Yet Again You’re Invited To…

…See and Hear Tooty Speak! Well, the Tooty of eight years ago, that is. Here he is reading from this book…

It’s not that well-known, but once upon a time I recorded a few videos of me reading from my Hamster-Sapiens books. Here’s the very first.

tooty reads out loud

Click HERE to view. It’s charm personified – or something very much like it.


Distant Land (Part 13)

It was while later. No one was quite sure how long because they had all been far too busy examining the alien artefact that Cedric had brought aboard to notice. Eventually though, the Brian Talbot’s captain heard the sound he most feared: the buzz of his Ready Room door bell…

“Shoot.” He yelped. Then, gathering his courage, he added: “Enter.”

To his surprise it wasn’t Bruce Burpsby who led in the delegation of scientists; but Folie and Placebo. He stood up from his comfy chair to greet them.

“We’ve discovered a message.” Folie informed him…

“Yes.” A smiling Placebo added. “It’s a video message. We’ve formatted the signal so that it’s compatible with our computer.”

“Golly, that’s quick thinking. What does it say?” Cedric squeaked. “I hope there wasn’t a computer virus embedded inside it. It could play havoc with the ship’s systems. Imagine Waste Management failing horribly: it doesn’t bear thinking about. Does it mention alien invasion, by any chance?”

The look in Cedric’s eyes told the youngsters all they needed to know: their captain was suffering from Space Paranoia. Placebo sought to placate Cedric. “No, not at all. It’s just a cheerful ‘hello’ to passing space travellers.”

Outside the Ready Room, the bridge crew stood and listened…

“That lad sure can lie with the best of ’em.” Hooper Hellstrom whispered to the doubtful-looking Hubert Boils. “They’ve not had nearly enough time to check out that video: there could poop slopping about in the bilges as we speak.”

Meanwhile, inside the Ready Room…

“Excellent.” Cedric responded after several second’s thought. “Let’s get to the bridge: I’d like to see it for myself…

So, as they headed for the Exit and Placebo spotted the cheerful faces of the waiting bridge crew…

…he wondered if it might not have been better if he’d told the truth, which was that he didn’t have the first idea what the message said.

“Who knows,” he said under his breath and sniffed the air tentatively, “this could be the precursor of our utter destruction.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2019


A Silence Concerning the ‘Silent’ Books

I can’t remember when I last posted an extract of my best work – that being these books…

So today I’m correcting that omission. Ladies and Gentlemen may I present an excerpt from Silent Resistance – a book I’m rather proud of…

It was only as we approached the last door in line along the corridor that I realized that I’d made a mistake. In my reality this final door opened into an office: here it led to a stairway. I could see the stairs as I dared take a quick peek through a small wired glass window set into the door. In that nervous glance I’d also noticed something else: a shotgun booby trap much like the one upon the floor below. I informed the others about the situation.

“Great.” Shane said in her most sarcastic manner, “So how are we supposed to get at him now?

“We don’t.” Dainam answered her question. “We make him come to us.”

Leaving Shane and Killer to keep watch upon the door to the upper floor, Dainam and I returned to the lower level where he’d noticed various cupboards, filing cabinets, and drawers. After a couple of minutes searching through them Dainam came up trumps. He brandished a plastic box containing a set of screwdrivers.

‘Seek and ye shall find.’

Returning to the next floor we propped a table from one of the offices against the door to the stair so that it couldn’t move outward. Then using the screwdrivers Dainam and I set about the screws that held the door hinges in place.

The screws had been wound into the timber frame many decades past – probably by burly builders, and for several minutes neither of us could make much headway with the task; but we stuck at it – often cursing as we whacked our knuckles each time the screwdrivers slipped. But fifteen sweat-inducing minutes later we had unfastened all of them, and now only the office table held the door in situ. Shane then tied a length of electrical cable to one of the table legs, and holding the other end of the cable in her free hand she retreated to where Dainam, Killer, and I waited in the relative safety of the adjacent room.

As she backed into our temporary sanctuary she said, “Ready?”

I nodded, and she yanked firmly upon the cable. This in turn twisted the table away from the door, which allowed it to fall outwards into the corridor – pulling with it a length of string that was attached to the shotgun trigger as it did so.The double blast of both barrels in such a confined space almost deafened us, and sent us reeling further into the office to escape the cloud of dust and smoke that suddenly filled every available space. Fortunately the blast destroyed the exterior window – sending an avalanche of splintered glass out into the bus park, where it fell to the tarmac surface below. This had the effect of venting some of the smoke and dust, for which we were most grateful; but it was still very difficult to see in the murk and gloom of the grey autumn day. As we emerged into the blasted corridor we all heard the clatter of feet descending the stair. The next second I realized that we were not alone as a dark shape passed between me and the feeble light that the ruined window allowed in. Whether he saw me I don’t know, but I was taking no chances. I lashed out at his head with the butt of my MP7. It wasn’t a telling blow, but it made the booby-trapper stumble. Dainam released Killer, and in bound from a standing start she brought the person crashing down, and pinned him face-down among the debris. The dust continued to dissipate, and as Shane disarmed him, it was obvious that he was an adult. He was also unconscious – or at least pretending to be. A quick check of his eyes, and I kicked him in the stomach for good measure. He wasn’t acting.

“He’s out cold.” I said as Dainam pulled Killer away.

“If he’s not, I’ll set Killer on him again.” Dainam replied.

“Say that again – in Espeeg.” Shane suggested.

Dainam did so, but the Espeeg failed to respond.

“You’re right, Fel.” She said. “He’s out cold.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

These books are available in e-book and paperback. Click here to see the better-known outlets.

Dreams are Crushed Beneath the Weight of Years

I say that, because recently I discovered a comment that I made in 2009 upon someone else’s blog, which talked about writing and being a writer. At that time I was writing avidly and had great hopes. This is the comment I made back then:

During the 90’s I tried desperately to get into writing for TV – and came horribly close once or twice. But eventually my resolve was worn down, and I quit – everything – and went on a sabbatical to Spain. There I discovered ‘proper writing’. Or rather I discovered that I could write fiction – and, surprisingly, comedy too. But it wasn’t until I created my two WordPress sites (The Bucktooth Times and Nauseous Nolan) in 2008, upon which I posted extracts of my comedy material, that I found that other people shared my off-beat sense of humour, and not only encouraged me to publish my work, but actively went in search of it upon Lulu, Amazon, E-bay, etc . And the amount of blogs that have plagiarized me is astounding: So I guess I must be hitting the right keys in the right order every so often. But although there is the potential for millions of readers to view my work – out there upon the internet – until those same people can actually hold my book in their hands – or at least conjure up its electronic equivalent upon their Sony Reader or Kindle – I can’t really call myself a writer.
Opinions anyone? P.S – yes I know one should never begin a sentence with the word ‘And’ – but rules are meant to be massaged and reconfigured into interesting new shapes – aren’t they? And anyway – I like it – it suits my style.
Paul Trevor (Tooty) Nolan

So what the heck went wrong? Whatever happened to The Bucktooth Times and Nauseous Nolan? I can’t even remember them! And when did that air of confidence evaporate? And see – I can still begin a sentence with ‘And’.

On the upside, I did discover that I’m now available on Walmart. Somehow that seems fitting. Check it out.

P.S This shot comes from the above era. Now, sadly, I’m a wizened gnome.

Return to Hamster Britain!

Yes, it’s time for another Hamster-Sapiens extract. On this particular occasion I’ve selected a sample of this fabulous tome…

Wendy stood atop a single raised dais in the centre of the dell. She took a deep breath in preparation for her opening speech, but quickly released it when she noticed a knot of small boys seated upon the ground beneath the dais. They appeared to be trying to look up her skirt. Under normal circumstances this wouldn’t have been a complete disaster for the public servant, but tonight a certain situation existed whereby she must avoid such scrutiny: She’d planned to get herself thoroughly rogered during the intermission by her mysterious new personal assistant from Darkest Jungle Land – Plops M’Banjo – and had decided to circumvent his heavy-pawed attempts to relieve her of her under garments by leaving them in her knickers drawer at home. Now she’d spotted that one of the small boys held a compact camera and a cardboard periscope in his paws, and her plans lay in ruins.

“I say.” She called across to P C Chest, who was busy chatting animatedly with his girlfriend, Amy Crumpet, “Can you have these ruffians removed?”

It was an inauspicious start: Hamsters were generally very fond of their younglings, and since time immemorial the young boys of the town had sat at the feet of the mayor on Remembrance Thrudsday – or Danglydong Dell Diaries Day as it was more popularly known – and many of those nearest shifted uneasily upon their roughly hewn logs, and cursed quietly under their breath. Some went so far as to spit. And someone who looked suspiciously like the recently removed mayor – the disgraced Chester Bogbreath in disguise – broke wind forthrightly.

Wendy quickly caught the mood with her sensitive snout, and like the brilliant politician she was, intuitively altered tack. “Indeed, Constable.” She added, “Take the little darlings for a ride in the mayoral limousine. I’m sure that they’ll enjoy a quick thrash across the field, down the lane, and around Farmer Jacksey’s motocross circuit, followed by a motion sickness-induced vomiting session. It’s much more interesting than listening to my boring old oratory.”

Of course she was correct, and within moments the youngsters had scarpered, and she was able to relax and begin again – only this time properly…

“Fine upstanding citizens of Hamster Heath,” she boomed in a voice that was remarkably free from the usual shrillness commonly found in female hamsters, “once again we find ourselves seated within the hallowed earthworks of Danglydong Dell – to hear the personal stories of this year’s chosen town-folk. In keeping with tradition, those who have received the most votes from the town council Diaries Commission will be invited to stand upon this dais, and read an especially prepared extract from their personal diary. Naturally, as is the way of rodents in general, and hamsters in particular, each entry will have been ghost-written into third person narrative by our guest author; and will read much as a piece of fiction would – rather than egocentric, me-me-me, self-aggrandisement. After all,” she chuckled, “we wouldn’t want to bore ourselves silly with dull, tedious, prose written by complete amateurs, would we!”

“Who’s the guest ghost-writer this year?” Bootsie – the retired former town police constable – bellowed from somewhere at the back.

A shadow crossed the face of the mayoress. She was well aware that almost everyone present was expecting her to reply to Bootsie’s question with the answer ‘Granny Arseblower’. But she had bad news for them, and she prayed that her reply wouldn’t make them turn ugly. She didn’t do’ ugly’ very well, and usually resorted to violence when confronted by it in private. But this was a very public affair, and she knew that she would have to maintain a modicum of decorum.

“Well obviously we would have loved to have Granny Arseblower be our ghost-writer again this year.” She began positively, but quickly lowered her tone, “But unfortunately the town Medium – Molly Horseblanket – discovered too late that her magic whoopee cushion had perished during the summer heat wave, and all attempts to contact the spirit of her forebear using a Ouija board failed miserably. Fortunately we were able to contact the late, and very famous, Freda Bludgeon at the eleventh hour to help us out.”

She chanced a toothy grin at the assembled horde. There were a few weak smiles in response, which boosted her confidence considerably. She was about to continue when she was rudely interrupted

“Freda Bludgeon?” The less than feminine voice of Farmer Niblet from the Farm Workers and Associated Dung Flingers section exclaimed. “She was an old hack. Couldn’t write for nuts. All her novels were re-writes of earlier stories. Why – she was such a shit writer that she took up farming. I should know – I’m one of her descendants, and I can’t string three words together what make sense to some one.”

Wendy ground her incisors together for several seconds before replying. But when she spoke it was with succinctness and utter authority.

“Tough shit, Farmer Niblet: It’s either Freda Bludgeon’s work – or the evening is cancelled.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013


Junior Earplug Adventures: Distant Land (part 4)

With their passengers stowed safely in their cabin, the crew of the Chi-Z-Sox soon had their mighty vessel blasting free of Earth’s gravity well…

“Whee!” Many of them squealed with delight as the stars of deep space began to glare un-winking and balefully. Their number included the Captain’s wife – the First Officer, Doctor Putridity Gout…

“Have a care, Dearest.” Hideous whispered from the Captain’s chair. “The crew are apt to think you’re an excitable wally. I don’t want a mutiny on my hands, you know.”

Naturally Folie and Placebo released themselves and joined several off-duty crew-folk in the observation dome…

“Golly, Placebo,” Folie said nervously, “isn’t space really big!”

Placebo couldn’t argue with the facts that supported his friend’s assertion. “Yeah.” He replied. “But wait until we blast out of orbit: then space will look so big that you’ll feel like a tiny, tiny, bacterium in comparison.”

Moments later the ship did as Placebo had intimated…

“See?” The large white being said…

“I do.” Folie replied. “It’s great – feeling like a bacteria, I mean. All the worries of life just trickle away.”

Because the Chi-Z-Sox was a nippy ship, it took mere minutes to reach, and fly-by, the planet Neptune…

Then Hideous Gout instructed the Helmsplug to hit the Really Fast button. A split second later…

“Oh, Hideous,” Perfidity gushed, “I do so adore going faster than light. If only I could train my bladder to enjoy it too. Excuse me whilst I nip off to the loo, would you?”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2019


They’re Back! The Earplugs Have Returned!

Happy days are here again. All of those miserable Earpluggers, missing their fix of derring-do in a universe inhabited by sentient ear plugs, can rejoice once more. The latest tale is taking shape. And it’s already appearing upon the Internet. Whatever you do, dear Earplugger, don’t miss a moment of ‘Distant Land’.

Click HERE to catch up with your missed first excerpt: and HERE for the second. You know it makes sense.