August Update

I spent much of the month of July attempting to drink myself into comfortable oblivion in a bid to escape reality, which has why there have not been any blog updates of late. My life, which never seems to run in a straight line for long, has recently been violently twisting and turning at a rate that has left me feeling seasick. My concentration span is down to less than five seconds, and I’m finding it damned hard to commit words to paper.

Still, here goes with the latest installment of this, the pretentious and largely unread thoughts of a worst selling novelist.

Early reviews for my latest book, The House of Fox, were not just bad - they were borderline vitriolic. I got the impression folk didn’t want to critique my work, so much as form a pitchfork wielding mob and turn up outside my home, demanding I be burnt at the stake for having the audacity to write such a piece of bullshit. ‘Puerile’ was the word thrown up the most often. My argument would be that of course it’s puerile; I wrote the fucking thing. It was never going to be anything but puerile.

One guy said he found House of Fox really boring, because he’d personally participated in all the lurid acts described in the book and there was nothing in there to excite his imagination. I can only say I take my hat off to the man, although I’m still not entirely sure as to whether he was reviewing the novel or boasting about his own sexual prowess.

One or two more positive opinions are slowly starting to drift in, but it’s safe to say House of Fox will remain firmly in the love it or hate it camp, with the vast majority of readers falling into the latter category.

In other news, the two ladies who have moved into my house have turned out not to be the rutting nymphomaniacs I’d hoped for, but rather a couple of fundamentalist Christians, who eat, sleep and drink Jesus. They never swear, watch only Christian movies, listen only to Christian music and pray before they do virtually anything. On laundry days the washing line is crammed with neat rows of eminently sensible underwear.

Many years ago I learned never to argue with religious types, as it’s such an utter waste of energy. Faith will trump logic, evidence, common sense and reality every time. I’m not the sort of fellow who likes to cram his opinion down other people’s throats – live and let live has always been my motto – but last night I got the feeling they were making a first attempt at trying to convert me, and if this scurrilous behaviour persists I will have no option but to return the favour and drag them down into my own, personal darkness.

So God, if you’re listening, I respectfully ask you to encourage your servants to keep their mitts off me, or I will introduce them to jazz, vodka and butt plugs. 

Welcome to the House of Fox

“They’ve got thrills and they’ve got shocks,

Juicy pussies, monster cocks,

Everything to tick your box,

Down in the House of Fox.”

 That’s right, the House of Fox – possibly the only erotic novel of the year to have its own theme song – is now available to buy.

As the country disintegrates and the establishment chase their own tails, why not take a break from the chaos and treat yourself to a trip to the ultimate hedonistic retreat? The House of Fox offers everything you ever desired, as well as things you never even knew you lusted after. It will bring out your inner devil, seduce you into forgetting your fears and abandoning your morals and lead you very much into temptation.

To purchase a copy - available in paperback or for eReader - choose from the following links

Amazon UK

Amazon US

Kobo

Apple

Nook

And be warned; if I don't sell enough copies of this book to finance my early retirement, I fully intend to inflict the sequel on the world. 

Take a Peep at Peeper for Free

In the build up to the release of my third novel The House of Fox, Sinful Press are giving away free E copies of Peeper on Amazon.

Peeper is the story of a struggling private detective who stumbles into a case that is far bigger than anything he has ever dealt with before. Dragged further and further out of his depth, he becomes entangled in the world of a beautiful but manipulative exhibitionist. At the same time, his home life is being turned upside down as his bi-curious wife decides she wishes to explore her sexuality with another woman.


To claim your free, no strings attached copy of Peeper, click on the links below.

Amazon UK

Amazon US

Leisure Release Day

 Thank God it's a slow news day and nothing significant has happened in the UK in the past twenty-four hours to completely overshadow everything else that happens . . .

Leisure tells the story of a young woman named Alice, who is starting a new job in a council run sports centre. Full of hope and expectation, believing this to be the beginning of a dream career, she very quickly realises she has landed herself in an enclave of insanity, where the rules of society have been thrown out the window and the lunatics are firmly in command.

As Alice falls under the spell of the beautiful nymphomaniac Lucy, she finds herself being dragged ever deeper into the chaos, and must decide whether to join in or run for the hills.

Leisure is an erotic farce, full of smut, stupidity and surreal humour. It’s lighter and frothier than Peeper, not nearly so perverse, with the emphasis more on daft comedy than dark fetish. Having said that, there’s plenty of sauciness and ultimately a sort of serious message about how we all put on a different face in the workplace.

You can order Leisure here, for the princely sum of £2.05 

Singledom

It has finally happened. My mad wife has fucked off and left me to go and live in a metal pipe in Cheshire.

The break up is all my fault of course. I was leaning on her, she said, and I can see exactly what she means. I wasn’t pulling my weight; all I did to contribute was work three jobs, six days a week, do all the housework, cooking and shopping, look after the gardens and supply the vast quantities of dope she smoked every day. When you compare this to her tireless efforts to sit on her arse watching telly and take two holidays a month, it’s really no surprise we’re heading for the divorce court. Just because I was suicidally depressed at the crumbling state of my marriage and the sudden death of my best friend is no excuse. I should have done more.

Plus I’m also to blame for the financial hardship we’ve had to endure these past four months. I recklessly frittered away my cash on stupid stuff like bills and food, while all the time she struggled to keep her engineless, leaking narrowboat moored in the most expensive marina in Cheshire. And I utterly failed to magic out of my arse the ten grand she needed to turn her floating skip into a working vessel.

What a cunt I’ve been.

Anyhow, one has to look on the bright side. I’ve two novels out this month, two riotous launch parties to hold, and now that I’m single I’m free to indulge in red hot rumpy pumpy action with a string of salacious females.

So form a queue, ladies; SJ Smith is back on the prowl.

A Busy Month Ahead

Indeed, the month of June is set to be a frantic one. Not only do I have two novels – Leisure and House of Fox – coming out, but I also have two launch parties to prepare for.

The first of these parties will, on June 24^th, see me jump naked out of a large cake. I have no idea where this will occur, as the plan is to place me in the cake several days beforehand, wheel me to an unknown location and – at a pre-arranged signal - I will leap up starkers and present myself to whoever happens to be in the vicinity. It might be a roomful of teenage hotties taking part in a bikini competition, or a meeting for Feminist Lesbian Ninjas, the fun is all in the not knowing. It should be a darn good day.

The second grand occasion will be a launch party in every sense of the word, as to celebrate the release of House of Fox I intend to literally launch myself from a giant catapult, made entirely out of women’s knickers, from my back garden. There’s no way of telling how far I’ll fly, but given the vast amount of elastic I intend to incorporate into this motherfucker, it could be anything up to three miles. So if you happen to live in the North Wales area, then don’t forget to look upwards on June 30^th at seven o’clock, as you may see me go hurtling across the sky.

Plenty for me to do, then: bake a fuck-off big cake and somehow acquire forty-two metric tonnes of women’s underwear. And that’s before I even think about keeping up the social media campaign to mercilessly spam all my friends.

It’s hard work, this erotic writing lark.

Leisure

Another exciting day, as I get to reveal the cover of Leisure for the first time. Should be hitting your Kindle (or other electronic device of some description) June 24th.

Let's Get Sweaty . . . 

No Codeword - by SJ Smith

This bloke in a swallowtail suit and top hat says to us “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen. The party is through here,” and he points toward a red curtain that’s drawn across the corridor. “May I take your hats and coats?”

Everyone else takes off their anoraks and scarves and hand them over, so not wanting to stand out as some socially inept fool, I do exactly the same.

“Thank you, sir.” He comes over to take my coat, and I smile and nod, like this high class living is all in a day’s work. “Your locker number is thirty-two, and the codeword this evening is (blah blah blah).”

Now, for saying I was paralytic and had no fucking idea of what was actually going on, I thought at the time I was doing pretty damn well just to digest my locker number. “Thirty two,” I’m saying to myself. “Thirty-two. Thirty-two.”

Mustn’t forget; thirty-two.

Everything else he said is a bit of a blur, in all honesty.

Next thing I know, this mad woman called Pamela has got me handcuffed to a bed, and is tickling my cock with a feather duster, and I’m saying, “Come on now Pamela, love, will you stop doing that please. I’m trying to watch telly.”

And she keeps laughing. “You’re a naughty boy, and you must be punished.”

She just wouldn’t stop, no matter how much I begged.

Three years passed. I gave up hope of ever being free. Pamela grew bored and I grew bored, but neither of us were allowed to break the cycle. On and on it went, the endless tickling of the cock, and the endless refusals to ever, ever stop.

And it was not until I uttered the word ‘pissflaps’ by sheer accident one evening, did Pamela finally stop tickling my cock. She collapsed in exhaustion at the foot of the bed and suffered a fatal coronary. Realising I finally knew the codeword, I screamed it at the top of my voice.

“Pissflaps! Pissflaps!”

And the man in the swallowtail suit did finally come and release me from my bonds. “Blimey,” he commented out the side of his mouth, as he carried me shivering back to my car. “You must have really been enjoying that.”

“Pissflaps.” I choked into his ear. “Pissflaps. Pissflaps.”

House of Fox Artwork, plus news of Leisure

I'm happy to present the cover art for my upcoming novel The House of Fox. As ever, publisher and designer have done a fantastic job.

We're hoping the book should be out in June, which brings me onto my second piece of news; we have a tentative release date for Leisure, which - fingers crossed - should be out June 24th. Leisure was the first novel I wrote that was accepted for publishing, but owing to several mishaps it's now in a race to be either the second or third to come out. Watch this space for updates.

Reindeer Gains

The journey has been beset by delays ever since we set off. A plane crash in Krakow caused chaos on the roads, and we’re running almost three hours late. I’m starting to sweat it; I’ve several million dollars’ worth of contraband stashed aboard this coach, and if we don’t make it to the rendezvous point in time I’ll be in a world of shit. I gaze out the window as we cross the snowy mountains, a sinking feeling in my gut.

The driver has been off his face on crack ever since we left Budapest. He’s way too brain fried to realise the bus load of passengers he’s carrying is actually a whole load of cleverly disguised illegal shit, bound for the border. The guy sitting up front in a fedora and raincoat is really a stolen Swiss cuckoo clock. The overweight mother nursing two babies is in fact a thousand packs of rolling tobacco wrapped in a flowery dress. I’m smuggling anything and everything – booze, cigarettes, drugs, guns, exotic species. In for a penny, in for a pound, as they say.

Finally, we’re starting to make some good progress, coming down from the high pass to join the Autobahn. If the driver puts his foot down there’s half a chance we might make it in time. My fingers are crossed and my breath is baited. That’s when I realise we’re slowing down. God damn it, what now?

I sprint to the front of the bus and berate the driver. “Why the hell are we stopping?”

“Regulations.” He grins lopsided, his teeth black and rotten. I get it now – he’s run out of drugs and wants more in exchange for his complicity. Son of a bitch.

There’s two hundred thousand dollars’ worth of crack cocaine, disguised as a group of irate Manchester United fans, half way up the right hand side of second class. I break off yet another kilo and fling it at the driver. “Here, put that in your pipe and smoke it.”

“Merci, monsieur.” He cackles as he imbibes, and his eyes glaze over.

“Can we get moving now?”

He shifts into first gear, and we’re about to pull away when there’s a banging on the door. Outside in the snow, a group of scantily clad ladies are demanding to be let on board.

“Ignore them, just get going,” I yell, but it’s too late. The doors are open and the women are trooping inside. Shit – this is going from bad to worse. They head straight to the back, laughing and squawking. There are six of them, all decked out in tiaras and tutus with L plates hung around their necks. A hen party is my guess – I only hope they’ll mind their own business and not give me any trouble. 

Finally we’re underway. I look at my watch and see the wasted seconds and minutes pouring down the drain. Fuck it – I retake my seat and pour a large rum. It’s in the lap of the Gods now.

Drinking while on a mission is never a good idea, and before long I’m grinning back over my shoulder at the gaggle of lovelies, leering at their nubile flesh and imagining what it would be like to have a seven way. By ear-wigging their raucous conversation I determine they’re almost out of alcohol. Here’s my in; I’ll pop back there with a couple of bottle of vintage champagne, which are currently disguised as former world darts champion Eric Bristow, and save the day. I’ll be their knight in shining armour.

All my best chat up lines are ready to go. I straighten my hair and comb my moustache in preparation for seduction, but then all of a sudden the girls are hollering and squealing and the driver jams the brakes on.

“Stop!” the redhead with the massive bazookas is yelling. “There’s a reindeer in the road – we have to rescue it.”

I get a bad feeling, and hope the driver will ignore her. But he’s clearly clocked those massive bazookas of hers and will do anything to get in her good books. He pulls in at the side of the road and opens the doors.

“What the hell are you doing?” I grab the redhead by the arm. “You can’t bring a reindeer on board."

She pouts. “But what if it’s one of Santa’s reindeer? What if it’s Rudolph?”

“Fuck Rudolph. We have a schedule to keep.”

“I don’t care what you think. I’m going to rescue him.” She goes tottering off in her eight inch heels, and I begin the countdown to pandemonium.

The minute she brings the reindeer on board, everything goes apeshit. See, that guy who looks like Tom Selleck three seats behind me is actually another reindeer I’m smuggling, bound for a private zoo in the South of France. Two male reindeer in an enclosed space was never going to be pretty, but to make matters worse, it’s mating season.

My reindeer emits a high pitch snort and leaps to its feet, shrugging off the Hawaiian shirt, sunglasses and fake moustache. The new reindeer snorts in reply, and after a brief bout of foot stamping the pair of them are rutting, taking suicidal runs up the centre aisle and smashing one another with their antlers. Contraband is flying everywhere – fake Picassos, jewellery, hardcore porn and weapons grade plutonium. The hen party girls are screaming and trying to climb out the window. Even the crack addled driver is noticeably perturbed.

I don’t know what the hell else to do; I wait for the bus to stop, get off and abandon the whole shit storm for someone else to tidy up. Guess I’ll have to head south until the smoke clears.

There’s Something Wrong with you . . .

At the beginning of this year I set to finishing off and polishing up The House of Fox, a novel I started work on some six months previous. By the end of January it was ready to go, so I dispatched it to the publisher and crossed my fingers. Within five minutes I was anxiously checking my phone for replies, like some lovesick teenager. Ridiculous, I know, but that’s what this writing game does to you – gets you all hot under the collar as you wait for your latest outpouring to be judged.

The reply I eventually received made me so happy I practically jumped up and down on the spot. It began with the words ‘There’s something wrong you . . .’

A lot of people may have been put off by such a response, but to me it meant I’d achieved exactly what I’d set out to. The House of Fox isn’t a cosy little smut story, but rather a full blown pornographic epic, with gun fights, car chases and even a couple of song and dance routines thrown in for good measure. I didn’t want to write anything that had been written before, and with a bit of luck I’ve managed to pull it off this time.

There’s a very good quote by the late, great Frank Zappa, which I feel is pertinent here. ‘I never set out to be weird - it was other people that decided I was weird’.

Somewhere inside of me lurks a genuine need to break ranks and do the opposite of what everyone else is doing. My life has been rather handicapped by this urge – for example, when the train pulls into the station and all the people move to the edge of the platform and jostle to get close to the doors, I feel a strong desire to go sit in the waiting room and read a newspaper. A crowd of a hundred are going left, therefore my brain tells me to go right. I don’t want to ever fit in with the multitude.

The same goes for my writing. The popular trends in dirty books right now are vampires and sadomasochists. If that’s your kettle of fish then there are a million tomes out there to satisfy your needs, but you won’t find me writing about that stuff. I have an artistic vision I need to satisfy.

The downside to this, of course, is that by steering away from what is popular, I’m walking away from a potential marketplace. People love vampires and sadomasochism – that’s why they buy these books in their droves. Who the fuck wants to read about rocket propelled gimps or obscene Cowboy and Western acts?

We shall see. This morning I signed a contract with Sinful Press to publish The House of Fox. Some time in the near future we will be unleashing this rutting beast upon the world.

I can only apologise in advance.