Thunderbald - Sex, Violence & Feminine Sensibilities (The Implosion Saga, #7)

Mick and Jim are two incompetent, Soho-based, corporate video producers, operating at the bottom of a barrel that no one wants to scrape. They drink too much, don't earn enough and get too many death threats.
When the New York slasher movie awards - The Bleeders - turn into a riot, Mick and Jim are offered a mystery escape route to Hong Kong.
Inexplicably, they arrive in Darwin, Australia, where they're kidnapped and held in the deserted, snake-ridden Broken Nose Hotel - 300 miles from the nearest can of lager.
Escape attempts result in damaged reproductive bits, while igniting the fury of ex-SAS Sgt Major and international, freelance, unarmed-combat specialist, Rosebud Rochester.
Thanks to her aggressive, but romantic, liaison with Baz, who likes being locked in the attic, Mick and Jim eventually escape to a local river, where, on an improvised raft cum toilet block, they fight off copulating saltwater crocodiles and sharks, while being battered by tropical storms and lightning strikes.
After an ignominious escape, they arrive in Hong Kong and have to solve an ancient Chinese puzzle. Why are they there? How does James Bond fit in? How did they get trapped in a luxury suite inside a hollowed-out volcano? Why are they fans of Bert Grit? And what is Pussy Galore doing working as a toilet attendant in Venice.
Killer SWAT teams, massive explosions, stun grenades and close-quarter helicopter attacks ensure a happy ending.

I've been a copy, speech and scriptwriter for a long time!
Before that, I wrote songs and stories for the BBC, then became a stand-up comedian for eight years, writing my own stories (no jokes!). I also wrote and sang all the songs for my rock band - the Stan Arnold Combo.
I now live in and work from Lanzarote, with my wife Dee and cats, Bonzo, Jingle and Kati.
In my eleven years on the island, I have written eight funny novels - The Implosion Saga, no less!
The stories are about two incompetent Soho-based corporate video producers opperating at the bottom of a barrel no one wants to scrape. They drink too much, don't earn enough and get too many death threats.
I suppose the next thing to do is promote these little offerings so I can archive my life's ambition - to own a garden shed on Mustique.
(All very well, I hear you say, but have you seen the price of creosote on the island?)