A ground-breaking blend of ghost story, murder mystery and Scottish social drama
If Lily Poole is a 'ghost story', it's unlike any you've ever read before.
John's fresh out of school and trying to find his first job in 1970s Clydebank, Scotland, but times are hard. Local shipyards are shedding workers and the only 'work' is in Youth Training Schemes. John's got bigger problems – he's the only person in town who can see the young girl shivering on the hill by St Stephen’s School.
Parents at the school gates are wary of him, his family and his parish priest struggle to help him come to terms with his visions, and the local police beat him up and have him committed to a locked psychiatric ward.
A trio of perspectives follows John's growth into adulthood. The narrative moves between his perception of events, his girlfriend's and his mother's, carving out a series of overlapping and often contradictory visions of the supernatural, of our patchwork attempts to deal with mental illness and the strengths and struggles of the family bond.
From spiritualists to Catholic theologians, psychiatrists to the staff of a mental institution, police investigators to John's own concerned family, this novel interrogates what it means to see a ghost from different angles – and does it with the fast-paced plotting and tension of the murder mystery that lies at its heart.
Lily Poole breaks the mould of horror fiction to ask serious and urgent questions about society and psychology, and does it while telling a gripping story about murder and deception, about Scotland and mental health, and about love and family.
The wee girl went down in the slush in a soft-boned sprawling way. Gold threads glittered in the sailing-ship crest of St Stephen's school uniform through an unfastened green anorak. A kirby kept long hair, the colour of a sherbet dab, from fizzing over her face. Her movements when getting up became cautious and jerky as a geriatric. She clung to McIver’s hedge with her feet splayed – slipping again, she banged her knee. She studied her feet and thick cabled socks which sneaked down unevenly, wrinkling her legs, ready to expose her ankles as soon as she moved. Clear grey eyes, close to tears, rested on John’s.
Snowflakes clung like porridge to the leather uppers of his Doc Martens blanketed his progress, and biting cold nipped at his feet through two mismatched pairs of football socks. He scanned parked cars, luminous shells of white on light, and looked up towards Shakespeare Avenue, searching for the lumbering presence of an adult, or even the bundled-up spectre of an older brother or sister, hurrying along to catch up with the wee girl. She tottered. He dashed the last few yards to help her and found himself lying on his back at her feet, snowflakes drifting down on his face. He laughed, which made her giggle.
He tried standing, but toppled forward. The wee girl squealed, her fingers scrambling to help, grabbed at the coat-tails of his Crombie. He hooked her wrist, gripped her cold hand, holding her upright and them both safe. She was barely up to his hip. He hunched down to her level, feet sliding sideways.
‘You waiting for your mum?’
A shake of her head. No. Eyes downcast, chin tucked into her quilted anorak, she whispered something though chittering lips.
‘You goin’ to school?’ he asked.
A nod of her head. Yes.
‘Okay-dokey,’ he said, standing up slowly, keeping her close, stopping her from falling.
Her black shiny shoes were broad and flat-soled leather, which irked him – she might as well have been wearing skis. They slid diagonally towards the dentists, shaving the snow, uncovering where the pavement should have been and letting gravity do the work of walking. She giggled as he made a game of it.
They got safely to the corner of Duntocher Road, which made it easier to shuffle forward and reclaim their feet. Kids sloshed in close beside them in weatherproof nylon. They were careless of their bodies, faces sunk inside igloos of duffle-coat hoods. Adults bowled along behind them, collars pulled high and heads bowed in prayer to the elements. A Ford Capri stuttered and skittered, awash, scattering mush towards the side of the road. It juddered forward, slipping and crunching gears, windscreen wipers shuttling backwards and forwards to expose a pasty face leaning forward in the driver’s seat. Parents looked at the car out of the corners of their eyes, resentment shaping blank faces as if machinery was alien and a form of cheating.
Dalmuir Library on Saturday, 19th November at 11.30am
Monday, 14 November 2016
Oh, no, you’re probably thinking. He’s back. I thought when we bought his book that would shut him up and get rid of him. You’re not that lucky. If you’ve read the book, which I take it most of you have by now, or even if you haven’t read the book, kid on you have, just the same as I kidded on I wrote a book, and leave a review at Amazon or Goodreads (or both). I could tell you about algorithms…
You've got a copy of my novel, now be creative and write a review.
Saturday, 6 August 2016
Go to Amazon https://www.amazon.co.uk/Lily-Poole-Jack-ODonnell/dp/1783522356 and follow the instructions for writing a reiew. It costs nothing but your time.
Or Ray is very Smart. https://www.goodreads.com/user/show/15449749-ray-smart. Hit Goodreads and leave a review.
Twitter and Facebook shares all help. Imagine the population of Scotland were all at it and had a book to sell. That's…
the cure for cancer is here
Monday, 4 July 2016
I’d one of those conversations today. Mrs Kerr, who’s about ninety, whispered that John McGinlay had died of the drink.
That’s great I said, because I thought he’d died of cancer.
Well, here’s another whispered conversation, Lily Poole is out and about, and you should be getting your copy pretty soon. I know I’ve been saying that for two years, but I write fiction and tend towards the fabulous…
Last orders at the..
Wednesday, 24 February 2016
I guess you’ve been informed last orders have been called for Lily Poole. Not the book but the chance to pledge and get your name listed as a supporter of the book. Usually, when I hear the shout of last orders I run up to the bar and buy six pints, leave five on the bar and stagger up the road. This is your last chance to behave sensibly or disgracefully, depending on what leg you’re not standing…
Love you to death
Thursday, 17 December 2015
Love You to Death: A Year of Domestic Violence BBC 2, 9pm (iPlayer)
Produced and directed by Vanessa Engels, hers is the narrative voice that asks difficult questions of those left behind and she also asks those involved to read out, to honour, and give voice, to the 86 women killed in Britain by…
Sunday, 22 November 2015
I need to tell you about my alibi, before I tell you what I need an alibi for. As we know anybody that says they’re not drunk and fail to notice that the El Clasico of Real Madrid v Barcelona they are supposedly watching suddenly involves Liverpool swarming towards Manchester City’s goal is on a shaky barstool. I plead guilty to that. And I’d call upon one David Brown to corroborate this metafiction…
A few words to the wise
Thursday, 15 October 2015
Let me take you back to sometime in 2013. I was a little-known writer publishing my work online on ABCtales. That’s not changed. I write for fun and sometimes it’s funny and sometimes not. Usually the latter. I don’t really care. I’m just kicking around ideas in the same way I used to kick a ball around (and no I don’t need reminding how bad I was at fitba, I’ve got a dodgy knee to remind me)…
Wednesday, 2 September 2015
Lots of people (well, one person—thanks for that John Urquhart, but remember my job is to exaggerate) have asked me when they can read Lily Poole. I was hoping the book would be out by Christmas. But it’s not quite as simple as that. Every word must be weighed and every sentence measured. Any you’ll hear the odd snide comment: Lily Poole could certainly do with losing a bit of weight, look at…
success is social suicide - but who cares if you're an author?
Thursday, 2 July 2015
Thanks to all who pledged. I can now look people in the eye and no longer wonder how many pledges they are worth. I no longer need to hang about the Terminus store and offer to buy booze for those that look a trifle under twelve – if they pledge their pocket money. I no longer need to make up wraps and slip talcum powder to people in the local boozer telling them it will be really bad for them…
Poppy's last shout
Saturday, 20 June 2015
Cast adrift. Poppy’s single room in the hospital annex is sparse and milky as a bone. The umbilical cord of the machine by her bed works almost silently, keeping her alive in spurts.
Older people with bodies like a burst couch no longer irk her, their stupid ideas no longer seem petty and vain. Going into a deep sleep in their presence she has given them a gift of trust and she…
old ABCtales Inspector Doggerel
Monday, 8 June 2015
‘Bullying is about jealousy,’ said Detective Doggerel. ‘We’ve not got a suspect. What we do know is that a word has been murdered, splattered all over the page.’
‘Get out there,’ he said, ‘and see who has been hanging around villanelle town. And, for God’s sake, make sure you don’t get spliced with one of those trick endings, that look the same, but…you know what I mean and you know what happened…
old ABCtales - huts
Thursday, 4 June 2015
The security guard with a pencil moustache, slides open the window of the lodge at the hospital gates and addresses me as ‘sir’.
I’m given directions and my thoughts take flight like frogs springing from water lilies leaving behind a grey silence. The bored bureaucratic tone, and the way he ganders at me from beneath his peaked cap, shows what he really thinks. I’m to go right along, past the…
housing - a poverty of ideas.
Monday, 1 June 2015
The former business secretary Vince Cable estimates the United Kingdom needs 300 000 new houses to be built every year to prevent house-price inflation. There are an estimated 1.7 million on the social-housing register in England alone. I was never great at arithmetic, but quite a dab hand at drawing where the X marks equilibrium in a diagram of supply and demand. Let’s just say Vince Cable wasn…
Aye, I remember it well.
Thursday, 21 May 2015
For those of you that hadn’t noticed there’s been an election. A success for the Conservative Party. A failure for democracy and poor people. These things go in cycles. Remember the 1970s. Clunk click every trip (oh dear). 1980s. Fifty Labour MPs were elected to Parliament for Scottish seats to save us from the ravages of Thatcherism, among them Donald Dewar. They were taunts from the Scottish…
Vicky Pollard's not home.
Thursday, 14 May 2015
You can’t talk about housing without talking about facts on the ground, the inequalities of wealth, health and educational opportunity. We seemed to have slipped back to the 1980s pop with A-ha, ‘Take On Me’, with an election and the Conservative Party pledging to give tenants a chance to buy the house they live in, not council housing this time, but housing association stock -- at discounted…
Bill Browder (2015) Red Notice.
Wednesday, 13 May 2015
Bill Browder (2015) Red Notice.
This book of 362 pages is three acts, which I read in two gulps. On the cover is a quote by Lee Child: ‘Reads like a classic thriller…but it’s all true, and it’s a story that needs to be told.’ Part of the reason for this is the way the book has been written (or ghost-written). Browder remembers every conversation and it’s all there. A naïve young Browder,…
The Enfield Haunting
Monday, 11 May 2015
The Enfield Haunting, Sky Living, written by Joshua St Johnstone and directed by Kristopher Nyholm.
The three-part series is based on Guy Lyon Playfair’s book This House is Haunted. Whether you believe in haunted houses or poltergeist activity will colour your viewing this as a nostalgic piece of hokum, or proof that there’s something out there we can’t quite understand. I must warn you…
the big malky
Tuesday, 5 May 2015
Frank took two days to hitchhike down to London. It was all new. A night sleeping in a plastic bin bag sheltering outside a Tube station, with what seemed like every dosser in town. His cheap rucksack with a change of clothes, and loop of torn leather strap, lopsided him. He carried it like a ball, but it made a goodish pillow, raising his head above the stink of pee. The Sally Army came during…
Tuesday, 28 April 2015
You didn’t need to be a fortune teller to work out what Granda was thinking. Eyes windows of the soul, but eyebrows garbed like two grey squirrel tails swiftly climbing up his bald pate told you clearly that he was mad at the world, or someone in the world, which usually meant the grandson that never visited, never did anything for him and was as useless and good for nothing as his dad – and that…
Wednesday, 22 April 2015
Panorama: The Great Housing Benefit Scandal. BBC 1
Alys Harte investigates rogue landlords. This makes a change from the more common media narrative, beloved of Channel 4 and 5, of unscrupulous single mothers ripping off the state by, for example, working part-time as a dinner lady, not declaring…
Monday, 16 February 2015
Apocalypses echo what we know. The world will end. Three score years and ten. Well I’m looking at the tens. I’m not thumbing my nose and saying ‘Har, Har,’ because I’ll be dead. Let’s face it that kills any argument.
We all know what this mean. Helen Macdonald was a wee lassie in the nineteen-sixties. She was instructed by her teacher how to make a nuclear…
Friday, 6 February 2015
Dan’s birthday. Their bedroom stinks of stale fag smoke, booze and the acrid burn of hash. After giving him his present, and another kind of treat, his girlfriend coughs up the ‘love’ word and spits out the word ‘kids’. It’s cool. He’s pleased. But not pleased enough to hang about the room and kitchen they share. Plans are for middle-class jerks. Life is taking him on another ride. When he becomes…
Sense and insensibility.
Sunday, 18 January 2015
‘It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.’ Pride and Prejudice.
Could she ever love him in that shirt? Tracey isn’t sure. She rests her eyes between drinks and counts to sixty. Near the toilets, at the back of The Grange, the smell of dope is a history lesson. The regular’s mouths come unstuck as they periodically…
Friday, 9 January 2015
I kiss the ghost in the study, you have to wind down curved stairs to reach, pass a similar entrance, with a similar set of keys, and fly down another flight of steps. It’s a long narrow room underneath four large houses filled with the debris of comings and goings and flittings and things forgotten and fondly remembered, a bathroom without a bath, a kitchen without a sink, two desks, a table…
Tuesday, 30 December 2014
I never met Mr Hitler but he seemed like a nice man,’ said Mum.
‘I said Hiller Mum. Hiller!’
Mum wasn’t fazed by my outburst. ‘That’s what I said.’ Her neck went all tortoise on me and she stared over her specs with a half-smile on her face.
Mum has a translucent brain. Well, she doesn’t really, but I got an A for using that kind of term in an essay I wrote for old Granger. He rumbled…
The Day Before Christmas
Wednesday, 24 December 2014
Christmas Eve is the cruellest day. Doreen steps up behind an old guy stinking of fags and booze, sporting a baseball cap back to front, reddish hair spilling downs his back in the vain hope it makes him look younger as he taps his four-digit number into the bank-telling machine. He has a quick squint sideways and behind him to see if anybody’s watching. Cars are parked on the corner of the road…
a terrible idea at this time of year!
Monday, 22 December 2014
I wrote three novels
plots for three plays
radio-series that ends in nine ways
In my head
In my bed
When nobody spoke
Laughed out loud at a joke
So cruel my sphincter began to unspool
My characters filled me with so much glee
They seemed to be more me than me
American producers added glitter to my shine
‘Unique Voice’ the Booker panel surmised
Snakes and adders.
Saturday, 13 December 2014
After spending our dinner money on sweets, Brendy nipped across from St. Andy’s school and bought two single fags from McLaren’s newsagent for the journey home. We cadged a couple of matches from the throng of other kids, hanging around the bus stop, waiting for the Corpy bus. A dash of faux-fur round our faces made us into two urbanised Eskimos, Brendy in his blue nylon getup, me in green. Parker…
Wednesday, 10 December 2014
Dear Mrs T, it’s confirmation of all the things I already knew. I’m thick, racist and rude. The media are on to us. Upper-middle class folk they say never smell because of course they never do any proper work, apart for lunching and launching some must-have accessory we don’t really need but must have. Think of Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson’s sister, Rachel, editor of The Lady. They use her…
the honourable gentleman
Sunday, 7 December 2014
I bequeath you my estate
All that you desire
A short-list of all that entails
I leave you with stroke of pen
Peddle the same old lie
There’s beauty in us all
Bigoted, bullying, lying types
Let those churchgoers barter
A foot on the board
Their name on a charter
Let’s not forget it’s our welfare…
Friday, 5 December 2014
[Vintage] Raymond Carver (2009  will you please be quiet? (2009 ) what we talk about when we talk about love.
I’ve read some of these stories before. From the latter collection, for example, Why Don’t You Dance? This has everything you need in a short story and the premise is simple enough to make sense and complex enough to leave the reader asking questions. Simply put, you don…
Saturday, 29 November 2014
Two Tone is one of those guy that make your life more interesting than you want it to be. He’s called Two Tone because his skin looks as if it’s been through a shredder and his name is Tony. Well Anthony, if I’m being picky. Lately he’s got that smell. It follows him around like a skunk’s tail. You think he’s not going to last that long, but in the meantime you don’t want him sitting on your furniture…
Thursday, 27 November 2014
‘Miss! Miss! Can I go to the toilet?’
Steve waved his hand in the air like a flag. His teachers was doing geography—countries of the world, with a box of colourful little metal pins sitting in a cardboard box on her lap, to show what she meant. She briefly looked over at him. ‘You’ve just had playtime and you should have went them.’ She sighed. ‘As I was saying the Swedish flag is a lovely…
Crow no more
Monday, 24 November 2014
Did you see mum in her prime
Dodder as if in fine wine
Totter on a lost wee soul
Garment half-clean, rents unseen
Half-smile at familiar faces
Where she should have been
Haggard, weary-limbed –
Chilled to the bone
Trudge lost and hopelessly on
With glassless eyes and face new drawn
Taut with woe
Grim with dawn?
Did you see her aimless go
Bowled over with…
What we can learn from the First World War.
Sunday, 16 November 2014
Those that fought in the First World War are no longer with us. A million died in a strip of mud called the Somme, for what I’m not quite sure. Common-wealth flowed upwards from the common working man to the aristocracy, the landed gentry, and the rentier class at levels never before seen - until now. Gas, the bomb and bullet has no moral compass. It does not distinguish between rich and poor…
the wrong car
Saturday, 15 November 2014
I’m never sure what postmodern is, or indeed was. I’m not even sure what modern is. Some people might call me old-fashioned. Maybe my time-frame is too temporal. I’m reading George Saunders which doesn’t help. That Brechtian idea of putting you outside the text to understand something you don’t understand anyway is something I don’t understand. Once upon a time a story was just a story.
Not F***** Noddy Holder already!
Friday, 14 November 2014
Somebody I know very well went shopping and hung some kid’s clothes on the handle of the trolley, went through the checkout and came out to the van without paying for them. The right thing to do would be to go straight back into the shop and pay for them. My way of thinking - Christmas had come early.
But you don’t have to tell me about Christmas. Noddy Holder has been following me most of…
All the things I didn't do.
Tuesday, 11 November 2014
Congratulations to Laurie and Ewan for getting published by Unbound. We started at (much) the same time and as The Meatloaf song goes, ‘two out of three ain't bad’. Perhaps I’m one of the few who truly understand how hard you worked.
Anyway I’m not just a great fan of Meatloaf, or any other type of food, I’m a great fan of procrastination. While I’m procrastinating I read. I’m not sure if reading…
FREE EDITING - IF IT'S TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE, IT USUALLY IS!
Wednesday, 29 October 2014
We all need a bit of help with editing, making our stories a little better, and a lot sharper. I’m certainly no exception to that rule. We often project what we think we mean onto the page. It’s often easier for someone else to pick up the faults and fault lines in our story. We need that other reader to see what we cannot.
What I propose is to offer my editing skills. Pledge to Lily Poole and…
Cogito Ergo Sum
Thursday, 2 October 2014
National Poetry Day:
I’m a creature of habit.
All that I seem.
An Aristotelian ideal,
Proof that I’m real.
I believe in faculties.
A soul’s natural fall.
Christians, Soldiers, Heathens.
Aren’t we all?
I’m very close to self-expression.
Conviction never works for me.
Inclination or disposition?
Pegs of self-belief.
Reason racked by disbelief.
In a world of…
Friday, 26 September 2014
I was talking to someone today -Gillian- and she mentioned that she knew I had wrote a book. She said she would have pledged but it's hassle. Yep! I underderstand that. If somethings difficult and costs money, why bother? I usually don't. So here's a short I wrote, just to keep my eye in the frame. Read it and if you like it pledge. I know it's a bother, but sometimes life is worth it.
Unbound, ABCtales, tupperware and sales.
Tuesday, 23 September 2014
No names are changed. No characters invented. No events fabricated. No extensive research been undertaken. It’s all about Me. Me. Me.
I’ve been selling myself for quite a while. If I was being exact, which I rarely am, I’d say since the end of July. I was lucky enough to get a week’s start before other budding authors from ABCtales were unleashed on a waiting world.
Scientists love a baseline…
Monday, 15 September 2014
Something I jotted down. Muddled through. Not sure what to do. It takes two minutes to pledge. Please do. Someone, somewhere knows how to?
A puddle for a head.
Do the maths.
I’m in decline.
But I feel fine.
That’s my failing.
A life past caring.
I’m glitter and glue.
Tweaked to be like you.
I’m a sulking place.
Lurching out of view.
Friday, 12 September 2014
Write what you know? It takes two minutes to pledge. I know its a hassle, but I hope it's worth it. Here's a short I wrote to help you on the way.
She loved that story of how they met. Telling it to her friend Julie on a rare night out made her smile and her voice shine. She is tender with drunks that tried to elbow in on girls’ conversations with some smart-ass comment and she glows with…
Superheroes Don't Always Travel First Class.
Sunday, 31 August 2014
[Image result for superman] [Image result for batman]
I was sitting on the balcony of my penthouse apartment block, downwind from the Dalmuir sewerage work, looking over the latest statistics from my feeble attempts to market myself and sell my novel Lily Poole, when Batman appeared. There were a lot of guys masquerading as footballers (now Brian Biggins has taken up golf, it’s golfers) …
Just Jock - looks at seven good reasons for not doing the ice-bucket challenge.
Monday, 25 August 2014
Dear Just Jock, I’m overwhelmed with people suddenly standing up and flinging buckets of water over themselves and putting it Faceboook.
1) I don’t have an eleemosynary bone in my body, I don’t know what it all means?
Dear anonymous quiet question-person, I mirror your concerns. Years ago, in my blighted youth I ventured onto the dance floor at the Big O foaming at the mouth and spurted…
How to tweet your life and story in six easy steps.
Thursday, 21 August 2014
Luke Neima, the equivalent of Luke Skywalker on ABCtales, asked me about story structure. I gave him the short answer. Each word in a sentence has a weight that makes up the ongoing narrative. I mentioned tropes, flung in a bit of trophallaxis and ended by feeding him the story of my life in which the words which were flew from the page before he could read them. I noted them down quickly, but they…
Twitter to your friends!
Tuesday, 19 August 2014
I attended a workshop to help me increase my tweets and sell pledges for my book Lily Poole. Well, I didn’t actually attend. I live on the planet Pluto and it was in London. You know how crowded London gets and with property prices being what they are and the threat of the Ebola virus. I watched it online, like everybody else.
I made some notes which I’ll share. Here are the notes: Use plenty…
extract from Lily Poole read by that well-known American writer and actor Richard II
Monday, 18 August 2014
How I entered the world of the deepnet to sell a 'favorited' by a Noble Prize winner.
Friday, 15 August 2014
I’m typing this on an old Underwood typewriter, but I decided to leave black and white typewritten sheets and enter into the dangerous world of the deepnet to do something a bit shady. The deepnet is the world filled with people that worship at the altar of Jimmy Saville and ping encrypted signals from online server to server in order to remain anonymous. No one that enters comes out quite the same…
The Art of Poncing
Sunday, 10 August 2014
Brendan phoned me last night. I’ve known him longer than Laughing Boy had hair. ‘It’s me,’ he said. ‘Brendan.’
Neither of us use our mobile phones much. I don’t know where mine is (it’s just beeped somewhere behind me, because it’s out of charge, and that gives me a clue). So we’ve got to explain who we are when we phone.
We did the usual how’s it gaun? flung back and forth between…
What would Jesus tweet?
Thursday, 7 August 2014
My twitter account got Spammed, where is God when you need Him? But is got me thinking what would Jesus tweet in the twenty-first century. Then I tried to figure if counting was thinking and is this the twenty-first century? I’m getting old, what happened to the last one? If it is, where’s Buck Rodgers?
My three followers on Twitter were outraged with the tweeted message asking them to strip naked…
The Bam Projectory
Tuesday, 5 August 2014
I was out at the pub watching a Champions League match. (I won’t be saying that for a while.) Punters were crowding round the bar and the barmaid was looking through me as if I was made of glass. I bumped into Tam-who-will-remain nameless.
‘You’ll never believe it,’ he said. ‘Somebody’s put a video of somebody that looks like you up selling something?’
‘What is it?’ I said.
The Hard Self
Monday, 4 August 2014
I’m getting bored with the hard sell and the hard self. People imagine that I’ve finished Lily Poole and the words are banked in a vault like Luke Neima’s honeymoon jewels. But words are always searching for new meaning, syntax can be rearranged to make a sentence stronger and sentences can grow a rigidity that has the rhythm of Agadoo on the dancefloor (God not Agadoo again). There’s always somebody…
Saturday Night Fever
Sunday, 3 August 2014
What you see is what you don’t get is a wysiwyg clause I rarely use in normal conversation. I was out last night to meet my adoring public. It was Saturday night and it was the Drop Inn so you can guarantee a crowd of at least four people and Wullie Dalziel. There’s a rule that nobody can kiss at the bar, unless it’s Brian Thompson, and he’s had a bit much and he hears some song on the Jukebox and…
Finding the writer within
Saturday, 2 August 2014
I used to think that writers were two exotic beasts joined together by a furrowed brow -- the person that writes and the person that edits. The taxonomy has changed. Upon closer examination I recognised a third diablo poking out between the bones of the writer, clinging to the person and their reality and claiming to be an independent personality, the writer’s real self and willing to sell their souls…
The journey to Unbound is here
Friday, 1 August 2014
Just follow the links
So far I've got a 23% pledge level which is quite incredible, especially since I can count my friends on the finger I pick my nose with.
Other than that I'd like to mention Michael Douglas, Kieffer Sutherland and Eva Longoria -that's a DVD I'm selling…
These people are helping to fund Lily Poole.