In the author’s first novel, the spectacular backdrop of the Pembrokeshire coast becomes the setting for a gripping adventure, and a moving story of recklessness, loyalty and courage.
When the publisher, Pont Books, contacted Manorbier Castle to discuss the possibility of arranging an event to celebrate the launch of the book, they were pleased to learn that Manorbier and the castle were such a prominent features in the book.
Speaking on behalf of the publishers, marketing officer Sioned Wyn says:-
“We are thrilled to be launching Diane Doona’s first novel at Manorbier Castle. It is wonderful to be able to host the event in one of the places that inspired Diane to write the book.”
Joe Jackson has to leave London with his father to go and live in remote west Wales. That’s not something he’s looking forward to, especially since Dad’s just not the same anymore.
But meeting a mysterious girl called M and Jasper Barrow, the keeper of the castle, changes Joe’s mind – and his life…
The book weaves in the relationship between father and son, loss and adapting to new surroundings, with a light touch – but it is all wrapped up in a contemporary adventure which draws on elements of history and fantasy to create an exciting story.
Diane originally wrote the story for her two daughters as a bedtime read and was inspired by the places she explored as a child – seashores, caves, cliffs and castles. She says:-
“I love this area – it’s full of beauty and a sense of mystery and discovery… I hope this book inspires the readers to visit the places which are a part of Joe and M’s story.”
The Keeper’s Secret is available from all good bookshops and online retailers
For more information, visit www.gomer.co.uk
About the author
Diane Doona is Pembrokeshire born and bred, and lives near Manorbier where her first novel is set. While her career has been as finance manager for a west Wales legal firm, she has always enjoyed history and writing, and has been a regular member of a writing group over the years. This has given her the experience to write this exciting novel for 8-11 year olds – which has been scrutinised carefully by the younger generation in her family for its enjoyment value and necessary sense of adventure and intrigue! Diane, a keen traveler, enjoys walking the Pembrokeshire coastal path around the spectacular coves near her home, with her dog for company. Little wonder that this landscape provides the backdrop for her novel.
Both the Welsh Books Council and the National Museum have chosen the debut novel by author Sheila Harries as their July Children’s Book of the Month and Book of the Month respectively.
Over 50 shops have signed up to the Welsh Books Council’s scheme and Cathryn Gwynn, editor at Pont Books says
“We are delighted that The Picture that Made Time Fly has been chosen as the first English-language title since the scheme was launched in March.
“Pont publish English-language books that have a strong Welsh identity and our aim is to build a connection between the young people of the different cultures of Wales and their country through great stories and lovely books”.
Originally from Northampton and a former school librarian in Oxfordshire, Sheila Harries has had many years’ experience of talking to young people about what makes a good book, and has welcomed great authors and illustrators such as Philip Pullman, Malorie Blackman, Caroline Lawrence and Nick Sharratt into her library to inspire and entertain.
Now living in Penarth, the author is a frequent visitor to the National Museum of Wales which is where the novel opens, with a group of children on a school trip.
It was just another picture in the art gallery – or so Megan and Rhys thought, as they stared at it long and hard. But it wasn’t…
All of a sudden, a normal school trip day at the museum turns into a spinning vortex through time, dragging them both into a strange place where they have to survive on their wits.
Embroiled in dangers and facing challenges far away from the present, the question is always there… can they ever get back? How?
The Picture that Made Time Fly is available from all good bookshops and online retailers and is suitable for readers aged 8 – 11 years
For more information, visit www.gomer.co.uk
About the author
It’s fair to say that Sheila Harries loves books. In her career as a school librarian in Oxfordshire, she has had many years’ experience of talking to young people about what makes a good book, and has welcomed great authors and illustrators such as Philip Pullman, Malorie Blackman, Caroline Lawrence and Nick Sharratt into her library to inspire and entertain. Now she has written an entertaining and inspiring book herself. The book, like Sheila, is based around Cardiff and reflects her love of history, languages, and art – and a good adventure. Living in Penarth, she is a frequent visitor to the National Museum of Wales which is where the novel opens, with a group of children on a school trip. It’s a familiar scenario to her as someone who enjoys taking her grandchildren to see interesting places. She is also a keen traveller herself – but loves coming back to her garden and the cats!qwdqwedq
For Four people
Boil your potatoes as usual:
At the mashing stage add:
A knob of butter
a dash of milk or cream
Add a handful of Yfenni cheese( alternatively a handful of cheddar cheese and a teaspoonful of wholegrain mustard)
In a separate pan fry washed and finely chopped leeks and add these to the mash
Following is a tutorial on creating a Welsh castle toast sculpture by the Welsh Chef. As this project involves altering or disfiguring the toast it cannot be considered pure Baragami.
Borrowed from our Baragami and Toast Arranging Group
Google maps offers an interesting option for traveling between Snowdon and the Brecon Beacons. Not only can you use two routes by car but you can get there much more quickly by dragon:
Driving will take a bit over 3 hours but Dragon will get you there in 21 minutes! Unfortunately, there is no Dragon service between any other destinations in Wales, according to Google maps.
To see for yourself, go to http://maps.google.com and search for either Snowdon, then ask for directions to the Brecon Beacons (or vice versa).
Meat:
5 to 7 pound pork loin
Dry rub:
1/2 cup of brown sugar
1/3 cup of paprika
1 tablespoon of black pepper
Salt to taste
1 tablespoon of garlic powder
1 tablespoon of onion powder
1 tablespoon of dried basil put through a processor or coffee grinder to powderize
Mix all ingredients together and run generously on meat. Wrap meat in plastic wrap and place in refrigerator overnight
Cabbage Side:
I med head of red cabbage
2 or more green apples (I use Granny Smith) cut into chunks (you determine size)
1 teaspoon cinnamon
Sage to taste
One onion finely chopped
1.5 cups of apple juice
Saute onion in oil or bacon fat until translucent;
add cabbage, apples, spices and juice;
Cover with frequent stirring. Done wen everything has blended nicely and limp (I like to caramelize the mixture slightly)
Remove meat from fridge and place into smoker or into the oven wrapped in foil and slow roast at 250 -300 for several hours until moist and tender.
For smoker, smoke at indirect heat with charcoal and your choice of wood (apple, oak, mesquite etc) I usually smoke for four hours then finish in over at 250 for several hours until moist and tender.
Serve thinly sliced with cabbage mixture on top or on the side.
In case anyone was wondering what 'kissing the Blarney Stone' involves here is a pic of myself doing so at age 10. At That time they employed someone to steady you just in case you fell down what is essentially a 'garderobe' chute. My parents were assured that they cleaned the stone regularly, which is just as well considering what it was once used for. Despite my evident terror it seems to have worked well. I've been blarneying and bs'ing ever since. 
Back to Welsh Literature page >
“C’mon Mun….it will be an internet sensation!” said 16- year old Brecon Farmer Kane Boddy.
His older brother Abel wasn’t so sure.
He preferred to trust his own judgement rather than his brothers.
The pair sat astride their skidoos on the peak of Pen Y Fan, the highest mountain in the Brecon Beacons National Park.
Kane had his mobile phone out ready to film the stunt- if only he could persuade his brother to do it.
“It’s only 886 metres Mun…straight down from the ‘Col’ to Cribyn…it will be Hell of a ride!” said Kane trying to cajole his Brother.
As most people know, when you have a pair of identical twins – one is born usually good and the other evil.
Or as in this case Evel.
The brothers had been out helping feed their Father’s sheep, on the side of the mountains in the worse snowfall in Wales since 1958.
After a week of blizzards, which had swept in from across the Atlantic and down from the Arctic Circle- the highest points of the Welsh Valleys had been covered in nearly six feet or snow and in some places the drifts were as high as ten feet.
Cars were completely buried, with snow ploughs having to be employed for the first time for a number of years.
Once again, the Local Authorities at Powys & Merthyr were caught napping - although in their defence it WAS Early May.
The sight of the Brecon Beacons covered in a white blanket, was the money shot that sold postcards in the nearby Towns of Brecon and Merthyr- but to trainee hill farmers it was a nightmare, as they had to get feed to inaccessible places, so that their sheep would not starve.
Their flock were more like family members than livestock, Kane & Abel saw them more like pets than commodities- each one having a distinctive name and cry.
The brothers having spent all their young lives around the sheep had become very attached to them- in more ways than one.
To be a sheep farmer in the valleys you have to be resilient, strong and resourceful.
Neither Kane nor Abel possessed such wisdom or acumen and their father feared for the future of his farm, as the boys could best be described in farming terminology as a little ‘twp’.
Who else would ride their heavy skidoos so close to the edge of the mountain ridge when the snow had been drifting.
Unbeknown to Abel, whilst he had decided to take the moral high ground from his Brother, he was in fact parked above him on three foot of frozen ice and soft snow which hung perilously over into the Col of the second highest mountain in Wales.
Perhaps, if he had taken the advice of Heavy Rock band Steppenwolf and kept the motor running, he might had stood a chance, but suddenly the floor collapsed below him, the combined weight of one man and his skidoo and of course gravity, sent him flying through the air, like the cartoon character Wily Coyote on a floating rock above a canyon drop.
Abel’s face went a whiter shade of pale and his underpants merged with the skidoo.
Kane suddenly realised what was happening and a look of horror shot across his face, as his chemical sheep- dip damaged brain processed the fact that his brother was in serious trouble- but even so like all youngsters who do not see danger, he kept filming the episode on his camera-phone- then his thoughts turned to his own safety, as the white snow drift he was perched on started to collapse over the edge too.
Luckily for him, he made it back to firmer ground- but only by a matter of inches and he suddenly realised that he needed to send his leather biker trousers to the dry cleaners.
In what seemed like slow motion- his Brother still sat astride his skidoo, disappeared out of sight in a snow cloud and white spray.
Kane was frantic- his Father would kill him-if he found out about his dare.
It was almost like it had been written down somewhere that he would kill his brother.
What did he do?
Go for help or join in his brother’s fate by leaping over the side after him?
As much as Kane loved his Brother- he wasn’t as brave as he thought he was, and staring into the Abergavenny facing abyss- his courage had deserted him.
He decided that discretion was the better part of valour and set off down the Storey Arms side of the Mountain, towards the A470 and civilisation, in the hope that someone could get hold of the Brecon Beacons Mountain Rescue Team and an air ambulance.
Falling through the air at nearly 100MPH, Abel’s short sixteen year old life flashed before his eyes.
He always wanted to get a ton-up on his vehicle but not like this.
Everything around seemed to slow down and blur- with a second feeling like an hour, as he and his skidoo plummeted off the top of Pen Y Fan , partially obscured by a white snow cloud.
Was it his brain preparing him for impact?
Or was there really a God?
Abel ‘s mind raced almost as fast as the skidoo, as he tried to think of a survival technique.
What if he was to time it just right and push his legs up off the skidoo, a split second before impact?…just like the Roadrunner in the Warner Brothers cartoon managed to do?
Abel felt like he was riding a white comet bound for Earth as he pushed with all his might and tried to jump sideways.
He wished he had paid less attention to cartoons as a kid and listened more in his school physics lessons about the effect of centrifugal force, as he was unable to move.
Skidoo and Youth just made a massive seven foot impact crater which was soon covered by falling snow from above.
Abel was knocked unconscious by his own knees and when he awoke in serious pain, he realised he was now in the yoga position of dwi pada sirsasana or ‘the silent frog.
Both his legs had become lodged behind his shoulders and he looked like a lady-boy contortionist on it’s Honeymoon.
He was trapped in a snow prison of his own making, surrounded by soft snow that very quickly would turn to ice.
Whilst Abel was in constant pain and aware that he had broken several bones in the fall, he was surprised to find that like his pet Jack Russell terrier at home, he was now capable of licking his own balls.
He was still Abel Boddy but no longer able bodied.
He looked around him at the air pocket that had luckily formed around him and his bike and tried to think rationally.
What would Bear Grylls do in this situation?
After he had finished panicking- he decided that he must try and reach the roof of the ice ‘cave’ to drill a hole for oxygen to pass in.
He estimated he had a maximum of twenty minutes before the snow solidified into ice and around ten more before the oxygen ran out and he would be found dead by the rescue services.
He needed something to punch a hole in the ceiling with but it was difficult, as he had been concertina'd and looked like a tin can crushed on a road by the weight of a passing car.
The only thing he had in his pocket was a silent whistle that he used to call up the sheep with.
A high pitched frequency only audible by animals- given to him by an award winner Sheepdog Trainer at the Royal Welsh Show- who had warned him to use it sparingly.
He reached it and blew it as hard as his punctured lungs would allow.
Kane skidded to a halt outside the ‘Gnat Free Lodge’ and rushed in to use the telephone.
He was picked up by his lapels and booted out.
His ‘sort’ wasn’t welcome at this five star establishment.
His protestations were ignored by the bar staff.
It was an absolute rule- no person was allowed in the building in the afternoon without a cravat.
No one in working clothes or especially Wellington boots were allowed in EVER.
Kane was beside himself with worry – until he remembered that there was a special call box near the Storey Arms for the Rescue Team.
He kick-started his skidoo and made his way back up the A470 towards Brecon.
His young brain was puzzled by one odd event.
Why were there so many dogs heading in the same direction?
Abel sat hunched on own partially collapsed ribcage.
He was trying to make peace with God- in the belief he was going to die.
He knew that if he slipped back into unconsciousness he would not survive his ordeal.
He tried to think positively despite the fact he had a bird’s eye view of his own bollocks.
He tried desperately to relive the games of snooker in his mind, that he had played out with his brother in an effort to stay conscious and not slip off into eternity.
Suddenly, he thought he heard a sound from above him.
Was it his imagination running riot caused by the lack of oxygen?
He HAD been talking to his own nuts for the last thirty seconds after all.
The scraping sound came again.
It got louder and louder until finally a small hole appeared above him in his ice prison.
A tiny amount of oxygen filtered in and Abel’s damaged lungs let out a sigh of relief.
It was followed by a small piece of woolly tubing.
It was only an inch in diameter but it acted like a chimney.
It looked like a ‘Ewe Tube’.
“Praise be to the Lamb of God!” said Abel suddenly rediscovering his religion.
His teenage mind tried to rationalize events.
Who the Hell could be on the mountain in this weather?
A second hole which appeared above him answered his question.
He looked up and saw a glazed sheep eye staring back at him.
His pet sheep Dolly must have come to his rescue in true ‘Lassie’ fashion.
The hole got bigger as the ovine tried desperately to claw at the ground with her hooves.
Who ever said sheep were stupid animals had clearly never met the indomitable, resourceful Dolly he thought.
“ Well Hello Dolly!” shouted Abel trying to keep himself focused.
He was sure that she answered him back in a human voice muffled by the six inch solid frozen igloo roof.
As the temperature like Dolly dipped suddenly, the snow turned to ice and making the hole larger proved to be difficult for the ovine rescuer.
“ Are you in it?” the sheep bleated.
This was interpreted by Abel as questioning whether he was of Eskimo stock.
“ Inuit?....no… I’m from Brecon mun!” he asked talking to his blue testes.
“ Am I going nuts…nuts?”
He thought the lack of oxygen and the acute pain of his injury was making him hallucinate and hear things too.
Above the warm confines of his igloo, the wind had picked up and was howling like a wolf around the bleak landscape of the Brecon Beacons.
From below Abel could with a squint make out Dolly looking around nervously at the sound, but like Nipper the HMV dog , the Sheep doggedly refused to leave his side or Her Masters Voice.
What Abel didn’t know was that Dolly wasn’t Dolly at all but a lost SAS applicant, that had lost his bearings in the blizzards and subsequent avalanche of snow whilst doing the military version of the ‘Fan Dance’- an Army exercise to determine the physical quality and mental resolve of recruits.
He had witnessed the accident and decided that the life of the young farmer was more important than any Army examination.
His Regiment had decided that rather than risk fatal dehydration again in the Summer Months for squaddies on Penyfan, Cribbyn and Corn Du they would use the Spring and Winter Months instead.
They still had to carry an 18 kilogram Bergen backpack, rifle and water bottle but as an added weight – a proper sheepskin as camouflage.
SAS now stood for Soldiers As Sheep.
Their unofficial slogan to get one up on the Royal Navy was – ‘Be the Beast- and beat the best’
There was much competition between the different arms of the Armed Forces.
It was a handy drill too, as preparation for the soldiers for those long nights in the Northern Iraqi desert, when the temperatures dipped way below zero and with no wife back home in Wales to cuddle up to - it was an essential to slip into a woolly jumper and stay out of sight of the enemy.
The 21 year old hopeful, Monty Redcapp, sighed knowing his act of heroism would be interpreted and punished as a sign of weakness.
Whilst his Drill Sergeant’s may wear the words ‘Help is for Heroes’ on their chests- for this act of individualism -his reward would be peeling more spuds than the Busy Bee Chip Shop in Merthyr did in a year- or cleaning the Officers Mess- which had been interpreted by Army Regulations in Brecon -as licking out with his tongue the Captain’s toilet bowl once again.
The rest of his Unit had carried on regardless- despite the three months of brainwashing – the remainder of his Civvy Street conscience would not let him forget the parable of the ‘Good Samaritan’.
He would not leave an avalanche victim die of asphyxiation or exposure- even if his own life or future career depended upon it.
In the distance, he could hear much barking and howling he could make out black shapes heading at speed towards him.
Now Private Redcapp wasn’t scared of anything in Civvy Street- except dogs that is.
He had developed ‘Cynophobia’ after his Mother had read him a tale from the Mabinogion about Gelert the dog when he was only five years of age.
His soldier Father had died in a football hooligan attack by Blackburn ROVERS at the Wolverhampton Wanderers Ground –Molyneux- in the bad old terrace days of the 1980’s and he had suffered flashbacks ever since.
His psychiatrist had cured him for a while – until his squaddie mates had rented comedy horror film ‘Dog Soldiers’ which had brought back all his night terrors.
The barking got louder as over the snow covered hill like Zulus at Rorke’s ‘Drift ‘- the pack of dogs headed toward the fleece- covered soldier.
It seemed like every dog within ten miles wanted in on the act.
Down in the ice prison, in an effort to stay awake, Abel blew his dog whistle as loud as he could.
It was silent to humans, but was of such a high pitch it was irresistible to canines.
The power of the patented ‘Wolf Whistle’ was not lost on its Merthyr inventor, but had not been a commercial success, as it turned Man’s best friend into Man’s worst enemy, as the frequency sent dogs rabid with desire to stop the sound .
They acted like moths mesmerised but compelled to put out a naked flame.
In the Cefn Coed Simbec laboratory, the test subjects had been known to kill to stop it.
In addition, seeing a solitary sheep lost on the hillside was too big a temptation for the pack of animals.
Legally speaking, the dog pack was banned from hunting animals on private land but the animals themselves didn’t know or care.
But they were a big ‘worry’ for the SAS soldier.
The big question for Private Redcapp was could he stop enough of the ‘Charge of the Bite Brigade’ before they ripped out his throat?.
He didn’t want to see his own version of ‘pink mist’.
He lowered his rifle and took aim.
He pretended he was back on the firing range at Sennybridge shooting at the enemy insurgent targets, as a burst of semi- automatic rifle fire took out the Dalmatian at the front, adding red spots to his black ones.
Another burst and the leading whippet took a fatal bullet in between its ribs.
The greyhound at the front was moving way too fast, so he concentrated on laying down cover fire at the body of the pack- who collapsed with yelps and squeals, as they ate more lead than a swan on Cyfarthfa Park lake.
As long as the pack stayed together, Private Redcapp had a chance.
Unfortunately for him, the more brighter dogs- the Lurchers and Golden Retrievers- being used to gunfire , as they were GUN dogs -broke from the pack in separate directions to outflank the Ovine Officer Material.
The Jack Russell’s had gone down on their bellies crawling- like they were on the local army assault course- to keep low and minimise the target.
Above the din of the battle, Private Redcapp could hear the distinctive sound of an incoming chopper.
He just hoped that his air support would arrive in time to save him.
The Air Ambulance dispatched from the Queen Camilla Hospital had not witnessed such carnage before.
There was more blood on the ice than a Canadian Seal Pup Clubbing convention.
From above, the helicopter crew was shocked at what was going on.
US Army veteran , Pilot Hawke Downe was stunned at the scene below.
He was a veteran of the Somali conflict and had seen some real action.
They thought they had seen everything in the Valleys, but this was their first sheep with an automatic rifle gunning down a pack of mad dogs.
It was Apawcalpyse Now, as ‘Lambo’ sprayed the howling dogs with lead.
They were expecting to aid the search for an injured farmer, not witness the killing fields of Caninebodia.
From the air- they could make out the shape of a Red Setter wearing a blood stained second placed rosette from Crufts Dog Show, no longer moving ‘like Jagger’.
The pack had now completely encircled the sheep who was firing at the closest dog to him.
He kept wheeling in a circle frightened that he would leapt upon and tore to pieces from behind.
The pile of dead Afghans and Russian Borzois grew until the moment the pack had been waiting for.
The click of empty bullet chamber on the rifle.
Private Redcapp now knew he was as good as dead.
“ C’mon land will you….relieve me like in South Africa…or I Mafeking dead!” he said to the Helicopter Pilot under his breath.
Down below in his ice cave, Abel heard the gunfire and the sound of the helicopter overhead but was still unable to move…all he could do was blow hard on his whistle to try and attract attention.
Little did he know that his rescuer needed rescuing.
The Pilot and paramedic were too frightened to land, it was against the rules of their NHS Health & Safety Manual-so decided the best course of action was to film it on their mobile camera-phones and upload it to the internet instead.
The short film ‘Ewe Tube’ had over 100 hits in seconds- as did Private Redcapp.
Ironically, it was the badly named German Shephard, that lunged at the brave squaddie and tore out his throat and the rest of the frenzied bunch ripped him apart like an unlucky fox in the Taf Fechan Boxing Day Hunt.
Normally battle scene bravery is confined to secrecy, but thanks to the action of the Pilot, the bravery of the Private in his last stand was recorded on film on the internet for posterity.
For his gallant actions, Private Redcapp was awarded by the Army not only the Victoria Cross and the Distinguished Service Medal but also Royal Welsh Best in Show.
Unfortunately, the British Government received writs and legal claims from compensation from the dog owners so ‘cruelly’ killed by Private Redcapp.
The redtop newspapers had named Redcapp -as the ‘bone gunman’.
As for poor Abel Boddy, his remains were never found.
His brother Kane inherited the Farm and his Brothers Birth-right.
The Helicopter Pilot made two million pounds from the video and is now working as a Director in Hollywood, California.
Scene of the action - Pen Y Fan in snow by Oakfield Photography
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The Italian Lob
The basic premise is a one off special television hour and a half mini- film - as a homage to the legendary BBC programme ' Grand Slam'.It is a story to reflect the changing face of the Welsh Valleys and how cosmopolitan they have become and also how the sport of Rugby Union - the National Sport of Wales - just ahead of beer drinking- has changed since the 1970s some 45 years ago. It is initially set in Glebeland Street Merthyr Tydfil , with the five main characters being a French Welshman ( Cafe Owner) , English Welshman ( Estate Agent) Irish Welshman (Newspaper Reporter), an Italian Welshman ( Chip Shop owner) and a Scottish Welshman (Publican) encompassing the Six Nations so involved in the tournament.
The location is already there with all five establishments in place- albeit cosmetic changes would be needed to the shop fronts.
There may even be funding available to shoot in a socially deprived area.
My preferred choice of actors/comedians for the parts as listed above are :- Rhod Gilbert, Greg Davies, Boyd Clack, Steve Speirs & Rob Brydon.
There will be minor ( not miner ) parts for Ruth Jones, Max Boyce, Steve Meo , Mike Bubbins ,Rob Sidoli , Neil Jenkins & Dale Mackintosh.
If possible the preferred choice of the Director is Mr Gareth Gwenllan with his BBC Wales 'High Hopes' team involved.
All music to be drawn from the multitude of hits from the Stereophonics and Manic Street Preachers with a few Max Boyce and Boyd Clack numbers thrown into the mix.
I would hope that the money could be raised by way of Welsh sponsors- Brains Brewery , WRU and any other Welsh Company that would want product placement or direct advertising in the film.
The plot and storyline is based on my published short story ' The Italian Lob' from 2007, which is a road movie of five friends and business neighbours leading from the austerity hit Merthyr Tydfil, through to the brothels of Paris and then to the Stadio Olympico for a 'Wooden Spoon ' decider rugby match in the climax of a poor Six Nations for Wales.
It is also a story about divided loyalties....hence the title Italian Lob.
It is a direct contrast to the 'Grand Slam' - it can be shown anytime when the Team is not at its greatest.
Its target audience would be the proud Welsh people who love Rugby, Beer, and Comedy...ie every Welsh person Worldwide.
The tale starts with the five Glebeland Street businesses shutting up shop on a Thursday Night in late February , ready for a St Davids Day match in Italy on a 'killer' trip of beer, vino and women for five 'converts' in a cramped Union Jack clad mini car , bought on the cheap with one of the characters redundancy money from the former Hoovers factory - as a prop from the 'Spice World' the Movie, and ends with a Welshman inadvertently making the ultimate sacrifice for his Country.
The use of the mini is to illustrate that its occupants are British as well as Welshmen and of course is a further homage to the 1960's film the Italian Job.
There will be several different 'Italian Lobs' too throughout the story which will be revealed by the enclosed script.
I sincerely hope you enjoy reading the 'pilot' script- it is my first ever attempt.
It is my wish that this story sees the light of day as a tribute to my late Father Douglas Evans who died in 2011 and of course my Brother-in-Law and his friends who provided the inspiration for the idea.
Yours Faithfully
Character profiles
Titch Hatchey
Age 50 thin, receding hairline, smoker, nervous type, loves fast cars, drink and away trips with freedom away from his nagging wife, recently made redundant former Hoover & Japanese electronic Factory worker, now trying his hand at being a Pub Landlord....Scottish ancestry.
Des Res
Local Estate Agent , refined, debonair, eloquent , but loves himself, sporty, aged 55 , proud for once being being mistaken for Bruce Willis at Paris Airport ...moustache..rich but generous with it.
Pat O'Lee
Local newspaper advertising salesman...52 ...loves a bet...extremely tight with money...has a ginger fetish...married to a ginger lady...very serious and a little quick tempered.
Perrier Jones
The owner of the French cafe de Glebeland , good looking, fit likes to go to the gym...ladies man ....54 ....but not the brightest....an entrepreneur who likes to hide it from the tax man.
Mario Pizza
Age 48, olive skinned, third generation chip shop owner, family came over before Second World War ...tiny thin pencil moustache...happy go lucky ...always joking.
