Past weekend was a momentous day in the history of the universe. I kicked off my latest book pimping exercise.
I enjoyed traipsing around the USA so much trying to get an incomprehensibly reluctant public to buy my effing book, I thought I’d give it another go. This time with my vaguely coherent (as opposed to nailed together blog posts) new self-published job about Scottish beer.
I use the word coherent in its loosest sense. Though neatly divide into chapters, the number-side of the book is so overloaded, it lists scarily to port. Or starboard. Not totally sure which the number side of a book is.
Scotland. I’ve banged on about for so long banging out a book on it seemed bang on. Save me loads of arguments, I hope. And maybe even earn me thruppence hapenny back. A more than fair reward than for the thousands of hours with my nose pushed up the pasts’ arse.
It all started a couple of months ago.
“Do you fancy going to Macclesfield, Dolores?”
“Just outside Manchester, it looks really nice.”
“That’s not why you want to go there, is it, Ronald?”
“It’s only twenty minutes from Manchester by train.”
“You’re planning one of your boring talks, aren’t you?”
“Fascinating insights into beer history is how I prefer to bill them.”
“Hah – you admit it.”
“You got me there, Dolores. It’ll be fun. There’s hills and everything in Macclesfield.”
“I grew up with hills. Do they have nice beer? Not that horrible grapefruit juice. Nice Bitter.”
“Of course. It’s the North. They may even have Mild.”
That swung it.
Macclesfield here we come.
Buy my new book!.
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