Guest Post By Terry Ravenscroft

I want to publicise my new book The Ring of the Lord. It is a humour/fantasy novel out on Sept 19, price £2.99/$2.99. you can pre-order it here –

UK http://amzn.to/2bBVN1O

US http://amzn.to/2bBVELJ

Here’s a short extract from the opening chapter of The Ring of the Lord.

DREG. 5030 BC.

The Middle-earth shire of Dreg, in the Gondor region, was to be found in an area known in our times as Derbyshire, with the addition of the less salubrious part of Cheshire and the less inbred part of Yorkshire.

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Tunnbledemere nodded then took the deepest of breaths, as though to invest his words with the seriousness he felt they deserved. “Your quest then, Draybweevil, is…. nothing less than to find out why everyone in fantasy novels is given a silly name!”
A collective intake of breath came from all those present that day. Gasps of awe, of wonder, of trepidation, were forced from the throats of Binglebang, of Meelamoola, of Bootyscoot, of Snotwangler, of Fartwurgler, of Bumsucka, of the dwarf, Arselow, of the goblin, Vakyoomkleena, of the elf, N’Safety, of the troll, Socialmeeja, of the giant, Economysize, of the wizard, of Ovoz, of Condom the Protector, of Tampon the Absorber, and last, but by no means least, from Man With Very Long Name Who Has Been Given A Very Long Name Simply Because A Long Name Fills Up At Least Half-a-dozen Lines Every Time It Is Used And Is Absolutely Guaranteed To Be Used Many Many Times Because Almost All Fantasy Novels Are About As Thick As A Brick And The Few That Aren’t As Thick As A Brick Are At The Very Least Six Hundred Pages Long And Therefore Using A Very Long Name A Lot Will Fill Up About A Hundred Pages And Thus Save The Author The Bother Of Thinking Up Even More Padding Than He Already Will Be Doing.
“Incidentally, Draybweevil, when you are on the quest there is one more thing I would like you to do for me.”
“Father?”
“It is to find out why the protagonists in such novels are always having strange, disturbing dreams.”
Draybweevil gasped. The previous night, no sooner had the caressing but insistent arms of Morpheus dragged him reluctantly into a deep sleep – reluctantly because Draybweevil loved every single moment of his waking hours in his beloved Dreg and sleep to him was a deprivation of life itself – he himself, not for the first time, had experienced a strange, disturbing dream. Was the dream a portent of things to come? In his dream there were unforgettable visions of unfamiliar buildings with peculiar signs hung on their front elevations; ‘Red Lion’, ‘Queen’s Head’, ‘Rose and Crown.’ A huge red and white banner attached to the front of the Red Lion read ‘Sky Sports Here!’ Through one of the windows, in what appeared to be some sort of giant magic glass, about five feet by four feet in our measure, a game unfamiliar to him was being played. It involved two teams chasing around madly and kicking some sort of sphere, possibly a pig’s bladder, much to the huge enjoyment of the many thousands of spectators watching, many of whom raised cheers and chanted loudly and boisterously throughout the action. All the spectators had seats to sit on, but unaccountably all were standing up. In a second magic glass another game involved a white-clad figure throwing a smaller red sphere at another white clad figure armed with some sort of wooden weapon, with which he attempted to ward off the sphere, whilst a dozen or so more white-clad figures looked on, several of whom yawned from time to time. In a third, a game similar to the one taking place in the first magic glass, involved bigger, more muscular men, who, when not fighting each other, were mostly throwing, rather than kicking, the pig’s bladder.
Through the doors of the Queen’s Head a young man and a young woman now staggered. The young man had a swastika tattooed on his cheek, a bone through his nose and sported on his head a peaked cap worn back to front; the young woman had the words ‘Too Drunk To F***’ emblazoned on a skimpy blouse that seemed designed to reveal, rather than conceal, her bulbous breasts. As the couple staggered and reeled on their way, with raucous cries of “All police are bastards” and “We don’t give a shit” directed at no one in particular, pausing only to vomit on a passing cat and urinate in someone’s front garden, they passed four people of a similar age. They were all smoking and drinking something called ‘Carlsberg’ from a bottle. However the mixture they were smoking couldn’t have been the bat dung and dried weasel entrails rolled up in a dock leaf enjoyed by the majority of the Dreg race, but some other concoction, a mixture that rendered those smoking it glassy-eyed, unsteady on their feet and totally incoherent. As the young men swigged greedily on their bottles a young woman, naked but for an even skimpier blouse than that worn by the first young woman, a thin band of some sparkly material girding her loins, staggered by on shoes that looked to have six inch nails instead of heels.. As she did they took pleasure in jeering at her. There was a cry of “Slag” from one of them, a cry of “Show us your tits” from another. The girl stopped and bent over, displaying her naked bottom in their direction. Continuing on her knickerless way she passed another young man slumped on the ground, a wretched-looking individual who appeared to be trying to push a small glass tube into his arm. Next to him, an older individual, a sad-looking wretch of a man, was inhaling a white powdered substance up his nose.
The dream came to a sudden end when a sort of oxen-less cart with ‘POLICE’ emblazoned on the side suddenly appeared on the scene, klaxon blaring, raced at high speed past both the young couple and the four smokers before screeching to a halt outside a building bearing the brightly-lit legend ‘Pizzaland’, whereupon two bulging at the waist fat-faced hungry-looking black clad figures leapt out and rushed inside with cries of ‘I’m having a king-size meat feast!’ and ‘I’m having the same with double chips!’
As Draybweevil’s recollection of the dream ended Tunnbledemere was surveying the whole gathering.

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