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A comedy writer walks into a bar.
Ouch! Bugger! he yelled.
The landlord shook his head and tutted loudly.
“Mate. That's old. Bloody hell. Don't give up your day job.”
The comedy writer rubbed his head and looked up. “Fair point.”
“What brings you here?” the landlord asked.
The writer took a seat on a stool and ordered a pint.
“I'm here to have a nice chat with someone about ideas for my new book.”
“Oh?” The landlord raised an eyebrow. “What kind of books do you write?”
“Comedy novels.”
The landlord stopped what he was doing and stared at him.
“What? With jokes like that rubbish you came in with?”
The writer frowned. “How do you mean?”
“You walked into a bar and said 'ouch'. That joke's ancient.”
The writer scratched his head and took a sip of beer.
“So,” the landlord said, leaning in, “what's this new book about?”
The writer thought for a moment.
“Not sure yet. My head's still aching due to sudden contact with that bar.”
The landlord laughed. “A comedy writer with no ideas. That's a joke in itself.”
The writer rubbed his jaw. It sounded like sandpaper on timber.
“Landlord, I haven't told you a joke yet.”
Now it was the landlord's turn to frown.
“You did. That walking-into-a-bar rubbish.”
“But I did walk into a bar.”
“What bar?”
The writer spread his hands and turned slowly.
“This one. I've got the bruise to prove it.”
The landlord wiped the counter and shook his head.
“Mate… are you a bit mad?”
The writer stood, twirled on one leg, and whistled the theme tune to Dad's Army.
“Only on Tuesdays,” he said.
About Me
Andy writes comedy novels involving history, bad decisions, and people who probably shouldn't be in charge.
My books are available on Amazon (including my cyberpunk thrillers):
Books by me
Contact
Feel free to reach out. If you can't stretch that far you can send me an email.