New from All Due Respect: Man of the World by Paul D. Brazill

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Synopsis … Ageing hit-man Tommy Bennett left London and returned to his hometown of Seatown, hoping for respite from the ghosts of the violent past that haunted him. However, things don’t go to plan and trouble and violence soon follow Tommy to Seatown. Tommy is soon embroiled in Seatown’s underworld and his hopes of a peaceful retirement are dashed. Tommy deliberates whether or not to leave Seatown and return to London. Or even leave Great Britain altogether. So, he heads back to London where violence and mayhem await him.

Man of the World is a violent and darkly comic slice of Brit Grit noir.

Praise for the Books by Paul D. Brazill:

“If you took Ken Bruen’s candor, the best of Elmore Leonard’s dialogues, sprinkled in some Irvine Welsh, and dragged it all through the dirtiest ditch in South London, the result will be something akin to Brazill’s writing.” —Gabino Iglesias, author of Zero Saints and Gutmouth, for The Last Laugh

“A broad range of cultural strands come together in the melting pot and form a delicious stew of criminal adventure… The observations are sharp and the characters create small nuclear explosions as they collide with each other.” —Nigel Bird, author of Southsiders, for The Last Laugh

“Brazill offers a series of amusing episodes filled with breezy banter in this offbeat slice of British noir.” —Publishers Weekly, for Last Year’s Man

“It’s all here, everything you’ve come to expect from a Paul D. Brazill caper—the fast pace, the witty banter, the grim humour and the classic tunes—except this time he’s REALLY outdone himself. Unlike the lament in the song the title takes its name from, Paul’s best years are surely still ahead of him.” —Paul Heatley, author of Fatboy, for Last Year’s Man

“Paul D. Brazill is the Crown Prince of Noir. That’s my opinion, granted, but I stand by it. For those who require proof, just pick up his latest novel, Last Year’s Man, and it will be clear why I make that statement. All hail the crown prince!” —Les Edgerton, author of The Genuine, Imitation, Plastic Kidnapping, Just Like That and others

“Brazill is brilliant, a unique voice which stands out from the crowd.” —Keith Nixon, author of the Solomon Gray books, for Last Year’s Man.

man of the world final

What is Tiny Tales? by Darren Sant

tiny tles

What is Tiny Tales? It’s a brand new podcast with a homemade punk rock ethos. Featuring multi-genre fiction and poetry.

Who can get involved? Absolutely anyone! Drop me a message on our Twitter account @Tiny_Tales_Cast or find me, Darren Sant on Facebook or email me on

Is there A word limit? The clue is in our name. We’re looking for complete stories on the shorter side. However, we could spread out longer works across multiple episodes. I’m also trying to include a poetry if that is your thing.

Why a Podcast? I’ve been fascinated by spoken tales since I was a child. Stories can have an extra dimension when spoken aloud! Before we had printed matter tales were told over the campfire, knowledge was passed on, people were entertained.

Who is the Target Audience? I don’t like to impose limitations on style or language so I’ll often include tales with adult themes and violence so these podcasts will tend to be for an adult audience


Freeloaders by Ian Lewis Copestick


He woke at about 10:30.
There was no point in
making coffee, he was
out of milk and sugar.
Black coffee he could
drink, but without
sugar ? Yuk !
So, as soon as he
was dressed, he was
out of the flat, down
the stairs and out.
Heading into town.
As he walked up
Stafford Street he
saw that the usual
crowd of drunks
and junkies were
sitting on the steps
of the D.H.S.S. building.
They were there every
day, or a different
but identical looking
crew. He guessed that
either they were waiting
for a payment, or
waiting for a friend
to get a payment so
they could scrounge
off them until the
money was spent.
He couldn’t judge,
he’d been in both
positions himself.
In fact, as he walked
towards the post
office to cash his
giro, he knew that
he was bound to
pick up a couple of
freeloaders himself.
That was the way
of the world.


Dream Big You Said To Me by Mark McConville

Mark McConville

Dream Big You Said To Me.


You write with elegance

And dance through the hallway when the poetry flows

And astounds, and makes you quiver,

It’s your medication.


I observe you nailing unwanted notes

On a wall coloured in red

That’s where the rejection letters hang

It’s a shrine of war and blood, sweat and tears.


Some days you don’t wash

Other days you’re as high as a plane

Flurrying through the sky

And headed to a dreamland.


You drink your optimism away

From a glass the size of an enlarged heart

Power was your strength,

You now seem stuck in between

Normality and hazardous thoughts.


The city was your playground

You’re cooped up and writing plotlines

That aren’t structured or compelling

They’re mediocre.


Art has succumbed to procrastination

As you sit and scream annihilation

And your bones shake and your skin tightens

This is a breakdown.


You throw expensive vases at the walls

You cut yourself on splinters

Begging to sleep, praying to wake up a new writer,

Of engrossing fiction, of well-rounded characters,

And a queen of those allusive plot-lines.


And dream big you said to me

As I hung onto your coattails

When you drank to wash away the taste of failure


I’ve observed too much…

Interesting Times by Ian Lewis Copestick

I suppose this
it what it must
have been like
to have lived
during the war,
or the depression.
With shortages
and rationing,
worry and fear.
For me, it’s the
first time that
I’ve ever been to
shops and seen
the shelves mostly
empty, and I’ll tell
you what, it’s weird,
it’s really fucking
weird. What can you
do? We’re all on a
lockdown, we’re
all imprisoned,
against our will.
It’s like living in
a horror film, or
a Stephen King
novel. I vaguely
remember an
old Chinese curse.
” May you live in
interesting times. ”
Well, that is
we’re all going

Drunken Charade by Mark McConville

Drunken Charade.

Choose your path

One that illuminates

One that takes you through events

And neon lit alleyways where alcohol tinged

Human beings populate and tell their tales.


You’ve been waiting for this moment

When all shackles are cut

When freedom feels euphoric

It all feels manic too

In these testing times where hearts pulsate

For cleaner blood

And more storage to contain worries.


You share a bottle of grade c whiskey

With the leader of this drunken charade

She’s scarred and shaky

Unpredictable and marginalised

Broken skin touches your skin

She might be diseased but you couldn’t care less

As you deter suicide.


Drunk now

You’re sitting on a sheet of cardboard

Blasphemy orders another drink

You see blurred lines

There’s no sense or diplomatic virtues

The world is a damaging place

And you’re only realising this isn’t a time of clarity.


You want to sober up

So you can walk back into isolation

You were safer in a room filled with books

And cigarettes, and challenging jigsaws,

Where normality excelled.


These people aren’t friends

They’re enemies

And you’re edging close to sinking straight

Into a bottle or even worse a dangerous sleep.


Bright lights and sirens

Are seen and heard

They scatter

You’re slumped and looted of faith and possessions


You’ve been saved.

Mark McConville

Pomegranate by Ian Lewis Copestick

I think, cringing
of when I was at school,
early teens,
thinking I was the
next Joe Strummer.
A few short years later
wishing I was
” On The Road ”
really, I was barely able
to cross it.
Next, a virginal
Henry Miller fan.
Well, I guess I wasn’t the
first one of those.
Such people don’t
arrive many times in
a lifetime, so when they do
you make the
best of it you can.
Just try not to
take them too seriously.
Pick out the
bits you need
and throw the rest away.


Stop Me If You’ve Heard This One by Paul D. Brazill

Stop Me If You’ve Heard This One

Ginger Ronny had told Burkey about the murder towards the bitter end of one of their occasional raucous Tuesday night drinking sessions, as the dawn had desperately begun to grasp for life and Malcolm Duffy was grumpily getting ready to close up Le Duffy. But it wasn’t until the cusp of Wednesday evening – as Burkey struggled out of bed to start his night shift at the slaughterhouse – that the reality of the situation finally melted into his consciousness, like ice cubes in a glass of Jack Daniels.

‘Jude Walker,’ he groaned, as he sat on the stained and wobbly toilet. ‘Jude friggin’ Walker.’

He put his head in his hands as he pebble-dashed the inside of the toilet bowl with the residue of the previous night’s boozing session and tried to force a tear or two with the same passion that he’d shat. But he couldn’t. Despite all Jude had done for Burkey over the years, the man had been a nasty twat who’d had payback coming to him for donkeys.

Burkey showered, dressed and left his flat, a hovel that was above a closed down dirty book store and had been advertised as being a ‘loft-style apartment’. He started to have a nagging feeling tugging at him as he limped down the stairs, and it wasn’t just the need for a little eye opener before he started work.

As he shuffled into Le Duffy’s dimly lit bar, adjusting his eyes as he negotiated his way through the closely stacked tables, he realised what the problem was. Ronny had confided in him. Burkey. Or Gimpy, as he usually called him. Of all of Ronny’s dodgy cronies and neo-incestuous family members he’d confessed a murder to Burkey.

Although they occasionally got drunk together, Ronny and Burkey had never been friends, as such. Ronny had even regularly taken great pleasure in taking the piss out of Burkey’s limp. Even back in school he had been worse than most of the other kids when it came to cruel jibes. They were bound together by a love of the booze, though, which wasn’t everything but it was a lot.

Malcolm served Burkey his usual pre-work shot of peppermint schnapps. He hated the taste but it didn’t smell of booze, they said. He sat at the bar, knocked it back and ordered another. This Ronny situation was a quandary and a conundrum, as his old granddad used to say. What the hell was Ronny up to?

He ordered another drink and tried to piece together what Ronny had actually told him about killing Jude.

It went like this: Ronny was sat in his Ford Granada in the car park outside The Bongo Club getting a blow job from Skinny Minnie, one of the club’s barmaids, who gave extras when it came close to her rent day. She was dressed as a schoolgirl since, although she was forty if she was a day, she had the skinny, petit body of an anorexic teen which boosted her earning capacity.

After she eventually swallowed his load, Ronny loosened his grip and allowed her to come up for air. He pulled a wad of notes from his Wranglers and peeled a few off. Most of the cash he used to pay her was counterfeit but there was so much of it in the town these days that it was becoming accepted currency.

He sat and smoked a joint while Minnie cleaned him up with baby wipes and there was a knock on the window. Well, more of a bang. Ronny wound down the window to see the massive form of Jude Walker shouting and screaming about something or other. Ronny had no idea what he was on about. Not that it mattered since Jude had a tendency to completely lose the plot over any old thing when he was snorting the crap coke that was produced by the same Russians that made the fake cash.

Ronny knew that there was nothing he could do to placate Jude and began to wind up the window when Jude stuffed a massive hand through the gap and grabbed Minnie by the throat. Well, Ronny, ever the gentleman, couldn’t allow that to happen so he pushed open the car door sending Jude sprawling backwards until he crashed his head against the breeze-block wall that everyone used to piss against when then went outside the club for a cigarette. Ronny walked over and saw that Jude was out for the count. And then, before he could do anything about it, Minnie turned up with a brick and proceeded to smash the shite out of the unconscious Jude’s big fat head.

Ronny apparently grabbed the brick from Minnie and slapped her till she calmed down. Then he started to hyperventilate. They were so far in shit creek an outboard motor wouldn’t help, let alone a paddle. Jude Walker was an old school-friend, for sure, but he was also the off-white sheep in a very dark family. A very loyal family indeed.

Burkey looked up at the cracked triangular clock that hung behind the bar and realised that he was going to be late for work if he didn’t get a move on. Fuck it, he thought. This was serious stuff. He ordered another drink. A proper one this time. A double Jack D.

The bar had started to fill out without him realising it and he was in his pots, singing along to the Pina Colada song when someone tapped him on his shoulder. He could almost taste the sour breath.

‘Burkey, I need you,’ Ronny whispered in his ear. Burkey turned and saw Ginger Ronny, high as a kite, wearing a cagoule and covered in all sorts of mud and shit.

‘What do you … want?’ said Burkey.

‘I need you to help me bury him.’


‘Get a friggin’ move on Gimpy,’ said Ronny, as it started pissing down.

A big grin crawled across his flushed face like a caterpillar. Burkey assumed Ronny thought that using his old school nickname would motivate him. Far from it. He was starting to realise that Ronnie was just manipulating him. Using him to do his dirty work.

Burkey forced a smile. He was getting soaked to the skin in a vandalised cemetery, after spending the last half hour digging a grave and Ronnie was going on and on at him like fingers down a blackboard.

Burkey stopped, the pain in his bad knee getting worse and worse in the cold and wet weather.

‘Give me a minute or two,’ he said.

‘Oh, for fucks sake, Gimpy, I friggin’ told you …’

Burkey swung the shovel without thinking about it and it smacked Ronnie square on in the head. Ronnie just stood there, an unlit cigarette in his hand. A blank expression on his face that reminded Burkey of a cartoon character.

So Burkey twatted him again and he fell forward into the open grave. There was a flash of lightning, followed by a rumble of thunder as Burkey managed to drag himself out of the grave. He paused to catch his breath and got down to covering up the bodies with renewed enthusiasm, safe in the knowledge that he’d make it back to Le Duffy in time for last orders. But he’d keep himself to himself tonight, that was for sure.

Paul D Brazill was born in England and lives in Poland. His writing has been translated into Polish, Italian, German and Slovene. He has had writing published in various magazines and anthologies, including three editions of THE MAMMOTH BOOK OF BEST BRITISH CRIME. 


A Magical Time by Ian Lewis Copestick

I’m sitting here and thinking
of when I wrote my first few
poems. It was a magical time.  It was a cold, cold winter
and I was working nine and
a half hour night shifts in a cardboard box factory.
It took me over an
hour to get there, and the
same to get back.
After clocking off at six
a.m. I would reach home,
frozen stiff at about 7:30.
At the time I was a pretty
heavy drinker, and every
,night before I went to
work, I made sure that
I had a couple of bottles
of the cheapest sherry
to drink when I got home
to get me to sleep.
I would get in bed, roll
a cigarette, pour a drink.
Drink it, smoke it and
repeat. Drink, smoke
repeat. Drink, smoke ….
Until I had
thawed out,  which
usually took me
about half a bottle,
then grab a pen
and a cheap
notepad, and all of
my tiredness, my
bitterness and pain
would pour itself onto
the page. I had no
control over it, or that’s
how it felt. The first
few times I did it, I
was so exhilarated that
if I hadn’t been so
exhausted from work
I doubt I would have
slept at all. There was
the proof, I was a poet !
No one could take that
away from me.
Although it took me
almost 16 years to
get them published,
I still feel as proud
today as I did all of
those years ago.