Lowestoft Tweets

I have decided to keep a record on here of some of the more highbrow tweets that the residents of the most easterly town in the UK post on Twitter.

Lowestoft the town that time forgot.

Sean Greentree ‏@SeanGreentree 28 Sep

I'm at Lowestoft Cruising Club (Lowestoft, Suffolk) http://4sq.com/15AWrGz

 james is a penis ‏@Anais_Ribery 28 Sep

Lowestoft college her I come init

Charlie ⊙○●· ‏@0CharlieWyatt0 17m

In lowestoft aka fav town.

Layla Cooke ‏@LaylaaCooke 1h

Brandon and Kieran walk in with blood shot eyes and stink of weed Welcome to lowestoft college.

Alex Barwick ‏@AlexBarwick_ 2h

Anyone know wether Lowestoft teachers are on strike tomorrow

MrJane ‏@kizzletonks 4h

Fucking hate lowestoft shitty town

Nose. ‏@jimmybignose 22h

Fuck. Only just caught my train. Back to shitty Lowestoft. Been a great weekend!

Nicole. ‏@NicoleDavie21 23h

Dear dog walkers, pick up your fucking dog shit! #Lowestoft #dog #inconsiderate

Giovanna ‏@theweerabbit 28 Sep

Lowestoft couple banned for having ‘skinniest dog’ http://news.rspca.org.uk/2013/09/26/lowestoft-couple-banned-for-having-skinniest-dog/#.UkdPos7NuBw.twitter …

LANA ‏@Lanaaaaa_ 28 Sep

Night out in lowestoft different !!!!!

Sam Gallagher ‏@_SamGallagher 28 Sep

Lowestoft sluts... Oh mate, so grimey.

Carine ‏@CarineU 28 Sep

the thought of going back to lowestoft actually depresses me 

ajc⚓ ‏@alicechevvs 28 Sep

Lowestoft- "the one place in the uk that's more than two hours from the nearest motorway link to the rest of the country"

Le0nard ‏@le0nardthedon 46m

Word on the street is ryan sharman has the biggest collection of jailbait in lowestoft

To be continued.

Fancy This?

I am the webmaster at www.look4books.co.uk the free promotion site for Independently Published Authors. I'm also someone who has to work 50 hours a week at his day job. I have come to the conclusion that I can't do both without one or the other suffering. So with regret, but also with some excitement I have decided that "Look 4 Books" needs more than just me running it. So if you love literature, and have some knowledge of very basic web design (Sitebuilder which is pretty idiot proof, no HTML required) and most importantly have the time and enthusiasm to help authors promote their books I would love to hear from you. At the present time "Look 4 Books" makes no profit, but in the unlikely event that it ever did I feel that whoever joins me in this venture should become an equal partner. This can all be discussed at a later date.
If you are interested in this ludicrous venture you can contact me by Email.

Best regards

Gary Walker
My Twitter

Lowestoft

 The Town that Time Forgot

Seven incredibly long years ago I moved to the town of Lowestoft, which is on the Suffolk/Norfolk border. Before this I had been living in the East London/Essex area of the UK. I will not be going into the reasoning behind this strange decision, but suffice to say, it seemed a good idea at the time. For any readers not familiar with the town of Lowestoft I will endeavour to give you a brief description of its history, locality, and its present condition.
Many years ago Lowestoft was famous for herrings, and inbreeding. It's most famous son was John Betjeman. That's the history bit out of the way. The town is situated at the most easterly point in the United Kingdom, so to its east there is nothing but the North Sea. The town boasts the "Most Easterly Post Office", "Most Easterly Cafe", "Most Easterly Carpet Salesman" etc. The nearest motorway (highway for my American readers) is the M25 which is over 100 miles away. A train to London will take you 3 hours (if you're very lucky). The town itself is split in two by the River Lothing. There is a bridge over this river that rises every time a small yacht wants to go sailing in the North Sea. The traffic then waits on both sides of this bridge, while the crew of the yacht finish their gin and tonics and decide to pull up anchor.
Today's residents of Lowestoft consist of two distinct groups. There are the locals, and then there are the outsiders. The locals never, or very rarely leave Lowestoft. The only exception to this rule are the small minority of intelligent locals who leave the town to go to university and never return. The outsider group consists of the retired, and people who find it difficult to live in the real world. You might be asking, so what group does the sanctimonious twit who's writing this blog belong to? I'm in the group that I'd forgotten to mention, the ones trying to sell their house and get the hell out of here.
I would now like to tell you a true story that might help to illustrate the type of town Lowestoft is now. About a year after I moved here I received a letter from my teenage sons school informing me that they were going to be holding an Emergency Parents Evening to discuss the schools impending slide into "Special Measures." Basically like all the schools in Lowestoft, they were CRAP, and they hadn't been able to hide this fact any longer.
So on the day of the Emergency Parents Evening I finished work early in order to arrive at the school in plenty of time. My first thought as I drove into the completely empty school car park was that I had got the wrong date. It was dark, and completely deserted. I got out of my car and walked slowly towards the reception. I pushed on the glass doors and thankfully found that they opened. A lady was sitting behind a small desk polishing her nails. "Good evening, I've come for the parents evening," I said. She flicked her head in the direction of a door to her right. Thinking she might be dumb (in that she couldn't speak, not that she was an inbred local) I walked through this door and found myself in a large classroom which had been turned into a meeting room for the evening. Tables had been pushed together to make one very large boardroom style table, with approximately sixty chairs surrounding it. At the far end of the classroom to where I had entered there were two men in suits standing chatting, and pouring coffee from a glass jug. Seated at the table to their left was a man and a woman, they were both eating biscuits from a large plate which had been placed on the table in front of them. This couple (I will call them the "biscuit couple") never acknowledged my arrival, or uttered a single word throughout the evenings proceedings.
"Good evening," I said. "Who are you?" asked one of the men wearing a suit.
"I'm George's (not real name) dad, he is in his last year here, I've come for the meeting."
"Oh,....you better take a seat."
Once seated I removed a notebook from my briefcase, and placed this along with a pen on the table in front of me. Looking back in hindsight I can now see how strange this must have seemed to the two suited gentlemen in the room.
"Right, let's get this over with," said the older man in the suit.
"Shouldn't we wait for the others?" I asked.
"What others?" said the younger man in a suit.
"But,...all the other chairs, the other parents," I replied. The two men both chuckled.
"Would you like a coffee?" said the older man.
"No thanks." I said politely.
"Biscuit?" he asked.
"No," I said.

So the "Emergency Parents Evening" began. 

To be continued.

1959 Interview with Michael Bond of Paddington Bear Fame

From the October, 1959 issue of Books and Bookmen.
Interview by Elizabeth Henniker Heaton.

The National Book League was rather crowded when my husband and I met Michael Bond there, and we had some difficulty in finding a table for four. Paddington, of course, had to be included in the conversation. After all, it was mainly about him. Eventually we were settled, and Paddington had been given a supply of straws for his ginger pop (he had tried drinking it from a glass but the bubbles tickled his whiskers). Then panic because someone had hung a mackintosh over Paddington's hat, and the entire contents of the pegs had to be rearranged.
At last he was happy, and we were able to ask Michael Bond how and where this irrepresible bear (from Darkest Peru) had originated. Apparently he had given his wife a teddy bear once, and this bear rapidly became part of the family. They were wondering what to name him, and happened to be passing Paddington Station at the time, so that was that! Paddington soon acquired a definitive character of his own as well as a miniature duffle coat and hat. As many readers of A Bear Called Paddington will know, he is polite, brave, resourceful, inquisitive and careful ("but not mean", he will explain). He is very good at bargaining, and incredibly lucky in the way he comes out on top, whatever mess he may have got into. Perhaps it is because he is so likeable that everyone helps him.
I first met Paddington in January, 1958, when, for one reason or another, we were feeling rather depressed. I started reading the manuscript on the way home, with the result that I left my umbrella in the bus. After that it was a fight between my husband and myself as to who should read it first, and eventually most of it was read aloud.

To be continued.

Squirrel Underwear

An advert from 1929 outlining the virtues of Squirrel Underwear for men.
I can't believe the word "nuts" is not mentioned. A very different age.

Britain's Literary Shrines

Famous Places of Pilgrimage

No.1. The shrine of shrines is the little Warwickshire town of Stratford-upon-Avon. If Westminster Abbey is the Parish Church of England, then Stratford-upon-Avon may as truthfully be described as the County town of England. Indeed it is more: wherever Shakespeare's tongue is spoken, men speak of it with reverence. The lovely stretch of country around the birthplace of Shakespeare is more typically English than any you will find throughout the Kingdom.

No.2. Dr. Johnson came to London from his native Lichfield at the age of 28 in the year 1737. He and David Garrick came up together, a fact which goes far to explain Johnson's critical love of Garrick, and Garrick's humorous love of Johnson. In all, Johnson's London homes numbered about a dozen, sadly all but one still survives. No.17, Gough Square. Here he lived for the ten years between 1748 and 1758. This house is now a permanent museum, and the seat of the Johnson Club.

No.3. It is difficult to believe now that Lord Byron who, in 1816 shook the dust of England from his feet never to return alive, and whose career and genius became a European spectacle, was born in what is now the Oxford Street shopping district of London. A plaque marks the site of his birthplace at No.16, Holles Street (sadly now the site of a John Lewis department store). Lord Byron was buried in the church of Hucknall Torkard, where his ancestors lay, close to his ancestral home Newstead Abbey.

No.4. Wordsworth at Rydal Mount: Saddened by the deaths of his two little children, Catherine and Thomas, Wordsworth wrote to Lord Lonsdale in January, 1813.

This house which I have for some time occupied is the parsonage of Grasmere. It stands close by the churchyard, and I have found it absolutely necessary that we should quit a place which by recalling to our minds at every moment the losses which we have sustained in the course of the last year would grievously retard our progress towards that tranquility which it is our duty to aim at.

Wordsworth and his family moved to Rydal Mount by Rydal Water, and there he lived for thirty-seven years until his death in 1850.

Like a fair sister of the sky
Unruffled doth the blue lake lie, 
     The mountains looking on.

To be continued.

Humpty Dumpty and Bo-Peep

Origins of Old Nursery Rhymes. No.2. Humpty Dumpty and Bo-Peep

Shock Horror: Humpty Dumpty wasn't an egg.

There is the verse about Humpty Dumpty which tells of his fall from the wall and the inability of "all the king's horses and all the king's men" to put poor "Humpty together again"; and lots of folks would have us believe that this is merely a riddle, the ready solution of which is "an egg." Really however, the rhyme is based on the career of a bold, bad baron who lived in the days of King John. Originally he was very powerful, but at length disaster overtook him, and he was never able to regain his former enviable position.

 News Flash: Bo-Peep was not a girl.

Bo-Peep was not a maiden, as one would suppose, but a holy friar in the days of the Anglo-Saxons. The contraction "Bo" is a very bad form of the Anglo-Saxon word for "messenger," and it was the business of this friar to go round collecting money for the monasteries. "Sheep" represented the contributions, and the fact that"Bo-Peep had lost her sheep" implied that contributions were very slack. "But some day, no doubt," continues the rhyme, "they will all come home, bringing their tails behind them" - "tails," of course, referring to the much cherished contributions.

Little Jack Horner

Origins of Old Nursery Rhymes. No.1. Little Jack Horner

The story of Little Jack Horner which dates back to the time of Henry VIII, and the dissolution of the monasteries, is particularly interesting. Jack was steward to the Abbot of Glastonbury, and the kitchen attached to that monastery was built of such solid material that Henry could not burn it down. He became very angry, and in order to appease his wrath Jack Horner was sent to the Court with a pie which had an extremely tempting looking crust. Beneath this crust the Abbot had concealed the title-deeds of twelve monasteries which he was offering as a present to the King. Jack, however, was not the trusty servant his master thought him to be, and on his way to the Court he slyly abstracted the title-deeds of the Manor of Wells. Henry did not detect the theft and, on his return to Glastonbury, Jack Horner informed the Abbot that the deeds had been presented to him by the King. They are referred to in the rhyme as a "plum."

He put in his thumb,
And pulled out a plum,
And said, "What a good boy am I!"

Free Book Promotion

Free book promotion at "Look 4 Books" is available to any independently published author. The more books we get on the site, the more exposure you will receive. Traffic to the site ranges from approximately 800 visits per day during the working week, this drops to around 400 a day at weekends. To get your book featured at "Look 4 Books" all you have to do is follow me on Twitter, then send me a Direct Message with a link to your book.
So what are you waiting for My Twitter Profile.

Interview with J.L. Rowling

This is the full transcript of my interview with J.L. Rowling the famous author of books for children who like magic, and posh schools.

Did you steal the Harry Potter character from another author?

No, I did not. My book doesn't contain a character called Harry Potter.

I think you will find it does Ms. Rowling. In fact all your books have a character called Harry Potter in them. All except the new rubbish one.

I have only written one book Mr. Walker, and that contains no mention of a Harry Potter.

Liar.

You are obviously a sick man Mr. Walker who is in need of psychiatric help.

Me mad? You're a crazy women. I offer you the chance to appear on my Blog to discuss your overrated Potter books, and you deny ever writing them.

Mr. Walker, my name is J.L. Rowling, and I have written a book about sheep farming in a convent which is entitled "Bar Nun."

Well why didn't you say so before?

I'm leaving now.

J.R.R. Tolkien and American Publishing

This article is taken from the October, 1969, issue of Books and Bookmen.

Written by James Blish.

One of the most unexpected swings in recent US literary taste has been the widespread popularity, especially among undergraduates, of heroic fantasy. Curiously, the early and still the major beneficiaries of this interest were British authors, but this situation is now in process of change.
The boom began with the 'hobbit' fantasies of the Oxonian J.R.R. Tolkien, a past member of the Oxford Inklings circle which also included C.S. Lewis and Charles Williams. These books had had a small but extremely devoted following in the States since their publication there, but they were not as popular as the three interplanetary romances of Lewis, or the turgid horror stories of the American H.P. Lovecraft.
Then, five years ago, the US paperback publisher Ace Books discovered that through a failure on the part of Tolkien's American publishers, his major work, the three-volume The Lord of the Rings, had been thrown into the public domain in the States. Ace promptly brought out all three volumes in paperback, and the Tolkien cult grew from a few hundred people to many thousands. At first, Ace proposed to pay Tolkien none of the proceeds, and another paperback house, Ballantine Books, risked bringing out an authorised edition, with small changes and additions which could be re-copyrighted, a public notice that Ballantine would pay royalties to the author, and a note from Tolkien asking readers to buy this edition and no other.

Amazingly, this worked. The new printing prospered, at the expense of the Ace edition, and Ballantine now have in print what appears to be every word Tolkien has ever published. (They also do a sizeable trade in 'Come to Middle Earth' posters, originally intended for bookstores but now for sale, and there is even an LP record of hobbit songs.)
Another accident enables one to make a rough estimate of the magnitude of the market. Under pressure from Tolkien fans and writers' organisations, Ace eventually made to Tolkien a royalty payment of around £3,333. Starting from the fact that the minimum paperback royalty in the States is two and a half percent, it must be assumed that the Ace edition at that point (three years ago) had sold about 337,000 copies, despite a year of Ballantine competition. As for the Ballantines, they claim to have grossed more than $1 million on Tolkien, placing their sales in the vicinity of 1,053,000 - a staggering figure, even allowing for the fact that they have more Tolkien books (and posters) to offer, especially when one adds to it the Ace sales. Mr. Tolkien may not yet be in the same league as Harold Robbins, but for a genre author he is setting records of his own (and will probably last a lot longer).

Self-Promotion

Thought it was about time I promoted something that I have written, as I seem to spend most of my waking hours trying to promote others.

My short story "Father Christmas and the Elephunk" will be free for just one day on the 1st December. So if you have any children who like to be read to, or you're just a big kid yourself, please feel free to get something for free. See what I did there?
So if you would like to get in the mood for Christmas read this heartwarming story set on Christmas Eve, 1940.

Shakespeare Was Illiterate

What I am about to disclose will undoubtedly sadden many, and shock even more, but the truth, however hard it is to stomach must be told.

Yesterday while searching through an old box of Star War's toys I came across a screwed up piece of paper (see photographic evidence). I immediately stopped playing with my Star War's toys and went to work on unscrewing the screwed paper. The words that were written on this document made my blood run cold, and my heart pound like a drum being pounded by someone big. You will now read what I have read. Please be aware that what you are about to be told could make you feel uncomfortable, and possibly a little sick, so have a bucket by your side. Here goes.

 Friday, 12th September, 1617.

To whom it may concern

My name is Betty Birtles, and I was shacked up with William Shakespeare for nigh on thirty-three long years. He was a wrong-en, but I always went for bad men. They excite me. Now he is dead I want to tell the world what a terrible thing me and Will done.

It was back in 1585, and me and Will had just started doing it with each other. I was working in a bakers shop, and Will was an unsuccessful pickpocket. One day Will came home to our hovel in Stepney and said he had something to show me. I wasn't in the mood for his naughty games so I hit him over the head with a poker. Once Will was unconscious on the floor I rifled through his pockets to see what he had. All I could find was a half-eaten chickens head, and an empty bottle of gin. Then I opened up his coat and inside was thousands of sheets of paper with words on. I thought what does Will want with words when he can't even read or write? Well I started to read some of the words, and to my great surprise the words were put together in such a way that they told stories, wonderful stories.
When Will finally woke up I asked him where he got all the paper, he told me he had stolen them from a bloke in the pub. I then slapped him round the face, we both ended up rolling on the floor punching and scratching each other. Obviously we then had sex and drunk lots of gin.
In the morning after me and Will had pissed out of the window, I told Will that those papers he had pinched might be worth some money, and that I had a plan that might help to change our miserable lives for the better. My plan was this: Will would have to kill the man that he stole the papers from, and then make out that he had written all the wonderful stories. Will thought I was jesting, and laughed out loud, so I hit him with the poker. We then had sex again. After sex I explained to Will that this was not a laughing matter, and that he must be a man and kill this bloke from the pub. Will said that he would be happy to kill the fella as long as I'd get on top next time we had sex. 
After I had climbed off of Will we set about getting the plan straight. This was not easy for Will because he was an idiot.

Part II. The dastardly deed

The next day I decided that trying to explain the whole of my plan to Will was a complete waste of  time. Will was good in bed, but utterly useless in the brain department. I found out from Will what pub he had robbed his victim in and went straight over there. It was the Ten Bells in Whitechapel, a rather rundown establishment frequented in the main by prostitutes and their clients. I went into the pub, and told the bald dwarf sitting on the bar to get me the manager. The bald dwarf told me that he was the manager, he also said that I was far too ugly to work in there as a prostitute. I explained to him that I was a good girl, and if he ever saw me all made up he would have a hard-on all day long. The dwarf then asked me to do something to him that is far too disgusting to describe in this letter. Once I had done what he had asked, I washed my mouth out with a glass of gin, and then explained to him about the papers that had come into my possession, and that I thought they might have once belonged to one of his customers. The dwarf told me that if they were papers with writing on they must have belonged to.....

To be continued.

The Charles Dickens Interview

Mr. Charles Dickens kindly responded to my good friend Madame Sharlatane's (the famous medium) request for an interview, and here it is.

Me: Good evening Charles, before we begin, and on behalf of my millions of readers I would like to thank you for agreeing to give us this interview.

Charles: No problem at all Gary. I have had the pleasure of reading some of your own brilliant work, so I would be honoured to be interviewed by such a literary God as you.

Me: You are too kind sir.

Charles: No, you are the kind one sir.

Charles then spent over an hour telling me what a fantastic writer I was. I have left this out of the finished transcript because it was all a little embarrassing for me.

Me: Charles, could you let my readers know where you got the idea for Wuthering Heights?

At this point Madame Sharlatane heard what she thought was the word "Ucker," this could be a Germanic term. It's not widely known that Charles Dickens was actually German, and spent his early years working as a waitress in a Bierkeller in Hamburg. Sadly all contact with Mr. Dickens was then lost. Madame Sharlatane will be attempting to speak to him again tomorrow.

William Shakespeare Interview

Yesterday Mr. Shakespeare decided to go for a few drinks with Keith Moon instead of giving me an interview, today, although hungover he has decided to allow me to ask him a few questions. Mr. Shakespeare had contacted me through the famous Medium, Madame Sharlatane. William had told her that he was very angry about the excessive use of 5 Star reviews in relation to self-published books on Amazon.

ME: Good evening Mr. Shakespeare.

WILL: Don't "Good Evening" me you ignorant little man.

ME: Sorry. Can you let my readers know why you are so upset with the reviews on Amazon?

WILL: What's in it for me?

ME: I don't understand.

WILL: What do I get out of it - what's my cut?

ME: I'm giving you the chance to speak to the writers of 2012 from beyond the grave, isn't that enough?

WILL: Fuck off.

According to Madame Sharlatane, Mr. Shakespeare then made a farting noise by blowing hard on the back of his hand, and walked off singing sea shanties with Marilyn Monroe.

We will try and get Mr. Shakespeare to continue this interview on a day when he has not been drinking. So watch this space.