What Alan Did

Hallelujah!!!

I think that after all this time of searching, moaning and bleating I have finally found an equilibrium in my writing. Hard to believe I know. How many times have I come on here whinging and whining about my health complications or the next idea to improve my output? Hmmm?

Plenty, that’s how many.

And before you think to yourselves, “Oh no, here he goes again,” let me tell you that I am finally going to use this blog for it’s intended purpose and nothing more.

Blog! It’s a funny word isn’t it, as it doesn’t readily roll of the tongue as easily as “bollocks,” which, in case you didn’t know is the word in English that can be shouted louder than any other word. I’m not expecting you to nip out into the garden to find out, especially those of you who live in affluent neighbourhoods. Those who live in effluent neighbourhoods might get away with it though.

But enough about bollocks, I want to talk about blogging (it’s so easy to get distracted these days) and how I intend to go about it from here on in.

Blog is basically an amalgamated abbreviation of the words WEB and LOG. You probably knew that anyway so apologies if it sounds like I’m trying to teach Granny to suck eggs. Although why anyone, elderly or otherwise, should want to suck an egg is none of my business. But yes, you take the B from WEB and add it to LOG and you get BLOG.

A log, apart from being a piece of unprocessed timber or euphemism for a turd, is basically a record of events or actions. Such as the Captain’s Log from Star Trek for example. A diary or journal if you will.

I often read the blogs of other independent authors and that seems to be the way they play the thing. They use that platform to keep their readers up to date with what is happening on a daily, weekly or even monthly basis. Julia Blake is especially good at this – CLICK HERE to check her blog out.

I have noticed, and can admit the awkward truth, that I have used mine for the aforementioned whinging and whining and at times even railing against the system and the stupidity of my fellow man. And that is not what I intended at all when this blog began way back in… 2020 I think it was.

So for the future, that is what I foresee for the blog. I’ll keep you posted about little old me. A sort of What Alan Did kind of thing.

Substack, on the other hand, has already had the kick in the arse it desperately needed.

My Substack site was suffering from a touch of bloated pomposity and politicization at times and, again, that was never my intention at the start. I wanted to write humorous short stories and make people laugh and have a brighter day. I’m pleased to say that so far, in 2026, that has been the case. I have written 3 absolute corkers which can be enjoyed HERE.

All good so far then.

“Ah!” I hear you collectively cry. “What about all your health issues that you constantly moan about? Well, I’m glad you asked. I’ve finally started my fibromyalgia blog, entitled – The Adventures of Fibroman, which can be found RIGHT HERE. It’s only in its fledgling state at the moment so be kind and patient with it please. It needs work and time management has never been my strong point so bear with me. All I ask is that if fibromyalgia has affected you or anyone you know then do please get in touch through that channel.

That just leaves us with the novels.

Number 8 is written as a first draft and there will be a couple of months of editing the blessed thing. I’m making no more promises about times and dates; I’ve been hoist by my own petard too often in doing so. I’m just going to get on with getting it finished and let you know when it will be published and do the old cover reveal and all that kind of stuff. I can’t wait to show you the cover.

Phew! Glad I’ve gotten all that lot off my chest. I feel a lot lighter for doing so.

One big change I do want to implement however, is to increase the regularity of the blog. Last year I think I wrote something like 20 blog posts compared to about 100 Substacks and I have neglected the poor, dear old blog as a result. Something I need to work on. Call that my resolution for 2026.

Righto, I’m off to Blessham now to start knocking Joe Wilkie’s latest adventure into shape.

September

Yes, it is a strange title for a blog post written in October. The thing is, there were no Blessham Hall blog posts at all in the ninth month of the year and here we are, a quarter of the way through the tenth. Call me Slacker!

Actually, I’ve not been that slack since the last post on August 28^th. I’ve worked on the next novel, getting it up to 12 chapters (or two thirds if you prefer) and its looking pretty good.

But for another thing, I took two weeks holiday in Ireland from September 15th to 29^th and if that sounds like slacking off then you’re wrong. I’m a great one for believing in investing in yourself and that’s what I did over there in the Emerald Isle.

You know the old phrase – “Feeling recharged?” Well I well and truly am. I was literally like a flat battery and Ireland was the charger. It’s done me an absolute power of good. My mind is much calmer, my outlook more philosophical, my body less achy and my imagination fired up. It was a great time of personal refreshing, based in the delightful West Cork coastal countryside with the gal I love.

I’ve put on a few pounds in weight but who doesn’t on holiday; unless they go to one of those hideous health spas. You couldn’t pay me to try one of those things. I can cover myself in mud, eat salad and abstain from alcohol at home so why pay for the pleasure?

And I can get an enema from the NHS.

But 5 pounds weight gain is a small price to pay for how that holiday has affected me. I wouldn’t go as far as to say something as crass as I feel like a new man but I’m certainly in a considerably better state than before I left.

I didn’t actually switch the old laptop on until this Monday, a full week after we returned. I used that time to unwind some more and just enjoy being at home here at Blessham Hall. I think that week was just as mentally restorative as the previous fortnight. Since Monday I’ve been writing for all I’m worth with zero self-criticism/loathing and no doubts about my direction as a writer/author.

I’ve been focussing on catching up with Substack this week but from Monday next it’s back to the novel with a vengeance as I shall be spending some of the weekend having a quick refresh read-through before plunging back into it. I feel rather excited at the prospect. And I’m not usually the excitable type.

I’ve got my granddaughter – Erin – signed up to design the cover for the novel as she has turned into the most accomplished tattoo artist you ever saw and her drawing is… what’s the word now…

Special! That’s it. Truly special. I’ve never seen a nineteen-year-old with that level of artistic skill and talent.

“Ah!” I hear you say, “You’re bound to say that being a proud grandad.” To which I would say, “Good point, well made.” But in this instance it’s much more than just grandfatherly benevolence. Just wait until you see the cover. I’ve always swore blind all my life that I’d never have a tattoo but if I ever change my mind then Erin gets the job.

So things are rather good here at BH and long may that continue. I need to pace myself better so that I don’t end up a burnt-out wreck again, but if that does happen then I know where to find relief.

And a damn good pint of Guinness.

It’s Been a While

Like the title says, it’s been a while. Quite a long while actually, between blog posts that is. The last one was on the 15^th of July. A shocking 5 weeks ago. So a blog post is well overdue, and here it is.

I’m not going to make any grovelling apologies, I’ve stopped doing that, we’re all busy these days so why should I beg for forgiveness? It’s my blog after all. Life often has a subtle knack of getting in the way of things.

So what has happened since last we convened on the Blessham Hall Blog?

Plenty.

I’d better let you know from the off that I have a hospital procedure on the horizon as I’ve been having a little internal trouble for some time now. Is it serious? Don’t know yet but fingers crossed it isn’t. Yes, I am a tad worried but what will be will be. Que sera sera, as they say Austria. Or is it Belgium? I can never remember.

So that’s looming large and is occupying my mind a great deal.

You’ll be pleased, though, to discover that the first draft of the next Blessham novel is now over half way written. Obviously I’m not going to give too much away but I want you to know that I haven’t had this much fun writing a novel since The Pheasants Revolt, which is my very favourite of all my books. I have to stop writing very often to allow myself some titter-time. If the author can laugh at his own work then it’s a good sign, I think.

Joe is slightly out of his depth at the part where I am in the writing process and the poor little chap is in a somewhat fearful state of mind. Incidentally, talking about Joe, I was in conversation with someone who is currently reading Ah Boy! and she described the character of Joe as ‘adorable.’ That made me very happy.

Anyway, work progresses. But I’m not setting any time constraints on myself for the following reason:

I’ve been abominably ill these last few weeks.

It’s true and whilst I’ve not been shy about documenting my health struggles on this here blog things have been pretty grim lately. Apart from my hospital issue the fibromyalgia has been an utter bastard to the point where even walking around Blessham Hall becomes a tearful effort. Good days, bad days and all that but I’m getting so pissed off with it.

I’m also seeing a mental health professional again for the first time in a good long while. I’m not losing my marbles but I am still struggling with the passing of my Mum earlier this year and there are several other external pressures affecting me and it’s left me in a bit of a vulnerable condition.

Thankfully, I’m married to the most wonderful human being and she is as supportive as they come. I reckon I’d be lost without her. I know I would.

I also suffered an insect attack a few weeks ago and was bitten a good many times on my legs and ankles. Now, mozzy bites are nothing new to me, I get them every year, but these were something else. They all went purple in colour to the point where it looked like I was covered in Ribena stains. Horribly painful but the most shocking part was that I honestly believe that some of them were spider bites, which is quite horrific when you think about it.

But, by slathering hydrocortisone cream all over myself and ingesting antihistamines by the handful I have, mercifully, seen a huge reduction in the discomfort and swelling brought on by those multi-legged gits. It’s not been a fun time I can tell you.

On to happier things though.

Substack for example.

I have my first paid subscriber and I am elated. That someone believes in my work to the point of wanting to pay me for doing it is one of the best compliments I ever had. I’ve never claimed, personally, to be a good (or even average) writer and there have been a few unkind folks who have pointed this out and derided my output, but now I feel a sense of affirmation that I must be either improving in my craft or at least in some way entertaining. And I can’t ask for more than that really.

I am one of those authors who reads other people’s work and then say to myself, “I wish I could write like that.” But then again, I’m not Terry Pratchett or Douglas Adams or Tom Sharpe or anyone else. I’m Alan Stevenson and I write bawdy slapstick comedies and, yeah, I’m content with that. So I’ll just say “nuts” to the naysayers. Come and tell me how bad I am when you’ve written seven full length novels yourself.

Also, while we’re talking about Substack, I have been pretty consistent with my output there. Tuesday and Thursday are my Substack days and there’s some pretty decent literary fayre on there for everyone to enjoy. I’ve been on that platform for a year and a half now and there are over 140 posts to read including poems, short stories, essays and a serialised novel. Go take a look HERE.

What else has happened?

Well, for one thing, Ange and I have realised we aren’t getting any younger and have started to make the most of the rest of our lives as best we can. That means having day trips, small holidays and some serious quality time together. We had a run over to Heysham in the car earlier this month and it was gorgeous. Ok, yes, I struggled to walk and was in tremendous pain but I was also in the company of the woman I love and I was as happy as a lark for a day. We ended the day with sausage and chips on Morecambe sea front. Ok, so it wasn’t a Michelin starred restaurant overlooking the bay of Naples but to us it was truly delightful.

Other than all of that life goes on. Some days I write and some days I don’t. I did, for a few weeks, go through quite a dark patch where I considered throwing the towel in but then I got that paid subscriber and suddenly things became a lot brighter.

I’ll endeavour to leave a shorter gap between blogs posts next time but please do understand that life gets in the way sometimes and we all have our limitations.

See you soon x

Fool Time Score

Fool, now there’s an interesting word. As a noun, it means a person who lacks judgement or acts unwisely. An idiot, basically. As a verb, it means either to deceive or trick as well as to waste time or act foolishly.

I think I’m guilty of being both the noun and the verb recently.

I’m a fool to myself, speaking of the noun. I keep setting time targets for myself and then broadcasting it either via this blog or Substack. And then I look like a total berk when I don’t make good on those targets.

Take my blog post from the 9^th June. You may recall it; it was titled Switcheroo. It was a well written, little piece that fizzed and zinged with positivity, that I concocted in a mood of joie de vivre. I was feeling triumphant from writing a whole chapter of my next novel in one day and became so full of exuberance that I made all sorts of claims and promises in that post that I was going to get the novel finished in the space of a few weeks.

Foolish of me.

Here we are several weeks later and I’m just on the cusp of finishing chapter 7 of that book. Nowhere near what I had crowed about on June 9^th. Nowhere even remotely near.

Now, I’m not saying that the writing itself has been a struggle as I am convinced that this is going to be one of the best Joe Wilkie books yet and I am enjoying the writing process immensely. I truly am having so much fun with this one.

It’s just that I haven’t gotten all that far with it. Life, as you know, has a habit of getting in the way of things and my life is no exception to the rules. Yes, I could blame poor health, yes I could blame commitments and yes I could blame my own reticence and idleness at times. The stark naked fact is that I simply shouldn’t have made those claims in the first place.

Because now, I look like a fool for saying them.

As a verb, it’s even worse!

I feel like I’ve deceived my readers by making such bold statements. I’ve fooled people into thinking they’re going to be reading Joe’s next adventure in the near future when in reality it might not even be this year.

I mean, I’m doing my best and I’m hopeful it’ll be released before Christmas but the truth is I just can’t promise that and I shouldn’t have given people the wrong idea when I said it would be ready by Autumn.

Ok, it might well be ready by Autumn if I get my foot down but then again it might not. I just can’t say for certain.

And to think, I convinced myself and all of you that I thought it possible that I’d write three chapters a week. I’m a fool whose fooled.

So I’m sorry everyone. I’m not going to make any more bold promises or set myself time-based targets that are just unrealistic and unfeasible. Instead, I’m going to knuckle down and write my ass off as and when I can and instead of focussing on the release date I shall focus on producing the best book that I can. Quality over quantity must now be my mantra when it comes to the daily word count.

I think, as a writer, I should be aiming for more mystique and less foolishness.

Incidentally, a fool is also a kind of pudding. It’s pink, fruity and not very healthy. Now, who does that remind you of?

Forging Ahead

An ultra-quick blog post this week because I’m rushed off my little tootsies.

Right then, three week ago I promised you a progress report at some point and here it is. In a nutshell, I haven’t made as much progress with the next novel as I would have liked to have done but I have made good progress none-the-less.

There are now 5 chapters in the bag (first drafts) and I am so chuffed with the way the story is panning out. Joe is coming out with some absolute pearlers of his limited vocabulary and Lady Stark-Raven is as mad as a suitcase full of semolina. I think she might actually be losing the plot. It’s ok, I’ll reign her in a bit.

There are several new characters in this book including not one, but two, antagonists and a rather fetching young woman who has quite an effect on our hero. I wouldn’t go as far as love interest because Joe only has eyes for Meg Morrison but this new lady has certainly caught his eye.

The antagonists are perhaps the most unusual thing about the new characters. I really do wish I could go into deeper detail about them but that would be unwise of me at this juncture. What I can promise you is that it is my full intention to get this book into your hands at some point in the Autumn.

I don’t want to set myself any more time goals or targets; I just want to get the bloody thing written.

There have been a few calls and pulls on our time recently but that’s just this wonderful life getting in the way. We all have our responsibilities. However, on a health front I do have some rather good news. My weight and my BMI are both down and my blood pressure is absolutely bang on. I had my annual medical with the nurse yesterday you see and I was so pleased with myself when I left.

Another amazing thing, which must be due to the weight loss, is that the nurse managed to get blood out of my left arm at the first stab. I usually come out of these sessions looking like a second hand dartboard with puncture wounds all over my limbs. In fact, pretty much on every occasion for the last five years or more, they’ve had to extract the blood from the back of my hand, which, as you can no doubt guess, ain’t none too pleasant. But no, yesterday, straight into the left arm and three vials of my most vital of fluids were filled to the brim in no time at all.

And there was one other thing that came out of my medical that I have no explanation for. I was measured for height and it seems that I am one whole inch taller than I was at this time last year. And the nurse checked and rechecked a few times but there was no denying it, I’m now officially, on record, as being six foot tall. For years I have struggled with the shame of being five foot eleven inches. Now I can hold my head up high and call myself a strapping six-footer. Well, maybe not strapping. Overlapping perhaps. But a six-footer all the same.

Right then, that’s all the news from Blessham Hall. Back to that 8^th novel.

Speak soon xx

Add It To The List

I know, I know, don’t remind me, it’s been nearly 3 weeks since the last blog post on the 9^th of May but I haven’t been idle, believe me. I’ve written some utterly sumptuous and hilarious Substack posts in that time and I’ve made a pretty good start on the next Blessham novel.

Blessham novel? I hear you say. Shouldn’t that be an Ingleby one next.

Well, yes, by rights it should be but I’ve decided to throw convention out the window and follow my heart and right now my heart says Blessham. I had got a sizeable chunk of the next Ingleby book, featuring Archie and Aggie Stone, done, which was somewhere around the 15,000 word mark but I’ve shelved it for now.

I don’t know, I just wasn’t feeling it and the comedy wasn’t as good as its wonderful predecessor – Mutch Wants Moor, which, lets face it, is probably the best comedy novel ever written. And I want to do justice to the Stones as I have a very strong connection to them. Ahem!

I will come back to that one at some point but for now I feel the call to go back to the charming village of Blessham and when I’ve got that out of my system then it’s another visit to Ingleby. Ok?

So why is today’s blog post so named?

Without whinging I’m afraid I’ve got another ailment to inform you about.

Diverticulitis!

No, I hadn’t heard of it either.

It’s a digestive problem where small pouches grow on the wall of the colon and if they become infected they can cause a lot of pain. I think mine must be infected because some days I feel like asking the doctor for a colon transplant. Other days it’s just a gripey little nuisance but there’s not a single day goes by without it causing me some level of grief.

But, as I say, I don’t want to whinge about it because whinging gets you nowhere; only on everyone else’s tits. And my own tits are quite enough, thank you. No, I thought I’d just let you know the state of play. I had to endure a fair amount of ignominy before the doctor arrived at his diagnosis; something I wouldn’t wish on anyone. Let’s just say that he was anything but gentle with me!

The brute!!!

I’ve sought a second opinion since and I’ve been asked to produce a sample of my leavings which has gone off for analysis and I’m seeing another doctor about it on the 9^th of June. Hopefully there won’t be any need for internal photography but that’s a distinct possibility.

I just hope they have warm hands this time.

Apologies to those of a nervous disposition if this is all too much information but we’re all grown-ups here aren’t we. And if you’re not a grown-up then you really need to seek your parent’s or guardian’s permission before you read any further.

Actually, it’s not that bad is it?

Anyway, what I thought I’d do, just for a jape, is to make a comprehensive list of my ailments, both past and present dating back to the root cause of them all. It may make interesting reading and I think it will be cathartic for me to get it off my chest.

Right then, here we go. These aren’t exactly in chronological order because I’ve forgotten the chronological order but it goes something like this…

It all began in 2003 when I contracted the SARS virus when for 24 hours my soul hovered between this world and the next. Seriously, it was a close thing.

Since then I have or have had…

Encephalitis
Myocarditis
Pericarditis (no point having only one carditis, is there?)
Depressive Anxiety Disorder
Fibromyalgia
Bell’s Palsy
Cervical Spondylosis (literal pain in the neck)
Vertigo
Meniere’s Disease (hearing loss)
Re-occurring constipation
Pneumonia
Diverticulitis
And I once put an axe into my foot but that was an accident (or was it an axe-ident? Geddit? No? Ah well, please yourselves)

Quite the list, isn’t it? And they’re just the ones I can remember. There may be others.

Truth of the matter is that SARS made an epic mess of me and I’m still in a long-term battle because my body took such a pasting. The only one’s I can’t really blame on the SARS, for certain, is the spondylosis, pneumonia and the axe! Maybe the constipation as well but I’m still divided over that one.

Do me a favour will you; if you ever see SARS walking down the street please feel free to kick him in the nads for me. Of course, that’s not the reality. SARS is not a physical embodiment that one can deliver a swift toe to the goolies to. It’s much worse than that.

SARS stands for Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome and is a variant of the coronavirus, which is something you may have heard of. Basically a cousin of Covid-19. And I know exactly where and when I got it. I just can’t pinpoint the so-and-so that passed it on to me. But when I do…

…nah, no use crying over spilt milk.

Instead I make the best of my life, which I have to say has improved manifold since 2011 when I met my wife, soul mate, best friend and love of my life – Ange. She can’t make the illnesses go away but by heck does she support me through them. And lets not forget she’s had some pretty serious health issues herself in the last couple of years. It’s reassuring to have someone that caring in my life. I don’t know what’s going to be next to add to that list. Hopefully nothing but life is full of curve-balls and me and my lovely will face them together.

I’ll leave it there because at this precise moment Ange is baking a carrot, apple and sultana cake and I want to be there when it comes out of the oven and salivate over it for half an hour or so whilst it cools down enough for poor little Alan to have a piece.

Hope to bring you a Blessham update next time.

Until then x

Rude Awakening

We all have a favourite pet peeve don’t we. For some it’s people who speak with their mouths full, for others it could be something such as a person leaving a light on or not shutting a door when they come through it or even not putting the lavatory seat down after they’ve been.

Well, I think I’ve identified my own favourite pet peeve and it is…

Rudeness!

And the reason that I hate rudeness so very much is because it is becoming more prevalent in Western society than ever before.

I know that rudeness is not a new thing. People have been rude for millennia; but rudeness that was once often seen as unacceptable is now the absolute basic norm.

And I’m getting so pissed off with it!

Someone was very rude to me on Saturday night. We’d been for a meal to celebrate our granddaughter’s 19^th birthday and had a lovely time. The food was gorgeous, the staff were brilliant (Efendy, Skipton, you must try it) and a good time was had by all.

There was myself and Ange, Erin and her boyfriend Billy, Becky and Paul and Ange’s brother Steve. And it was great. We had a laugh and a few drinks and the atmosphere was superb.

After the meal it was decided by majority vote to go for a couple of drinks at the Sound Bar, which is a smashing place that I’ve mentioned before on here. Unfortunately, when we reached the Sound Bar we were dismayed to find that they were closing early for the night. Undeterred we crossed the bus station carpark and went to the nearest pub (The Fleece, Skipton, don’t try it) and entered therein.

There was some kind of agonisingly loud disco going on, which was ran by a filthy-mouthed man in a Dolly Parton wig, make-up and a dress who was masquerading as a woman. The music was excessively loud and the first thing that caught my eye when we went in was two very drunk forty something women clinging onto each other for dear life whilst belting out the words to Living on a Prayer in a hopelessly tuneless fashion that resembled, in both sight and sound, a pair of violently rutting elephant seals.

Not a particularly auspicious start. But worse was to come.

Why, oh why, oh why do some people think that it’s ok to accost you as if they’ve known you all your life when they’re drunk. I know alcohol removes inhibitions but why do they have to get in your face with their fag ash and Kopperberg breath and a thin sheen of perspiration from their ungainly efforts on the dance floor?

I ask that question because that is what faced us as we stood at the bar waiting for the half-asleep bar staff to serve us.

The people in question were a heavily set woman who seemed to have abandoned all notions of grace and poise and a shaven headed f**kwit who clearly thought he was Skipton’s answer to stand-up comedy. And it was he who was rude to me.

To cut a long story short he called me “Gandalf.”

Now, here’s the thing.

I know I look like Gandalf or even Dumbledore.
I don’t really care that I do; I’m comfortable in my own skin.
He called me “Gandalf” about four times and, despite his obvious merriment, it got less and less funny with each hackneyed attempt.
I didn’t know him from Adam.
I hadn’t been rude to him.
I’ve heard it a thousand times before.
Rudeness is the lowest form of wit

I can take a joke. Believe me, nobody can take a joke better than me. But to go up to someone you don’t know and call them names just for cruel fun makes you a total and utter c**t in my eyes. It wasn’t so much that the idiot said it to me; I would have been offended for anyone else who had to endure his boorish, drink-sodden effort at being funny.

And you could also tell that in his eyes he was being somehow novel and fresh when in reality, as I’ve pointed out at number 6, he wasn’t the first to say it and he almost certainly won’t be the last.

But me being me, I let it go.

I know plenty of blokes, and women too, who would have put him firmly on his arse with a well-aimed straight left or uppercut. Me? Nah! I’m not going to sit in the back of a police car explaining my actions and ruining my (and my granddaughter’s) evening just because of some piss-wet-through rummy who thinks he’s Ricky Gervais.

I didn’t even give him the luxury of a response.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, I could have given him a heck of a response. I could have said, “F**k off you fat-faced, bald-headed, beady-eyed, pointy-nosed, sweaty, B.O reeking pimple on the ring piece of the universe.”

I could have said that.

But I didn’t.

And do you know why?

Because that would have been stooping to his crass little level and I’m not like him. Yes, I probably do look like that character from The Lord of the Rings but I have a damn sight more class than he’ll ever have. I also like to think that one day he’s going to say the wrong thing to the wrong person and end up in the AMU of the nearest hospital.

Actually, now I think about it, the landlord really ought to have a word with him. He cost the pub the loss of seven drinks that could have been sold if we hadn’t all left the awful place.

As we made our way home I had mixed feelings. Part of me was glad that I didn’t rise to the paralytic oaf but a small part of me was wishing that for once, just this once, I should have smashed his smug, gurning face in. Not just for my benefit but for everyone else as well because I recognised in him all the obnoxious traits of the serial piss taker.

I wasn’t the first person he’s insulted that way and I won’t be the last. The drink-addled alacrity with which he approached me was nothing new to him. He’s done this before. He really does need decking but I’ll let someone else do that. Someone really unpleasant hopefully.

But rudeness itself is all around us. It’s everywhere you go. Drivers are incredibly rude these days, children and teenagers seem to take rudeness to dizzy new heights, bosses and colleagues are so stressed that being blunt is often the only recourse, I see and hear people being rude to shop staff and waiters for no good reason and there is countless man hours’ worth of rudeness online.

And it’s got me thinking a lot about it, so yesterday, just as a small experiment, I put a post on Threads that said, “Why and when did abject rudeness become the norm?”

I got one reply from some guy who said, “Ever since the internet made people brave.”

Damn it he’s right. There are millions of so-called “keyboard warriors” in this world who love nothing more than slating other people and being as rude and offensive as possible. And it’s ok for them because they have the safety net of not knowing the people they are attacking or even have the remotest chance of ever being in the same room as them. They insult and offend via distance and it’s just about as cowardly as it could possibly get.

And that’s the norm. You can say what you like, so long as you don’t cross certain boundaries (although some do) and make all manner of unsubstantiated remarks about other human beings. I tell you; Western society is going to the wall. Notice I didn’t say Western civilisation? There’s nothing civilised about any of these people.

Keyboard warriors? I’ve shat ‘em.

I’m giving serious thought to backing away from social media all together. With the exception of posting about what I write. That’s how wound up I feel about rudeness right now. It’s there every-bloody-time I go on Facebook or Instagram or Threads (I don’t do X, Musk is also very rude) I see some crap individual having a snidey little jibe at someone else. And I hate it!

To be perfectly honest with you, this has been building up in me for some time now and I think that clown on Saturday night was the last straw. I don’t need to put myself in situations like that anymore whether it be online or in real life (social media is not real life by the way) or anywhere come to that. I’m a 58-year-old man with a decent brain who loves books and intricacies of progressive rock and I need, nay crave, more intellectual stimulation and conversation than standing in some naff, crowded, noisy pub listening to Bon Jovi at a billion decibels and being told I look like someone from Tolkien’s epic masterpiece.

To summarise, I’m not rude to other people and I ain’t gonna take it from them anymore. I won’t get violent but I am a wordsmith – be warned!

Rant over.

Thanks for reading.

Re-Appraisal

I’m disappointed gentle reader, disappointed to say the very least. I find myself floundering somewhat at the moment. Things just aren’t going my way right now.

Substack, as much as I love it, is pissing me right off. I see so many contributors on there with hundreds of followers and subscribers just for basically posting fluff and nonsense whilst I have the princely total of 22 subscribers. And I’m not blowing my own trumpet but I think I produce some pretty good copy that’s worth reading.

For example, I wrote a 3500-word humorous murder mystery short story over the weekend for my 22 subscribers, called Death by Bunting. It took hours to do and it’s a clever little thing too. Compare my humble effort with the average Substack post, which goes something along the lines of – Hi, I’m Samantha. I like Taylor Swift, Tik Tok and writing poetry although I haven’t posted any yet. If you like my page I’ll like yours too. Let’s all get to know each other.

Honestly, some of them are quite literally as vacuous and as lacking in substance as that and then you look at their stats and they’ve got something like 1.3k subscribers and the post itself has 538 likes.

If that sounds like I’m jealous you’d be completely wrong. I’m not jealous, I’m bloody furious!!! I’ve written almost 100 well-worded, and, at times lengthy, posts so far and the biggest audience I ever garnered was about 90 views for my first short story called Jessie.

Nobody wants to put any effort in any more, whether it be writing or reading. Everyone just wants instant gratification through having a vast multitude of friends and followers on every internet platform they use. It’s doing my head in, it really is.

And I keep getting emails by the dozen from other Substack authors offering to tell me how I can get more subscribers and then when I open the missive there’s just more fluff and little or no substance. I’m heartily sick of it.

So, I’ve decided that the only way for me to reach more subscribers and get people to read my stuff is to sit down one day and go through Substack’s tools and options with a fine-tooth comb and learn as much about it as I can. How hard can it be???

So that’s Substack.

Then there’s the whole novel writing thing…

Honestly, it’s a slog right now. It’s like pulling teeth trying to make a sale on any of my books and when I do make a sale it’s even harder trying to get a review out of people. And yes, I am acutely aware that I’m working in a crowded market place and people are very busy these days and don’t always have time or they have other things on their minds than to write me a review. I get that. But then I see other indies and they’re getting reviews left, right and centre.

AAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!

And, I hasten to add, due to feeling extremely despondent about it I haven’t even attempted novel writing for about a year now. I made a good start on the next Ingleby book, featuring the adorable Archie and Aggie Stone, and then I just seemed to tail off. All I seem to do at the moment is Substack and this here blog.

Ergo…

…It’s time for a full re-appraisal of everything I’m doing. I don’t want to quit. I’m one of the “Winners never quit and quitters never win” brigade and have always had a good work ethic so there has to be another way. But I do know when I’m banging my head against a brick wall and it feels rather like that at the moment. Something has to change.

My head is absolutely buzzing with all sorts of exciting ideas right now, inspiration isn’t the problem, the problem is this – I’m a really good writer (I am) but I’m piss poor at marketing, promoting and selling my products. I’m far too reticent for one thing. Whenever anyone buys one of my books I feel I should just timidly give it away instead. And that’s not a great place to be.

I’m also getting a bit pissed with Amazon, through whom all my books are published. They take a huge (and I mean HUGE) mark up on your books leaving you with very little and they have pulled the rug out from under many a self-published author that I know by talking their books off sale without either warning or reason. I don’t trust them anymore.

And, might I just add, that the only way anyone is going to find Medicine Show on there is if they go directly to my Author Page as it doesn’t show up in the search results for Alan Stevenson. The other six are there on full public display but not my most recent one and that irks me like a splinter in the bum. I’ve never had a splinter in the bum to be perfectly honest but I have had plenty of them in other body parts (mainly hands) and so I can imagine how irksome one in the bum would be.

I am now seriously considering other outlets for my books.

And so, it truly is time for a big re-appraisal of everything that I do. I’m giving serious thought to a social media hiatus for a month or even longer to help me focus on things as my physical health is so bad that at times I spend far too long scrolling through rubbish instead of being productive. I think I’m going to get some decent voice recording technology downloaded to my phone so I can dictate to it on those occasions when I simply have to rest. I will keep putting up my Substack and blog posts on Facebook, Instagram and Threads but I need to step away from idly scrolling on them and damn well concentrate on infinitely more important things for a while.

To tell you the truth, I think I’m going to shelve the Ingleby novel I’d started and work on the next Joe Wilkie/Blessham one instead. I’ve got such a great plot and story for that one and am rather excited at the prospect of writing it. I believe it may well invigorate me as an artist somewhat, and that’s exactly what I need.

So watch this space. I’m not chucking the towel in; I’m just having a massive re-think.

Two Funerals

Now before you start to think that this is going to be a morbid post purely from the title then let me reassure you that it most certainly is not. Whilst it is true that I have attended two funerals within the space of six days, I’m not going to dwell on the mourning side of them but rather the celebration of two lives and what I’ve learned about myself from them.

The first funeral, last Thursday, was my own mother’s. I could tell you the tale of how it just shouldn’t have happened and that Melton Mowbray hospital let her and us down with their negligence but I don’t want to do that (they did though) but that wouldn’t be my style. No, I’d much rather tell you how beautiful her send-off was.

We followed her wishes to the letter and whilst it was in the vein of a traditional funeral with church service, hymns and prayers it was also a time for my brother and I to inject a little light humour into it with our eulogy. Mum would have liked that. She enjoyed a good laugh. And I think what I took away from it was to treasure the small things in life. It isn’t always about the big things. Oh sure, we all remember those great, expensive foreign holidays or meeting the rich and famous or being at a certain major event; those are all good memories.

But reading through the eulogy (wot I wrote) brought back so many memories of times that still bring a huge smile to my face. For example, as kids we were taken to Mablethorpe for a week for our annual Summer holiday until I was 10 and we ventured as far as Cornwall. I have much better and fonder memories of those times than I have of say, going to Benidorm with the lads when I was 18. Much of that trip is a hazy San Miguel induced blur.

We thought we were going somewhere exotic where we would sip Sangria on the beach and that there would be dusky, hot-blooded, passionate Spanish women throwing themselves at our sun-bronzed bodies and that the air would be thick with the heady scent of oleander. The reality was a beach that was too hot to walk on, dingey nightclubs selling insipid lager and pretty much nothing else and a sewage system that left a permanent mephitis hanging in the air. We weren’t even bronzed. None of us dared take our T shirts off for longer than a few minutes at a time but then maybe we shouldn’t have gone in August.

And as for the ladies. Most of them were called either Tracy or Cassandra, came from the North-East of England and were all even drunker than we were. Although some of them did throw themselves at us but not in a hot-blooded tempestuous way. More like an ashtray breath, falling over, spewing in the street kind of way. Not the holiday we had in mind when we booked it and if truth be told I’d much rather forget it all together.

But those childhood days of playing on the Lincolnshire sands with bucket and spade are memories I will always treasure.

And there were other times too that came out of that eulogy. Not great, Earth-shattering life events but simple family moments that actually brought a good few chuckles from those in the church with us. And so, in that sense, it truly was a celebration of life. Not just my mum’s but my whole family. And that taught me something. I’m going to cherish every moment I spend with those I love – my beautiful, wise and funny wife Ange, my step-daughter Becky with her lust for life, my granddaughter Erin who makes me feel like the luckiest man on Earth, my wider family (both my own and my in-laws) and of course all the excellent friends that we have around us. I want to commit to memory all the funny little things people have said and the laughter we share over the years.

Sounds mawkish?

Probably, but so what? It’s better than filling your head with pornography or horror movies or soap operas or anything with Jimmy Carr in. It’s probably true that there are people in this world that remember Scott and Charlene’s wedding in Neighbours better than their own.

So that’s what I took away from Mum’s funeral.

The second one was just a few days ago, and it was the funeral of Judith; an old friend and colleague of Ange’s. Judith was a great character. A very glamorous lady (even in her later years) with an intelligence to match and a deep-rooted love of English history. Throughout her life Judith travelled extensively and lived in New Zealand for a time. She loved vibrant colours, animals of all shapes and sizes (especially cats) and indeed was in love with life itself.

And her family were adored by her and she by them.

I didn’t know Judith as much as I would have liked to have done but it was her joy of being alive that spoke to me the most about her at the funeral, which was perhaps one of the most light-hearted and joyful of such occasions that I have ever known. Part of the wake was spent by people sharing their memories of Judith and the sense of love in the room for her was palpable.

And do you know what? That is exactly how I want people to be at my funeral. I want to be someone who is missed. That may sound selfish but that’s the overwhelming thing that came out of Judith’s funeral. This woman had lived her life in such a way that she really has left a gaping hole in the lives of all who knew her.

So I’m going to try and live like that. Oh yes, I know I’m a larger than life, constantly joking, generous, kind-hearted man and I do have a great many people that will miss me when I’m gone. But from what I learned at Judith’s funeral I want to be more than that. I want to be a force of nature to people and treat everyone the way that I would want to be treated by them.

In a nutshell, I’m going to try harder.

So two funerals. I cried at my mum’s because of who it was that I’d lost but I’ll always remember that there were a lot of folks there for a 92-year-old’s funeral and they all had a laugh on the day.

I smiled during Judith’s funeral, just with the simple pleasure of hearing about a life well lived and that will remain with me always.

There you are you see. I said it wasn’t going to be morbid and it wasn’t.

P.S – If you’re wondering about the Jimmy Carr bit, I just think the man is a colossal, monstrously offensive bell-end with less talent than a handkerchief full of phlegm and shouldn’t be allowed to show his smug, gurning face on the television..

The State of Play

I’m not really sure where to begin with this…

Apologies first I guess, for taking so long to do a blog post from the last one five weeks ago. I did have something pithy, witty and moderately scathing lined up for Halloween but I suppose that will have to wait until next year. But anyway, sincere apologies for taking so long.

Look, it’s been a bloody tough year here at Blessham Hall. One of the toughest in fact, and the last month or so have been extremely challenging. I’d love to report that the challenge has been getting the new novel featuring Archie and Aggie Stone finished but that would be an out and out lie. The challenge has been one on more personal terms.

On Friday 18^th October we received a phone call from my sister-in-law to say that my 92-year-old mother had fallen and broken her hip. Naturally this immediately caused a ton of worry and anxiety for us all and ever since then Ange and I have been travelling the 300-mile round trip to Leicester and back every Friday to Monday to see her and relieve the burden on the rest of the family.

In between I have managed to do a speaking engagement at the local library and a couple of Substack posts but that’s about it. The combination of motorway tailbacks, airbed sleeping, car parking in the middle of Leicester and hospital visits where my mum is talking on a constant loop due to dementia have been very telling on me both physically and mentally.

I’m exhausted.

I even drove home the other week with my TENS machine attached to my aching arms. That’s how bad it is. Trying to change gear around all those wires!

My wife, the lovely Ange, has been an absolute Trojan throughout all of this I have to say. She has supported me better than anyone else could ever have done. I’m so thankful for her.

Love you Ange xxx

But the truth of the matter is that because of all the aforementioned I’m in horrible pain all the time and permanently fatigued. And I mean badly fatigued as well. Not just a little bit tired and in need of a nap; no, I mean I’ve about as much energy in me as…

as…

I don’t even know how to finish that sentence, that’s how low on energy I am.

The other thing is that even despite the lack of energy and physical pain I just can’t seem to find time to write. It’s as if I can’t get any traction going with the laptop. I mentioned the next novel earlier and I have to be honest with you and say that’s it not going to be published this year. In fact, this will be the first year that I have gone without publishing a book since I began my independently-published journey in 2019 with Ah Boy.

And that actually makes me really sad when I think about it.

Of course, I am aware that prior to the current situation I have been labouring long and hard on my Substack output which has in turn made me neglect my first love of novel writing. It’s a lot easier to do a Substack post than it is to churn out an 85,000-word book.

But even Substack is beginning to suffer now and I find myself desperately trying to play catch-up every week. FFS!!! I can’t keep apologising! But that’s what I do.

And I do love writing. I can’t describe to you the immeasurable pleasure that I derive from it. I’m not saying I’m a great writer and I’m not even saying I’m a good one. What I’m saying is that I bloody well love doing it and I just can’t get any done at the moment.

If it sounds like I’m blaming my mum then that’s not the case. I don’t. It’s awful and heart-breaking seeing her the way she is. I’m just trying to convey the effect her accident and the rest of this stinker of a year has had on me; that’s all.

I wanted to put you all in the picture, especially in view of the fact that I’ve had quite an influx of new subscribers lately and I hate to disappoint people. My only excuse, if there is one, is that I do suffer horrendously from fibromyalgia and I do have other health issues as well. I’m just not as resilient as I used to be.

I mean, heck, when I was a younger man you should have seen me go. I was a live-wire of energy, always doing something, even after a hard day’s work. How I long for just a fraction of what I had back then energy wise. These days I’m more like an old worn-out leisure battery. Yes you can charge me up but I’ll run out of charge in no time at all.

Aah bloody hell, I don’t even know where I’m going with this now. It started out as a brief explanation of where I am and it’s turned into some kind of lecture on the physical history of Alan Stevenson.

Sorry folks.

The good news is that my mum has been moved to a lovely rehab hospital now close to where she lives and is getting a lot more visitors and so the pressure on the family is a lot less. So much so that Ange and I have this weekend off from travelling and the airbed. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s a good quality airbed and we’re extremely grateful for the loan of it from our neighbours – Josie and Glyn; its just not the same as one’s own mattress.

So the immediate future looks a bit better shall we say.

That’s all for now as I can feel the fatigue setting in again but I will try and post again next week. I need a bit of a lie down and then I’m going to try and get Substack back up and running and then tomorrow, hopefully, do a bit more towards the next novel.

Here’s hoping at least.

Love you all.

Al x