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Meet George. George is a middle-aged chap who dabbles in all sorts of projects from writing a ‘Song for Europe’ to entering competitions that he never wins because his slogans let him down.

George decides to write a blockbuster best-selling book.   It will be a “romantic comedy sci-fi porn horror- something for all the family’.

During regular drunken brainstorming sessions at their local bar, George and his pal Malcolm compile a notebook of their research, which is basically smut from girlie magazines.  Regrettably, George’s wife discovers this research and mistakes it for his inner most secret desires which ends with an unfortunate trip to casualty.

While we follow George’s progress, we also meet Axol, a crewman aboard a space freighter.  Axol is intent on establishing a relationship with a female crew member on board, but is hindered in his efforts by unluckily contracting an A.I. STD which can communicate with him via his auditory nerve, and an attack by aliens.




The still silence of space was singing in his ears as crewman Axol Jay gazed blankly at the countless stars. He was thinking of nothing in particular, sitting motionless in the observation-bubble, his pale skin bathed in the soft amber light from the panels on either side of what appeared to be a window, but was actually an image reconstituted from external sensors.

He casually tilted his head to the left and said “drink”

“Unable to comply, your next scheduled refreshment break is in 19.6 minutes” responded the ship`s mainframe computer, in a soft, soothing tone, sadly lacking in sincerity.

“Shit” he cursed under his breath.

“Toilet drone dispatched”, came the dispassionate reply.

“Cancel toilet drone” Axol sighed in resignation; he had forgotten for a moment that he was serving 21 days suspension of leisure facilities and ration supplements, having failed to notice that some joker had included First Officer Nala’s scoot with the non-recyclable waste used in last week’s target practice. The culprit could have been any one of a number of domestic grades under Nala’s control; he was a strutting little man, full of self-importance and had the man-management skills and charm of a Toleg general in a huff. 

[the Tolegs are a cantankerous species, who will, when seriously annoyed, send the first two hundred soldiers into battle armed only with clubs, as a demonstration of their commitment to your downfall, a tactic which still strikes fear into their enemies, despite coming famously unstuck at Kwer where the Toleg general failed to notice that he only had two hundred and eighty soldiers left]

It all seemed so unfair to Axol as he gazed dejectedly into space. There would be another eleven days before he could resume use of his favourite Fantasy Enactment Software, which he had been dedicatedly programming for several days prior to suspension. Nearly a fortnight before he could try to get Ula to go out with him.

To make matters worse he was stuck in the observation bubble alone and bored; this was a deserted quadrant where traffic was almost non-existent and the time passed about as quickly as half a dozen hard-boiled eggs. Axol sat with the vacant stare of a seasoned commuter until he was stirred from his trance by the pulsing red light in the centre of the panel directly in front of him.

“Activity in the vicinity of Worm-Hole Z3R”came the gentle tones of the mainframe computer. Axol sat forward and peered into the void….



George had a visceral recognition of the dulcet tones of Rose, his wife, reverberating up the stairs like nails on a blackboard.

“Shit, shit, shit” he muttered to himself.” What now? Time to polish the rockery? Tidy the bin?

How am I ever going to get to grips with my best-seller if I’m constantly harassed with petty irritations?”

He sat at his shiny new word processor and wondered for a moment if there would be any point in pretending that he hadn’t heard. He knew that if he only had the time, his romantic comedy sci-fi porn horror novel was bound to be an enormous success, appealing, as it would, to all readers; netting huge profits and probably ending up as a Hollywood blockbuster.

He studied his reflection in the dressing-table mirror, poised at his keyboard, peering as intellectually as possible over his spectacles and sucking in his sagging midriff. He turned his head slightly, to add an air of worldliness and reduce the amount of light being reflected from his increasingly exposed scalp. Just right for the sleeve photo; perhaps in a panelled study, or under a shady pergola in a remote Spanish villa, he mused.

“George! I know you’re up there, what are you doing?” Her voice was more insistent.

“I’m in bed with Scarlett Johanssen and Julia Roberts, they’re competing vigorously for my affection, as is usual on a Saturday tea-time” He whispered tersely, before adding, rather more audibly, “Sorry, dear, I didn’t hear you, must’ve been concentrating too hard on the book I’ve started.”

“Well you can do that later, after you take Samson for his walkies.”

“Can’t he miss a night?” He wheedled.

“Perhaps Samson could, but you certainly need the exercise dear.”

George sighed at his crestfallen reflection, not quite looking like the debonaire bestselling author of a moment ago.

“Alright, okay, I’ll just save to disk.” He hissed tetchily.

“Pity I can’t save you to disk.” He added under his breath.

Soon he was pulling on his sage green anorak like a sullen schoolboy on Monday morning, as Samson went through his excited tail-wagging, whimpering, pre-walk ritual.

“Is it really so exciting Samson? or do they just teach you to do it at Labrador training school?” George asked, as he bent down to slip the lead around Samson’s neck, giving his ears an affectionate, if brusque stroke. Samson responded with louder, more urgent howls.

The pair made their way out of the front door, down the short front path and along Laburnum Grove towards the park, with George dragging his feet and Samson wagging his tail, dragging and wagging along until they reached the park. As they cleared the gates he let Samson off the lead and strolled along towards the nearest bench. He buried his hands in his pockets, where he could feel the empty carrier-bag that Rose had put in ’in case Samson does his doings’.

“Hmmph!, I don’t think I’ll be bothering with that.” George chuckled to himself, “One up to the George Liberation Front”

He sat down, gazing idly around at the neatly-trimmed flower beds, the last of the evening strollers and the rhododendrons bobbing gently in the breeze. His thoughts turned to his novel. It’ll have to be funny, but frightening; definitely some steamy scenes with plenty of nubile space-girls for the hero. He’ll have to be witty, brave, and as supple as an East-European gymnast in bed; but still caring in a woman`s magazine sort of way. In touch with his emotions is the expression, I think. Keep the P.C. brigade happy.

Charismatic and hilarious. Sort of James Bond meets Buck Rogers, with a bit of John Holmes thrown in. Or should that be tossed in?  Ha!Ha!

As George wrestled with ideas for his bestseller he became aware of rustling and snuffling coming from the shrubbery behind him.

“Oh no!” he groaned to himself, Samson must have gone down to the stagnant pond, where he would roll in the muck and slime and certainly need a bath.

“Get out of there, you dirty buggar!” George yelled, twisting around to face the hedge.

But, after a split-second of agitated foliage rustling, a small, spotty youth with a skin-head haircut and a somewhat larger greasy-haired young girl burst out of the bushes, pulling up their jogging bottoms, expressions of guilt and panic on their faces, they looked like red-faced competitors in some kind of bizarre sack-race.



IMG_1600Nigel Anthony was born in 1954 in Sunderland, educated at Newcastle Royal Grammar School and Newcastle University, graduating from the school of dentistry with honours in 1978.

After qualifying he worked in the Maxillo-Facial and Oral Surgery Department at Sunderland General Hospital, then in a busy NHS General Dental Practice in Northumberland until retirement in mid-2016.

Nigel has been married to wife Angela since 1981, initially living in Washington until a move to Morpeth, Northumberland in 1983.

With a love of guitar playing, Nigel played in various line-ups on the North-Eastern Club circuit in the late eighties, commenting that “our proud boast was that we were never ‘paid off’, although we were once booed on!”

The arrival of Nigel and Angela’s three sons, John, Paul and Tom meant that the gigs became less frequent, although they still continue to this day.  As Nigel puts it, “purveying ‘wrinkly rock’ to the unwary”.  Nigel still enjoys song writing and recording at home.

Since retirement, Nigel has spent his time playing guitar, writing “future best-sellers” and “trying to get my kids to be financially independent, with mixed results”.