Grow Content was published on March 14th. The first edition is in hardcover and is available to order from here

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see the excerpt from Peter’s Story below

Peter’s Story

You asked for an excuse to write. Paul pointed at the thick folio, its vacant pages, thinking it was a witty thing to do but not knowing why. I asked for a reason not an excuse they aren’t the same, I don’t turn off and on like a switch. More like a motion sensor, muttered Paul biting his tongue, wondering what would happen next. Already bored are you? Michael had that third or sixth sense, nothing got past unless he was drunk, so 50/50 there. I don’t write out of convention, I aim for the transcendent, the mystic, I want multiple orgasmic cum shots of imagery that sends tired romantics and depressives into states of near death ecstasy. Chance’d be a fine thing. I can you know, I have done it, Nobel prize material. Paul slid two glasses along the counter and pulled the cork from the whiskey with his teeth. Haven’t we all? Being at the old man’s beck and call never paid enough. How does a person maintain such vanity in the midst of rampant incontinence? Poetry means prizes he thought to himself, regretting the evolution of his student come carer role. Paid off the loan, had its perks. Michael liked to stop at six and start getting sloshed. Desperate for company too. He would postulate a load of bollocks about the state of the world before finally soiling himself or losing consciousness around ten. Early evening it was all Paul could do to get some oven chips or a ready meal down him between rants. Freedom! Those who can, drive, those who can’t, wait. Politics in a nutshell. Paul was recording some of their conversations. It might make a nice podcast series, or an unauthorized biography. Michael’s agent had assured him that anything Michael said about leaving Paul anything was a pack of lies. He might get a couple of signed copies out of it, but other than that, nothing more than his final salary. As for wages, the education loan was extracted at source and his gambling took care of the rest. His fuzzy logic insisted that the more he paid off the loan the more he could borrow and bet. Even Solitaire was uninteresting unless there was money on the table. Loans had led him into a world where money was everything, and life is just about putting everything off until you can pay it back. 

Pour the fucking shots man! A short tempered Michael interrupted his thoughts. Scenes from Death in Paradise raced through his mind. He played Cluedo in his head, concocting the perfect murder, death by natural causes. His imagination was particularly vivid when he was most hungover. Pads, wipes, turds with that odd green tinge, caused by the meds so the nurse said. He liked to think of it as poison, the stuff that once gushed out of Mike’s pen now dribbled like sludge from his butt. Almost constantly. Pad wipe shit pad wipe shit.

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