[see www.agoldfishintheear.co.uk] A Goldfish in the Ear is the result of a lifetime’s cynical observation of the world about us - the conflict between words and meaning, order and creativity, friendship and greed.
The author has many targets at which to direct his barbed tongue, ironic observations and sense of the ridiculous. Is it a witty plot-based thriller, a life changing polemic or a collection of bitter and twisted observations on the familiar?
You judge, dear reader.
Our hero is Jake – bobbing along, enjoying his life without any real sense of commitment or moral responsibility.
He is also blissfully unaware of the ‘interesting events’ developing around him, both in the unethical and empiric company he works for and in his private life. Even his family are not what they seem – i.e. they are not his family. His sister is not his sister, his father is not his father - and the family butler puts a goldfish in his ear as senility sets in. Bless.
Everyone is individually, and severally, involved in complex, interwoven conspiracies.
The story revolves, not necessarily concentrically or even obeying the laws of literary dynamics, around a resurrected Neanderthal priest called UGGG; a high-level cloning conspiracy; boneless turkeys; theme pubs; COLIN, a misanthropic computer; InstaBuild, a super-fast construction company; intergalactic aliens with appetite and attitude; cloned butlers and other characters, some of whom are quite bizarre – and may even be relevant to the plots.
A first published novel for lifelong writer, wit and artist - Jonathan Greenyer. [see www.agoldfishintheear.co.uk]
This is not the first work to be completed though, as I have written and performed a few satirical reviews and also devised and illustrated many children’s stories. I live in the small village of Woodside near Windsor Day to day, I am a busy freelance Marketing/Business Consultant and the joy of communicating ideas in a creative way and the effective use of language have underpinned both my career and leisure interests.
This book was first started in 1990. I recorded the story on a dictaphone whilst I travelled all over the country as Marketing Manager for a major Brewery!! There was no plan, no notes, just an out-pouring. My life was full of strange and funny events it seemed only right to record them in some form or other and that turned out to be a novel. Over the years I added content, inserted new ideas and new characters to the book - I know this is not the orthodox way to write! Stuff just happened to me and I incorporated it into my writings. I changed my job many times. I got divorced. Found even more new jobs. Made new friends. Went places did things. New family members arrived. Unfortunately my father died before I completed the manuscript. All this was reflected in my writing style, content and the number of words.
Without the assistance of Sherry, who inspired me to pick up the 'book project' and complete it - then helped me with the detailed checking - this novel would never have been completed. And in my spare time, I also paint, and the front cover illustration of “A Goldfish in the Ear” is an example of my work
Like rats down a familiar drain pipe, they descended the crumbling concrete steps to Claudette's Wine Bar. Christopher approached the bloodstained metal door and tapped out the coded message that would gain them access; the first three bars of the famous 1978 Norwegian entry to the European Song Contest ‘Mil etter mil’.
Nothing happened for a few moments; then the sounds of locks being undone and chains being removed heralded the slow opening of the forbidding portal. After a few seconds of silence the chirpy smiling face of Brenda, Christopher’s secretary, popped through the gap.
“Oh, hi Bren, nice to see you, have you got another lunchtime job then?”
“Well not really Chrissie I just got a call from Alfredo asking if I knew one end of a potato from the other and when I said yes of course I did gosh did he think I was stupid why did he want to know and he said he needed some emergency help in the kitchens as all the kitchen and bar staff had collapsed from food poisoning after eating some of their own bar food did you know that potatoes had to be peeled from the top end first so the peel falls onto the floor Alfredo said I was very gifted cos I knew that too come on in I’m sure there’s something we can find you for lunch have I got to go back to work how do you tell which end of a potato is the top and how do you get rid of all those potato eyes they just keep staring blankly at me all day staring staring I can’t stand it can you well where was I now can I join you for a quick one?” Twanged Brenda, in her best joined-up, Gateway English.
“Well possibly but we’ll have a few drinks first. Okay?”
“Oh, you’re so funny.” she trilled, her coloratura laughter ascending though octaves like a runaway police siren on speed; in the process the sound shattered the windows of passing cars in the street above, stopped watches and bent spoons like an operatic Uri Geller. Reeling under the auditory assault they followed Brenda into the gloom, at least they followed the gently rippling and oscillating orbs of her perfect bum, loosely contained in her dress like two mating seals in a heavy duty bin bag. Their eyes popped back into their heads when, to their dismay, she disappeared sinuously into the subterranean depths of Claudette’s kitchen.
Claudette’s Wine Bar is famous amongst the cognoscenti and is best described in classic English understatement as “unique and very special”; like the Ebola virus is unique and very special, not like having your pizza delivered by a naked Keira Knightly is unique and very special. That’s more very unique and quite unlikely except of course in Jake’s dreams! But wouldn’t that be a great company to establish, with a distinct USP over the usual pizza delivery company? Naked Celebrity Pizzas brings you Cinque Stagioni Pizza delivered to your front door by lookalike naked celebrities on mopeds. Brill. The celebrity could be themed to the Pizza “I’d like a ham and pineapple delivered by a naked (lookalike) Elvis as he appeared in Blue Hawaii; and a Garlic Sausage Pizza delivered by a naked (lookalike) Michael Gambon interpreting Inspector Maigret.” And why stop at Pizzas, why not ‘Naked Celebrity Plumbers’, with a Keira Knightly lookalike fixing your leaking washing machine outflow; oh yes, the opportunities for an enterprising business man or woman are huge.
The one single aspect of Claudette’s of which you could be certain was that nobody just dropped in casually off the street; it had to be a planned visit. It’s not just the two inch thick steel doors or the ever changing secret entry code; you really have to psyche yourself up for a new life experience, and a potential life ending one at that, before contemplating a drink or even a brief visit.
Alfredo, the ever present bar manager, hailed from Exeter; thought by some to be the very epicentre of innovative, hedonistic, culture. However, he told everyone he came from Littlehampton as he thought that was even more credible. It’s possible that in a small corner of his mind he even believed this. Whatever the truth, Alfredo (née Mary) carefully nurtured, mostly by gross neglect, the dark and dank environment of Claudette’s for the ever demanding, high living, high spending City Executives who liked to slum it occasionally and rub shoulders with the really rough characters of London street society. Some call it The Halo Effect, others Gangster Syndrome by Proximity, or Credibility by Association, or Being a Pratt.
Customers arriving at Claudette's found it quite impossible to determine whether the other customers already in the wine bar were weird and bizarre people behaving true to character, ordinary people acting out their fantasies, or poorly paid actors brought in by Alfredo to establish and maintain the right atmosphere. Or maybe you could perm any two options from the three; who knows and who cares? As long as the punters were kept happy Alfredo was happy. Reality, escapism, art or medication? It was just another dilemma of everyday existentialism. As nobody who was sober or sane, except those with a death wish, had the nerve or stupidity to initiate a conversation with a stranger in Claudette’s, let alone ask them whether they were method acting or on methadone, the quintessential delight of the unknown was maintained, at least until the end of the third round of drinks.
The only other single aspect of Claudette's about which you could be sure was that when you entered Claudette’s, at that single point in time, during that nano-second, you were real and you existed “cogito ergo sum”- but after a few of Alfredo’s unique drinks and an interaction with the clientele, you did tend to lose even that basic self belief. Powerful stuff. Oh yes, smell my brain!