Bøger af Bill Dughaille

Detective Sergeant Summers is under a hex, otherwise known as his colleagues. First they don't want him to get married, then it is imperative it takes place. Then they decide that a prophecy has been made which threatens the wedding. They don't believe in prophecies, but aren't sure that prophecies understand that. So they'll have to Do Something About It. And if their bumbling efforts aren't enough to ensure he never makes it to the altar, he has to cope with visiting aliens and resident ghosts. He does have tiny Squishy to protect him, but what match can even this plucky little kitten be against a prospective mother-in-law?

The doctors have pronounced Detective Sergeant Frank Summers physically fit following recovery after his shooting, but his colleagues fear that his sense of humour was extracted along with the bullet. They are, as always, more than willing to interfere in his life in the pursuit of a good cause. If that wasn't enough, a bunch of criminals calling themselves the Joker Gang are laughing at him, the university students are creating mayhem during their rag week, and someone called The Shocker is trying to kill him. The only advantage is that it take his mind off of the ultimatum the three women in his life have given him, one that he has only until the Sunday to resolve.

In a cross between 'Last Of The Summer Wine' and 'One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest', set against a backdrop of the brave new world of New Labour's end of honeymoon, Fred is the Last Cynical Optimistic Realist. Believing that he's found the perfect niche - three square meals a day plus all the newspapers he can read just for occasionally pretending to be mad - he's not going to be the one to rock the apple cart. Oh, no. Safe from the wiles of women and the woes of the world, he's not going to rock the boat. Oh, no. No, he's just going to sit and observe, and comment quietly on the insanity of life outside. Well, maybe just one little tug of the loose strand of wool on life's jersey ...

Detective Sergeant Frank Summers is in the doghouse, despite having recently arrested an internationally sought con-artist. And since he is in the doghouse he has no intention of pointing out that there is something very strange about the attractive French police woman who has come to interview the arrested man, not to mention the two detectives claiming to be from Scotland Yard. Oh, no, he is going to stay well out of the way this time. Definitely.

This is a story about a trial that never took place. The prosecuting counsel wasn't a nine-foot high vulture wearing what looked like a budgie as a wig; the defence counsel wasn't short and roly-poly and didn't wear a huge bright-blue-rinse wig. The defendant wasn't called Norah the Nose, the litigant wasn't known as Edgar The Ears. The judge wasn't called Judge Beak. The jury did not include a Quiet American, Miss Strawberry Mousse, The Major, Hugo The Accountant, Miss F, Miss F's Mother, Mr Sleepy, Vicar Preachy, Mrs Baggs, Mrs Plum, a Prim Maiden Aunt, Clowns named Clyde and Bonnie, or a Nun With Guitar who didn't speak in a deep Russian accent and didn't wear Goth make-up and tight-fitting sequinned habits which didn't shimmer with thousands of blinking, winking dots. The narrator did not fall in love with the Nun With Guitar who wasn't and hadn't.And it's only ever ... 11 ... 12 ... ... 14 ... 15 ...There never is a ... 13 ...