THE STORY OF BOUNCE

I moved into my little garret, known as Lemming’s Rest, on 18th October 2007. That was when my life began again. Everything was panning out wonderfully and I was the happiest I had been in years; possibly ever. I was content simply to potter through life but friends began to suggest that I should do something more constructive with my time. Various ideas were floated but it was Larni and Andy who mentioned that I should start writing again. I had been scribbling intermittently since the summer of 1999. There were four novels, four plays and forty-odd poems, all of which had been utterly unsuccessful and I referred to myself as a ‘failed writer’, which is true enough. People insisted that now I had a story to tell and should put fingers to keyboard. Why not?
To begin with I used my old computer at the folks’ house and had written about eight pages or so by Christmas when the ancient thing died. I could not afford a new one and so battled through the Festive Season while saving up for a little lap-top. During this period I showed what I had written to a few souls who reacted quite positively, especially Alan, who offered to introduce me to Sarah, the editor of the Kemptown Rag; a free, fortnightly paper that was delivered in the locale. I had heard of it and jumped at the idea. I rang the lady herself and she told me to send examples of my scrawlings to the PO Box address that she used for the paper. I sent a copy of what was to become Bounce, then untitled, a terrible poem and a small piece of bad journalism. A few days later she called and suggested we meet for a drink.
Sarah turned out to be a delightful lady and had enjoyed the story. No mention was made of the poem nor the article.
‘I would like to serialise your book.’ she offered.
‘Wonderful.’ I enthused, ‘It didn’t do Dickens any harm. Nor Dostoyevsky come to that; I can do pretentious.’
This was the perfect incentive to write in earnest and I soon bought a second-hand lap-top and printer which Andy was kind enough to set up for me. In the shop I had said, ‘I am a failed writer. All I need is a glorified word-processor, a printer for hard copy and all the bits to make it work.’ It came without a printer lead. What a world. The first chapter was written soon enough and I gave it to Sarah on a memory stick. The suicide note was the one I wrote in January. I found it on the old computer and was pleasantly surprised by its coherence. I don’t even remember writing it.
With enormous anticipation I awaited the edition of the Kemptown Rag containing the first installment of Bounce. It was beautiful to my eyes. I can only assume that Sarah had written the introduction herself and it was brilliant. Everything about the piece was just wonderful. I texted my thanks to Sarah and went for a celebratory drink with Andy. It was Friday 18th January. At eleven o’ clock on the Saturday my father died. My younger brother sent me a text, ‘Great timing you selfish prick.’ He is charming like that.
I went to the folks’ house that afternoon where the clan was gathered. The three brothers, the widow and a girlfriend who had offered to do the catering at the wake; for a fee of course. After various dull conversations concerning cremation versus burial da-di-da, I suggested that we all go for a drink. One brother complained, ‘If I start now I won’t stop.’ I shrugged and went to the pub myself. There was no reason to point out that it was three o’ clock on a Saturday and dad died this morning. Ho hum.
During the last conversation I had with dad I had told him about being published in the Kemptown Rag and he had been delighted. That was a further incentive to keep writing. There is no point in relating the farce that was the funeral.
It was Frederick Forsythe who likened writing a book to climbing a mountain, in terms of the mental and emotional commitment involved. He also said that further books are the same mountain but with different weather conditions. During the winter months I fell into a steady routine of writing and Bounce took shape quite quickly. I reasoned that, this being the fifth novel, I should know what I am doing by now. One thing that I had noticed with other people’s books, (especially those who do other things before they are offered a book deal for being famous), is that the last chapter can seem rather rushed. No doubt they had had enough of the seclusion that writing a book can bring about, and simply wanted to get it finished, probably to a looming deadline. I avoided this foible by writing the last chapter before the second. Hopefully my cunning plan has worked. With previous efforts I changed the names of characters based on people I knew. With Bounce I decided to use people’s names, as a tribute to those who were so wonderful as well as my own sloth. The unpleasant types in the story have their names changed as well as the professional coves out of respect. Also with past stuff I have always had someone to proof-read for me, so that I was receiving regular feedback and constructive criticism. I asked my dear friend Toby to proof this attempt at literature, he had done so for the fourth novel, and he agreed though circumstances made this impossible due to the pressures he was under. When a pal is doing you a favour, it is wrong to push the point. So, although I had no immediate input from anyone, the fortnightly joy of seeing my work in print was sufficient to keep me going. It even read half decent which was a pleasant surprise. I had not written anything for a number of years as the tides of familial abuse had eroded any self-belief or confidence, so it was wonderful to feel these lost emotions steadily returning. Just possibly I wasn’t too bad. I cannot walk but I can write; or so it seemed. It is impossible to put into words how vital the Kemptown Rag was during this period and I could never thank Sarah enough.
Come February, first year anniversaries began to occur. I had failed to kill myself on Thursday 8th February 2007. On that day 2008, I was able to smoke a contemplative cigarette by the fountain in the Old Steine and reflect upon how much my little life had changed for the marvellous. For the next couple of months, when attending various hospital appointments, I would similarly pollute whilst gazing at the small window of the ward in which I ended up. I still have the PJs and ID wrist-band from those days purely to remind myself of the lowest point of my existence. One should never forget these things.
As the months passed Bounce was forming pleasantly well and I realized that I might be able to finish the thing at around the end of April. I was released from hospital on 1st May 2007, so the symmetry would be very pleasing. As I toiled like a Spartan approaching A-Levels, to be found tickling the plastics at 8am, I received a text. It was my younger brother. ‘You can tell whoever your getting to call and make silly threats that the matter is now in the hands of the police how did you think I wouldnt know it was you your not as clever as you think.’ I still have not the faintest idea what that was all about. On 30th April I did complete Bounce and went to Andy’s for a celebratory drink, as is my wont. ‘That’s the easy bit done.’ I observed, ‘All I have to do now is get the thing published.’
The next day was spent drinking with various friends in a double celebration and, on the Friday, I finished the thing properly. How to achieve publication seemed as far off and unlikely a dream as a lottery win. With previous attempts I had been worn down by the rejection letters from some of the publishers to whom things were sent. There is no doubt that you can only be rejected off-hand so many times before taking it personally. I did not want to enter that particular minefield again. My self-confidence wavered until the most remarkable stroke of good fortune.
I had been lucky enough to meet a gentleman by the name of Patrick; in a pub of course. He is a mature man of Northern Irish extraction who works as a Spiritual Life Coach, whatever that is, and was the sort of individual who massages his karma with crystals. Imagine James Nesbitt’s strange uncle in a silly hat and you will not be far wrong. In conversation, he was very charming, I mentioned the existence of A Deal With God, its brief and foolish publication, and the fact that I probably still had around 500 copies of a 1,000 print-run. Around 200 had been sold. In pubs. The rest given away, except for those sent to uninterested publishers. Patrick decided that these were blocking my karma and chances of any sort of success, and I should give them away.
It was an intriguing thought from which I could not escape. Thus I set off one drizzly afternoon with seven copies in my ruck-sack. I wandered doubtfully down St. James’ Street donating a copy at a time to the various charity shops on the way. I presented one to a kind lady working away for the benefit of others, to receive a flummoxing reaction.
‘I’ve read this.’ she exclaimed, ‘It’s really good.’ I was rendered speechless. ‘Really,’ she continued, ‘It’s brilliant.’
‘No it’s not.’ I found my voice, ‘It’s rubbish.’
‘Didn’t you enjoy it?’
‘I wrote it.’
That left two of us unsure how to continue any sort of conversation. I departed with a ‘Thank you’, leaving two copies, and staggered outside. I was completely thrown. It had been many years since I had given up entirely on the first novel.
I have no wish to deride anyone who finds themselves disabled and reliant upon benefits. Nonetheless I do like options, and any possibility of making some sort of living without the constant threat of a Daily Malice inspired culls of ‘scroungers’ could only be preferable. I cannot walk but, possibly, I can write. I made the decision to make Bounce a success.
The Herculanean task of achieving a publishing deal remained as close as Alpha Centurae. I resolved to research and think. After much in the way of contemplation and conversation with friends who do know what they are talking about, I happened upon an idea inspired by those lovely people at BBC 6Music. I have always been an ‘Indie Kid’ and was much inspired by the recent successes of bands such as The Artic Monkeys, cheeky or otherwise. Although any analogy between music and literature is severely limited (yet another attempt to bring in the e book revolution had failed to pass the ramparts), the ‘punk ethos’ is still applicable. Why not the book equivalent of releasing a limited edition single to garner interest and let the recording/publishing deals come to you? There are only two elements needed for the idea to work; a good product and sufficient publicity.
The first point was rather difficult to establish. Investing in some Cdroms from the 99p shop, and huge help from Jon, I acquired numerous copies of the book which I gave to anyone with whom I came in contact. Only Alan did read it. Although he loved the thing one example of anything is worthless, much as I am grateful to him. His opinion meant a lot. The research revealed that a print-run of 1,000 books would cost at least £3,000. Hurdles were gathering with intent. It was at that point that inspiration hit with precision.
We are lucky enough to live in a democracy where, for example, the disabled are looked after. Our prosperity is based upon capitalism and free enterprise, flawed though they are. I got all Eighteenth Century and came up with the notion of selling shares in Bounce to raise the required capital. Such an idea would be stupid enough to attract media interest. In a mental frenzy I rang Jon who, despite my ranting, condoned the idea. Next day I sought a second opinion from Toby, who is wisdom incarnate. He honed the blunt concept into shape; 200 shares at £15, including a copy of the book itself. Not only could the funds be garnered, but there would then be a collective of people who would have the incentive to make the thing successful. Trying to promote anything single-handed is akin to head-butting bricks. When all of the 1,000 books had been sold, there would be sufficient monies to repay all of the investors their initial investment, but they would still retain their shares. Thereby, if the thing were ever successful, all the investors would share any profits made according to their portion of the shares.
Not long after, I bounced the concept, no pun intended, off Neil and Alan. They sort of took me seriously but said that I needed to draw up a ‘business plan’. In my experience, business plans tend to be works of fiction since nothing in this life ever happens according to any sort of plan. Nonetheless I took their advice on-board and it was helpful to put the idea on paper. So a business plan was written* and I also designed a share certificate* to give to people investing. Use of the word ‘fool’ to describe myself was, of course, in the Shakespearean sense; King Lear, As You Like It, and et cetera. In reality, though, I am an unmitigated fool. Whenever there is a film or television programme about a fraud or financial shenanigans generally, those investigating always search for the ‘paper trail’. I decided to create huge amounts of paper as a sign of honest intent. Re-cycled, of course. No idea.
Because I had to go bankrupt in 2004 (long story), I am unable to get credit or even have a cheque-book and my name is financially blackened. I asked Toby if he would give his respectability to the project and handle the financial side of things. He was kind enough to agree and became Treasurer. I set about finding investors. I am extremely lucky to have some fantastic friends and was again overwhelmed by their generosity. The constant dichotomy of my life continued. I did mention the idea to my family. My friends reverberated with faith. It did not take long for money to start rolling in as many people were prepared to trust, and have confidence, in me without even reading the thing. It was all very heartwarming. I did need to buy some shares myself, and so began living frugally to try and save some money. My Government stipend, though kind, does not amount to a great deal, so it was goodbye to luxuries like Cds, new clothes and the ilk, but hello to roll-ups. The sofa I had been saving up for would have to wait. I managed to buy six shares for myself by the end of June.
I had a quote from a publishing limited in Kent by the name of Amherst, run by a decent cove called Roger Wickham. I also went to a more local publishers. I talked with a charming young lady, to whom I gave a copy of Bounce on a memory stick and £135 for them to read it. They would be in touch in a month or two. Three weeks later I received a Reader’s Report* and a filled-in contract for me to sign. They seemed to be biting my arm off. Unfortunately it was not the sort of contract I could countenance. They wanted £3,000 but I would only receive 20 copies for myself. The rest of any print-run they would use for their own purposes. The only way I could raise £3,000 was with the share scheme which needed 1,000 copies to sell and reimburse the investors. However the Reader’s Report was a huge boon. A complete stranger, employed by a publishers to read new works to see if they were worth bothering with, had liked the thing. Bounce was officially not that bad. All of the unread Cdroms and memory sticks did not matter. I now had the feedback I had been seeking and so asked Mr. Wickham for a final quote and thought about a design for the cover.
The cover of A Deal With God had been designed by the highly talented David O’ Connor, a legend in the word of design for a number of years. As it happened I had bumped into him recently in the North Laine. I tracked him down and he kindly agreed to put his considerable abilities at my disposal again. About three or so months before the Flying Lesson, Andy had taken some rather striking photographs of me by some graffiti, and one of these would be perfect for the front. On the back would be the rather nonchalant preface* I had written with a more recent picture taken by Stephen. A sort of ‘before and after’ if you will. Because Amherst are a publishing limited rather than a publishing house, no idea, I needed to sort out an ISBN for the book, so that it would be official and a bar-code could be generated. The first book had been sponsored entirely by an old friend, Graham, who had set himself up as a publisher, Dibble Publishers, named after the pub we used to drink in. Obviously. He had been given 100 ISBNs, of which only one had been used. He now lives in Epsom and had been suffering some travails in recent times but, when I called him, he was more then happy to give me Dibble Publishers and its numbers, proving again what an extremely generous man he is. Mr. Wickham wanted half the cost of the print-run in advance which I had now raised. Everything was set to ‘push the button’ and it began to seem as though I might just pull this off. Amazing. Who’d have thought? A year before I had house-bound, unable to walk and inadvertently de-toxing. Terrible times.
It struck me that it might be a good time to start on the publicity. I had a few drinks with an old pal, James, who had been a widely respected national journalist and now teaches at university and writes journalism textbooks. He was more than happy to help and promised to contact a former student who now worked for the Argus, that august publication. Within a fortnight there was a wonderfully written piece in the paper* and I was contacted by Southern Counties Radio to be interviewed. This happened on the following Tuesday morning. Various friends asked me to get a recording of the interview as the timing, 9am, was not to everyone’s convenience. I did ask the nice researcher but was told I would have to download the interview from their web site. Oh well. One pal, Tony Pipe, did hear it go out and was kind enough to text me, ‘You came across as reasonably intelligent! The wonders of modern technology, eh?’ What more could a man ask for? I was also contacted by a ‘life-style’ magazine who want to do a piece, which has yet to happen. While it was lovely that media people are taking an interest, it is also quite disorientating. My failed suicide is now over a year ago and my life has bounded along since I failed so.
‘Yes, I tried to kill myself but, since then, I have rebuilt my life, written a book about it all, come up with the idea of selling shares and my life is simply fantastic.’
‘About this cliff?’
I can now relate to bands promoting an album recorded the year before.
I have been lambasted, coerced, cajoled and bullied by various souls into being on-line. I have thought long and hard but fail to see the point. Having said that, the advantages of having a web site were all too apparent and was fortunate enough to be introduced to a sterling chap, Danny. Being of a tender age he simply knew about such matters. We met and he designed the nascent site one Sunday morning. It was on-line in perfect time for the Argus piece. Danny went on holiday on the Saturday. My timing has always been appalling. I am appalled. On the bright side, this left me two weeks to write something for the site and to encourage the project on as much as possible.
So, on Friday 18th July, I received the proof-ready print-out of Bounce from Amherst. All I needed to do was try and proof the thing myself again, and return it to Mr. Wickham with the initial cheque. Toby agreed to sort the latter out and I was ready to start in earnest. It is going to happen. Bloody hell.
Thus, after a busy weekend, I returned all of the necessary bits to Amherst to start off the printing process on Monday 21st July. All I have to do now is raise the next £1,600 and some more publicity. First of all, up-date the web site.
There are two hostelries I favour with my occasional custom and there have been many conversations since mid-May with various members of staff and punters. Although everyone has been encouraging and supportive, only a few have invested in shares, so I decided the time had come to nudge them along a little. I produced a little poster* outlining all of the benefits of becoming a Bouncelett and can only hope that it produces results. This move aside, I have now raised as much as I can through friends and so the time has come to open up the share offer to everyone in cyber-space.
On Friday 21st July Mr. Wickham was kind enough to ‘phone.
‘I have received your parcel and everything in it but I have a question?’
‘Of course.’
‘Don’t you want a price printed on it?’
‘No thank you. I would like to leave the barter option left open.’
Silence. My reasoning and experience being based on the fact that A Deal With God, the first novel, has been sold at all sorts of prices. Initially we sold them for a tenner in pubs. Then we gave them away in pubs. They have been sold in charity shops for pence, an edition turned up for £4.95 in a second-hand record shop and, apparently, there is a copy on E Bay; whatever that is. I did briefly ponder the facetious idea of printing, ‘A fiver to you Guv’ on the back but decided against. One can take self-deprecation too far.
‘As long as you’re sure?’
‘Yes thank you Mr. Wickham. Would you be able to give me a rough idea of when they will be printed?’
‘You should have them before the end of August.’
I texted this information to Toby, who replied with a ‘Hurrah!’ Bless ‘im. Here we go then.
By now the IT Department, Danny, had returned from holiday and we spent one afternoon up-dating the site to include the nonsense I had been writing while he was sunning himself in Portugal, as well as this rubbish. It was really starting to take shape. Not being on-line, I had to use a tinterweb place up St. James’ Street to see how the site looked. Amazing thing, techniology. There was even a small missive on the Message Board from a chap by the name of Joe Marshall, who is one of the paramedics who scraped me from the Undercliff Walk. It was deeply touching to hear from him.
Towards the end of the week I contacted Simon at the Argus. He had wanted to be kept informed and so I was keen to let him know how things were progressing. He was busy at the time but promised to call back when circumstances allowed. This turned out to be a Sunday afternoon. It was Pride weekend and, living in the heart of Kemp Town, it would have been churlish of me not to join in the spirit of the thing, especially when the spirit was vodka. I might have been a little drunk during the follow-up interview and I couldn’t really recall what was said the next morning. I was fairly sure that I mentioned the important things like the web site being up and running effectively, with even the e mail working.
For many reasons the Tuesday was not a good one and I felt a little low. For the first time I contemplated just giving up on the whole stupid idea. I checked my bank statements and did some sums to see how long it would take me to pay back all of the investors so far. I also worked out how much more I needed to raise. There was a thousand pounds still to find from somewhere. After some thought I surmised that I could simply ask someone to lend me a grand. No messing around with shares, just a straight loan. I worked out that would be able to repay £1,300 by the end of October from my benefits if I carried on living with austerity and frugality, even though I was becoming really rather skinny by now. I even drew up a loan agreement where I offered my passport to be held as security. I thought of all the people I knew who had a bit of money but none could oblige. Everyone’s credit seems to be very crunchy all of a sudden.
On the Wednesday the Argus ran my little story. Only a few paragraphs on page three, but well written by Simon, informing the world, well Sussex, in general that shares could be bought from the web site. I told the IT Department to be prepared for what I hoped would be a rush of potential investors, ‘IT Department on Red Alert.’ I texted expectantly. Danny rang me later that day to tell me about of the e mails he had received. One. I told him to e mail the lady in question my ‘phone number. I could deal with a stampede of one. No-one called. I asked him to text me her address and I would contact her from the tinterweb place. From her address it was clear that she worked for the Inland Revenue. Nonetheless I e mailed her, inviting her to join our happy throng and repeating my ‘phone number. I never heard a thing.
Of the three pubs I had given nudging posters to there was nothing, expect Matt from the Hand, who bought a couple which was very decent of him. The possibility of raising the money required any time soon was evaporating rapidly. Returning to the climbing a mountain analogy, I felt ridiculously close to the summit. I was freezing cold, had lost all my equipment and the sherpas had all f**ked off but I could see the peak. One more push.
On the Sunday I discussed the situation with the oracle who is Seamus. One wag in the pub piped up, ‘What you need is a gambler.’ I laughed along with everyone else. Git. Seamus suggested that I should offer paying Mr. Wickham back in similar stages. It was a possibility, but I would rather pay the good Mr. Wickham what I owed in decent time. I was so close.
I was still pondering what to do on Wednesday and talked the conundrum over with Nigel, a clever chap. He mentioned that I should try the Credit Union in Queen’s Road, which exists for people like me who cannot obtain credit from the usual sources. Thus I fell into their office on Thursday and informed the very nice lady of my wishes. She was most patient with my ignorance and helped me fill in the single form, which was a pleasant surprise. She explained that I would be told by ‘phone in five working days, possibly less. Not daring to hope I used the next few days to find outlets to sell the thing if it was ever printed. I set out on crutch to find Brighton’s independent bookshops. There are precious few but, armed with a Press Pack (the review, the two Argus articles and a business card), and a winning smile I managed to find seven shops who would play along. City Books in Western Road, Hove; Waterstones; Malarky in Bond Street; Wax Factor in Trafalgar Street; Kemptown Books in St. George’s Road, St. James' Post Office and BKS Business Solutions in St. James’ Street. On the Monday I was hopeful; the Tuesday expectant; Wednesday on edge and Thursday realizing that something had gone wrong. I called on Friday to be told that they needed more details on my Income Support. They had rang but there was no answer. My handwriting is appalling and the number had been misread. Life is like that. The smallest detail…
I returned there with haste and every piece of paper I had been given since the Flying Lesson. The delightful ladies were still patience itself and promised to call me when the decision had been made. Having checked my number eleventy-three times I left hoping for the best.
On Monday the post brought the first copy of Bounce, with an invoice, from Mr. Wickham. It was beautiful. I was spellbound and filled with determination. At about two in the afternoon the Credit Union rang. My heart and other organs were suddenly against my tonsils. My application had been accepted but only for five hundred pounds. I pleaded and implored but the computer had said, ‘No!’ I thanked the lady, who told me the cheque would be generated in a day or so. In a panic I rang some friends to plead with them instead. Amazingly Jann, Jono, Tony Bear and Toby proffered all and agreed to help with a little more belt-tightening on my part, but it was done. Fook. My smile must have been very annoying the following week as I showed anyone nearby my one copy, so far, of Bounce merrily stating, ‘There are 999 more being held hostage in a warehouse in Kent.’ It turned out to be Suffolk.
On Tuesday 26th August the next payment from those nice people at the DWP dribbled into my bank account and all was set. Wednesday would see the three of use heading to Sevenoaks to meet Mr. Wickham and hand over the remaining cheque. The books would be delivered to Lemming’s Rest on the 28th, which can be the official publication date. Except that life is not like that.
I awoke before any worms had stirred and the dawn siren, courtesy of the many seagulls, had begun to sound. The morning was spent looking out of my window and trying not to chain smoke. At a quarter to one I could no longer contain myself and rang Mr. Wickham.
‘Good lord,’ he laughed, ‘I was just looking up your number. That was almost telepathy.’
‘I knew you were going to say that.’
It transpired that we had not given the cheque in time for a next day delivery. The books would arrive on Friday morning. I lasted until half six before realizing that sleep had long gone. The books arrived at half twelve, just before my fiftieth cigarette of the morning and a terse message left on Mr. Wickham’s machine. Fortunately Mario was around and manfully carried the twenty-five boxes to my eerie, where I squeezed them under the bed. I left an apologetic message to follow the first. It was hard to believe that it had finally happened. I can now concentrate on publicity with the launch party being from six on Wednesday 2nd September in the Sidewinder. With luck Bounce could no take off, sorry, and, hopefully, I will attract an agent and a publishing deal. There might be a bright future for Fool and the Bounceletts. Fat chance, but it’s all been a laugh. It has been doing all this or watching day-time television. Not much of a choice really.

Anyone wishing to buy a copy of Bounce…*

*On the site somewheres.

Keep bouncing.