To all my fans out there who have been crying out for this, especially Moonroot in South Wales, you groovy Celt you (look you! Borra Da as you funny chaps say), then here it is, in it's entirety - the first chapter of my new novel "A Load of Wankler". Enjoy! A Load of Wankler
By Giles London
Chapter Uno
A strong smell of freshly ground coffee pervaded up from the street near the Kensington town house of one of London’s most powerful men. Yes, he was powerful alright. His forthright views on London’s restaurant scene had shaken the media world to its very foundations. That is of course if it had any, but it didn’t, it was just a figure of speech and not a great big building somewhere. But it would be funny if it was wouldn’t it? Anyway, this powerful chap was Guy Wankler, top restaurant reviewer and critic from the world renowned London paper called “The Daily London Paper”. He stirred in his sleep and turned over in his really big bed with the black satin sheets and his sleepy eyes opened on a vision of beauty. It was a mirror. After looking at this for about 15 minutes he turned back the other way and there she was Samantha Ferrari, the top model, singer and expert on Japanese shitake mushrooms. And she was completely naked. Totally. Guy pulled back the black satin sheets and had a really good look. Good udders and child bearing hips. Perhaps he’d pop the question one day; he knew she was dying for him to do that. This top catwalk model who only ever travelled in the top floor bit of 747’s and was frequently placed highly in “Nuts” magazine’s “most shaggable looking birds” contests was his and his alone – and she adored him and wanted to have babies with him. But not right now. She was asleep.
Guy sniffed the air in his room and that smell of the freshly ground coffee reminded him it was time to get up and hit the world, before it hit him. He stood up and stretched and admired his naked body in the full length mirror he had opposite his bed. He was 6 feet tall with a carefully toned body and a brain educated at Westminster School and Cambridge University. He had the sort of rugged suave looks that drove Fillies mad with desire and didn’t require him to have a John Thomas the size of Canary Wharf when it came to getting some (even though funnily enough he was enormously endowed in that department – genitalia that is, not with skyscrapers in Docklands). Just then the phone rang. Guy snatched it up.
“Yellow” he said, mimicking that really funny American chap in the cartoon with the horrible son. He liked people to know he had the pulse on modern youth culture as well as knowing such high brow University Challenge stuff like what Vivaldi’s favourite flavour yoghurt was when he was painting the Sistine Chapel. It was Gordon Ruffty, the famous swearing Scottish TV chef.
“Guy…” he began. Guy cut him short.
“Look you Caledonian Neanderthal, how many times must I tell you – it’s GUY (pronounced GEE) as in Ghee which is a class of clarified butter that originated in the Indian Subcontinent, and is important in Indian and Egyptian cuisines and in Ethiopian/Eritrean cuisines and not Guy as in a gorilla from London Zoo yonks ago…” The savagery of Guy’s riposte to Gordon’s faux pas was like a French sirocco only a bit more savage and less blowy. Gordon whimpered his simpering apology to Guy. “OK, but don’t forget it…” hissed Guy and admired himself in the mirror again. “What do you want then?” he asked.
“Och, hoots mon, my braw bonnie new restaurant is doing good with a Michelin Star and all that but I desperately need a new one and I could only possibly get it with help from you, Guy. You’re so powerful and all the birds want you and whatever you write in your column makes everyone sit up and take notice and makes such a difference to the entire British economy…”
“I know that. Just get to the fucking point” Guy bellowed, doing a couple of squat thrusts while his expensive top of the range telephone was on digital loudspeaker. Ruffty squealed like a big girl.
“Och, hoots mon, please will you no come and review ma braw bonnie wee restaurant – and be kind. I couldnae stand a bad review from you. You’re so powerful and thrusting…” Guy jumped back to his feet from his mini-workout.
“That’s just what Samantha said last night…” he arched his eyebrow seductively, but of course Gordon couldn’t see it as he was on a telephone and wouldn’t have been impressed really as his bread isn’t buttered that way, and neither is Guy’s. Not at all and no matter what old “Stumpy” Massingbird says in the Old Boys Newsletter each Christmas.
“Please!” Whined Gordon. “You’re ma last hope, Jimmy, och aye the noo.” Guy let him sweat a while, and then said:
“See you soon, Gordon. Be on your best behaviour if you want that star…” and he slammed down the phone like a real man. Because he is one. Samantha stirred in the bed.
“What’s going on, darling?” she asked sitting up and letting Guy see both her udders really clearly.
“This condom!” Yelled Guy, and leapt on top of the completely naked top international model and had her. Every which way. You name it, he did it and she loved it and wanted more, and what’s more he used his old chap really cleverly and properly. A bit like Zorro really.
By Giles London
Chapter Uno
A strong smell of freshly ground coffee pervaded up from the street near the Kensington town house of one of London’s most powerful men. Yes, he was powerful alright. His forthright views on London’s restaurant scene had shaken the media world to its very foundations. That is of course if it had any, but it didn’t, it was just a figure of speech and not a great big building somewhere. But it would be funny if it was wouldn’t it? Anyway, this powerful chap was Guy Wankler, top restaurant reviewer and critic from the world renowned London paper called “The Daily London Paper”. He stirred in his sleep and turned over in his really big bed with the black satin sheets and his sleepy eyes opened on a vision of beauty. It was a mirror. After looking at this for about 15 minutes he turned back the other way and there she was Samantha Ferrari, the top model, singer and expert on Japanese shitake mushrooms. And she was completely naked. Totally. Guy pulled back the black satin sheets and had a really good look. Good udders and child bearing hips. Perhaps he’d pop the question one day; he knew she was dying for him to do that. This top catwalk model who only ever travelled in the top floor bit of 747’s and was frequently placed highly in “Nuts” magazine’s “most shaggable looking birds” contests was his and his alone – and she adored him and wanted to have babies with him. But not right now. She was asleep.
Guy sniffed the air in his room and that smell of the freshly ground coffee reminded him it was time to get up and hit the world, before it hit him. He stood up and stretched and admired his naked body in the full length mirror he had opposite his bed. He was 6 feet tall with a carefully toned body and a brain educated at Westminster School and Cambridge University. He had the sort of rugged suave looks that drove Fillies mad with desire and didn’t require him to have a John Thomas the size of Canary Wharf when it came to getting some (even though funnily enough he was enormously endowed in that department – genitalia that is, not with skyscrapers in Docklands). Just then the phone rang. Guy snatched it up.
“Yellow” he said, mimicking that really funny American chap in the cartoon with the horrible son. He liked people to know he had the pulse on modern youth culture as well as knowing such high brow University Challenge stuff like what Vivaldi’s favourite flavour yoghurt was when he was painting the Sistine Chapel. It was Gordon Ruffty, the famous swearing Scottish TV chef.
“Guy…” he began. Guy cut him short.
“Look you Caledonian Neanderthal, how many times must I tell you – it’s GUY (pronounced GEE) as in Ghee which is a class of clarified butter that originated in the Indian Subcontinent, and is important in Indian and Egyptian cuisines and in Ethiopian/Eritrean cuisines and not Guy as in a gorilla from London Zoo yonks ago…” The savagery of Guy’s riposte to Gordon’s faux pas was like a French sirocco only a bit more savage and less blowy. Gordon whimpered his simpering apology to Guy. “OK, but don’t forget it…” hissed Guy and admired himself in the mirror again. “What do you want then?” he asked.
“Och, hoots mon, my braw bonnie new restaurant is doing good with a Michelin Star and all that but I desperately need a new one and I could only possibly get it with help from you, Guy. You’re so powerful and all the birds want you and whatever you write in your column makes everyone sit up and take notice and makes such a difference to the entire British economy…”
“I know that. Just get to the fucking point” Guy bellowed, doing a couple of squat thrusts while his expensive top of the range telephone was on digital loudspeaker. Ruffty squealed like a big girl.
“Och, hoots mon, please will you no come and review ma braw bonnie wee restaurant – and be kind. I couldnae stand a bad review from you. You’re so powerful and thrusting…” Guy jumped back to his feet from his mini-workout.
“That’s just what Samantha said last night…” he arched his eyebrow seductively, but of course Gordon couldn’t see it as he was on a telephone and wouldn’t have been impressed really as his bread isn’t buttered that way, and neither is Guy’s. Not at all and no matter what old “Stumpy” Massingbird says in the Old Boys Newsletter each Christmas.
“Please!” Whined Gordon. “You’re ma last hope, Jimmy, och aye the noo.” Guy let him sweat a while, and then said:
“See you soon, Gordon. Be on your best behaviour if you want that star…” and he slammed down the phone like a real man. Because he is one. Samantha stirred in the bed.
“What’s going on, darling?” she asked sitting up and letting Guy see both her udders really clearly.
“This condom!” Yelled Guy, and leapt on top of the completely naked top international model and had her. Every which way. You name it, he did it and she loved it and wanted more, and what’s more he used his old chap really cleverly and properly. A bit like Zorro really.
So there you have it fans. Don't forget to email me at gileslondongetsstuffed@yahoo.co.uk and be frank - tell me just how marvellous it is. Ciao!
2 comments:
Surpassed all my expectations..!
Will we be treated to further excerpts?
wow thanks for sharing. I thought writers are keeping their books unpublished to the day they are completely ready. I love the beginning of your book. I hope I will read it whole some day.
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