✯✯✯
✶ Signs of (a) Life ✶
✯✯✯
Let's give a warm welcome to author, Liam Samolis.
Much
like his beloved – and somewhat decrepit – cars, Liam Samolis (NOT his real
name; that was changed in order to protect his wife and children from ridicule
on the off chance some of their friends will read his work) is hurtling towards
50 with the brakes failing. The painful loss of his father leads Liam to look
back at his life as he contemplates the legacy he is leaving his own children;
resulting in a hilarious, often self-deprecating, and ALWAYS brutally,
side-splittingly, honest glimpse at the path that has lead him to become the
man that he is. With stories about growing up as a painfully shy child in
England, going to an all-boys’ school, and what can only be described as the
most uproariously hysterical bar scene EVER written, Liam also recounts his
days as a police officer, the births of his children, and saying goodbye to his
father. What began as a legacy to his children will send readers into peals of
raucous laughter, likely leading them to tears and other unexpected bodily
functions. If you read one book this year, Signs
of (a) Life should be it – nowhere else will you be so moved by a man
simply living.
***
Let's delve into the covers of this book and look at a brief extract.
My
dancing - and I'm using the term ‘dancing’
loosely
here - was learned mostly at disco dances at
my
local rugby club. Therein lies a clue to my choreographic
expertise...Most
male rugby players tend
to
be reasonably large, and if not corpulent, rather
muscular.
Now, while a strong/fat/muscular frame
used
to be a useful asset in playing the glorious
game,
it is by of course no means the whole package;
and
as demonstrated by most of my worthy fellow
players,
tends, among other things to not result in
the
most supple or acrobatic of dancers. I’m being
kind,
of course - what really needs to be said is that
rugby
club dancing (for the male members at least)
generally
involves a rather subdued shuffling of the
feet,
half a pace to each side and almost, but – and
this
is the crucial part - not quite, in time to the beat.
Accompanying
this, by hunching one’s shoulders,
the
hands are raised halfway to the waist level where
they
hang nervously and awkwardly, waiting in vain
for
something to do, and somewhere else - anywhere
else
- to be.
It’s
an attractive picture isn’t it? No...not really, I
know.
In fact; not at all. I was of course aware that
such
indolent mooching around the dance floor
achieved
little, except perhaps to reinforce Mr.
Darwin’s
assertions upon the evolutionary process, and maybe to propose a whole new (and
ongoing)
ending
to the theory of Neanderthal Man’s ‘demise’.
However,
despite this issue being something that I
was
familiar with, I was doomed by my training to
perform
this same strange ritual of sliding around the
floor
without apparently lifting my feet. Occasionally,
when
dancing with my girlfriend - or if not a girlfriend,
the
latest in a short line of deeply unfortunate
dance
partners - I would try to vary my ‘moves’ (or
more
honestly: spasmodic twitches) with what I considered
to
be hilarious and endearing gyrations of the
arms
and, for some inexplicable reason, the face. Yep;
sexy.
I was sometimes (usually with the aid of liquid
intoxicants)
able to kid myself that I attained some
level
of dancing proficiency above the standard rugby
club
level, however I’m forced to admit that in reality
all
I ever managed to create was a vague impersonation
of
an immature baboon having some kind of
seizure
while trying to remove a parasitic insect from
its
crotch.
Immune
from such reservations on this night,
however,
I launched myself upon the dance floor
and
the tender mercies of the delightful ladies in the
immediate
vicinity who until that moment had been
enjoying
themselves. It was a tactic which had the
same
effect as throwing a fresh cow turd into the midst
of
a gathering of germophobes. At the sight of my
‘dancing’,
women scattered in every direction; some
hugged
their friends, some ran away looking over
their
shoulder in open alarm, and some simply burst
into
tears on the spot. A full, busy dance floor almost
instantly
became an empty wasteland, across which
blew
an occasional tumbleweed (well; a napkin). It
took
me a little while to notice of course - just long
enough,
that is, for me to look like a complete pratt,
shuffling
and gyrating quite alone around the parquet
square
in blissful, alcohol-assisted ignorance of the
effect
upon my surroundings. Once I did notice what
was
going on, of course, my stomach leapt up into
my
mouth, my heart fluttered, and I began to panic. I
was
faced with the classic dilemma - whether to get
out
of sight immediately or bluff it out in the hope of
people returning to the
vicinity...
Where can I buy this fabulous book?
About the author
Liam Samolis was born and grew up in the North west of
England, where he lived until 2002. Having served for eighteen years as a
'British Bobby', Liam moved to Canada with his young family, and set out to
look at life from a new and different perspective.
With a wealth of enormously varied experiences behind him,
Liam draws upon his past, both in England and Canada, as he finds himself
gravitating towards the humorous side to almost every facet of life. Despite -
as a younger man - having tried quite hard to do so, he finds it impossible to
take himself -or indeed life in general - very seriously. This is partly
fuelled by the fact that an old friend recently confided in him that the first
impression he created thirty years ago was of "...a big dope with a
grin." It's hard to ignore feedback of that order.
Liam has published his first book, 'Signs of (a) Life' - a
selection of short, and at times distressingly true stories scavenged from the treasure chest of life happenings
and is actively engaged on a number of projects, including his reminiscences of
English school life in the 1970s, and a dark, crime-driven work of fiction set
in a remote BC community.
Useful Links
Facebook
No comments:
Post a Comment