Back the book or the writer gets it!

I named this blog Blackwatertown after a book I was writing. Ta da! Finally, the book, Blackwatertown, is written, edited and on it’s way to publication with Unbound. But I need your help. (Yup, that’s me in the video, being held at gun point.)

Blackwatertown is a thriller set in a sleepy village on the Irish border in the 1950s – and tells what happens when a maverick cop goes looking for a killer. (More on the website.)

Unbound is a new kind of publisher. A hybrid taking the best of new approaches and traditional mainstream old-style publishing houses.

Old-style means books must pass a quality control test – are they good enough to publish? It means the finished product is professionally produced, whether in print or digital. It also means it goes into high street book shops as well as the likes of Amazon.

New-style means crowd funding. The book is good enough, but is there a market? Let’s prove it through advance sales. Once the funding target is hit, production begins (copy editing, proofing, cover design, printing, distribution.)

Iconic thriller writer Frederick Forsyth with his recent book The Fox

The book, Blackwatertown, is ready. It has some stellar reviews from readers and well known names – like Frederick Forsyth. Yes, the same fella who wrote The Day of the Jackal. That fella. It’s all on the book’s page on the publisher’s website – along with an excerpt, other reviews and details of how you can support it.

There are various ways to back it. Sharing it on social media, telling your mates, generally talking about it. All good. Pledging – an advance order in other words – for an ebook or paperback – even better. And every pledger gets their name in the book. This is where you do it
https://unbound.com/books/blackwatertown/

You can even sign up to extras like naming a character. But not the dog. Doggone it! A lovely person has already snapped up the right to name the daring dog that threatens to derail a political career at a pivotal plot point. (I do enjoy a little alliteration.)

So, for all of you who’ve urged me in the past to get on with it – I have. Or promised to support/pledge/buy it – now you can. Please do. And thanks for all the encouragement over the years gone by.

Advertisement

My boyfriend boils his balls for me

Consideration for others can be shown in various ways. Holding open a door for them. Giving them your seat on the bus. Boiling your balls for them.
Say what?! Wait a minute…

It’s true. It may even be true love. Melody Datz is a lucky lucky girl, because her boyfriend boils his balls for her.

Not in a euphemistic – hey, don’t go boiling my balls – type of way. (Not even to the tune of that Kiki Dee & Elton John duet. Know the one I mean?) We’re talking high temperature testicular torture – literally.

True love is shown in many ways. Here’s an insight into one way to turn up the temperature.

For seven nights out of every month, my boyfriend soaks his balls in a bathtub of 118-degree water for 45 minutes. He crams his six-foot-four frame into our claw-foot bathtub and sweats profusely as a constant stream of hot water slowly kills off enough sperm to render him infertile for the next few weeks.

The ball-intensive approach to the war on sperm—the heat method my boyfriend and I use—is great if you can put in the time and energy, but not many people really want to do this. The water in a hot tub rarely exceeds 104 degrees (or shouldn’t). Sperm-killing water must stay above 116 degrees—FOR 45 MINUTES. This means sitting in a tub (or in a sitz bath or on something really hot) for a long time while continually monitoring the temperature to make sure it’s high enough to zap the little bastards. My boyfriend downs a couple of pitchers of ice water during every bath. And, again, it’s incredibly time-intensive—45 minutes out of every evening for a week out of every month, not to mention the time it takes to run the water and cool down afterward.

I’m really not recommending you copy this yourself, but I really AM recommending you read the full article in the Seattle newspaper The Stranger. It’s about men sharing responsibility. It’s gruesomely fascinating – and interesting about the politics, practicalities and future of conception and contraception. Though oddly, after all the scorching scrotum soaking, there’s not much about sex. (I guess one might not be in the mood.) So it’s a suitable read for everyone.

Apart from squeamish men, of course.

Or to be more concise…

Apart from men.

(And Irish readers may be shocked. The very idea of leaving the immersion heater on so long. Good God. Angela Merkel would never stand for it.)

Amidst the comments left below the original article, was this epic piece of advice from someone calling themselves AlaskanbutnotSeanParnell, who said:

If you are trying to save time by microwaving your balls, remember to puncture them first with a fork.

The dream isn’t everything…

You got a dream? Well dreams cost… But more importantly, scroll down for a very cute clip below.

Sure, I have dreams. Since you ask, Maria. And I work on making them happen. (Not as much as I should or could, but still…)

But what if your dream requires such singled-minded determination as to leave no room for anything else? Is that dedication? Just what it takes?

Debbie Allen as Lydia Grant laid out the deal thus: You’ve got big dreams? You want fame? Well, fame costs. And right here is where you start paying … in sweat.

Fair enough. But I hope – I believe – that you can get to walk the dog and still splash in the puddles. (That’s why this clip is here, but you have to click on the quote to see Fame.)

I hope I’m right. This

Funny

You need cheering up. So here goes…

Mother Teresa (my Granny’s old mucker) died and went to heaven. God greeted her at the Pearly Gates. “Be thou hungry, Mother Teresa?” asked God.

“I could eat,” Mother Teresa replied.

So God opened a can of tuna and reached for a chunk of rye bread and they began to share it. While eating this humble meal, Mother Teresa looked down into Hell and saw the inhabitants devouring huge steaks, lobsters, pheasants, and pastries. Curious, but deeply trusting, she remained quiet.

The next day God again invited her to join him for a meal. Again, it was tuna and rye bread. Once again, Mother Teresa could see the denizens of Hell enjoying lamb, turkey, venison, and delicious desserts. Still she said nothing.

The following day, mealtime arrived and another can of tuna was opened. She couldn’t contain herself any longer. Meekly, she asked, “God, I am grateful to be in heaven with you as a reward for the pious, obedient life I led. But here in heaven all I get to eat is tuna and a piece of rye bread and in the Other Place they eat like emperors and kings! I just don’t understand it…”

God sighed. “Let’s be honest Teresa,” He said, “for just two people, it doesn’t pay to cook.”

Now you’re probably wondering how women burn calories in France?

Three ways. Wine, cigarettes and… surprise, surprise… exercise bikes. But not as you know it.

Here’s another.

A man enters a barber shop for a shave. While the barber is foaming him up, he mentions the problems he has getting a close shave around the cheeks.

“I have just the thing,” says the barber taking a small wooden ball from a nearby drawer. “Just place this between your cheek and gum.”

The client places the ball in his mouth and the barber proceeds with the closest shave the man has ever experienced. After a few strokes the client asks in garbled speech.

“And what if I swallow it?”

“No problem,” says the barber. “Just bring it back tomorrow like everyone else does

Cool Dog 100k

Cool Dog – Alfie – Deptford, London

COOL DOG is here to mark a small Blackwatertown landmark. You – dear readers – have visited this blog 100,000 times and brought the comment total above 5,000.

Thank you.

You’re as cool (if not even cooler) than Cool Dog.

Meanwhile, thank you also to anyone who has downloaded a copy of my ebook The Obituarist. I don’t know who you all are – but I’d love to hear so that I can thank you personally – so let me know if you do – email me at paulwaters99 AT hotmail.com

But I can thank Michael J Lawrence (author of The Aphrodite Conspiracy) for this review:

Got absolutely no work done that afternoon as I opened the first page and the story just kept me engaged until I finished it. Tally ho chaps, bandits at twelve o’clock. A ripping yarn!

Street Art 1: Happy people v worried dog

This guy was loitering down the road.

Looking cheery.

But he was a man of straw.

.

.

.

.

.

Unlike this happy couple

Could this be the woman for me?

I saw this classified advertisement. What do you reckon? Is she the girl for me?

SINGLE BLACK FEMALE seeks male companionship, ethnicity unimportant. I’m a very good girl who LOVES to play. I love long walks in the woods, riding in your pickup truck, hunting, camping and fishing trips, cozy winter nights lying by the fire. Candlelight dinners will have me eating out of your hand. I’ll be at the front door when you get home from work, wearing only what nature gave me. Call……….  and ask for Annie, I’ll be waiting…..

But wait. There’s a picture that goes with the advert

Who was that masked man?

Is your dog ready for Hallowe'en?

Hallowe’en is coming and the goose is getting fat… That was what we sang door to door at Hallowe’en back in Belfast. Tuneful? No. A seasonal song? No. On the scrounge? Yes.

Please put a penny in the old man’s hat… At some houses my mates and I were listened to once, then other residents would be summoned to the door for a repeat of our odd performance.

If you haven’t got a penny, a pound will do… And at many doors we were

Uninvited guests – welcome and unwelcome

I've had some grief from Grannymar in the past about gratuitous swimsuitery - but surely this must count as editorially justified. And gorgeous. (Phoarr.)

It’s summer. It’s sunny. So the bad news is that it’s time to dredge up your swimming cossies.

Eek! I know.

I’m sure Well Done Fillet is not the only one battling with left over winter padding. But never fear, the Good Greatsby has a wonderful list of ways to overcome any embarrassment or shyness you may feel. There’s bound to be an answer that suits you.

But the good news is that it’s time for another guest post from Pam, who lives down the street from me in our village.

You may remember her first guest post about the rabbit lady, the evacuees, the rat catcher and how it was When no one locked their doors on my street.

Well, Pam’s back with a summery account of uninvited guests and how to treat them way back when- featuring foxes, hikers, horses and hunters. So, over to Pam, with more tales of a southern English village:

Although it was before my time, I was told by a neighbour, Mr Ben Batting who lived at No.37, that originally, before the road was built, the oak tree at No.17 used to be on the corner of three fields. When there was a fox killed by the hunt, it used to be nailed to this tree. Before World War Two fox hunting around the woods and fields was a common sight.

One day a

Is this what being a dog lover is about?

Not sure which end of the lead is in charge.

It’s hard for someone who has a real bond with an animal, especially a dog, to explain the nature and strength of the connection to someone who has never experienced it. Or to convey the sense of loss if the animal dies or is taken away.

But Ninni Holmqvist may have managed it