Thursday, 7 February 2019

Exciting Half Price Offer


In yet another calamitous financial miscalculation, I last year decided to invest heavily to produce my first ever official calendar. With twelve themed, highly erotic photographs of myself hanging on the kitchen wall of every housewife in the land, the SJ Smith Calendar 2019 would bolster my brand and bring in some much-needed readies. It worked for the woman in that Helen Mirren movie, so why, I reasoned, should it not work for me?

Unfortunately, the Official SJ Smith Calendar 2019 proved to be the only publication released in 2018 to shift less units than my novel Return to the House of fox, and now, with the new year well and truly upon us, I am not only skint, but my home is packed to the rafters with boxes full of unsold copies and I don’t have enough room to swing my cock around.

I have therefore decided to place the calendar on half price sale, hoping to scrape back some cash and free up my living room.

The calendar is beautifully printed on recycled man-sized tissues, and features twelve tasteful nudes. The highlights include:

  •          Mr January - SJ Smith shovelling winter snow, with his knob out.
  •          Mr July – SJ Smith sniffing a bouquet of fragrant blooms, with his knob out.
  •          Mr October – SJ Smith dressed as a spooky ghost, with his knob out.
  •          Mr December – SJ Smith hanging baubles and eating a mince pie. With his knob out.


You can get your half-priced copy of the Official SJ Smith Calendar 2019 by rooting right to the bottom of the bargain bin in your local pound shop. Or if you’d prefer to receive it for free, then simply wait until March, when I will be fly-tipping the whole lot in the layby near the roundabout.

Tuesday, 8 January 2019

A Brief Idiot's Guide to American History


Our story begins at the end of the first world war.

 After it was decided the British team had successfully machine gunned more of its opponents than the German team, the German team conceded defeat and Britain were declared the winners. A ‘peace’ treaty was signed in Versailles, where it was agreed that Germany would pay lots of money in reparation for their naughty deeds. As Germany was skint and couldn’t afford to pay, a young chap by the name of Alan Dulles got them a vey good deal on a loan from an American bank, allowing them to pay the money they owed back to the Americans to say sorry for all the bad stuff what they done.

Time went on. Germany was stripped of its land and became very poor. As citizens went hungry, an enterprising young chap named Adolf Hitler saw his chance to rise to power. Blaming all of Germany’s problems on the COMMIES and the FUCKING JEWS, he convinced Germans to back his scheme to ‘Make Germany Great Again.’ Germans embraced his policies and elected him Chancellor. Not long after, in a plot which has since been labelled an ‘inside job, which was covered up,’ the German parliament building the Reichstag was burned to the ground, and it was all blamed on the FUCKING COMMIES. Hitler grabbed the moment of public fear and desperation to change German law, stripping away rights from civilians and cementing himself in power.

Not everyone considered Adolf to be a rotten egg - his hatred of COMMIES was fully endorsed by many American millionaires. In fact, it was later discovered the Third Reich Nazi machine was being funded by an American bank, under the stewardship of its CEO, George Herbert Walker.

World War two broke out across Europe. America refused to get involved, but after the bombing of the Hawaiian naval base at Pearl Harbour by the Japanese, an event which was subsequently labelled an ‘inside job which was covered up’, America eventually got involved - not on the side of Hitler, whom many Americans admired so much, but rather on the side of the British, who were considered to be the ‘good guys with guns’.

The war came and went, and with the Germans defeated, everyone agreed that our new enemy was the COMMIES, who were multiplying in the East just like the baddies out of Lord of the Rings. The Iron Curtain was raised, and we glared over it at those BASTARD COMMIES who were trying to steal our freedom.

A decade later, a small island called Cuba, which lay just off the coast of Florida, decided it no longer wanted to be a playground for American millionaires and the mafia, and after a revolution, Cuba turned COMMIE. This was not good, as America didn’t want no GODDAMN COMMIE BASTARDS in its own back yard, and the CIA started training and arming disgruntled Cuban exiles, ready to reinvade their homeland.

As the world was brought to the brink of nuclear annihilation during the Cuban Missile Crisis, the American president JFK decided to follow a path of peace rather than war, and refused to back an all out invasion of Cuba. The Bay of Pigs fiasco followed, resulting in the firing of CIA supremo Alan Dulles.

Not long after, JFK got his head blown off in Dallas, in an incident which would later be considered ‘an inside job that was covered up.’ The police and the FBI and the CIA blamed the killing on Lee Harvey Oswald, who was a COMMIE. A subsequent investigation, headed up by Alan Dulles, agreed with their findings.

JFK wasn’t into war, and he was very interested in reducing American involvement in Vietnam. But with him dead and out the way, the Americans were soon given the red light to invade Vietnam. After the Gulf of Tonkin incident, which would later be considered an ‘inside job which was covered up’, lots of Americans went to Vietnam to fight against COMMIES.

Pretty soon, all the Commies were dead, and Russia adopted a system of fascism – which pleased the USA no end. But with no COMMIES left to fight, the poor Americans had no war to spend their tax trillions on.

Then, in 2001, the great grandson of George Herbert Walker, who had done so much to cleanse the world of COMMIES and JEWS, managed to become President of the USA. As George W Bush read stories to children, attacks on the World Trade Centre and Pentagon, which would later be described as an ‘inside job that was covered up,’ ignited a whole new world war, this time against the MUSLIMS. George W Bush used the moment of public fear and desperation to change American law, introducing the Patriot Act, ensuring any dissenting citizen could be locked up without trial.

Osama Bin Laden – a MUSLIM - was blamed for the atrocity. It was later revealed he was recruited and trained by the CIA, as at the time he was fighting COMMIES in Afghanistan.

But no matter; with MUSLIMS as their new enemy, the US invaded several countries, resulting in a couple of people making a shit load of money out of oil.

Unfortunately, after the crash of 2008, the American government were forced to give all the country’s money to a group of billionaires, after they lost at gambling on the stock exchange. As times got hard and poverty hit, a fascist movement took advantage of the peoples’ woes and came to power on the back of its slogan ‘Make America Great Again.’

The End.


Monday, 12 November 2018

Return to the House of Fox


This Friday will see the release of my fourth novel, and to celebrate the occasion I’ve decided to write this, a half way serious blog post about the book, in the vague hope of shifting a few copies.

I’m of the personal opinion that Return to the House of Fox is the best thing I’ve ever written by a country mile, as I feel for the first time I’ve undergone the proper procedure involved in creating a novel. There are zillions of blogs out there that will tell you what you should and shouldn’t do as you go about crafting your magnum opus - I have read them and, for the large part, completely ignored them. The first House of Fox was a largely improvised affair, shoved together from fragments of crazy dreams and stream of consciousness nonsense with no real idea of what the final outcome would be. A few edits and an email to the Publisher in the hope she would work her usual magic and weave the thing into something tangible, and that was pretty well it.

With the second book, however, I found myself taking the more traditional approach, not necessarily out of choice, but rather because of mitigating circumstances. I got two thirds of the way through the first draft and my hard drive died, killing my poor old computer and, as I had rather foolishly neglected to back up my work, flushing my efforts down the drain. My finances weren’t great at the time, meaning I couldn’t afford a new PC, and so HoF2 went back to being a concept, rather than a construct.

The story continued to grow in my head, and several months later, with a shiny new laptop to work on, I began the second draft from scratch. Things went well at first, but as any wannabe writer will know all too well, there comes a point where you hit the wall and all progress stalls. Around the same time I was unexpectedly made redundant and was suddenly up shit creek in my day to day life, and HoF2 went on the back burner for a while.

When I eventually got back into the writing, I found myself sitting staring at the words, knowing something was wrong, but unable to put my finger on what it was. In the end I realised I had made a huge mistake. Originally, the road movie elements of the story were set in the USA, with a traditional coast to coast voyage, delivering the characters ultimately to Las Vegas. Trouble was, I’d never been to the USA, and for all the time spent observing the county through its various media outlets, I simply didn’t have the geographical knowledge required to fill up a novel. The idea then struck me that I could transplant the action to somewhere I knew all too well; Wales. Instead of Las Vegas, the road trip would bring us to Rhyl, the down market, low rent, North Walian equivalent. The notion was so preposterous I laughed my tits off for two days straight, and I saw how much fun I could have depicting a town I hate so much. Trouble is, this would require an entire rewrite, not something I’d ever untaken before. But sod it; it would be worth the effort. I rolled up my sleeves and wrote draft three right from the beginning.

I got finished, performed a few edits and emailed it off to the publisher. Lisa, bless her, is incredibly patient with my output, and eventually responded that while she liked the book, it was unpublishable in its current state. Originally, HoF2 was peppered with additional short stories throughout the narrative. While I’d thought these short stories gave an interesting background to various characters, Lisa explained they actually disrupted the novel and made it unreadable. So, hey ho, back to the drawing board and version four was knocked together.

So, two years’ work has gone into HoF2, and the finished product is something I’m incredibly happy with. Finally, I’ve made the effort to write a proper novel, rather than take short cuts and get the thing done as quickly as possible. This isn’t my usual explosion of lurid colours, flung haphazardly at a canvas, but rather a carefully crafted cupboard, with drawers that pull out smoothly and don’t fall to bits in your hand. Of course, inside the cupboard lurks the usual cornucopia of porno mags and machine guns, but this time around they’re neatly stacked.

Return to the House of Fox will go on sale Friday 16th November. It is available for pre-order here


The original HoF is available free on Kindle this week, just to whet the appetite for the upcoming release. Click here.







Friday, 28 September 2018

Holiday Blog


This week I decided to take a break from my ongoing publicity drive. I needed to recharge the batteries and blow off the cobwebs. A vacation was in order.

Thus, on Monday morning, my companion and I climbed into the Smithmobile and drove the fifty miles to the ancient and mysterious island of Llanhorny, believed to be the rudest place in Wales. Leaving the mainland behind, we crossed the bridge on the stroke of noon, intent on losing ourselves in the strange landscape and culture of this alien world across the water.

It was only when the first cartographers set foot on Llanhorny and detailed the rugged coastline, that it was discovered the island was shaped like an enormous minge. Copies of maps were sold to navigators and masturbators alike, the saucy topography inspiring lust in lonely gentlemen of the age.

Weaving along tangled country lanes, we make for our first stop, the oldest working dirty dairy farm in the country, where the milk maids are said to wear no knickers and often bend over to attract the attention of passers-by. The place is a bugger to find, as, according to rumour, the island’s council took down all the road signs and sold off the scrap metal to buy drugs. Just as we are on the verge of giving up, we stumble across the farm, but alas, it is closed on Mondays.

A little disheartened, we continue our quest, turning left toward the coast where we hope to visit the National Museum of Tits. After driving straight through an unmarked junction and narrowly avoiding a car accident, we find a parking space and make the short journey on foot along the promenade to the museum gates, but alas, find it to be closed on Mondays.

After a mug of coffee from our flask we consult the guidebook and make for the Institute of Freelance Lesbianism, a cooperative set up by a couple of carpet munchers, back in the seventies, who fled prejudice in search of a simpler island life. We find the institute, and rubbing our hands in anticipation of seeing some hot, girl on girl action, attempt to gain entry via the front door. Unfortunately, according to a note taped above the letterbox, the place is closed on Mondays.

Our holiday is not going well. Frustrated and saddened, we give up on our rude pilgrimage and decide to go to the hotel and get drunk. After another hair-raising drive, we arrive at the quaint inn and carry our luggage inside. Here, at the bar, we find a dairy farmer, a museum curator and a couple of stout ladies in dungarees, drinking lager and arguing about the football results. The landlord scowls at us and barks in guttural language, that the hotel is closed on Mondays.

Wednesday, 12 September 2018

Pant Rant


Today, I am a worried man. Aside of the usual panics and quibbles that distress me, there is an extra load bearing down upon my shoulders. I am scared we may lose the greatest word in the English language. Pants.

The basis of this fear lies in the creeping Americanisation of our culture. Our traditions are changing. The Senior Prom and Trick or Treat have become an integral part of our youngsters’ development. People sit on couches rather than settees, and wear shades rather than sunglasses. A checkout girl at the supermarket even recently told me to “have a nice day”.

Well I’m sorry missy, but I’m British, and I have absolutely no intention of having a ‘nice’ day. I shall have a rank, fucking miserable day, as is my wont, and no amount of nauseating, sickly sweet rhetoric will change that.

Our overweight cousins from across the Atlantic are causing linguistic confusion by mixing up the meaning of the word pants. When they say pants, they mean trousers. When they say underpants, they mean actual pants. How long before the first British child adopts this misuse and spreads the foul affectation to the rest of our youth?

We must resist at all costs. We must cling on to our love of pants, the same way their sturdy elastic lovingly clings to our waists. Pants are funny. Pants are the heart and soul of our sense of Britishness. And most importantly of all, pants are not, and must never become, trousers.

It is for this exact reason I shall today be writing a stiff letter to the President of the America, insisting he and his nation of obese, gun-wielding lunatics desist from damaging our culture any further, or else run the risk of incurring our wrath. No longer shall we meekly bend over and allow the star-spangled hand of the United States to ram its precocious, fledgling language up our British bottoms.

For we here in these isles know the true meaning of pants. We were wearing pants when the Yankees were still in short trousers. Long before the declaration of independence had even been signed, we here in the old world were adjusting our delicate bits and examining our gussets for skidmarks.

That’s right, Mr Trump. It was we who invented this language which you pervert on a daily basis, and it is we who shall define its parameters. A pant is a pant. A trouser is a trouser, and that’s the way it shall stay.

And before you go off to eat your fourteen-pound steakburger, with your AK-47 and your banjo balanced across your knee, I suggest you take some time to think about how you could change your linguistic usage to best suit our needs.

I am suggesting you take immediate steps to insist all American trousers from now on be referred to as over-pants, thus negating the need to place the unnecessary word ‘under’ in front of the classically elegant word ‘pants’.

Take heed of my warning. Wars have been fought for less.

Yours, in pants,
SJ Smith

Thursday, 6 September 2018

More Publicity


With the release date of my fourth novel Return to the House of Fox drawing ever closer, I have been wracking my brain for ideas to raise my profile, in the hope of driving sales up toward double figures. After my attempt to break a world record ended in dismal failure, I have decided to stage a charity event, in the hope of gaining much needed publicity.

Next week I will be participating in a sponsored wank, with all proceeds going to the Gethin Jenkins Foundation for People with Huge Heads but Unusually Skinny Legs. This terrible affliction affects many across Wales, and the foundation does great work by helping suffers buy baggier trousers and grow distracting fringes. I am hoping to raise more than £4 to go towards their sterling efforts.

I will be wanking from Castell Spinbreath, in the heart of rural North Wales, to the Pen y Bryn public tavern, Llanrhos, also in the heart of rural North Wales, but a bit to the left. This epic journey of some seventeen miles will take six days to complete, and see me wanking through some of the most spectacular scenery in the country. I will be joined by local celebrities along the way, who will wank alongside me.

So please, show your support; dig deep in your pockets and send cash, in none sequential, used bills, to SJ Smith, Castell Spinbreath, Wales. And don’t forget to honk your horn and wave if you see me wanking in a street near you.

Tuesday, 4 September 2018

Publicity


With the launch date of my new novel Return to the House of Fox fast approaching, thoughts this week turned to publicity, and how best to pimp my magnum opus to the masses. I’m not allowed on TV after my infamous wardrobe malfunction on the Des O’Connor Show, and they’ve refused to have me back on the radio since I inadvertently used the C word during Children’s Hour.

How then, with the mainstream media shunning me, should I go about ensuring SJ Smith is the name on everyone’s lips?

The answer came to me during a heavy drinking session in a skip behind Tesco. I should make an  attempt to break a world record. What better way to draw attention and boost my reputation? I immediately got on with researching the subject, scouring the web for heroic feats to undertake. The world record for swimming the Channel? Too much like hard work. The world record for eating cheese? No thanks, might give me heartburn.

Then I found it, the perfect challenge for a bone idle fellow like me; the world record for running over old ladies, while driving a double decker bus dressed as Philip Schofield.

A few phone calls and several cans of lager, and I was soon ready for my attempt. A shining red double decker was dispatched from the depot, and my good friend Dodgy Dave managed to procure a dozen old dears from a local Alzheimer’s ward. I donned a grey wig and clutched a cute kitten, and passers-by swore I was a dead ringer for Schofield himself. With everything in place, I gunned the engine and lurched forward to make my mark on history.

But, is as often the case, the day was beset by difficulties. Either my wig would fall off or the kitten would escape, or else the old ladies would wander off to make racial slurs or play bingo. And then a tramp failed to notice the ‘Sorry, not in service’ sign on the front of the double decker, climbed aboard and shat himself on the back seat. The bus company insisted on recalling the vehicle for a hosing down, and I had to wait ages for a replacement.

Eventually, with the sun sinking in the west, I made one last ditch effort. Accelerating along the High Street, I swerved this way and that and mowed down the collective of pensioners. Zimmer frames, false teeth and fur lined boots flew in all directions, and as the screams finally quieted I lit a cigarette and waited for my attempt to be verified.

Norris McSquirter, a wrinkly old bastard in an ill-fitting suit, wandered up and down, hands behind his back, counting the corpses. The current record stood at ten. Had I done enough?

Alas, no. McSquirter conducted an autopsy on one of the old biddies and found she had died not from wounds inflicted by my aggressive driving, but rather from an attack of mange. He ruled the attempt a failure, and sped off chuckling in his Aston Martin.

So, no world record for me, and with only two and a half months to go until the release of Return to the House of Fox, I must come up with a different way to spam the public.