Cheap Sunglasses: You Gotta Be in It to Win It

By Guy Davies

(FOR INTERIOR)

Rural England spring 2020. The old normal.
With the world entering into a world wide lockdown The King family launch there plan for world domination.

Watching them make there move Central Command in Israel are unable to react due to the travel ban.
Noah Aziz the brilliant commander of operations has only one choice. His man in England Terry must recruit locals to make a stand against The King family.

Terry`s problem is, he only has time to round up drinking buddies from the local pub, The Highwayman. He has to rely on Drake for help. Drake and his friends are more interested in getting off their heads.

Noah has a secret weapon. Ava and her strange son Tony are embedded in Dumbleton Hall The Kings home. She poses as a stable girl but is really a highly trained spy from South Korea. She has been winning the charms of Jonathan the youngest and twisted heir to The King.

(FOR BACK COVER)

Brace yourself for the non-woke book of the decade!

Drake and his party loving friends collide headlong with the twisted and evil King family. It’s the start of the global pandemic and rural England is set to be the battleground between bad and pure evil. Never has so many reckless fools been entrusted with so much. Failure is practically guaranteed right?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Nov 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9781728376622

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© 2022 Guy Davies. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 11/14/2022

ISBN: 978-1-7283-7663-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-7662-2 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or

links contained in this book may have changed since publication and

may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those

of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher,

and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Prologue

Spring 2019—The Old Normal

Bob/Camp Freddy

Both The Man Of Science And The Man Of Action Live Always At The Edge Of Mystery, Surrounded By It

In Israel, will they sing a happy Noel

Yes we are gonna have to go to ludicrous speed

People are starting to notice

Tarkhat Haranah

I will motivate you!

When boy? When are you going to get your act together?

I’ve Seen Things You People Wouldn’t Believe

PROLOGUE

‘A lie can be half-way around the world

before the truth has even got it’s boots on’

(James Callaghan Prime Minister UK 1976-79)

It’s been a lovely spring day here in the Cottswolds, away from all of the hustle and bustle of the cities. How do those people live like that?

Lola is sat in the back of her vintage Rolls Royce. She takes a drawn-out drag of the imported cigarette in her extra long holder. Then she knocks back her Japanese Whiskey. OK, She says to her chauffeur. The driver slips the car into gear and expertly powers down the road at an alarming rate. Destination. London.

Lowering the privacy suite screen she orders, I’m doing business, so no interruptions please. The driver keeps his eyes on the road and his foot planted on the throttle. For these people normal rules just don’t apply.

Warren knows something monumental is going on. He works at level two clearance but has access to higher. Most of his colleagues at Government Communications Head Quarters can’t be bothered to read the clearance notes. He reads everything. Warren is watching. Warren is also being watched. He spends his time at work analyzing, sometimes daydreaming, always thinking. Everything passes by Warren at some point.

It can’t be that surely? They start by trickling the story. Drip, drip, drip. Then the experts start chiming in. Drip, drip, drip. Then somehow the newscasters are all experts. Drip, drip, drip. Now the politicians, sports personalities, influencers. And then everyone everywhere are all now experts, so they make their comments.

The idea, becomes the story, then the fact. Don’t worry, your favorite social media outlet will crush any descent. Not following like the rest of us? Shame them Piers Morgan, so nobody dares to stand out of line again. Soon, you find yourself banging the drum louder than anyone.

Goebbels literally wrote the script in the 1930s.

Create an enemy.

Vilify them in the media.

The people will follow.

SPRING 2019—THE

OLD NORMAL

I met the man on the street once. He was a cunt.

—Sid Vicious (1978)

Driving up to Joe’s was the last thing that Drake could have imagined himself doing only a few days ago.

Joe’s world is surrounded in magnificent country parkland. Here in the Cotswolds, everything is green and good. The buildings are made from beautiful Cotswolds stone, a gold colour that ages into picture-perfect loveliness. There are magnificent trees dotted around, set in rolling farmland. The whole area is awash with money. There is no hunger, no unemployment, and there are no rough areas. It’s as close to perfect as anywhere could be.

Joe is an ideas man. He spends his time idly inventing one get-rich-quick scheme after the other. For fifteen years, he has toiled with his retirement homes park. It is as close to a disaster as humanly possible. Nothing is finished. There are pockets of mess everywhere. The roads are not properly tarmacked, and grass areas are turning to weeds. There’s unfinished grounds work—water pipes poke out of the ground, like thin blue Loch Ness monsters trying to escape. A dream that has turned sour for all concerned.

There are six homes on the site with room for another twenty. None of the residents are happy. Most are resigned to living out the rest of their days in abject misery. Most won’t even talk to Joe. When he speaks to them, they just shrug their shoulders. They have heard all the excuses before, and most bitch about him openly with one another.

Any staff or contractors that do turn up to work there soon find out Joe likes to chisel them over wages. He doesn’t do this to be nasty—it’s just his way.

Drake drives into Periwinkle Residential Park, stopping at the gate. He switches off the engine then pulls out his baccy pouch. He fumbles around the dash, looking for papers and his lighter. In seconds he has rolled himself a cigarette, which he lights and takes a huge draw of. In the cup holder sits a can of Smirnoff and Cranberry.

Drake finishes off the tin and throws it behind the passenger seat where it lands, clanking on the carcasses of several others. He knows he is out of booze and has to get out of the car to open the gate. Drake exerts the most draining sigh of the day then starts banging on his steering wheel screaming, Fuck! You fucking idiot, Drake! Nooooo!

Standing on his porch, Joe is smirking at Drake. Joe’s chalet is of the larger variety. It has all the amenities of a nice bungalow. With a smart Volkswagen SUV on the drive, he’s looking good. Joe has been fiddling with one of his inventions. He takes a last look at it then places it on a table. There are all manner of partly pulled apart appliances and small hand tools covering every surface. Most of Joe’s time is spent fiddling pointlessly in this way. Joe calls out in his deep West Country drawl, Eh, boy! What’s happened then?

Drake pulls into a vacant parking spot. He gets out of the car, not even bothering to lock it, and he flicks the stub of his roll into a bush and calls back. I fucked it again, man. Joe can’t help dropping a huge smirk. These two have battled for supremacy one way or another for decades. This is Joe’s time, and he is going to milk it. Drake knows he will have to take some shit. He also knows at least he will have a bed tonight.

Joe throws in with, Yea? We were wondering how much longer until that happened. Think Nigel came the closest with two years.

Drake wants to tell him to go fuck himself, which only yesterday he did, but now destitute, he has to play along. Desperately trying to salvage some pride, he starts, Listen, man, I’ve—

After fully embellishing his smirk with a heroic pose, Joe trots down the steps to give the usual welcome of a knuckles. I know. Look, I’ve got my old chalet over the back. Stay in there till you sort yourself out.

Drake checks out his miserable stash of belongings in the back of his car. Cheers, man.

Lavinia, Joe’s mother is deploying her finest West Country screech from her chalet opposite. Joe boy, your brother’s gone dinlo again. You need to give him some money. Now!

Joe turns to the sound of the voice. Er, I’d better go.

Lavinia shouts another even more piercing salvo from inside the chalet. Joe!

It was Drake’s turn to offer up a smirk. Off you go, Cooper. Drake knows where his new abode is and makes his way up to it. As he stands facing the door, a scruffy man appears. All right, Kirk. What’s happening?

Kirk always just appears, never seemingly to be doing anything. He is as sad and lacking in vigour as any man could be. Life is one of those things that just happens to other people. He is slightly built, in his midfifties, and shuffles around with a stoop. He is married to Eileen, the lady he saw during his frequent visits to the local job centre.

No one in his family ever had the drive to pack up and leave the area. He turns up at Joe’s around 10:00 a.m. most mornings and waits until Joe can find him something to do. Kirk stands in a half-shadow. His shoulders slump and there’s a look in his eyes that speaks of years of nonfulfilment. Dunno. He shrugs. You tell me.

Drake shrugs nonchalantly. Yea, you know.

How long you staying for? Kirk asks.

Drake shrugs again and gives a vague answer. Dunno, couple of weeks, maybe a month. Who knows? So go on—what’s been going on ’round here?

Kirk gives Drake a look that says plenty, then he says, I’ll tell you when Joe’s not about. He watches Drake as he tries to open the caravan door. Kirks eyes are always just behind the action. You’re not staying in there?

Drake feigns a confused face. No. I’m moving into your place. Eileen said she’s made the spare room up for you.

Kirk looks bemused.

Drake can see the complexity of his remark is lost on Kirk. Yea, I’m moving into here.

Bounding back towards them, Joe returns after dispensing the appropriate judgement to his family. Hold on a minute. You will need the key. Joe sees Kirk is awaiting instruction. Kirk, go and get the diesel can. The full one from the shed. Get the funnel, and where are the jump leads?

Kirk stares back blankly.

Joe pulls a key out from his pocket. Oh, forget it. I’ll do it. You just stand around looking gormless. Looking at Drake he shoves the key into the chalet lock, then with an intricate wiggling manoeuvre, the door springs open. Here’s the key. What you have to do is turn it a bit, then wiggle it, then turn to open. See? Joe loves giving advice on everything.

Taking the key, Drake attempts to copy the instructions given by Joe. You turn—

Joe instantly grabs the key back and replays the sequence more slowly. No. You turn it a bit, then you wiggle it, then turn to open.

Drake pretends that he has mastered Joe’s instructions then mutters to Kirk, And so it begins.

Entering the chalet is quite a mission of its own. It is raised up to the maximum the legs will go and then placed on breeze blocks. This is to stop the biblical flooding that happens every four years from entering. Once inside the chalet, the true meaning of bad life choices hits home. Joe follows Drake in to give him the grand tour. Drake looks heartbroken at Joe.

Joe says the words that Drake needed to hear. You look like you need a drink.

Drake nods gratefully. Fleece?

Yea, come on. Let’s go for a pint. I’ll treat you.

Joe leaps ably out of the chalet; Drake less so.

Kirk!

Drake pulls on Joe’s arm and mutters, No, don’t bring him.

Joe elbows Drake playfully, Trust me—you need someone to look down on. I know.

Kirk reappears. We going to The Fleece?

Joe winks at Drake. "No, we are. You’re digging that hole."

Kirk’s smile turns to confusion, like a scolded dog. He starts lurching backwards and forwards, not sure where he’s going. Drake and Joe piss themselves laughing at him. Drake, almost feeling guilty, says, Come on, you fucking retard. We’re going for a pint.

Kirk looks unsure. He and Drake love to drink. They know Joe will want to try and keep things to a minimum. They need to join forces quickly if the drinking is to last any decent amount of time. Kirk looks to Drake for the plan. How many?

Joe does enjoy lollygagging around as much as the others—he just tries to have a sensible limit. He marches off to his chalet to lock up. Just a quick one. We can’t spend all day in the pub. Come on then. He throws a fast couple of jabs followed by a left hook at a leaf dangling on a tree.

Drake loudly sighs to himself. This is purgatory.

He turns to Kirk. A quick one? A lot fucking more than one.

He needs Kirk on side if they are going to keep Joe in the pub. Kirk immediately decides to join forces with Drake and whatever plan. Drake puts his arm around Kirk and concludes his recruitment with the promises of riches. A lot more, my brain dead little friend.

Drake and Kirk saunter over to Joe’s car and wait while Joe performs his leaving ceremony. Nothing is ever accomplished at great speed with Joe, only the speed that Joe sets. It’s these little things that can really grind a man, especially when you are down.

I never planned anything in my life.

‘Luke’

(Cool hand Luke 1967)

Eventually they leave, Joe is now driving quite fast to the pub, Drake is in the passenger side, Kirk is in the rear. Local radio has the usual brainless DJ talking about nothing on. Then a mindless jingle, followed by one of those awful modern whiny songs, a real buzzkill.

No-one is saying anything and the mood is really starting to plummet. Drake violently starts stabbing at the change station button. The station is cut off and he shouts, Fucking hell man!

Joe emits an exaggerated sign of relief, Oh, I’m glad you did that.

The alleviation is palpable as Drake tunes quickly to another station. It starts playing the opening bars to Stairway to Heaven. Drake looks at Joe. Joe shakes his head. Drake retunes the radio. They look at each other again. This time it’s playing Meatloaf, enough time passes for everyone to recognize the song as the chorus kicks in.

Joe and Drake start singing together, Ever since I can remember you’ve been hanging round this joint wap waooo. As the next verse starts, Drake turns the volume down. You know I fucking hate that miserable, snowflake, whiny, shit music. Joe nods in agreement, Where did it come from? It just sort of appeared out of nowhere. Drake’s lip curls up in contempt, Simon fucking Cowell.

With not a cloud in sight, the sun is beaming into the car Drake and Joe both pull out their shades. Drake looks out at the rolling grassy hills surrounding them. He takes a deep breath of the clear air and starts to relax. Eh? Kirk, who quite enjoys some of the more modern music is just confused.

Joe is now driving at quite a lick. This is a well worn path to The Fleece. The road is almost too narrow for more than one vehicle to get past at once. Visitors to the area take these roads irritatingly slowly, but Joe knows the dips and bends like the back of his hand.

Drake, pleased with how things are going decides to fill the time to the pub by explining his theory to his new-found audience, I have a theory, about where it all came from. Joe raises a single eyebrow, Have you now? He powers past a slower vehicle, almost going into a bush on the side of the road. Kirk is completely shitting himself.

Drake, who is totally enjoying himself now, says Allow me to enlighten you. Back in the day, they used to have TV programs like ‘Stars in their Eyes,’ yea? The one with Lenny Henry? asks Kirk. Joe looks around to shoot a frown at Kirk, No, that was a different program. Drake jumps back in, That was ‘Opportunity Knocks’ with Hughie Green.

They are now driving through what seems like a tunnel where the trees have grown so large that they bend to form a giant green canopy. The sunlight pierces in through patches where the leaves don’t quite reach each other. Joe is driving so fast that the trees all seem to blur into one long green wall.

They re-emerge the other side, Joe is grinning his head off at this point. He loves these exchanges between them. They both do. No, he’s on about the program with Micky Most, the music guy. Drake nods his approval, pulling down his sun visor, Fucking ‘ell Joe, I’m impressed.

Joe returns the nod, Yea I used to watch that with me mum and dad an Peter back in Bristol. He accelerates harder, making up for an imagined delay caused by the conversation. The distraction causes Drake to momentarily forget where the conversation was going, Great, now where was I? After a moment’s silence, he remembers, Oh yeah, Simon fuckin’ Cowell.

Joe rolls his eyes, I think I have heard this rant before. Kirk suddenly chirps, Oh, we love Britain’s Got Talent. Yea I watch it with mum. replies Joe. He takes a look back at Kirk in the mirror, Did you see the final last year? Kirk nods enthusiastically, I think so, who won it again?

Joe clamps his hand to his forehead trying his hardest to remember the name, No don’t tell me, It was that kid … you know, the one. Drakes patience finally breaks and he explodes. Exactly!! Exactly my point, thank you. Nobody remembers, nothing happened. It’s just a load of bullshit. Drake congratulates himself with a fast jab at the perfectly timed example.

Joe pulls up behind a slow moving family hatchback, assesses the situation and then overtakes using the flappy paddles for extra power. Yep. I’ve definitely heard this rant before.

Drake seizes the opportunity to go into full rant mode. When was the last time either of you went and saw, or, know anyone who went and saw one of those ‘Acts’ live? Joe and Kirk look at each other in silence. Drake continues, You haven’t. No one ever has. And why? Because they don’t exist. They’re on TV for a night or two. You all go ‘Oh such and such was amazing,’ stand around your bloody phones watching them on YouTube, ‘sharing the experience.’

Laughing to himself, Joe nods, Yep, definitely heard this rant before. Drake doesn’t seem to hear this now that he is in full swing, Where the fuck are they all? Drake leans back in his seat happy with his closing argument. Must all be at Simon’s mansion in LA.

They are getting close to the village. On one side of the road there is a small row of old, narrow country houses with window boxes full of blooms. Joe approaches an old classic MG from behind, driving far too slowly for a man on his way to get a pint. He gives it full beans past when a car appears suddenly coming the other way, he pulls sharply back in to the driving lane. The old man driving the MG flashes his lights. Joe retaliates after this unprovoked attack, with a stab of his breaks.

Kirk is really hating this, being in a car makes him nervous. Especially with Joe behind the wheel.

Bouncing around wildly Kirk tries to continue with the conversation, I think they’re on cruise ships. They sing on cruise ships. With an exasperated glance into the rear mirror, Joe pleads, Don’t encourage him, Kirk.

At this point, it wouldn’t matter what anyone said. Drake was back in full conversation with himself, You’re fucking right, Kirk. That’s the missing piece of the jigsaw. It was right in front of me the whole time. Simon Cowell is in league with the cruise ship corporations. Brilliant. They, genetically engineered him to breed low cost, highly visible acts to work on cruise ships. Drake takes a moment to embrace the enormity of his theory.

This wild theorising is generally Joes territory. They both look at each other at the sheer wonderment of their discovery. Joe just has to dive in with his own thoughts. Of course! Everyone’s a winner. They get acts that people know are low cost. The acts get a contract and a gig. The TV companies get a popular program for the masses. Simon Cowell gets his mug on the TV.

Joe is now fully on-board with the theory and finally adds. And he gets rich out of it. Drake smiles, satisfied now that he has had his rant confirmed by Joe And, as Joe quite rightly says, he gets rich out of it. I rest my case your honor. A naive look of shock clouds Kirk’s face, Is that true?

Joe indicates to turn right just after he has already started to turn, causing the woman in the car behind to beep her horn, not that Joe seems to notice this, "Apparently, weren’t you listening?

I just proved it. insists Drake, I’ll give you my Nickelback and the Illuminati theory tomorrow. They pull into the square outside the pub, Park in my spot, Joe." Drake always parks outside of entrance to the school playground.

Every day I Die

Tubeway Army 1978

The Highwayman is their place. Something to celebrate? Go to The Fleece. Had a bad day? Go to The Fleece. Fancy a pint? Every one gets on there. If you have ever had a place, then you know what a place is. In the Cotswolds there are many wonderful pubs, with thatched roofs and lovely courtyards, top quality ales and nice food. This place has it all, and then some. It is a classic, British country pub, with a renowned beer garden.

Drake and Joe walk purposefully into the courtyard, Kirk is struggling to match their pace. It is early, so the usual crowd are mostly at work. There are however various middle aged walkers and CAMRA types, dotted around eating and drinking. Underneath the small smoking shelter is Woody with a young girl.

They are both dressed in scruffy town and country clothes, sitting with them are a couple of ruddy faced farmers. One of the old boys has a little piglet tucked in his tweed jacket. All three men have pints of ale, the young girl has half a lager.

Drake smiles his big smile and greets the group, Afternoon hayseeds! Woody, rocking a ‘proper job’ country accent nods his acknowledgment Drake, Joe. Nobody ever acknowledges Kirk anywhere, ever. Joe nods his acknowledgement, looking around to spot any other locals, Woody.

Woody smiles at the lads, and pulls the young girl closer to him, clearly trying to shield her. What you lot doing here? Drake is also looking around to see if he can find any more interesting parties. He returns his gaze to the group and doesn’t try to hide his disappointment. Drinking, driving, fucking, sucking, snorting. You know, the usual. What you up too Drake looks pointedly at Joe who is eyeing up the girl beneath Woody’s arm.

The two old farmers stop talking and also nod their welcomes. Drake, Joe and Kirk see the piglet and nod their heads like mafia goons in respect. Joe smiles at the young girl, Hiya. She smiles meekly then looks away. Drake nods at the girl, Still babysitting Woody? The two old boys chuckle to each other. Woody fires back. Not now Drake.

Still not satisfied with the quality of his new drinking partners Drake checks in the bar. Anyone else around? Woody, relieved that Drake has moved on so quickly from ribbing him, says Camp Freddy was, Warren’s here somewhere. Drake looks around secretively, Warren, GCHQ? Woody starts, then Drake interrupts, We mustn’t talk about it.

Meanwhile, Joe is still fixated on Woody’s friend, What’s your name then? Before the young girl can answer, Drake butts in, Jailbait, Janet Jailbait the III. She comes from a long line of hereditary jailbates. As always Woody, your morals are lower than a snakes arse.

The two old boys laugh along. They’ve heard Drake’s line in bullshit before. Woody replies sarcastically, And that’s what endears you to us. The young girl is quite taken aback at this verbal onslaught, and looks to Woody for guidance. Drake looks to the old boys for support. Woody turns his attention to his girl. Oh don’t worry, it’s only Drake, you gets used to ‘im. She smiles at the new group, She liked that bit of attention.

Joe nods towards Drake, I think she likes you. Drake, keeping a straight face says to the young girl, Fancy a stiff one? The old boys burst out laughing, the girl looks down at her phone, Kirk slinks off to the toilets. One of the old boys turns to Drake, "I thinks you’ve embarrassed the girl.

The second old boy laughs, adding She started looking at ‘er phone. Drake winks at the old boys, I doubt you could embarrass this one. He leans in looks like she could suck a golf ball up a garden hose. Woody is smiling along, but his eyes are not.

The nearest old boy adds She’s me granddaughter. Everyone starts chuckling, then the piglet confirms with a squeal, This makes it hilarious. even the girl seems to see the funny side. Come on that’s enough chit chat, it’s Miller time, get them in then Joeboy. As they turn to enter the pub Warren walks out of the bar into the courtyard He is tall and slim and has to duck his head to get through the door. He wares a strange combination of nineties high-end rave culture clothing giving him the appearance of a record producer from a by gone era. He has short bleached hair and piercing bright blue eyes. He is an arrogant bastard but when faced with quick witted heavy weights like Drake and Joe he plays a little nicer, which kills him.

Oh no, it’s the gruesome twosome. Where’s the third one? Joe puts his hand across his chest as if offended by this question, I’m here and that’s enough.’ Warren is less intimidated by Joe and quips. More than enough, I’ve got to go." He seems a little flustered which they pick up on immediately.

Drake stops him, Back to, where? Warren’s already flushed face deepens to crimson, I couldn’t possibly say. Like a pair of Velocirapters Drake and Joe turn on Warren. They see the anxiety growing in their quarry. Drake makes the first attack but keeps it unusually playful. You know the invasion isn’t due ‘till tomorrow, after tea? He jokes.

Joe breaks subtly more for Drakes ammusement into his War of the Worlds impression. And slowly and carefully they made their plans. For a second the two just look at each other. Warren’s eyebrows furrow, "You know? Drake is confused, and very thirsty. What? Warren begins to say something then slithers off. Drake watches Warren leave. I swear to god, he’s -"

Nuts? Joe offers. Drake nods, Not a joke.

No one else is in the bar except Sarah the barmaid and sometime drinking buddy. Sarah is a full-some and attractive, late 20’s country girl. ‘Stuff to get hold of,’ as folks round here say. She is wearing a black T-shirt and matching leggings. Jerry the landlord likes his staff to look good, especially the female ones. In fact, it is rare to see any male staff around. Oddly, he himself is a bit of a scruff bag, but he keeps the pub and it’s grounds in tip-top shape at all times. He’s a nice enough fellow, though Drake is convinced he doesn’t like him.

Sarah looks up at the boys, Three Pig’s? She knows, that`s their drink. She pulls out the pint glasses and starts to pull on the wooden handle. Sarah smiles at Joe, Is that it then? She puts the first pint on the bar and stars pulling the next. Yep. Joe confirms enjoying a first swig.

Drake looks surprised at Joe, No salt? Joe looks behind the bar, Some scratchings please, Sarah. She turns around, picks up a large jar of scratchings from the back of the bar, and dispenses a portion into a white coffee cup then places it in front of them. Joe and Drake both dive greedily into the scratchings. Sarah goes to man the till, adding. It’s a fresh barrel, on this morning.

Joe takes another swig of his pint, he’s hiding a massive smile behind the pint glass. It’s the best ever! Joe is starting to punch Drake’s arm. Drake turns, Let’s go outside, I need to smoke. He starts to march out of the door back into the courtyard.

Drake and Joe are best friends. They operate on a