The Sadness of The King George by Shaun Hand BLOG TOUR @ShaunHandAuthor #SadnessOfTheKingGeoge @BADPRESSiNK @RandomTTours

 

Welcome to The King George.

You know it. Your old local. Back in the day.

The stink of beer and piss, sticky carpets, nicotine stains on the ceiling, soggy bar towels, and the chance of a punch-up on a Saturday night – or anytime for that matter.

And in amongst it all an awkward 20-year-old, trapped behind the bar, with nothing to do but pull pints and wait for the next fag break.

Until he finds Amy. And life. And an escape – if he dares.

From West Midlands writer Shaun Hand comes a comedy novel set in a Birmingham pub, well Sutton Coldfield to be precise. Funny, poignant and unflinchingly honest, The Sadness of The King George captures the moment when the easy idealism of youth collides with the hard realities of conservative suburbia.

The Sadness of the King George by Shaun Hand was published on 6 January 2021 by BAD PRESS iNK.
I'm delighted to share an extract from the book today as part of this #RandomThingsTours Blog Tour. 

An Extract from The Sadness of The King George

Focch aff!

No, you fuck off.

Loocch jus ge’me a focchn pint.

No, you’ve had y’ticket I dunno how many times.

No foccher gev me no ticcher, I barred meself cchosa tha ccchont.

What?

Donsher wha me ye—

Not this time. Not with this hangover. I came out from behind the bar and went to open the door. Eddie must’ve thought I was going for him cos he backed up and took himself out. I followed, trying to keep my distance so I didn’t have to smell him. Outside, he stood in the middle of the street, hands fumbling for his tobacco tin but eyes, unfocused, in my direction. I leant on the doorframe, trying to look casual.

Focchn tell youse sumert, y’little cchont. I wz focchn drinch’n’ere foreyuzborn.

Really, yeh?

Focchn chhnt uva landlord fchn rhunedafcchinpub n’fcchnnWHUUU!

He was interrupted by a dirty blue transit van bipping its horn, bumper inches from him. He span round towards it, throwing two fingers up at the windscreen.

FOCCCH AFF YA CCHONNT!

The driver’s door flew open. Eddie’s raised hand turned into a limp shield against the red mist about to engulf him. It was Kronenbourg Kev. Eddie was fucked.

S-s-sorry, s-s-ssohr, s-sohr, dint rearlyse twuz yo’zz— sohrr—

He reeled backwards to the far side of the road, tripped on the kerb and went flat on his arse. Kev loomed over him, arm raised, fist clenched.

D’YOU FOCKIN CALL ME YOU LIL TWAT?

S-s-sor—

FOCKIN STANDIN MIDDLE OF THE FOCKIN STREET!

S-sor I—

FOCK OFF OUT OF IT FORE I BREAK YA FOCKIN LEGS Y’CUNT!

Kev’s fist unclenched, and he span round to walk away. Just as sharp, he doubled back and booted Eddie in the bollocks. As he completed the full 360, he caught my eye.

FOCK YOU LOOKIN AT?

My macho adrenaline turned to burning fear, my gaze straight to the floor. As I dared to look back up, he was jumping in his van. Slamming the door, he flew off with a stamp on the accelerator, leaving the cars behind to trundle warily in his wake. Once they’d passed, I saw Eddie fumbling round for his tobacco tin, the contents now scattered in the gutter. With a wince, he stumbled to his feet and shambled off across the car park opposite the pub, probably to nurse his pride and bruised balls in Wetherspoons. They served anyone over there.

About the author

You know that feeling you get when you’re stood freezing on the Welsh moors, wrapped in a cloak you got cheap off eBay, your singer miming backwards in a bathtub as you make video for your band’s song that’s been used in an American teen drama and become the unofficial theme tune to a podcast aboutSasquatch?

Shaun Hand, an author and musician from the West Midlands, knows all about it. 
Things weren’t always that strange for our intrepid late-starter. 
After drifting into various dead-ends, Shaun began studyingEnglish at night school aged 22 – to get a night off from the pub he was working at six days a week as much as anything else. 
After going to university in Wolverhampton and graduating with a First in CreativeWriting, he promptly continued to work in local pubs and bars, using his spare time to procrastinate, make music and hang around on the Welsh moors with his band FABRIK and, eventually, begin writing books.
His literary career kicked off with PopArt Poems: The Music of The Jam, widely regarded as one of the best books ever written about the group.
Now a full-time freelance writer, he currently lives in Wolverhampton with his wife, daughter, cat, and record collection.

Twitter @ShaunHandAuthor