In the beginning...

From the First (and, as it turned out, only) Book of Ernest:

In the beginning was the void, which contained all that there was and all that there would ever be.  And from the void came a voice which sayeth "Erm!"  And all that there was, and all that there would ever be responded with a mighty and harmonious "ERM!"

Then from the void came the voice and it sayeth "Hang on" and all that there was, and all that there would ever be, hung on grimly.  Parts of it clenched.

Then came the voice again, saying "Wait a minute!"* and all that there was, and all that there would ever be, waited.

*  This gave rise to the Church of Perpetual Expectation, whose adherents are still waiting.  Their contention is that, as only the supreme being can define how long a 'minute' is, and no-one has told them to stop waiting, therefore the instruction still stands.  Members of the Church can be found in large numbers in most of the public services.  They are particularly evident in transport, such as railways and airports, and their churches are designed to resemble bus shelters.  The higher echelons of the Church aspire to become Doctor's Receptionists.

It Might As Well Rain Until September

This is the article that appeared in September for the Derby Telegraph:

On the whole, I've come to realise that there are pros and cons to having your birthday at the end of August.

On the positive side, back in my school days it meant that I had the day free from school and could do some fun things.  It also meant that I avoided the dreaded birthday 'bumps'.  Do you remember those?  I don't know if it was a fairly widespread tradition or just a form of sadism peculiar to Anglesey Secondary Modern?  The concept was that the birthday boy (I very much doubt that girls ever inflicted this on each other, they had too much sense) would be grabbed hand and foot by his compatriots (often including  a fair sprinkling of enemies) and then would be bounced vigorously up and down by his arms and legs.  In a perfect world, this would not include frequent collisions between the lower back and the tarmacadamed playground, but it often did.

On the minus side would have to be the inescapable fact that the arrival of my birthday also presaged the imminent end of the school summer holidays, with all of the horrors that foretold.  It also meant that I was the youngest in my class, which was a mixed blessing.

Time operated on a wholly different scale when you were a child, didn't it?  On the last day of term, the summer holidays seemed to stretch out for centuries ahead, with the return to school distant and, thankfully, forgettable.  Hopelessly impracticable and wildly ambitious plans were made and the potential of all of those weeks seemed enormous.  If the sun was shining and everything was fine, the days zipped past like an old-fashioned silent movie.  When the days were grey or rain-sodden, every minute seemed interminable and you would drive your Mother mad with the time-honoured wail of "I'm bored!"

My birthday was, therefore, a double-edged sword.  On one hand, I inevitably looked forward to the cards and presents I would receive but, I was acutely aware that the act of looking forward to it also meant that I was willing the end of the summer holidays to come.  This is quite a dilemma for any child and no amount of clandestine deals with whatever deity deals with schoolchildren's wishes (usually of the nature of "Yes, please hurry up with my birthday but can you postpone the end of the summer holidays indefinitely"), ever changed the simple fact that the arrival of one meant the inexorable end of the other.

I often think that my childhood depression would have been even worse if I was at school now (apart from the fact that they would doubtless be a bit dubious about having a 58 year old in their class).   Why? Because no sooner have the summer holidays commenced than all of the clothing and stationery stores are holding 'Back to School' sales.  I would have hated that.  It was bad enough being dragged off to Fox's or Curzon's in Uxbridge Street to get replacements for any items of school uniform that I had either outgrown or worn out.  A shopping trip that invariably resulted in me being buried beneath a dark grey blazer, with the consistency and fashionable appeal of corrugated cardboard, and the assistant assuring my parents that I would grow into it.

I used to look, with amazement and horror, at those parents who would say to my Mum, "Is he looking forward to going back to school?" which was always followed by something like "Sarah is, aren't you Sarah?" (Sarah would smile and nod winningly).  This caused me to give Sarah the evil eye and generally regard her as a traitor and a quisling.  This however, was as nothing to those Uncles who would tell me, in all seriousness apparently, that "you should make the most of your school days, Philip; they're the best years of your life".  Anything more calculated to send me into a fit of depression, I can't imagine.  If these really were the best days of my life, what the heck was the rest of it going to be like?

Much better was the answer, as it turned out.

Balancing the Bad News

It's a strange fact, but I suspect we are all more prone to believe bad reviews than we are to accept good ones. Whenever I'm looking for a hotel, I will inevitably home in on any review that is taking the place to task and will ignore the many others that say how great it all is. This is fine (although not for the hoteliers) when you're the customer, but it is somewhat different when the boot is on the other foot and you are trying to sell your own work.

I was, therefore, disproportionately disappointed when my new book, Jambalaya,  got its first review, and it was a poor one. To be fair, the review was balanced and well written, but I just knew it would be seized on by every potential reader and accepted without question, after all, that's what I would have done.

So it's illogical but nevertheless the case that I'm equally disproportionately chuffed that some kind soul has taken the time to disagree with the review (you'll find the original in the Comments for the review), like so:

"I liked it very much, lighthearted ,funny ,good story ,just what's needed in this busy,busy life ."

Missie, whoever you are, thank you so much for brightening my day! 

Jambalaya is now part of the KDP Select program.

Jambalya v The Granny

It's rather odd that in the same week that the new book, Jambalaya found new depths to sink to in the Amazon sales rankings, my little book about growing up in Burton upon Trent - Steady Past Your Granny's - should notch up its 5000th sale!

I must admit that I never expected this little book would ever do so well, but I'm absolutely delighted.  Now I need to shake the same magic fairy dust over Jambalaya.  Has anybody seen my wand?  Sorry, sorry, I know the last time I asked that I had to spend a night in the cells ;-)

Country Roads? Take Me Home!

 This is the most recent article to appear in the Derby Telegraph:

I mentioned my Auntie Mabel's Chocolate Sponge cake with plum jam filling last time, as an effective incentive to go out to the wilds of Holbrook and "get some fresh air into your lungs", as my Mum would exhort.  I'm not saying that this was the only reason for going, but it was pretty high on the list!

Having been born and brought up in Burton upon Trent, and spent all of my childhood within roughly the same square mile of that town, the appeal of the countryside was lost on me.  You see, I knew Burton like the back of my hand.  I knew where to go and where to avoid.  I knew the cinemas and the library, the shops and the museum, in fact, just about every 'crook and nanny'.  The countrysde, however, was a mystery to me.

Do you know Holbrook?  I believe it is a much larger affair now than it was back in the early 1960s, when I could be found lurking around Pond Road.  What amazed me about the village was how everybody seemed to know everybody else.  Coming from a town that made 'keeping yourself to yourself' practically an art form, this was a shock to the system.  Holbrook might have been a foreign country as far as I was concerned.  I certainly used to actively yearn for the comforting certainties of town life and, when I was old enough to be let out on my own, I used to take the bus to Belper.  Now I accept that Belper is hardly a throbbing metropolis, either now or then (unless, of course, you came from Holbrook) but I found it had some of the aspects of town-life that I enjoyed, like traffic and people. 

My invariable routine was to plod up and down the High Street, look at the shops, buy a packet of Dentyne chewing gum (because I never saw it on sale anywhere else, and it was the nearest I was prepared to get to 'cool' gum chewing) and invest in a chocolate milk shake in a café.  Then it was back to the Bus Station and Holbrook.

Actually, being given the chance to stay at Auntie Mabel's was really an act of considerable generosity on their part.  Not only did it mean an extra mouth to feed, in addition to their three children, but it also placed a considerable strain on the sleeping arrangements. 

Being of the male persuasion, I was something of an oddity on Mum's side of the family.  Auntie Mabel was one of Mum's two sisters and she, herself, had had three daughters.    In a three-bedroomed house, this did not leave much scope for accommodating nephews. 

Accordingly, I was billeted at the foot of Auntie Mabel and Uncle Leslie's own bed, in a sort of early version of a sofa bed.  I seem to recall that it was a dark green, buttoned, high-backed chair with wooden arms, and the whole thing folded down into a bed that would just about contain a child.  The buttoning effect on the upholstery made the 'mattress' support somewhat sporadic, and the wooden arms with their Barley Twist struts gave the effect of, at best, being back in a cot and, at worst, being in prison.  Nevertheless, I usually slept well, probably as a consequence of having "that fresh air in my lungs" and being prodded into taking more exercise (in the sense of country walks, trailing after my youngest cousin) than I would normally take. 

The difficulty arose if I had not gone to sleep quickly enough, usually due to clandestine reading of my cousins' collection of Enid Blyton books and Rupert Annuals.  I had no desire whatsoever to see either my Auntie or Uncle prepare for bed, and I was pretty sure that they would find it disconcerting, to say the least, if they knew I was awake.  So, with my eyes as tightly shut as they were for Santa's visit on Christmas Eve, I awaited the turning off of the light and the regular breathing that would indicate that proper decorum had been restored.

Jambalaya, Philip's first foray into book-length humorous fiction, is now available at www.amazon.co.uk

Jambalaya - here at last!

After what seems like an eternity, but is in reality only a few months, I've finally managed to get the book to the point of publication.  I'm really hoping you're going to like it.  I would certainly be grateful for your feedback, so if you can at least take a 'Look Inside' and tell me what you think, that would be great!

Thanks to everyone who has supported and encouraged me on this journey.  Now comes the tricky bit ;-)

Read more and buy Jambalaya at Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com

It’s a time of Civil War; of cowboys and soldiers, riverboats and gamblers, genteel Southern Belles and dark deeds.

Celany Garden had it all – big house, doting wealthy parents and not one but two devoted lovers. So why is she being pursued by kidnappers? What has happened to her maid, and where does an Army Major called Agnes fit in? Can Celany beat the law, the army, and an enthusiastic posse in finding the answers? Everything hinges on a flatulent horse called Thunder, a General who hates loud noises and a psychopathic Marshall with a penchant for torture. Gone with the Wind was never like this! 

Philip Whiteland is well known for his hilarious collections of 'nostalgedy' childhood memoirs, 'Steady Past Your Granny's' and 'Crutches for Ducks'. This is his first foray into full-length fiction (and you try saying that after a night at the pub).

Jambalaya 3rd and definitely final random excerpt

I know I said I wasn't going to do this but...what the hell!

Max strode up the steps of the saloon.  An old-timer sitting on the steps spat congenially in his direction.

            "Why did you do that, friend?" Max asked.

            "Jest trying to add a little local colour to the scene" vouchsafed the old man.

            "Well thank you kindly but I really didn't want the local colour all down the left leg of my pants.”  Max made for the door of the bar and then turned back, intrigued.  “Say, did you just vouchsafe that?"

            "Sure did."  The old man confirmed, smugly.

            "Gee, I never heard someone vouchsafe something before....do it again."

            "I kind of restrict myself to one a day, I don't want to wear it out you know"

            "Really, where do you wear it?"

            "Jest tucked inside ma pants"

            "Well, I suppose we should all be grateful for that.”  Max stated.  “I'm looking for a woman, can you help?"

            "Well, I guess I ain't as purty or as agile as I was,” the old man admitted, “but I'm game if you are!"

            "No, I want a woman!”  Max confirmed, hastily, “for the night, if you see what I mean....."

            "Oh.”  The old man slumped back disappointedly, “well, you need to see Jay Alors in there, he's the local pimp, known as Zoot to his friends"

            "How will I know him?"

            "Well, he's about your height, dark complexion, thick black moustache.."

            "Anything else?"

            "Oh yeah, he'll be wearing a pink and silver sequinned jacket with the word PIMP embroidered on the back."

            "Well thank you kindly sir, here's a dollar for your trouble"

            "Seems a fair bargain, here's my trouble" and so saying, he handed Max a small wooden box from which a low growl could be heard and ran off with a rare turn of speed.

You can find an explanation for all of this nonsense at Jambalaya Prologue

Read more and buy Jambalaya at Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com

And for those who prefer non-fiction, The first collection of stories - "Steady Past Your Granny's" is now available in Kindle e-book format at Amazon UK and Amazon USA and now read the new bumper collection of stories, Crutches For Ducks  also at Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com.