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The Book Direct blog by Lynda Dickson

This book is very cleverly structured. The stories are not in chronological order, although there is a “map” at the beginning of the book giving the order of the events. From the first story, explaining the origin of the book’s title, the author sets the tongue-in-cheek tone. You just know you’re going to be in for a fun ride. The book covers such varied topics as Matthew’s first car, scattering his mother’s ashes, how he proposes to his wife, fulfilling his mother’s dying wish, his time as a disc jockey, and the time he was running late for a hockey match. At the end, we come full circle and discover what happens after the first story. A very neat conclusion. Cute black-and-white illustrations at the beginning of each chapter add a whimsical touch.

While many of the stories of Matthew’s youth revolve around drinking, many of the later ones feature funny things his children say. Despite the humor, there are also a number of sobering and touching stories. There are also some beautiful descriptive passages. We see Matthew in all of his personas, as young larrikin Matthew, son Matthew, friend Matthew, boyfriend Matthew, husband Matthew, and father Matthew. By the end of the book you’ll feel like you actually know him.

Some of my favorite stories: “Carpool”, “Popping the Question”, “Surprise Party”, and “Guess What’s in Your Pocket”.

An absolute pleasure to read. With its dry wit, humor, and laugh-out-loud moments, you’ll need to be careful where you are when you’re reading this book.

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My Book as an Amazon Best Seller! Wow!!

NOVEMBER 8: When a famous, or is that infamous, international author like myself writes an entertaining book like Goat Lips through an independent publisher, the education curve is quite extensive. As any of you who have read the book, in the foreward, Linda Klein beautifully illustrates the journey of “birthing a book.” But, that was only the beginning.

I have had the pleasure of working with amazing women (is this a pattern…?) who are tenderly teaching me about the endless online tools to share my hilarious tales with the masses. We are now onto Step #436 – how to become an Amazon Best Seller.

This is where you come in. BUY MY BOOK ON NOVEMBER 8 via Amazon.

Step 1:  Wake up on November 8

Step 2:  Open one of your many devices that has an internet connection

Step 3:  Buy my book, Goat Lips – Tales of a Lapsed Englishman for $14.95

Step 4:  If you live in the Denver Metro Area, raise a glass of celebration at The Walnut Room, 5p – 7p and watch Matthew kiss a live goat!

Step 5:  (If you don’t live in the Denver Metro area) – enjoy the rest of your Sunday with friends or family and watch the Goat Kissing on Youtube!

Home Depot (excerpt From Goat Lips)

An excerpt from Goat Lips: Tales of a Lapsed Englishman, taken from tale 8, For the Love of Art.

I have always had a love/hate relationship with Home Depot. If it wasn’t for the mobile bratwurst cart out front, it would be hard for me to enter the parking lot and not feel overwhelmed by the task at hand. The fact that there is always more than one item or material that can be used for a particular job means the majority of my time in the store is spent jockeying for the attention of a dubiously qualified “specialist” clad in an orange apron.

To give the staff credit, they are nearly always friendly and try to be helpful. The problem is I can never fully grasp their rushed instructions. I feel guilty and pressured to hurry so as not to dominate the time of a person who is in such demand; a person constantly trailed by anxious customers, many of them clutching defunct pieces of hardware.

I think therapists around the world might consider recommending that anybody who is depressed, lonely, or feeling unappreciated should apply for a job at Home Depot.

Telephone Box Carpool: From Goat Lips

An excerpt from Goat Lips: Tales of a Lapsed Englishman, taken from tale 4, Carpool

After a two-minute stroll, I found myself standing in front of the telephone box. There are few things as iconic as a good old-fashioned British telephone box—painted bright Royal Mail red from top to bottom, standing at attention, rigid as a guard, with seventy-two small glass panes and an inscription of the bleeding obvious just above the door: TELEPHONE.

I pulled open the door and stepped into the familiar and unmistakable faint scent of urine and vomit. One gravitates to a phone box when extremely drunk, because once inside their cozy confines it is impossible to fall over, unless you crumple like an imploding building and collapse straight down inside yourself.

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