The Private Blog of Joe Cowley Book Launch

Last night was the launch for my first book, the Private Blog of Joe Cowley. I'm not very good at parties. This once I organised a Jubilee street party in Venice. Everybody drowned.

I knew I couldn't let that happen again, so I was extra careful when picking a venue for the launch. Originally, I had intended to try and hold it in a book shop, but then I realised that the only book shop in town is the one in the church, and I don't think they'd really go for it.

I said PISS BALLOONS, Reverend. Come on, lighten up.

So in the end, I decided to have the launch party in my old school. After all, it did partially inspire the book. The only snag with that was, my old school was completely demolished three years ago. Luckily, they'd built a snazzy new one in its place, complete with function rooms and a bar, so we had it there. I'm pretty sure the bar is closed during school hours.

Aaaanyway, much to my surprise, the launch went very well, thanks in no small part to my wife Hester organising the entire thing. If it was left to me, it would have been in a shed with a handful of party poppers. As it was, we had:

BUNTING!

BALLOONS!

CAKES!

CARROTS!

A 'DRAW YOUR OWN DOODLES' BOARD!

And most importantly . . .

PEOPLE!

Big thanks to everyone who came along. Hugs and kisses. x

With thanks to Julie Ellison for the cakes and Becky Clempson, Melanie Storer and Claire Jackson for the photos.

An Interview with Joe Cowley

Sophocles, Kant, Schopenhauer, that old bloke off Gogglebox. These are the great thinkers of human history. Joe Cowley is not in their league, regardless of what he might tell you. 

To celebrate the publication of the first volume of his secret online missives, I sat down with Joe for an exclusive interview. I wanted to find out more about the boy behind the blog.

I wish I hadn't bothered.

Hello Joe. Thanks for agreeing to do this interview.

Yeah. OK. Cheers.

Sorry, what’s this about again?

Nothing much. I just wanted to talk to you about your blog.

My blog? I haven’t got a blog. You must be thinking of some other person. Some blogger with the same name as me.

I mean, what is a blog anyway? My mate Ad thinks its what happens when you eat loads of blue smarties and then go for a dump.

So, as I was saying, I haven’t got a blog.

Who told you about my blog?

That’s not important.

Yes it cocking well is. It’s supposed to be private. I bet it was Gav. Sweet Jesus, that moron is determined to RUIN MY LIFE.

Calm down, Joe.

That’s it. I’m just going to have to leave the country. I hear nice things about Estonia.

It’s OK, you don’t have to leave the country. Tell me, why did you start your blog?

I suppose I did it to try and sort my life out. I mean, I just had so many bad things happen to me that I thought writing them down would help me make sense of them. And now it seems I have one more to add to the list.

So you had a lot of problems?

Did I have a lot of problems? That’s like asking Counsellor Troi if she has a lot of emphatic powers.

Um . . . does that mean yes?

You bet your stinking bum it does. I had so many problems, it would have made Jay Z cack himself.

Can you be more specific?

About Jay Z cacking himself?

No (takes a moment of compose myself) I meant about the problems that led you to start your blog.

All right. Try this on for size:

• ·       My so-called best mates were trying to get me killed in a bid to win £250 from You’ve Been Framed.
• ·         My arch-enemy Gav James’ campaign of terror against me showed no signs of letting up.
• ·         My parents got divorced.
• ·         I threw up over Louise Bentley at the fair after the waltzers made me nauseous.
• ·         I gained the nickname ‘Puke Skywalker’ at school for the above reason.
• ·         The love of my life, Lisa Hall didn’t even know I existed.
• ·         Even if she did, I couldn’t talk to her without going all weird. This once, she asked me the time, and I replied ‘September.’
• ·         IT WAS APRIL!

 That does sound like an awful lot to deal with. So, did keeping the blog help you sort your life out at all?

Did it hell. If anything, things got even more complicated.

So why did you keep it up?

I don't know, really. I suppose I like to think that thousands of years from now, when humanity is extinct and aliens come and look over the wreckage of our once-great civilisation, they will find my blog and figure out why we were doomed as a species.

You sound like a very gloomy person, Joe.

Wouldn’t you be, if you had my life?

Well, probably.

Anyway, enough about me. Who are you? Why are you asking me all these questions? Oh my God, are you an alien?

*Facepalms* Yes, Joe. I’m an alien.

Ah, brilliant. Can you take me back to your planet with you?

No. No I can’t.

[Sighs] Rejected again.

The Private Blog of Joe Cowley is available to buy from the following retailers:

Amazon

Waterstones

Foyles

The Book Depository

The Great British Bookshop

Hive

Just don't tell Joe.

The Private Blog of Joe Cowley - Book trailer

In my day, there were only three things that had trailers - films, film stars and my uncle Cyril who used one to tow around his JESUS IS COMING advertising pyramid.

Thing is, these days they're doing them for books, too, and my book is no exception. Now, in this trailer, I play three of the characters from the book. To begin with, I thought it was all a bit unseemly - a grown man pretending to be school kids, but then I watched the film Grease, and realised they're all about forty-five, so I'm probably OK.

If I ever saw this man in a school, I would inform the police.

Anyway, I'll stop flapping my gums and show you the video. Hopefully, it will persuade you to buy the book. Or pay for me to have elocution lessons, either is good.

This trailer was produced by the marvellous MB Films. (http://www.mbfilms.co.uk)

Diary of a Private Detective. Part Three.

Monday

There are three main parts of my job. Sleuthing, interrogating and surveillance. Yeah, it'd be snappier if I could think of another word for interrogating that begins with S, but come on, who am I? Some kinda word guy? Forget it. Maybe I should start slapping them while I interrogate, so it'll be 'sleuthing, slapping and surveillance?' Nah, I've already placed my business card order and Vistaprint ain't the kinda guys you want to jerk around.

Anyway, this is all a roundabout way of saying I've been doing some surveillance. On Fat Barry. I've been trying to catch him in the act of leaking secrets to Russia. As soon as I get enough evidence, BAM! I'm reporting him to MI5. Or I'm blackmailing him. Hey, a guy's gotta eat.


9.20 a.m.
Followed Fat Barry to work. Now I'm stalking the supermarket aisles watching him. I'm wearing a disguise (Brian Blessed mask and orange overalls) so as not to draw attention to myself.

9.45 a.m.
Fat Barry is stacking milk cartons. Not even checking the use by date on them either. He doesn't care about us ingesting spoiled dairy. The commie bastard.

11 a.m.
He's gone for a cigarette break and is on the phone. Sounds like it's Candy.

11.05 a.m.
FAT BARRY: I can't wait to see you again, baby . . . Scatino's at 8 . . . Lovely. See you then.

Scatino's at 8. I'm going to be there.

8 p.m.
I'm at Scatino's.

8.15 p.m.
Fat Barry arrives first and orders bread and olives. That guy boils my potatoes. He hates our capitalist society but will eat our decadent olives. I'm so tore up I get lasagne down my Blessed beard.

8.30 p.m.
Candy showed up soon after. If I wasn't so sure these two were just spies bent on destroying Western civilisation, I'd be wondering what the hell she sees in him.

8.35 p.m.
She's reached over and held his hand. She must be passing him a secret note. Time to pounce.

9.30 p.m
'Having a nice evening, COMRADES?' I said as I sat at their table.
'What the hell, Brian Blessed?' said Fat Barry.
I took my mask off. You should have seen the look he gave me.
'Who are you?' said Candy.
She must have face blindness or something. Must be hard when you're a spy.
'Ben Davis - private detective,' I said.
She looked confused. 'Oh, you're the shoe guy.'
I rubbed my eyes. 'Yeah, I'm the shoe guy.'
'What do you want?' said Fat Barry.
'Nothing,' I said, making myself comfortable. 'Just thought I'd share some secrets with you.'
'What kind of secrets?' said Fat Barry. 'And can you take your feet off the table, please?'
I changed positions and took out my pad. I'd written, 'Pad of Secrets' on it to make it extra convincing.
I cleared my throat and rattled them off:

• The government are planning on taxing chickens. For every dozen eggs they lay, HMRC will take one. The eggs will be used to make a giant omelette for the Prime Minister.
• The button that launches all our nukes is actually hidden in the self checkouts at ASDA.
• To join the SAS, you have to have a scrambled face and a deep voice.
• Britain is planning on giving Gibraltar to Argentina, the Falklands to Spain and Northern Ireland to the winner of a phone-in.

'Why are you telling us all this?' said Fat Barry. 

'Just thought I'd help you with your cause,' I said. 'If you know what I mean?'

Fat Barry stared at me.  He knew I was on to him. Then, he called the waiter and had him kick me out. As he was shoving me, I noticed his name tag. VLADIMIR.

We're through the looking glass, here. 

Also, they threw me out before I could pay, so you know, there's that.

Diary of a Private Detective. Part Two.

Sunday

There was something about the way Fat Barry was acting that rubbed me up the wrong way. How he kept smiling and laughing. How he was always looking over at the bush outside the restaurant where I was hiding. 

Yeah, that's right, I was sleuthing. I'm at my happiest when I sleuth. I get it from my Grandpa. He was a master sleuth. By trade, he was a milkman, but he used to sleuth in his spare time. He only stopped when my Grandma discovered him sleuthing through a skylight in the ladies' dressing room at the gym. I still miss the old crank. He was a proud guy right 'til the end. Fact is, he was so proud that he got on the wrong bus one day, but wouldn't admit his mistake and stayed on it for the rest of his life. In a way, I admired his moxy, but in another way, I kinda wish he hadn't blown all my inheritance on fares.

Anyway, back to the bush. This restaurant was a fancy place. I had no idea Fat Barry had the scratch to take a broad to a Sizzlin' pub. From what I can make out, they didn't even order from the 241 menu. I made a mental note to forget about paying him back that ten bucks I owe him. Guy's so flush he don't need it.

I watched through the window and tried to figure out what Candy and Fat Barry were saying. I had to use all the skills I gained at the Nobby Decker Academy of Lip Reading. Here's a choice snippet:

CANDY: I wash filthy turnips.

FAT BARRY: Jason Orange is my homeboy.

I scratched my chin, which was a bad idea 'cause I'd just accidentally dipped my finger in a dog dook. Relax, It ain't the first time life has dealt me a crappy hand. 

I wondered what the hell they were talking about. It just sounded like a load of nonsense to me.

CANDY: Catflaps are so in right now.

FAT BARRY: My doctor recommended kicking sparrows to cure my sinusitis.

Then it came to me. It hit me like a rotten egg messing up my window on Halloween. They were spies! Russian spies! How else could you explain it?

Attractive woman being seen with Fat Barry.

They speak in code.

Fat Barry is really secretive. Like, this once, he wouldn't even tell me his account number, sort code and mother's maiden name. Even though we are 'best friends.'

That settled it. No further investigation needed. Fat Barry is working for Mother Russia. He's probably trying to find out official secrets to send back to Stalin or whoever the hell in charge there these days. No way. I'm telling him nothing. Nah, I won't tell him nothing. I've got a better idea.

You know what, my hand still stinks. That hand sanitizer I bought from the deaf kid at the grocery store sucks. 

Diary of a Private Detective

Friday

History is dominated by ‘ifs’. If Archduke Franz Ferdinand had taken a different route home one afternoon, World War One wouldn’t have happened. If Alexander Fleming wasn’t a bit blasé about doing the dishes, there would be no penicillin. And if my mother hadn’t put my best white shirt in with her red slacks, the kids at school wouldn’t have called me ‘Pinky’. Life ain’t nothing but a crap shoot.


It was by chance that a little twinky by the name of Candy Gable shimmied into my office this morning. Straight away, I knew this piece was bad news. I hadn't seen legs that long since I took that summer job as a giraffe podiatrist.

'Oh, I'm sorry,' she said. 'I thought this was the shoe cobbler's.'

'It is, toots,' I said. 'I'll cobble your shoes, cut your keys, and, what the hell, I'll find someone who don't want to be found, you understand?'

She looked confused. 'So, can you fix my stiletto or not?'

I adjusted my fedora. Let me tell you, hat-wearing is no picnic when you got a head as big as mine. 'Sure thing.'

She leaned over my desk and placed the shoe down. 'The name's Gable,' she said. 'Candy Gable.'

'You name your shoes?' I said.

'My name is Candy Gable.'

So this chick named shoes after herself. I made a mental note to name my favourite shoe after myself as soon as I got home. You've got to keep up with trends.

'I should have this done for you by tomorrow,' I said.

I'm lying through my teeth. I got no clue about cobbling shoes, I just forgot to take the sign down when I moved into the office. There was something about this chick, though.

'Look, I hate to be cheeky, but could you deliver this to my house?' She ran her hand through her blonde hair.

Now, I didn't roll outta my ma yesterday. I know when a chick is giving me the come-on. Just the other day, I could tell this broad was putting the make on me - the way she flicked her hair, the way she arched her back, the way she pepper-sprayed me - it's all subtle-like.

I took down her address and tried to stop my hand from shaking. I never get this way about a girl, but most girls ain't Candy Gable.

The rest of the afternoon was spent trying to fix her shoe. In the end, I just tied a bunch of biros to it. It wasn't pretty, but it did the job. Kinda like me.



Saturday

I spent all day getting ready to deliver the shoe. I even took a bath. I never take baths. I normally use the tub for storing old copies of Private Dick Weekly. That never has me in it, either. Oh no, but Joey Saccamoni got in just for reuniting a guy with his ma. Word on the street is the old gal was so senile, she just forgot where he lived.

I knew I had to be smelling fresh for this chick, so I stopped off at the grocery store for some mints and some menthol smokes.

'And throw me in some of that cologne will ya?' I said to the square behind the counter.

'But sir, this is my ear medicine,' he stuttered.

'What the hell, kid? Did I ask for your life story? Just put it in the god damn bag so I can get on my way.'

Candy lived in a run-down part of town. A guy like me has to watch his back in a place like that. This one time, I went there to investigate a chicken theft. It was all going well to start with, but I was scrabbling across the rooftops in my skivvies before the night was out.

I kept a hand on my piece the rest of the way there. I should point out that piece means gun. I ain't a pervert. I knocked her door and dabbed some of that kid's ear medicine on my neck.

Now, I'm what you'd call a cool customer. This once a guy jumped off a skyscraper and landed right next to me and I didn't even break my stride. But this time it was different. She looked like a movie star. I mean, yeah, so did my ex-wife, but Groucho Marx ain't exactly every guy's dream.

'Ma-ma-ma,' I stuttered like Scatman John in a tumble dryer.

'You're the shoe guy, right?' she said.

'S-sure am, hon,' I said. 'Can I come in?'

She looked puzzled for a second, then nodded. The old charm working.

Inside, her place was interesting. Shaggy sheep, I think they call it. Or Shabby chic. Whatever. Do I look like Jim Llewellyn Bowen, for crying out loud?

'You want me to take my shoes off, doll?' I said.

'Sure.'

I kicked them off and left them in the corner. 'You stay there, Ben,' I said.

'What did you say?' said Candy.

'Just named my favourite shoe,' I said. 'Like you.'

She looked confused and shrugged. 'So, did you bring, um, Candy?'

I pulled the stiletto out of the bag.

'Whaddaya think?' I handed it to her. 'The biros make it look kinda classy, right?'

She looked at it with what I thought was amazement and wonder.

'Naturally, no charge,' I said.

She kinda smiled and threw the shoe into a cupboard.

'Ain't ya gonna try it on?' I said.

'Um, not right now,' she said. 'Anyway, my date will be here any second, so . . .'

Date? What the hell? If I'd have known she was seeing some other schnook I wouldn't have made the effort.

Now, I'm a persistent man. I was kicked out of the Jehova's Witnesses for my so-called 'aggressive' tactics, but I know when I'm beat. So I put Ben and Ben 2 back on and headed for the door. When I opened it, I was stunned. And I'm not a man who's easily stunned, as the officer pursuing me with a Taser that time will attest. But the sight that greeted me at that chick's door turned my stomach like so much chicken jalfrezi.

'Fat Barry?' I said.

'What are you doing here?' he said.

'I could ask you the same question, short stack.'

'I'm here for my date with Candy,' he said. 'And why are you talking like that?'

'It's my Private Dick voice,' I said.

'Well, it sounds like you're having a stroke,' he said.

Candy came out behind me and gave Fat Barry a hug. 'It's great to see you, Barry,' she said.

Something ain't right here. Fat Barry shouldn't be scoring with broads as smoking as that. I have to find out what his secret is. I have to use all the knowledge I gained at the Bob O'Flaherty One Day Private Investigation Super Course.

Looks like things are about to get interesting.

My new career

So I've decided to start a new career. Don't get me wrong, being a writer is fun. It's an exciting lifestyle. It's all parties*, drugs** and loose women***.

* Tupperware
** Lemsip
*** The ITV chat show.

But it doesn't make me feel like a useful member of society. I mean, if a cat gets stuck up a tree, the owners don't call a writer, do they?

If my words could build a ladder . . . Ah balls to it, pass me a rock.

Anyway, my quest to become a pillar of the community hasn't been easy. First, I tried to become a freelance fire fighter. This didn't go well. The head fire guy was kind of annoyed with me. He was all, 'you're not properly trained,' and 'you're going to kill someone' and 'a Supersoaker is not a recognised piece of fire fighting equipment.'

I've had it up to HERE with your "roo-ules!"

And my career as an entrepreneur was equally short-lived.

One day the world will be ready for the pumpkin hat. One day.

Then one afternoon, when I was watching Magnum PI and picking my belly button fluff, I had a brain wave. It was his face that did it. That rugged face.

If you're not on birth control, chances are you're now pregnant.

As soon as I saw him, I knew I had it! I was going to become a moustache comb salesman! Then, when that didn't work out, I realised what epiphany I was supposed to have had in the first place:

I was going to become a private detective!

I rented an office, I bought a hat and I took up smoking. All I needed was clients. Stay tuned for what happened next.

How's about THAT for a cliffhanger?