted it from the manuscript.

    .......................and got into the swing of it. Drinking in the camp was just like being in the UK, but San Ignacio was a different story. It was a town of about ten thousand people, and they all liked having a good time. The bars were fairly ramshackle, except for one or two. We went to a little restaurant near the Red Rooster Inn, and had a brilliant meal of steak and chips, for next to nothing. It was one of the great things about Belize. You could have a night out, that would cost you upwards of 80 quid in Britain, for 30 US dollars. After eating and visiting a few bars, we headed for The Blue Angel. It was a big club, with room for three or four hundred people inside. Loads of punters and street vendors were milling about outside. We headed in and were instantly assaulted by the volume of the music. A brilliant reggae tune was being played over the PA. Apparently, it was a big local hit, entitled, ‘I Wanna Wake up wid’ Whitney Houston.’ The clientele was representative of Belizean cultural diversity. The country is a real melting pot. Mayans, Creoles, Caucasians, Hispanics and combinations of them all, are dispersed throughout the cities in similar numbers. The country was originally settled by the Mayas. After the collapse of their civilisation, the vacuum was filled, formerly by the Spanish and latterly British colonial interests. Many of the colonists fell in love with the country and remained, along with the descendants of the African slaves that originally sailed with them. By the time I arrived, Belize had been officially independent from the UK for nearly ten years, and was beginning to find it’s feet as a destination for the discerning tourist. As the Blue Angel demonstrated, there was plenty of fun to be had in San Ignacio.
    The whole place was jumping. Everyone was very friendly and you couldn’t help but pick up on the rum-soaked positive vibes generated by the clubbers.
    We spent a couple of hours in there. Rum and Coke was the preferred tipple everywhere. Beer was pretty expensive, but a bottle of rum and a couple of cans of Coke cost peanuts. I quickly found myself moving away from my ‘strictly no spirits’ policy and as a result got drunk pretty quickly, and drummed up enough Dutch Courage to introduce my clumsy, fused-joint dancing into the melee. The other big hit of the time was ‘Me Donkey Want Water.’ It was a brilliant tune, done in the style peculiar to Belize, known as punta-rock. This was a type of music that had descended from Carib Indians and African slaves. It was like a combination of ska and reggae. ‘Me Donkey Want Water’ became the first of a trilogy of songs, which all went to top of the Belizean charts and dealt with the ongoing fortunes of the aforementioned donkey. In the second song, the donkey had obviously received water, and was now expected to pay for it. It was called ‘Work de Donkey.’ In the concluding part, the donkey had outlived it’s usefulness and was about to be traded in for a newer model. It’s title ‘Shoot de Donkey’ left you certain that this particular animal had featured in it’s last punta-rock track. The other tune that they were really into at the time, was the unbearable ‘Sacrifice’ by Elton John. They used to play it at least three times a night. As a change in tempo from punta-rock, it was akin to changing gears in a car from fifth to reverse. Every time it came on, I found myself weaving my way back to the bar, to rejoin Andy, Jase and Derek. They were occupying a corner that gave them a good view of the entire joint, and Andy waved as he saw me coming. As he neared them, he approached me, and crooking his thumb over his shoulder towards the Dalek, said,
    “**** me Eddy, you’re going to have a right laugh with that dirty ****.”
    “What’s he done now?”
    “He’s not shut up about going down the farm since we got here.”
    I looked over his shoulder to see Derek, demonstrating his rhythmic pelvic movement, shagging technique to a disinterested Jase.
    “I wouldn’t ******* mind, but he could have copped off with a girl earlier on, and it wouldn’t have cost him a penny.”
    “Who was that, then?”
    “One of the Yank, Peace Corps birds. She was chatting him up. I was quite impressed. They’re never normally interested in us lot.”
    “What happened?”
    “She was mid-sentence, when the grotty ****** stuck a finger over his right nostril and blew a big oyster out of the left. It landed on her shoe.”
    “That’s Derek.”
    “Lucky for him, the prozzies aren’t too choosy.”
    We went back over to the two of them, who were just getting to the bottom of their rum bottle. It seemed like an appropriate time to leave, and Andy announced, with suitable fanfare.
    “Edward, Derek, if you’d like to accompany me to a taxi, your ladies of the night await.”
    We jumped into a cab outside the club. It was an enormous white, 1963, Chevrolet Impala, with enough room for three people on the front seat. The driver was a powerfully built black guy, with shoulder-length dreads.
    “Andy, Andy, Andy, you are a bad man,” he said laughing, “usual destination?”
    “Alright, James? These are the two new guys that are replacing me and Jase. This is Eddy and that’s Derek.”
    James looked in the rearview mirror and smiled.
    “Hello, fellas. You’ll like The Farm. Mimi will look after you.”
  15. hey convoy , how much of this book is there page wise ?
    are the anecdotes "biographical" or fictional ?