The hierarchy of football supporters

I wrote this post about Steven Gerrard’s final game at Anfield before his transfer to LA Galaxy, ending a 17 year career at Liverpool Football Club.

It was the first real post I’d written about football, offering an opinion inspired by the outpouring of emotional disappointment, so I was over the moon when lfconline.com reposted it on their website.

I tend to shy away from talking about football in general because I don’t feel I have the right to an opinion, due to my low position in the unspoken hierarchy of football supporters.

I haven’t heard it formally acknowledged, but I have heard several arguments concluded with a dismissive ‘What would you know? You don’t even go the game‘ or ‘when was the last time you set foot in Anfield’, which suggests the value of an opinion is proportional to their level of support. So here’s what I perceive to be the hierarchy of football supporters.

Well, my dad supports Liverpool…

At the very bottom of the support ladder there’s the people that have a vague awareness of football, they claim to support a team because they’re born into a family of supporters, they might even be the contrary type that supports the rival team in an act of defiance because they’re simply not that interested at all but make a token gesture of cheering if their adopted team wins, or more likely, their rival team loses.

Next up there’s the armchair supporters, those that watch their team when they’re on TV and will pay attention to the score. These guys have varying levels of interest, some will watch every televised game, while others will also watch all the non-televised games by any means necessary.

When was the last time you went to the match?

In the middle of the hierarchy is the casual attendee. These are the ones that watch every match on TV, unless they can get hold of a ticket, in which case they’ll jump at the chance to go to a game. They’ve probably been on a waiting list for a season ticket for years, and gladly make use of tickets for the league cup qualifers and mid-week evening games that no one else wants to go to, but for which they need to buy tickets to guarantee their right to buy a ticket should their team make it to the final.

Then there’s the season ticket holders, and the supporters that somehow manage to get a ticket to every home game. They’ve likely been going the game since they were a kid and have more than earned their opinion, watching the players week in week out without listening to the nonsense spouted by the match commentators.

A step up from the season ticket holders are those that, in addition to going to every league home game, also go to every cup qualifier and all knock out matches played at home.

There’s a sub category here: Those supporters around the world, unable to go to the match due to their geographical location. In New York, for example, the NY Reds (New York’s LFC Supporters Club) are up at the crack of dawn to make their way to the 11th Street bar for a 7:30am kick off (12:30pm UK time). The place is full, the supporters don’t stop singing and the atmosphere is amazing. These supporters are as passionate about their team as any at the top end of the hierarchy, and shouldn’t be dismissed simply because their location prevents them ever stepping foot inside the Stadium.

It should be noted here that there’s also a snobbery about whether you support your local team or whether you’re a glory hunter following the team that tends to win more often. But should you support your local team, or the team your family support? With so many people relocating, not just within their own country but to other countries around the world, it’s little wonder that we find kids, growing up in London or New York, being raised to support Liverpool, Man Utd or even Hull City.

Where were you when we were playing Trabzonspor on a Thursday night?

Then we reach the top end of the table – the away supporters, not only attending every game played at home, they also attend the away games. These have their own hierarchy: the away supporters that only travel to nearby towns, the supporters that just go to the cup games or the big games at Wembley and then those that go to every away game no matter what.

Finally there’s the top of the league supporters that not only go to every domestic home and away game but they travel to away games in other countries.

So whose opinion counts?

Well, as a lowly armchair supporter that has enjoyed a few seasons as a casual attendee, I have never really felt that my opinion mattered. But that might make me slightly more rational and less emotional in my opinion. I’ve witnessed debates between season ticket holders with opposing views. Both opinion is as valid as the other in the hierarchy of support; neither party can claim the other doesn’t know what they’re talking about as they both have the same level of commitment to their team. But their opinions differ non the less.

So when it comes to opinion maybe it doesn’t matter how many games you go to or how far you travel. But maybe those factors effect the passion and emotional stance of a supporter. Maybe going to every game – home and away – gives you a stronger bond to the club, makes you part of the “twelfth man” and gives you an insight that those less passionately connected to the club might have.

Either way, as they say, everyone is entitled to an opinion, and with an open invitation to write more articles for lfconline.com, I’m no longer afraid to share mine.

 

The hierarchy of football supporters

A Legendary Time

This is a short story inspired by the song I Am Legend by Loved Up Les.

And in memory of my Uncle, A.W.S, a legend in his time.

---

I was in that limbo, between sleep and waking. I could hear muffled sounds but I could also feel the dream world I’d been involved in. There was a beeping noise and I couldn’t be sure from which reality it was coming. I suspected both. It was like being underwater, the closer I rose to the surface the louder the noise became, but as I moved back under, everything seemed far away, almost calm. A warmth enveloped me and made me want to stay where I was.
“Come on, we’ve got to go.” I heard a voice calling through the mist. Narrowing my eyes against the head lights of the vehicle facing me, I could make out a shadow waving at me. I approached him cautiously. “Come on, Jack, everyone’s waiting.”

“Jack? My name is Arthur, I think you got the wrong guy.” I turned to walk away but he grabbed my arm.

“Quit playing around, Jack, come on it’s time to go.”

There was something familiar about him, “Stanley?” He rolled his eyes, impatiently.

“Oh man, that was weeks ago, it’s me, Alan.” He stared at me, waiting for me to recognise him, “Jeez, did you get so old you don’t remember me?”

I took in my surroundings while I tried to think. I couldn’t see much, it was dark, and misty, everywhere I looked there was a fuzziness around the edge of my vision. All I could see was Alan, the headlights behind him plunging his face into darkness. He looked like my brother Stan. But that was impossible. Stan died twenty years ago.

“Oh.” I mumbled, reality dawning on me. I looked behind me, “no, I’m not ready yet.”

“Quit messing around, Jack, get in the car. Everyone’s home already, they’re waiting for you.” He was tapping his foot impatiently. It sounded unusually loud, like a drum beat in my head.

I looked at him in surprise, “everyone?”

“Well okay, Sylvie returned but then went back in about six weeks ago. So technically we’re waiting on her before we can all be together, unless she’s out as long as you’ve been.”

I had a sense that I should know what he was talking about, but I didn’t. I wasn’t this Jack character he seemed to think I was.
“How long have I been gone?”

“Eighty Three days. That’s some record. The longest yet.”

I looked down at my hands and saw the wrinkles starting to smooth slightly. I shook my head.

“No, I’m not finished.” I started walking backwards, in the distance I could hear a constant sound, just one note, steady and slow, it got louder as I picked up pace, turning to run towards it.

“Okay well I’ll just wait here then, okay?” Alan shouted, his voice sounding quiet in the distance, almost like it had been carried by the wind.

The noise stopped and I resurfaced with a gasp. I heard a cry and a shout for help and there was movement around me. I could still hear Alan’s foot tapping, so loudly, I could feel it in my chest. My eye lids felt heavy, I tried to open them but they felt like they were glued together. I raised my hands to touch them, helping them open as I blinked rapidly.

“You gave us quite a fright there, Arthur.” The doctor said, “where did you go?”

I shrugged imperceptibly. Grabbing his hand as he turned to leave. He looked down at me, surprised.

“Am I dying?” I asked.

He seemed to think about his answer for a while, but eventually nodded, “I’m afraid so, Art’.”

“How long?”

“A day, maybe two. That depends on you, really.”

“Can I go home?”

“If you’d prefer to, but we can keep you comfortable here.”

I glanced around the private room I was in. The monitors beeped every few seconds to remind everyone I was still just about clinging on to life. Everything smelled of disinfectant.

“No offence, Doc, but this place stinks and your space is limited and there’s nowhere to park, and if I’m going then I want everyone around me to see me off.”

The doctor nodded, “we’ll send a nurse home with you to make sure you’ve got medical care on site. I’ll get the discharge papers sorted.”

*

“Where’s your mother?” I asked my son, he was a good lad, my youngest, from my third marriage. We didn’t last long, she was far too young and I was far too healthy. She cut her losses and took the child support. I smirked to myself as I thought it.

“She’s outside, shall I send her in?”

“Later, I just wanted to know she was here.” I turned to my daughter, my eldest, who was getting old herself, “You look just like your mother you know.” I told her, “I’m sorry you didn’t get to spend more time with her.” Her mother had been the love of my life, but she’d died young and not a day had passed when I didn’t miss her.

I had a sudden memory of Alan, what did he mean everyone was waiting for me? Was she waiting for me? My Peggy?

“Who’s here?” I asked them both.

“Everyone, Dad. We told everyone and they all came.”

“I want you to go downstairs, get some music on and crack open those bottles of wine I’ve been saving for a special occasion. The fizzy ones.”

“I wouldn’t call this a special occasion, Dad.” My son said, a tremor in his voice as he spoke.

“It is, lad. It’s my farewell party, and I get to be at it. I should’ve died hours ago, so let me celebrate and raise a glass with all my friends, my children, their mothers, my lovers and everyone that I know. It’s the last chance I’ll ever have to drink that damn wine!”

*

I fell asleep watching I Am Legend. I had a strange dream about a group of friends all living with different identities and pretending to be different people. I thought they were actors, but they were different. They had stories of the lives they’d lived. Somehow they all remembered each others stories as if they’d all been there. And there was a woman, Sylvie. She reminded me of my Peggy. I was sat next to her and she smiled at me, so radiantly and whispered, come on Jack, come home.”

I woke up with a start, there was a vicar stood on one side of my bed and a nurse on the other. I looked at the nurse and grinned.

“thought you’d got shut of me did you?”

“Not at all, this is your cousin simon, he wanted to pay his respects.”

I looked at my cousin with interest, “save your prayers, I’d believe in the Loch Ness monster before I’d believe in any God.”

He smiled at me, “that is your choice and I respect that. But I will still pray for you.”

I shrugged.

“Is my nephew here?” I asked. Richard was a newly elected MP, my sister had been so proud of him, when he was first elected as a local councillor.

“I’m afraid he’s at the house, but he will try to get here.”

I shrugged again, “Hmph! Get me my lawyer, I’ve a good mind to leave Richard my parking fines. He can pay them out of his expenses.”

The nurse took hold of my wrist and looked at her watch as she counted the beats of blood pulsing through my veins. She smiled down at me and I saw a familiar sparkle in her eye.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Dorothy.” She smiled.

“Do you know anyone called Sylvie?”

She frowned as she thought about it.

“I don’t think so. Why, who’s Sylvie?”

“I don’t know.” I shrugged.

Dorothy laughed, a pleasant tinkling laugh that sounded familiar to me. As I looked at her the edges of my vision began to blur as a mist rolled in. I heard a car beeping and as I closed my eyes for the final time I knew exactly who I was and where I was going. Goodbye Arthur, it was fun being you.

“Are you ready to go this time?” Alan asked, impatiently. I grinned at my best friend, looking down at my hands as the wrinkles smoothed out. I straightened up and felt the years falling away from me.

“I am. She found me.”

“Sylvie? Who is she this time?”

“She’s a nurse, Dorothy, hope she brings the uniform back with her, she looked hot in it!”

“Please, that’s my sister you’re talking about.” Alan frowned.

“So she went in twice?”

“Yeah, she was fuming when she got hit by that bus. You two finding each other so early was also a record you know, I was surprised you lasted another fifty days.”

“Hey it was a good life, I enjoyed it. I wouldn’t be sorry to meet some of those guys again.”

“Oh my god, what happened to you in there? You never want to mix with the other groups.”

“I know, but I spent eighty three earth years being Arthur, he had a lot of friends, a great family. You all left so early.”

“Hey I managed sixty days, double what Sylvie managed. Although she’s been gone another forty since then.”

Well I’m going to need a break before I go in again. Tell head office I’m going down to sit by the pool until we’re all together and then we’ll go again.

Alan pulled up outside a gatehouse.

“Are you ready?”

I nodded as I followed him through the gate and into a lift. I filed all the memories of my time as Arthur into the back of my mind and stepped out of the lift. There was a small crowd of people all waiting to greet me.

“Welcome home, Jack. Good to see you, mate.”

“Top of the leaderboard again, Jack, eighty three, what was that like?”

I shook hands with everyone and accepted the praise and accolades.

It was a strange life we lived up here in the Soul Cavern. We’d lived many life-times but what made my team strong was our own challenge to find each other on Earth before we returned home.

Arthur had always wondered about Peggy’s last words to him, they had never made any sense. But they weren’t meant for him. They were meant for me. “Wait for me, Jack. I’ll come back.” And that’s what I did.

A Legendary Time

Why Steven Gerrard's fairy tale ending didn't come true

I’ve always supported Liverpool since I was a child. My whole family supports them, my brother has had a season ticket for as long as I can remember and despite the fact that I look way better in blue, I always knew that supporting a team wasn’t a fashion choice. We don’t stop supporting our team just because they lose a few lot of games. Steven Gerrard and Jamie Carragher are, without a doubt, the legends of my time – alongside my childhood hero Kenny Dalglish.

I was really sad when Carragher retired and hoped to see him continue at the club in a coaching capacity. But he’s also very entertaining as a pundit. Gerrard’s announcement that he would be leaving was met with mixed feelings. On the one hand, he’s not ready to stop playing, but he’s past the point where he’s fast enough for a premiership team, and despite his motivational presence, the team have performed better without him on some occasions this year. Maybe his impending departure was weighing heavily on the team, maybe their heads haven’t been in the game. But there’s been a lot of negative, vitriol all over the internet since Liverpool’s 3-1 defeat to Crystal Palace, calls for Brendan Out and talk of the gaping hole Gerrard will now leave.

Despite what hardcore football fans may claim, football is just a game. It is.

In its most basic description, it’s a game, where two teams of eleven players try to get a ball between the goal posts, without using their hands. A ball. A spherical object that bounces in an apparently random way, influenced by principles of maths and physics.

Doesn’t sound that hard – although, don’t forget – you can’t touch the ball with your hands!

What makes a good player?

If the random placing of a ball is the deciding factor between winning and losing, how on earth can you differentiate between the skill and value of a player? Top players are valued at tens of millions of pounds in the transfer market and they earn hundreds of thousands of pounds a week. Top players, I presume, have an excellent grasp on the application of maths and physics – trajectory, angles, force etc in kicking a ball so that it lands where they want it to… assuming of course that they have compensated for wind speed and direction and the players around them have the same sense to anticipate where the ball might land. Of course, it also assumes they know the precise hardness of the ground and are intimately acquainted with every dip, curve and bump of the pitch so the ball will bounce in the precise direction of the player they’re aiming to pass the ball to.

And football players have a reputation for being a bit stupid…!

Maybe it’s speed, motivation, fearlessness. The fastest players reach the ball, can tear up the pitch towards the goal and, if they happen to have the right equation in their head, kick the ball into the back of the net. Maybe the best players are those that just don’t stop moving all game, they chase the ball all over the pitch and create a headache for the opposition, freeing up other players to grab the ball (with their feet) and run.

The stuff dreams are made of

One thing football most certainly is not, is a fairy tale. As soon as it was announced that he was leaving, we all thought ‘wouldn’t it be nice if he could win a trophy in his last season with us?’ Of course it would. It would be nice for all the players and the fans too. It’s what we all hope for at the start of every season.

The FA Cup final is scheduled to be played on the same day as Steven Gerrard’s birthday. So of course we had talk of fate, that it was written in the stars that Gerrard’s last game for Liverpool would see him lift the FA Cup trophy on his birthday.

Sadly we were knocked out. Maybe we were so reliant on the romance and fairy tale of it all that we forgot to actually play the game and as a result we lost. But on the plus side; at least he doesn’t have to work on his birthday, so there is a silver lining – besides, he’s already got an FA cup medal or two in his collection.

Yesterday’s game against Crystal Palace, promised to be an emotional affair. The last home game of the season, and Gerrard’s last game at Anfield. He came onto the pitch to a guard of honour, he had a speech prepared, the supporters held aloft their supplied square of plastic and created a tributary mosaic and it was geared up to be a fond farewell to the club captain and team legend.

We were destined to win that game and send him off in style. But – and I can’t stress this enough – football isn’t a fairy tale, the outcome is determined by kicking a ball around.

There has been an outpouring of anger and disgust by fans, along with absolute glee from rival supporters, those that like to dismiss his achievements by summing up his seventeen year career at Anfield as one slip and zero premier league titles. There are those that were sick of hearing about Gerrard’s emotional final game – but I’m already sick of hearing about how it was ruined for him. Yes it would have been lovely if we’d won and Gerrard left on a high. But life isn’t a novel, or a film. We can’t manufacture happy endings when the outcome is determined by physics and not emotion.

Were the players to blame? Did the occasion get the better of them? Were they feeling sad because their friend and captain was leaving them? Sometimes people have other things on their mind that are more important than the job in hand. Okay not all of us earn hundreds of thousands of pounds a week to kick a ball around a pitch, but all across the world, men and women go to work, to earn a living, to feed their family and keep a roof over their head. Sometimes they hate their job, sometimes their mind is on more pressing matters and they just go through the motion, sometimes they make mistakes. It doesn’t mean they’re not good at their job, it just means they’re human. We’re all human. Footballers included.

Steven Gerrard is a Liverpool legend. After 17 years, 502 league games and 708 senior appearances, he’s scored 185 goals and won 7 major honours. Losing to Crystal Palace in his final home game, doesn’t change any of that, and it shouldn’t cause any more outrage or disappointment than any other defeat.

He will be missed, of course, but the game goes on. Yes there’s work to be done at the club, but that is the case, with or without Gerrard in the squad. If football is more than just a game, then, for Liverpool at least, Steven Gerrard and Jamie Carragher are more than just players – they’re not the first Liverpool legends and they surely won’t be the last.

But maybe if football fans all focused on the random placement of a kicked ball and less on the imagined super powers of the men kicking them, we’d all be a little less disappointed when fairy tales don’t come true.

Why Steven Gerrard's fairy tale ending didn't come true

Determining the value of writing

I wrote a post a few months ago about the changing face of publishing although my experience is very limited, it didn’t take long before I realised that the dream I’d had of getting a publishing deal was based on a bit of a myth really, much like getting a record deal for a musician.

Securing a deal doesn’t make you a success, it takes a good product that captures the attention of the public, followed up with a great public presence that makes the national media want to talk about you. In short – it requires a successful marketing campaign.

I was so excited when I got my publishing deal for Inspired By Night. I thought I’d made it. I did! I was completely naive. As I thought about it, I acknowledged that I was with an independent publisher, which was akin to an indie record label. I realised quickly that my publisher was utilising the opportunities afforded to self publishers – ebooks and print on demand, mean there are no expensive upfront costs. But with no marketing budget and no physical product to distribute through book shops, sales are very low – but then multiply those sales by a vast number of titles and it’s probably worth their effort. But for each individual author, selling maybe 30 books across print and ebook feels like a complete waste of time.

Book sales are inspired by a public presence, but for the average self published author or independently published author, that means trying to maintain a social media presence while juggling a full time job. Writing is merely a hobby – not a living – and the excitement experienced getting that first deal, the belief that this was the moment when you became a professional writer and no longer had to go to work every day, very quickly fades.

I always wanted to be an author. Even now, my career aspiration revolves around seeing my book on a billboard in a London Underground Tube Station. That feels like the ultimate arrival!

See, this guy is living the dream!

I don’t want personal fame, I don’t want to be recognised in the street, but I would like to be able to slap the words “New York Times Best Seller List” across my website, and I wouldn’t even mind joining the girls on Loose Women for a little tongue-in-cheek chat about Steven Teller’s credentials.

I got my royalty statement recently. I asked for a breakdown of the sales and the payment figures because it felt awfully low.

Turns out I earn 18p per sale. That’s 10% of the amount my publisher earns. Makes you wonder why any of us are bothering… it certainly can’t be to earn a living at those rates.

So… Self Publishing?

I’m giving serious consideration to self publishing. While I appreciate that there are certain benefits to having a publisher take on my novel, in terms of potentially opening doors to other publishing companies, to go with another independent publisher would completely undervalue the amount of work that has gone into writing my second novel.

I’d love to find a traditional publisher and agent – After all, I wouldn’t mind earning only 18p per sale if my publisher was working hard to generate sales. If they’d sold a million copies I’d have earned £180,000. But as it happens, I’ve personally spent a small fortune myself, generating those few sales, so my total royalties (less than £20) only cover about 10% of my expenses.

I suppose what it all comes down to is, why am I doing it? I always wanted to write, but until I wrote Inspired by night, I had no faith in myself. I didn’t believe I was capable of writing a novel and the dream of earning a living as an author was one of those whimsical things I referred to in the past tense…

I always wanted to be an author…!

But I have a taste for it now and since I had some minor success with my first effort I feel justified in losing evenings and weekends in pursuit of the end of a second novel. There’s no nagging feeling in the back of my mind that says “I have no idea why I’m even wasting my time doing this.” But there is a question about what I;m going to do with it when it’s finished.

 

I have belief in my writing now, thanks largely to some wonderfully positive reviews for Inspired. I am more excited about this second novel and I want people to read it. I’m not sure I even care if it makes money, I just want people to read it. As I see it, there’s two ways to make that happen – control it myself and make it widely available as I see fit. Or try and find a traditional publisher who will throw some marketing behind it.

I’d love to hear from anyone that has experience of both sides of the coin here. I know little about traditional publishing. Maybe that’s not all it’s cracked up to be either…?

Determining the value of writing

You Just Have to Write

A few weeks ago, during International Book Week, I went to a Q&A with Neil Gaiman at Liverpool University.

I’m probably one of the few people left on the planet, that hasn’t read any of his work (although I have seen Coraline), and yet listening to him speak had a particularly inspiring effect on me. (As well as prompting me to add all of his books to my TBR list).

He read from his book of short stories and then he sat down and worked his way through a pile of questions that had been collected before the event. There was of course, the usual question asking for advice to aspiring writers (and the accompanying mirth at his response “write”).

It wasn’t really the answers to his questions that inspired me, however. It was the vast body of work he had created. Not just his full length novels for adults, or his short stories, but there’s the children’s books and the scripts for TV and film. Don’t get me started on him co-writing with one of my absolute favourites, the late, great Terry Pratchett. He even wrote one of my favourite modern Doctor Who episodes (The Doctor’s Wife).

I left the auditorium and sat with my friend and fellow author, Mark Murphy, in a nearby bar and I thought about all the various things I’ve written over the years. The illustrated children’s book, The Moggins, self published as Helen Anne, my full length Adult Romance, Inspired by Night published by Xcite Books as L. E. May and the current project: a comedy Sci/Fi novel, which I hope to publish (self or otherwise) as Helen P. Stephens.

I always imagined it would be sensible to use different names, for a variety of reasons, to differentiate the works. But there’s a lot of effort that goes into maintaining different identities – especially on social media.

I had approached each project as a separate stand alone piece of work, but they all form part of my writing experience and I made the decision to pull it all together. It’s not just changing by name, but claiming ownership of everything I’ve ever written and made available to the public.

I made The Moggins available for Kindle but I’m having the illustrations redesigned, to reflect the changes I’m making to my public identity (I had originally wanted to avoid confusion between myself and the much more renowned children’s author Helen Stephens, who isn’t me). As soon as they are ready I’ll be updating the current book and looking into print-on-demand options, along with finally getting round to writing the follow up story.

I just want to write. And what I’ve learned from Neil Gaiman, is that to be a writer, I have to write.

You Just Have to Write

Sometimes I just really hate people

A few weeks ago I published a blog post that moved (by moved, I mean annoyed/disgusted) someone so much that they felt compelled to comment on what a horrible, misanthropic view I had of the world.*

But sometimes I just really hate people. I can admit that. I’m not alone. In my office we are divided: on one side of the office is a bunch of people who love life, the universe, and everything. And then there’s my team. We hate people.  We get annoyed by those who take advantage of us, or have no respect for our work, or have little regard for those around them and only care about themselves.

In my day job, I work with a lot of charities and community groups. My own business is a social enterprise so, despite my outwardly misanthropic stance, I actually do care something about the human race and my fellow man.

But that doesn’t stop me looking around at people and wondering why on earth they behave the way they do. When I say ‘I hate people’ I don’t mean that I am some evil villain, plotting to destroy the world, or that I wish people any harm, I just mean that I hate the selfishness, the idiotic behaviour and the hurt that is often inflicted on society.

I hate the impatient drivers that beep their horn as soon a light turns green. I hate the drunk guy that thinks it’s okay to insult everyone and then accuse them of being boring when they get offended, and I hate the people who pretend to be your best friend in order to get something, then drop you like a sack of spuds as soon as they get what they want.

And don’t get me started on the sexists, racists, and homophobes.

It’s 2015, our government is desperately trying to sell off our NHS to make their rich mates more money while a growing number of society is forced to use foodbanks to feed their children.

Teenagers are killing themselves because they’re being bullied by their school mates. People are being beaten to death for being gay. Wars have broken out over which of God’s messengers we should believe in. (A god that no one has any proof even exists).

People did that.

And that’s why I hate people.

 

*In fact, I ended up taking the post down, so well done to that person for ruining my little corner of the internet on which I previously felt comfortable enough to air my own opinions.

Sometimes I just really hate people

A Tea Connoisseur

It’s no secret that I like a good cup of tea. But what do I mean by a good cup of tea?

I’m not just talking about the minefield of how best to make the humble brew, that hallowed beverage that is the backbone of British society. I’m talking about all the different variations of tea that grace the shelves of our supermarket. And don’t get me started on tea shops and their gloriously tempting tins of fragrant leaves, in all manner of flavours.

The thing is though, I tend to turn my nose up at other teas. I like a good mug of PG Tips, with a small helping of skimmed milk, (or a tiny helping of semi skimmed or a splash of full cream milk).

One of these looks a bit like wee – don’t fancy trying that one.

A couple of years ago I started a diet. It was a crazy diet that didn’t allow black tea, but green tea, camomile and Rooibos was fine. I favoured vanilla redbush, green tea with pomegranate and camomile with spiced apple. But as soon as I gave up the crazy diet I went straight back to my beloved PG Tips.

Recently I was at my sister’s house and after having an English breakfast tea in the morning, after lunch she presented me with an other mug of tea. I took a deep gulp and discovered that this was definitely not tea. It had a sort of citrus flavour, but despite my initial horror, I realised it was quite pleasant.

On further digging, I have determined that this odd mug of tea was in fact a Lady Grey. And as I have a bit of a thing for costume dramas and 19th century romance novels, I find myself enjoying the name, perhaps more than the drink itself, but I’ve surprised myself by embracing the alternative tea and it made me wonder about other ranges of black tea.

What I’ve realised is, despite my assertions that I love a good cup of tea and fancy myself to be something of a perfectionist in the brew making department, I actually know very little about tea and am far from being any kind of connoisseur.

So I’ve decided to remedy that. I’ve bought a selection of Twining teas and I’m going to try them all so I can form a fully researched opinion on all things tea.

This afternoon, I’ve eased my way in slowly with another Lady Grey. It was nice. I’m a little nervous about trying the others.

What’s your favourite tea?

 

A Tea Connoisseur

Look in your Heart

A short story inspired by Love Will Keep Us Together by The Captain & Tenille.

 

The shrill ringing of the phone greeted Ella, as she pushed open the front door of her house.

“Can somebody get that?” she yelled, dropping her keys into the oddly shaped ceramic bowl sitting proudly on the table. Her daughter had made in her art class last year.

The phone continued ringing, like an alarm, sounding a countdown. She could rush and hope she caught whoever was calling before they gave up, or she could just take her time and assume they’ll call back.

Ella hurried to the kitchen and dumped her bags of groceries on the counter as she reached across to the wall to retrieve the phone. She half expected it to feel hot after its almost angry, incessant call for attention.

“Hello?” she asked breathlessly.

“Have you seen the paper?” her mother’s irritated voice snapped at her. No ‘hello, how are you’ just straight in with the judgement. Ella sighed.

“No, not yet. I only just got back from shopping. What does it say this time?”

“Banged All Night! My romp with TV cop.”

“Okay.” Ella, waited for more.

“It says here, he was spotted, sneaking out of a £500 a night hotel, by a passerby.”

“Nonsense.” Ella sniffed.

“But they phoned the hotel room and the girl told them everything.” Her mother insisted, her pitch rising as she became more engrossed in the story.

“And when did this happen?” Ella asked, bored with asking the same old questions every time a trashy paper printed an exclusive story about her husband and his philandering ways.

“Last night.”

“Ha! Well that’s not true.” Ella laughed, “he only got back from LA last night and he’s been fast asleep ever since.”

“I just don’t know how you put up with his nonsense, Ella. I’d have divorced him years ago.”

Movement caught her eye and she turned to smile at her husband shuffling along the hall towards the kitchen. His pyjama bottoms hung loose off his hips and his plain white t-shirt showed off the tanned skin from his recent trip.

“Ma, it’s all nonsense. That’s why I put up with it. Papers make up stories. It’s what they do. No one knows what we get up to except for us and I assure you, again, as I’ve been doing for the last ten years, we are fine, Jack is not having any affairs, he doesn’t have a £10,000-a-day cocaine habit and I’m not filing for divorce. Just stop reading those papers, for goodness sake!” Ella rolled her eyes at her husband who smiled innocently.

“I just worry about you, that’s all.” Her mum grumbled. Ella’s face softened.

“I know you do, Mum. But I promise you, there’s no need.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I just can.”

Ella returned the phone to its cradle and leaned against the counter smiling at Jack as he moved closer to her, opening his arms and inviting her in for a cuddle.

“What are the red tops accusing me of this time?” He asked, his voice was low, muffled by Ella’s hair. She pulled away and grinned up at him.

“Oh the usual; sordid late-night hotel-room sex with young wannabe starlet.” She shrugged, returning her face to his chest. He kissed the top of her head.

“And, you know…”

She moved away from him, “Of course I do. For one thing, they said it was last night and I know that’s definitely not true.” She grinned, her eyes sparkling with humour as she turned her attention to the groceries.

“You’re mum’s not the only one that can’t believe your lack of suspicion, Ella. If the tables were turned and I was reading all this stuff about you, I don’t know if I’d cope with it.”

“That’s because you’re a man, and you would see it as damaging to your reputation so whether it was true or not you’d believe it and act accordingly to save face.”

Jack’s mouth dropped open and he stood speechless for a moment. Ella moved around the kitchen whistling to herself, smiling at him as she tidied tins and packages into various cupboards. Finally she filled the kettle and prepared two coffee mugs.

After watching her for a few minutes he shrugged.

“You may be right. But why don’t you react in the same way?”

Ella stopped to think about it for a moment while she wiped her hands on a tea cloth.

“Do you remember what it was like before? When we lived in that terraced house in Liverpool? Before that even, when we first started dating?”

“I used to follow you around the playground,” Jack laughed, “it took me three years to pluck up the courage to ask you out.”

Ella laughed, she loved hearing him say that. “Well I always remember, even before we were dating, that your ambition was to act. So when we did eventually get together we both worked towards your dream. It never occurred to me that we wouldn’t realise it together. Never crossed my mind that either one of us would fall out of love, or meet someone else.” She poured water into the mugs and stirred the coffee.

Jake smiled, “I wouldn’t have wanted to do any of this without you.”

“Do you remember when that first job came in?” Ella asked, pushing a mug towards him. He picked it up and took a sip, wincing as it burned his lip. He nodded.

“Oh yes. I remember coming home from the audition and I was convinced I’d blown it.”

“As soon as the phone rang, I knew you’d got it. Your first speaking part.”

“On Casualty!”

“Do you remember what I said to you?” She asked, moving away from the counter and making her way into the conservatory. The sun was pouring through the windows and Jakes eyes sparkled as he nodded.

“You said ‘this is it, love. This is where it starts. Forget the first rung of the ladder, that was years ago, you’re on the first floor landing now and you’re only a few steps away from the top.’ I’ve quoted that, several times to the young actors that appear on our show.”

“Really? That’s nice. I’d forgotten I’d said that, actually.” She laughed.

“So what were you talking about?”

“I said, ‘I love you, remember that, when you have girls hanging around, when you feel tempted by the young beautiful actresses, or the influential agents and directors. Just remember, I love you.’”

“I do remember that. I also remember frowning and telling you that there was no way I’d ever want anyone else.”

Ella shrugged, smiling to herself.

“Well, while we’re on the subject, have you ever been tempted?”

“No!” Jack’s voice shot up a couple of octaves, causing Ella to look at him in surprise.

“Me thinks the gentlemen doth protest too much.” She grinned.

“I just can’t believe you would ask that.”

“I’m not asking if you cheated on me. I’m just asking if you’ve ever had to look in your heart and let my love keep you from doing anything that would end us?”

He smiled. “Well there was that time at the BAFTAs when my co-star suggested we go up to her room for a threesome.” He grinned. Ella threw her head back, laughing loudly. “Seriously though, we’ve been married for fifteen years and as our lives have progressed, the more we’ve experienced together, the more I love you.” He blushed slightly, as he said it. Ella had watched him say ‘I love you’, to a variety of actress on TV, but he always got a little embarrassed when he said it to her. It made him seem vulnerable. It always felt like he was declaring it for the first time, afraid she might feel the same way.

“I know.” She finally said, “I have never doubted your love. We’ve always been working towards the same goal. I went into law to make sure we had a good wage coming in, while you were getting started. You eventually got your break and it lead here. We’re on the same team and I know that we’re both loyal to the team. So that’s why I don’t care about any of these stories in the paper. I know they’re not true.”

“But doesn’t it bother you what other people think? I’m convinced your mum hates me.”

Ella closed her eyes and shook her head.

“Look who are neighbours are. You’ve got what’s-his-face from that band next door, the film director across the road, and God knows how many actors. I can never remember whether I recognise them because we live on the same street or because I’ve seen them in something on TV.”

“Oh tell me about it. I’m so used to seeing the husband of that girl from Eastenders that I started thinking he was the famous one!”

Ella laughed, “exactly, and they all know. They’ve all had their fair share of scandalous news stories.”

“I just don’t know why they make this stuff up. What do they mean to achieve?” He sighed.

It’s all just publicity isn’t it? Keeps your name in the papers, I bet the viewing figures tonight will be through the roof.”

“That’s true, they’re making a decision about whether to take out a third series this week too.”

“Exactly so a nice boost to the viewing figures can only be a good thing.”

Jack narrowed his eyes.

“Did you send that story in? I mean, you did spend last night with me.”

Ella raised her eyebrows slightly and widened her eyes innocently. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Look in your Heart

Please Love Me Too

A short story inspired by the song “I Say A Little Prayer.”

He was smiling at me, his long eyelashes made his blue eyes sparkle a small smile was playing over his lips as his face filled my vision moving closer towards me.

I lifted my face to meet his as he pushed his lips out, I close my eyes and waited for his mouth to meet mine.

The image before me was shattered by a deafening alarm. I reached out my arm and frantically fumbled for the alarm clock to silence it. Lying back in the bed I sighed irritably.

“Eric.”

I closed my eyes and tried desperately to conjure up the image of Eric again but it was no use, that dream was over.

“Please let today be the day that he notices me, please” I whispered.

I shuffled in to the bathroom to clean my teeth and put on my make up. I pulled a hairbrush through my hair, as I stood in front of the wardrobe looking at all my clothes and trying to decide what to wear.

“Something nice. What I wear could be the thing that makes him notice me. Really hope he notices me.” I said to my cat, George, who bumped his back side against me as he passed by, curling his tail around my leg, maintaining contact with me until he was too far away to be in reach. He gave a little miaow as he wandered out of the room. At least someone loves me, I mused as I turned my attention back to my wardrobe and selected a dress that was ever so slightly more fitted than usual with a slightly more plunging neckline than I’d ever worn to work before.

I was wearing new shoes, with a heel. I hadn’t realised that walking would be so much more difficult. Still, something about the shoes made my legs look sort of sexy. But I missed the bus and had to wait ages for the next one. Stupid Eric! He’d better notice me after all this! I smiled to myself as I closed my eyes, letting the motion of the bus lull me into a daydream that revolved around Eric. He was handsome, but not too handsome. His eyes crinkled in the corners like he was laughing all the time and he looked so casual he wore his suits like they were sweat pants. He was my kind of guy. Yet somehow, every time I saw him, I tensed up, I couldn’t speak, my mind went blank. I was normally, laid back, relaxed, and having a good laugh. I was convinced we were kindred spirits. But I was so madly in love with him that I got all giddy whenever he was around.

I finally arrived at work and slipped past the managers office unnoticed.

“I saw you, sneaking in late, what happened?” My friend, Joanna, teased me. Leaning casually against the door frame of my office, she smiled at me, “you look very nice. Are you going to actually speak to him today?” She grinned wickedly.

I frowned, feeling my face flush as she spoke. She knew about my crush on Eric, as she called it. Crush? Believe me, it was more than a crush. I was in love with him. There was no one else I could imagine ever wanting to be with.

Joanna stood up straight wide eyed and looked down the corridor.

“Hi Eric.” She said. I felt my eyes widen in an adrenalin-fuelled panic. I saw him walk past my door.

“Hi Jo, Sandra.” He called as he disappeared out of sight. My mouth dropped open.

“He knows my name.” I whispered. Joanna laughed.

“Seriously. You’re the HR manager, of course he knows your name!”

I scowled at her. Three years ago he’d joined the company and for three years I’d been loving him from afar.

“Come on, let’s go get a coffee.” She moved away from the door and waited for me to join her. We took the lift to the 2nd floor and stepped in to the canteen. Joanna nudged me and nodded towards the vending machines. Eric was putting money into the snack machine. He shoved his hands into his pocket, rummaging for more coins.

“Now’s your chance.” she said, holding a handful of coins towards me. I stared at her, “go on.” she hissed, pushing the money into my hands and shoving me in the direction of the man of my dreams.

I stumbled over to him and stopped, plastering a big smile across my face, I leaned against the neighbouring vending machine and looked at him.

“You need some change?” I asked.

He looked at me in surprise, glancing down at my open palm of silver and then past my hand to my outfit. His mouth slowly turned into a smile as he reached for a coin and fed it into the machine.

“Thanks, Sandra.” He said.

“You’re welcome.” I smiled. I didn’t know what to say next so I stood there like a waiter holding a tray of drinks.

“Are you getting anything?” He asked. I shook myself and grinned, feeding coins into the machine. Eric walked away. I heard him speak briefly to Joanna as he left the canteen.

I groaned, waiting for Joanna to ridicule me for my inability to seize the day.

“Well that was a disaster. What a wasted opportunity. I’m going to die alone. It’s him or no one.” I sighed miserably. She grinned at me.

“Not at all. He just asked me if you were seeing anyone.”

Please Love Me Too

A rebrand, sort of.

I’ve been thinking about it for a while now and any eagle-eyed observant followers may have spotted my first step in making a change when I changed my Twitter display name to H P Stephens. That’s right, my real name.

When I chose the name L E May, it was mainly because I didn’t want my mum to read my novel and shout at me for all the bad language and sex scenes. But she’s my mum, I couldn’t lie to her and she read it anyway. So did my dad, but I don’t want to dwell on that!

But I figured that having a pseudonym for privacy was a good idea so I went with it.

Now that I’ve finished writing my second novel, I have something that I want to put my own name to (and that I’ll gladly let my mum read). And I’ve got several short stories planned out, inspired by songs. I’d kinda like to claim them too.

I’ve never hidden behind fake images (although I did wear a wig for my publicity head shots) so I decided it’s time to stop hiding behind a fake name too.

So over next few weeks I’m going to slowly change things over and make things more simple.

A fresh new look, website and Twitter name. Watch this space!*

*actually, not this space, I’m probably going to move to, I don’t know, hpstephens.co.uk maybe…

A rebrand, sort of.

The Punk Wars

A short story inspired by the song Did I fight in the punk wars for this? By Henry Priestman.

It was Saturday evening. Len left his dinner plate in the sink, closed the door on the kitchen and settled himself into his arm chair by the fire.

He pointed the zapper at the TV and pressed the red button, the sudden glare from the screen illuminating the small living room.

The smiley people in shiny suits and sparkling dresses were grinning manically at him. Len curled his lip and grunted.

Four serious looking people with perfect hair and white teeth, were arguing amongst themselves while a nervous looking teenager waited with a frozen grin on his face that made him look like he was in pain.

It seemed like a decision of absolute importance was being made.

“I just don’t get it.” The stony faced man said, causing the other three to react with varying degrees of shock and outrage.

“How can you say that?” The former pop star, sat next to him, asked.

“It’s like karaoke. And not even good karaoke.” He argued.

The radio DJ at the end of the row held his hands out in disbelief.

“Last week you were complaining he was too gimmicky, this week he’s bad karaoke! What is it you want exactly?”

“Well, I want to win, obviously.” The judge laughed.

Len shook his head as he pointed the zapper at the tv.

“It’s all just a game to you isn’t it?” He asked the man on the screen, before changing the channel, replacing the singing talent show with another early evening light entertainment show in which the latest pop sensation was performing their latest hit. A row of five boys executing synchronised dance moves, took it in turns to stare into the camera with sparkling eyes and wide grins while singing a rearranged, slow cover version of a once classic tune.

The front door opened and slammed shut. Len looked up at the living room door expectantly as his son, Ben, walked in carrying a guitar case.

“Hey pops.” He smiled. Len flickered his eyebrows in acknowledgement, “what are you watching?”

“Nothing, it’s all rubbish.” He flicked through the channels again, scowling when the talent show appeared again.

“They’re singing one of your songs tonight.” Ben told him.

“Well I’ll look forward to that royalty cheque.” He shrugged.

Len had written a few hits in the 80s that were always being included in best of compilations and often got an airing on radio.

“Come on, dad, this show isn’t so bad.”

“It isn’t too good either. It’s ruined music, I mean really, did I come through the punk wars for this rubbish?” Len pointed an accusatory finger at the TV.

“So what was it like when you were starting out?”

Len turned off the TV and turned to his son.

“I always wanted to be in a band when I was younger. I used to sing in front of the mirror, practising my stance and even my between song banter, and of course, my gracious acceptance of applause.” He smiled remembering it.

“I’ve done that a fair few times.” Ben laughed, standing up and peering into the mirror above the fireplace and holding his fist in front of his mouth. Len stood up next to him.

“Mine was always more like this,” he said, curling his top lip slightly and raising an eyebrow, “anyway, there was a teacher at school who could play a few instruments and he agreed to teach me during my lunch hour. I learned a chord or three on his guitar until I saved up enough to buy my own and then I started writing a few songs. Back then it was all over dramatic, ten minute guitar solos, so there didn’t seem to be much use for my three chord wonders.”

“So when did you first join a band?” Ben asked, unlocking his guitar case and lifting his instrument onto his knee.

“Well, in 1975, I went to art school, that’s how all the best bands got started back then, we played all the local bars and got a bit of a name for ourselves. We recorded a few songs and one of our mates started his own record label to release them for us. Nothing huge, but we sold a few. I mean, it’s all part of the rich history of the era now, so you can still buy them on eBay for quite a tidy sum. It was a refreshing change to hear short sharp catchy tunes instead of the disco or prog rock. You had the singers who just sang what they were told to sing, and rockers with long hair that knew all the chords and crammed them all in to one song that lasted forever. And then there was us. We weren’t being told what to sing or what to say, we were telling our own story, there were no minors or flats, it was short, simple and to the point.”

“So what happened?”

“A record company came along and signed us up, we went to New York to record our album.”

“Really? That sounds a bit corporate.” Ben teased him.

Len rolled his eyes and sighed, “in our defence, the punk scene was really happening in New York. It was the place to be and we embraced the chance to travel, but yes, the corporates wanted to control us, copy our model and turn it into the next big thing. Suddenly they were putting together bands that sounded like us. Punk became like a brand and instead of fighting the system we’d given them the blueprints to create a more mainstream version of us that made them loads of money while diluting our message.”

“The bastards fought back, huh?” Ben strummed a melancholic chord on his guitar.

“Yep, and they’ve been winning ever since. Look at this shit.” Len waved a dismissive hand at the TV, “music is dead. They broke it. They care more about tv ratings. People think they’re choosing what makes it by voting, but it’s all rigged. Of all the thousands of people that audition for this show, they cherry pick the ones that fit with their model, that they can manipulate, that will do what they’re told as long as they get to sing on TV and experience fame.”

“No one wants to make music, they just want to be famous.” Ben agreed, plucking lightly at the guitar strings, playing a pretty tune. Len grunted.

“Anyway, what have you done today?” He asked, eyeing the guitar.

“I wrote a new song. Do you want to hear it?”

“Of course I do.” Len sat back in his seat, fixing his attention on his son, listening intently to his words and watching his fingers move deftly across the fret board.

It was well written, beautifully crafted and the complete opposite of the trash that made up the top 40. Ben didn’t care about fame, he just wanted to write music that meant something to him. Len smiled as the song came to an end, this is what we were fighting for, he thought to himself.

The Punk Wars

The Punk Wars

A short story inspired by the song Did I fight in the punk wars for this? By Henry Priestman.

It was Saturday evening. Len left his dinner plate in the sink, closed the door on the kitchen and settled himself into his arm chair by the fire.

He pointed the zapper at the TV and pressed the red button, the sudden glare from the screen illuminating the small living room.

The smiley people in shiny suits and sparkling dresses were grinning manically at him. Len curled his lip and grunted.

Four serious looking people with perfect hair and white teeth, were arguing amongst themselves while a nervous looking teenager waited with a frozen grin on his face that made him look like he was in pain.

It seemed like a decision of absolute importance was being made.

“I just don’t get it.” The stony faced man said, causing the other three to react with varying degrees of shock and outrage.

“How can you say that?” The former pop star, sat next to him, asked.

“It’s like karaoke. And not even good karaoke.” He argued.

The radio DJ at the end of the row held his hands out in disbelief.

“Last week you were complaining he was too gimmicky, this week he’s bad karaoke! What is it you want exactly?”

“Well, I want to win, obviously.” The judge laughed.

Len shook his head as he pointed the zapper at the tv.

“It’s all just a game to you isn’t it?” He asked the man on the screen, before changing the channel, replacing the singing talent show with another early evening light entertainment show in which the latest pop sensation was performing their latest hit. A row of five boys executing synchronised dance moves, took it in turns to stare into the camera with sparkling eyes and wide grins while singing a rearranged, slow cover version of a once classic tune.

The front door opened and slammed shut. Len looked up at the living room door expectantly as his son, Ben, walked in carrying a guitar case.

“Hey pops.” He smiled. Len flickered his eyebrows in acknowledgement, “what are you watching?”

“Nothing, it’s all rubbish.” He flicked through the channels again, scowling when the talent show appeared again.

“They’re singing one of your songs tonight.” Ben told him.

“Well I’ll look forward to that royalty cheque.” He shrugged.

Len had written a few hits in the 80s that were always being included in best of compilations and often got an airing on radio.

“Come on, dad, this show isn’t so bad.”

“It isn’t too good either. It’s ruined music, I mean really, did I come through the punk wars for this rubbish?” Len pointed an accusatory finger at the TV.

“So what was it like when you were starting out?”

Len turned off the TV and turned to his son.

“I always wanted to be in a band when I was younger. I used to sing in front of the mirror, practising my stance and even my between song banter, and of course, my gracious acceptance of applause.” He smiled remembering it.

“I’ve done that a fair few times.” Ben laughed, standing up and peering into the mirror above the fireplace and holding his fist in front of his mouth. Len stood up next to him.

“Mine was always more like this,” he said, curling his top lip slightly and raising an eyebrow, “anyway, there was a teacher at school who could play a few instruments and he agreed to teach me during my lunch hour. I learned a chord or three on his guitar until I saved up enough to buy my own and then I started writing a few songs. Back then it was all over dramatic, ten minute guitar solos, so there didn’t seem to be much use for my three chord wonders.”

“So when did you first join a band?” Ben asked, unlocking his guitar case and lifting his instrument onto his knee.

“Well, in 1975, I went to art school, that’s how all the best bands got started back then, we played all the local bars and got a bit of a name for ourselves. We recorded a few songs and one of our mates started his own record label to release them for us. Nothing huge, but we sold a few. I mean, it’s all part of the rich history of the era now, so you can still buy them on eBay for quite a tidy sum. It was a refreshing change to hear short sharp catchy tunes instead of the disco or prog rock. You had the singers who just sang what they were told to sing, and rockers with long hair that knew all the chords and crammed them all in to one song that lasted forever. And then there was us. We weren’t being told what to sing or what to say, we were telling our own story, there were no minors or flats, it was short, simple and to the point.”

“So what happened?”

“A record company came along and signed us up, we went to New York to record our album.”

“Really? That sounds a bit corporate.” Ben teased him.

Len rolled his eyes and sighed, “in our defence, the punk scene was really happening in New York. It was the place to be and we embraced the chance to travel, but yes, the corporates wanted to control us, copy our model and turn it into the next big thing. Suddenly they were putting together bands that sounded like us. Punk became like a brand and instead of fighting the system we’d given them the blueprints to create a more mainstream version of us that made them loads of money while diluting our message.”

“The bastards fought back, huh?” Ben strummed a melancholic chord on his guitar.

“Yep, and they’ve been winning ever since. Look at this shit.” Len waved a dismissive hand at the TV, “music is dead. They broke it. They care more about tv ratings. People think they’re choosing what makes it by voting, but it’s all rigged. Of all the thousands of people that audition for this show, they cherry pick the ones that fit with their model, that they can manipulate, that will do what they’re told as long as they get to sing on TV and experience fame.”

“No one wants to make music, they just want to be famous.” Ben agreed, plucking lightly at the guitar strings, playing a pretty tune. Len grunted.

“Anyway, what have you done today?” He asked, eyeing the guitar.

“I wrote a new song. Do you want to hear it?”

“Of course I do.” Len sat back in his seat, fixing his attention on his son, listening intently to his words and watching his fingers move deftly across the fret board.

It was well written, beautifully crafted and the complete opposite of the trash that made up the top 40. Ben didn’t care about fame, he just wanted to write music that meant something to him. Len smiled as the song came to an end, this is what we were fighting for, he thought to himself.

The Punk Wars

Awesome lady: Danielle Austen

My fellow Xcite author, Danielle Austen, took me under her wing and gave me a heads up as to what to expect when I was preparing for my first novel to be published and we’ve stayed in touch ever since. Turns out we’ve got a lot more in common than just our publishing company. So meet fellow nerd, Dannielle…

Aside from writing erotica, the prophecy girl trilogy was a fantasy story set in the world of magic. What inspired you to choose that setting?

The stories I enjoy (whether in books, TV, film or videogames) tend to combine action, adventure, character drama and a tinge of sci-fi and/or supernatural; so it was a blend of genres I also gravitated towards in my own writing. I chose magic in particular because unlike things like vampires and werewolves and spaceships, I had complete creative freedom. I was able to create my own rules without having to worry about existing genre tropes, and do whatever I wanted within those confines. It also gave me the flexibility to escalate the scale of the magic throughout the trilogy; from Angelito’s illusions in The Magician’s Lover through to Cereza terraforming an entire planet in The Ancient’s Destiny.

I couldn’t help picturing Derren Brown when I read about Angelito. Are any of the characters based on real people/celebrities?

Ha! I completely understand picturing Derren Brown! Alas, he was not the inspiration for Angelito; however a different celebrity was, on a physical level at least. He’s not the only one; Dmitri, Jason, Frank, Tera, Tengu and a couple of others have their appearance inspired by actors and musicians and others. Some characters such as Cammie are inspired by people I know in the real world, and others like Cereza and Zee are entirely new creations who just appeared in my head. In any case, I don’t like revealing specifically who my characters are based on – it can interfere with a reader’s existing mental image, and there is no “right” way to imagine any of my characters.

What’s your favourite video game?

I’d played games before, but almost 15 years ago I played a game which gave me cause to buy my first ever console – Halo: Combat Evolved. It gave me such a sense of awe and wonder that I’d never experienced before, and it was the first time a game really felt like what it was trying to portray – I really felt like a supersoldier alone on a strange alien planet. The whole series is great – I lost almost two full years of my life to Halo: Reach alone, and Cortana’s death in Halo 4 had me in floods of tears – but the first game has a particularly special place in my heart. Hubby & I recently bought ourselves an Xbox One and so far the only game we own on it is the Halo collection – I basically have a £300 Halo machine!

When you’re not writing, how do you spend your free time?

I have a full-time job which sucks up a lot of my time; on top of that I also have routine housework to get through, some pretty extensive home renovations to sort out, time to devote to hubby, and a regular exercise routine to keep up. Sometimes my life can be a little like an exercise in spinning plates – but it’s not a complaint; I would much rather be too busy than bored! When I do get some time out I like travelling, watching good TV with the hubster, playing videogames, and going out running.

Have you always wanted to be an author? What made you choose erotica specifically?

I’d always had a creative side that I needed to release; my problem for many years was trying to find the right avenue for it. I tried being in a band, but had the small problem of being unable to sing or play any instruments! Then I tried screenwriting after having an idea for a movie, but the whole process was infuriating; I found that having to write in the correct and very specific format just got in the way of the actual writing. But after I read Juliet Hastings’ “The Hand of Amun” – for me the greatest erotic novel ever written – my mind exploded with possibilities. Here was something I could actually do! I already had a couple of English qualifications so I knew how to write, and I found the characters and the stories came easily – plus writing erotica gave me a great creative outlet for some of my issues and weird neuroses.

Not too long ago I was having a whinge to hubby about some of the negative aspects of writing erotica and he asked why I don’t just write in another genre – but honestly, I love writing cross-genre erotica. It’s the only thing I feel compelled to write. I don’t think there are many other authors writing the kind of erotica I write; I’m writing the erotica I would want to read, and as an added bonus there’s the possibility that others will enjoy it too. It’s not a financially rewarding genre and I’m never going to be a household name but I wouldn’t change it for the world.

Who’s your favourite author?

If we’re talking erotica, then it’s Juliet Hastings by a country mile. I don’t think she’s active anymore, but the books she did write were all phenomenal. But if you mean on a normal day-to-day basis then there are three authors who never let me down – Philip K. Dick, Kurt Vonnegut and Stephen King. It’s tough for me to pick just one as a lot of it is mood-dependent, but if push came to shove I’d probably fall on the side of Vonnegut. He was one of the most unique authors the world has ever seen, and probably the only author to ever make me alternately laugh and cry in the space of three paragraphs.

What’s your strategy for surviving a zombie apocalypse?

I assume that getting my claws into Daryl Dixon isn’t an option?! I’m a big fan of The Walking Dead and zombie movies in general so I feel pretty well-educated on this front. If the world’s gone to hell then I’m off to Hawaii; it’s my favourite place in the world, it’s really remote so it’s nigh-on impossible for hordes of zombies to stumble into, and if there are already zombies there Hawaii has pretty lax gun control laws so guns and ammo won’t be hard to come across – and I know from past experience that I’m a dab hand with a semi-automatic rifle! Granted, getting halfway across the world in the midst of a zombie apocalypse could be tricky but I’ll manage it somehow – if there’s one thing erotica has taught me, it’s that the world is full of yacht-owning billionaires who are just desperate for the love of a woman who likes being spanked!

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Awesome lady: Danielle Austen

Free ebooks and the changing face of publishing

I had a sobering thought this morning. I was on Facebook and read a post from someone detailing all the free books she had downloaded from the Kindle store.

I had a little moment of sadness. As a consumer Amazon is great, everything is cheap, there’s bargains to be had everywhere. And as a reader, the promise of downloading more Ebooks for free than I could possibly ever read in my lifetime is a treat indeed.

Then I thought; what will happen when authors realise that there’s just no point in writing. It’s not a sustainable career option, one cannot make a decent living from writing novels anymore.

I thought, what will readers do then? When no new novels are being written? I had a ridiculous, almost satisfied feeling, rather like cutting off your nose to spite your face. Yes, while readers delight in getting free books now, not caring at all that this free books model is hugely undervaluing the time and effort that authors have taken in writing their novel, what will they do when this model collapses and there are no new novels?

But then I realised: with so many free books available, even if no one ever writes another novel again there’s still more than enough books to last several lifetimes.

How depressing.

The average employee works 1440 hours a year and earns £26500.

I spent 500 hours writing Inspired by Night and earned a sales royalty of £14.90. No advance, no other income associated with the novel. I’ve spent at least 10 times that amount on marketing.

I work full time (earning massively below the average wage), and my spare time is spent on the, apparently thankless, task of novel writing.

918 people downloaded my novel, when it first came out, but only 38 of those people paid – the frankly bargain price of £1.83 – the other 880 got it free and will probably never read it.

Still. We write because we love it, right??

The Amazon way has created a monster. Traditionally published authors are competing with a seemingly unlimited number of self published authors. Some who take it seriously and some that don’t even seem to bother with proofreading. Inbetween that is the rise of independent publishers that basically use the self publishing tools to publish other writers. They own the novels but the author is still the one doing all the publicity, with no budget and no control over running sales or special offers.

Getting a publishing deal now is probably easier than it’s ever been. Which massively undervalues the time and effort that has gone into writing.

I realise that I’m published by one of these independent publishers. I’ve benefitted from the current model. I’ll never know whether my novel was good enough to attract an agent and get it in front of a major publisher, because I didn’t have the self confidence to believe it was good enough. But on the other hand, this show of faith by Xcite has given me the self belief that I can write novels worthy of publication, which has made me spend another few hundred hours hunched over the keyboard writing another novel.

If I’d written Inspired, published it myself and sold ten copies, I’d have left it at that. I wouldn’t claim to be an author. I’d have got the writing bug out of my system.

But this way has lead me to think I’m good enough to be published, I’m thinking about getting an agent – as if that’s as easy as saying ‘hey, you can be my agent’ – I’m dreaming about traditional publishers, being interviewed on This Morning and touring branches of Waterstones doing book readings to my legion of fans.

And maybe that’s still possible. Or maybe the current print on demand and ebook model means independent publishers are just less fussy about what they put their name to and in real life I’d be buried under a sea of rejection letters from agents.

I would love to be a full time author but sadly, while the market is saturated and the public demand more for less, it’s likely that, despite being a published author, it will never be my full time career.

Free ebooks and the changing face of publishing

Video: What was the inspiration for Inspired by Night?

A few things inspired me to write Inspired by Night. My friend’s comments about the poor editing of Fifty Shades of Grey gave me the confidence to just try writing, my long held ambition to write something and my desire to create a world that made sense to me as a female nerdy business woman.

But the core inspiration was what I now refer to as the Catfish romance. I hadn’t seen Catfish before writing but the central story is similar to an episode of Catfish.

I’d had online friends that I barely knew yet talked to almost daily. But I couldn’t really imagine falling in love with them, though I know plenty of people that have. I just wanted to explore it a bit further.

Video: What was the inspiration for Inspired by Night?