Category Archives: Writing

Crushed Nuts 2.

Earlier this week, I promised to print the opening of the sequel to “Crushed Nuts on the Cote d’Azur” which is still on Amazon HERE.

If you don’t have access to a KINDLE, you can download Kindle for PC here and it’s FREE!

In the original novel, Ermwright swore to kill Dudley (who had absconded with Ermwright’s daughter, Candy) marinade him and have him served up as pâté at a European Union leaders’ banquet.

In the sequel, the à la carte insanity racks up with special appearances from Merkel, Cameron and all the usual Euro suspects.

(For older readers….Apologies to the Fred Emney Estate).


Ermwright pursed his lips, narrowed his piggy eyes, dropped his guts and thought: “There’s nowt as champion as t’smell of yer own fart!”

But as he staggered up from the worn leather wing-chair, he felt a slight stickiness and was immediately glad that he’d worn his mid-brown elephant cord trousers. Just for luck, he let go another one.

Several copies of the Times, Telegraph and BDSM gently rippled in the toxic Ermwright-breeze as he clopped loudly through the forest of Chesterfields on his way to the counter next to the porter’s chair.

Luckily, the other eight-or-so members present were dozing under their newspapers. If they hadn’t been asleep, the Ermwright equivalent of a radioactive stench-cloud which the Chairman of Ermwright Black Pudding International had deposited, would doubtless have bleached their nasal hair, induced extreme projectile-vomiting and ultimately put them into a coma.

Ermwright continued to carpet-bomb with a staccato array of wet farts as he approached the “Club Slave” (his own little joke!).

He could feel the wetness in his underpants – “Ne’er meend,” he thought, “They’ll dry….”

The Club Slave, or Craggs the Butler as he preferred to be known, always appeared to be looking into the distance – except when dealing with Ermwright.

“Sir?” he tipped his head forward as he spoke to the purple-faced apparition leaning and drooling on his highly-polished counter.

“Craggs yer bastard, cannee goo art and gerrus a pair o’ skids. Ah thing ah’s shit mesel’.” offered Ermwright as he pulled at the back of his brown Cords.

Luckily, Craggs was tuned into “Ermwright-speak” and so understood the request as: ‘Mr Craggs, would you please go out and buy me a pair of underpants. I do believe that I have shit myself.’

Craggs was not a snob, even though his father had been a bankrupted baronet. He, along with all the other club members hated Ermwright with a passion and Craggs felt (quite rightly) that as this was the most exclusive London gentlemens’s club, there was no room for a low-life such as Ermwright within the walls of such an august establishment. (To Craggs, the term lowlife’ is applied to anyone who had not attended either Eton or Harrow – preferably the former). The only exceptions were moneyed homosexuals. Craggs liked those!

Speaking of moneyed homosexuals, his happiest time in London and at the Club had been during the good old Cold War days when every operative was either an alcoholic queen working for the KGB or a politician working for the CIA. In those days, the Club was full of them.

Craggs was (and is) what used to be known as a ‘confirmed bachelor’.  A childhood at prep school from the age of five, followed  by eight years at a well-known public school being beaten and buggered senseless had served to form his extravagantly quirky character.

Although he worked in the West End, home was a tiny but very neat one-bedroom flat above an Estate Agency in Brighton’s Kemptown. There he would spend weekends-in with young friends. Some he’d meet in Brighton clubs, whilst others might be fellow enthusiasts of the more vigorous and often painful indoor pursuits.

Although no-one at the Club was aware, Craggs had met Ermwright in Brighton. To Craggs’ eternal shame, he and Ermwright had “previous”.

After his difficulties with the French president and the Mafia, Ermwright had voluntarily booked himself into an institution which catered to those with major personality defects. Ermwright was, shall we say, overqualified.

The ‘hospital’ happened to be somewhere between Brighton and Eastbourne so that when another inmate invited Ermwright to a ‘soiree’ in Kemptown and it had happened to be in Craggs’ flat – the ‘friendship’ between Craggs and Ermwright was born.

Even on that first meeting there wasn’t much between them – merely a smidge of KY and an inflatable sheep…………..