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Detective Frederick Street loves his son Elvis: Elvis detests his dad: each wants to shake the other down over a bent cocaine deal involving porn impresario, Wade Long, and Shoreditch spiv, James Maroon.

The sound of the choir hit large. A hundred voices sang Silent Night larger. The tone. The tenor. It floated from Shoreditch Church nave into the vestibule. It was groovy and yuletide-rich. It was orchestral. It pumped senses and sent the world majestic. It had Santa Claus in town and the ages continuing. It was people rejoicing. It was possibility.

Possibilities.

Xmas, East London, 2015

Bent Met police detective DI Frederick Street rules as the wild west sheriff of Shoreditch who loves shaking down street goons he arrests.

Elvis Street is the son who cannot stand his father for being the balls-out crook he caught in bed with his girl.

Elvis wants to take Frederick down and expose and end him forever.

So: Elvis sets up a fake coke deal with pusher, Richard ‘Ricardo’ ‘Ricky Me’ Cliff, for Frederick to bust and rip-off which he plans to secretly record and expose via the media. But Frederick, who is contending with coming spiv, James Maroon, and Soho porno impresario, Wade Long, discovers the plan, and lets Elvis know loud and clear that, in classic Fredster-style he has.

Neither father or son pulls out.

Night Time Cool is the story of WHY.

Jamie Paradise believes fiction should make the senses tingle with poetry that CPRs. The hope, the ambition, what Night Time Cool tilts at, is for the moon to tip-toe across your eyes as rockets pop off in your head and those pages keep on turning.

The novel was written over a year or so from late 2015 and is the first of a series Jamie Paradise is writing based in London, Ibiza, and elsewhere. They feature characters that interlock/fall away and re-appear in what is a caper-and-crook-filled, laugh-and-snort a-minute world.

Night Time Cool’s follow-up, Big City Amor, is also finished. This shifts action from East London to Soho/Chinatown and Ibiza, across the summer of 2016.

Jamie Paradise has a Masters degree, lived in Ibiza’s San Antonio, India’s Goa, Pakistan’s Hunza Valley, Thailand’s Kao Phanang, and previously in London for nearly 20 years, being born in Camberwell. He has volunteered as a camp counsellor in America mentoring children from Philadelphia’s projects, managed a friend’s band, directed plays at university, wrote full length screen-plays, and generally been lucky enough to enjoy a wonderful life.

Apart from a gorgeous wife and two children, writing fiction is Jamie Paradise’s No1 passion, closely followed by house, disco, Italo-pop, and any other heart-fluttering music he can DJ with and bop along to.

His alter-ego is Jamie Jackson, the Manchester football correspondent of The Guardian and Observer newspapers, for which he has worked since 2002.

Wade threw a beam. His smile lit the joint. He was accompanied by a young lady. Of a certain type. He looked like he was having the kind of weekend he was having.

“Howdy pardner,” Frederick said to Wade. Wade switched garb. He was goosed from various narcotics. He clad cowboy hat, black silk shirt, tight denims and shit-kicker boots. He walked to the bar. He looked faintly ridiculous.

“Howdy,” said Wade. His squeeze was done to the nines. Uber-trashy. She ran crimson lipstick, bottle blond tresses. She was enhanced everywhere and wore it well. She was young.

“Frederick, this is Felicity. Felicity ChicFox.”

Frederick waved them to the seats by his. Wade placed his stetson on the bar. Felicity extended a hand of false and manicured nails.

Frederick said, “Very nice to meet you Felicity. Don’t think I’ve had the pleasure-”

Felicity deep-throated a laugh. “If you’ve seen All The Pussies In The World And Mine you have.” She paused. “You have seen it?”

Frederick winked at her. At Wade. “At some point, surely. Of course. Wade, good, no grand to see you.”

Wade said. “How was earlier?”

Frederick laughed. “Like a dream. A hilarious post-show show too. That feed of yours. Big thanks. Felicity, what’s your poison darling?”

This bird. This chic. That fucking name. She vibed porno tart. A Wade protégé. Get the round in and go and hit the Gents. Refresh les passages de las nasal.

“Pina Colada, please.” Felicity locked eyes with Frederick. That’s good. That’s a fine start.

She drew looks from a group further along the bar. Wade did too. That hardly surprised. Considering today’s ridiculous fucking get-up.

Frederick shot the group a look that shut them up. His suit jarred. It vibed out of place. It vibed anti-hip Hoxton.

“Pina Colada it is sweetie. Wade?”

“The usual.”

Frederick ordered another ale, Wade’s Black Russian, Felicity’s drink, and headed for the Gents. He stood in the urinals at the mirror. He spooned showbiz up both nostrils. It felt like alpine air. It hit his system near-instant. The pisser went Walt Disney. He Daffy the fuck Ducked. Senses spasticed, colours optimumed. He felt it. He felt it all. He cognated. There was meaning in everything. Leaving the pisser felt like a victory. He grooved on the ridiculousness of it feeling like this.

But - IT FELT TREMENDOUS.

He made the bar. The place sparkled. He sparkled. Felicity fuckchick or whatever her name was sparkled. Even fucking Wade sparkled in that stupendously ridiculous get-up.

Wade clocked him. “You’ve got some of that platinum? Thought it was done.”

“That stuff is never gone. You know that.”

“Come on then, saddle me up!”

Frederick pulled the bag and palmed it Wade and winked at Felicity.

“Thanks,” Wade said, and headed for the Gents. Frederick was ready to move on Felicity. He felt tremendous. His eyes were ridiculous. Out of control. He couldn’t stop scoping those enhanced tits. That backend. Her dyed-blond barnet.

Felicity said, “You seem a platinum type of man.” It was corny. It was cheesy. He didn’t give a fuck.

“Platinum plated baby,” he said. That was cheese and the gang. Cheeseburgers r-us. He rode spritzes. He fritzed. He rodolexed shit. Arrests he made. Deals he ripped off. The patter, the chat, the bantz. His general fucking everyday modus operandi. It orgied self-love. Self-aggrandisement. Self-well-being. It made him feel tickety-boo. Who the fuck said selfishness was selfish?

The selfish fuck.

He was ready to move on Felicity ChickFuck. But. Fucking Wade. Here he came. Too soon. Bowling out of the Gents. That fucker was knee-deep in porno clunge everyday of his life. He should step the fuck away from this portion.

Wade said, “Fresh drinks it is.” Wade fritzed coke-boost. His grin went manic. It disfigured his features. “That P is tremendous. Never fails to hit the spot.” Wade ordered up. Wade paid. Wade handed Felicity her pina colada, Frederick’s pint, and slurped his Black Russian.

Frederick rode irritation jags. They gripped. They took-over. “You’re welcome to your drink Wade. You know that. And you’re welcome to snarf as much platinum as you can fit up your wide and elongated nostrils. You know that. We have certainly done some nights and tarts on that stuff – pardon me won’t you Felicity?”

She nodded, she smiled, she shrugged.  

“But Jesus Wade you are not welcome to do that prime shite then rush back just as I am getting to know Felicity. I know you know what I mean.”

Wade grinned – it didn’t help Frederick’s mood. Wade said, “Don't mind me. Felicity’s been dying to meet you. I’ve told her all about you. All about Frederick Street, high-flying Met detective. A man connected in high places.”

Frederick felt P-jags. A dip in the constitution. In the way he felt about everything. He said, “I hope you haven’t told Felicity everything Wade.”

Wade chuckled. He hit up on the P-ride. Frederick chugged down. The cowboy attempted to rule the roost. In his boozer. It wasn’t particularly clever. At all. Not when this batch of sniff could go the other way. Was going the other way. Was performing a U-turn of seismic proportions. The P was the P. It meant superstar highs. It meant plunges into irate territory. And a circumstance like this. Being roosted by some fucker who needed treading on. The gnawing needed a release. That chainsaw urge to do something to someone. It was powerful. Potent. It ruled.

Alternative: stick a smile on, make the Gents, do more P. Return like the guns of navarone. Sink more ale. And hope this ire over a porno tart would evaporate. An ire caused by Wade Long in his micky mouse Stetson.

Go for it. “Wade, the P please.” Wade palmed it him. He was lost in oblivion. Ignorance was bliss the thicko. Frederick slurped more ale and caught another notion.

He said, “Felicity, do you fancy some of the highest grade blow you will ever have had in your youthful existence?”

Don’t wait for the reply. No need. Walk to the gents and hear her heels rattle across the Setless floor. Turn and thumbs-up Wade, who’s guffawing at the bar. That was Wade’s strength. He never got ruffled. Unlike Lee, who panicked goon-style.

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Night Time Cool-ING

Saturday, 9 December 2017

Hello,

As always, just want to say a massive thank you for everyone's support. Twenty-five days in and there are 150 beautiful backers and 60% of total required in sales done. 

THANK YOU.

If anyone happens across a tweet/Facebook post of JP's, and fancies re-posting that would be very helpful kind.

 

And, if you know anyone looking for a Xmas story that will warm parts beyond heart…

Quick update department: In A Nutshell? The First Seven Days Rocketed

Thursday, 23 November 2017

Hello, hello, HELLO: 

First of all: again, thank you all SO SO much for supporting Night Time Cool. 

After a week, 34% of the dosh needed has been raised: I am told 30% in 30 days is fair going so this is like waking and finding the Taj Mahal in the backyard: beyond brill.

From what I'm told there may be a considerable flatlining so the next few days could be interesting. Yet because each…

GOING LIVE: Taking a rocket to the skies

Thursday, 16 November 2017

Hello - and thanks so much for reading this and for pledging, or considering a pledge, towards having Night Time Cool published - its very kind of you.

I have been trying to write a brilliant, moving novel for nearly 25 years - I am 46 and started my first one age 23 - and have known since 8 I wanted to write stories.

So, where I am now, on the verge of acheiving a lifelong dream, is a relentless…

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