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Monday, May 13, 2019

A bit About Me with Wayne Clark!

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Good morning.
Another start to a new week and I hope it’s a beautiful Monday morning where you are as it’s as beautiful as it is with me. Apparently it’s going to be warm and sunny for the next few days. So get out and enjoy, but don’t forget the sun cream. See, you even get weather reports on here.
Anyway, when I wrote my first column last Monday, I did say that you will you get to know me and what I do a little more from time to time, and I feel that this morning is the right place, right time. If that’s okay with you. So, I thought I would begin with a podcast I took part in last week, with a certain chap called Wayne Clark. Wayne is an author and also has his own very successful weekly podcast called, “Talk About It Friday” where he interviews very interesting people from all walks of life.
Wayne kindly invited me on his show to talk about my books, social media marketing, the children’s book I’m writing and the movie of my first book, Wrong Place Wrong Time.
I’m not going to say anymore, apart from the fact, that I hate the sound of my own dulcet tones. But please, do not let that put you off.
So, are you sitting comfortably? Good. Click this link and lets begin.
See you soon.

Wednesday, May 8, 2019

Take A Bow, Elliott Ross!

Take A Bow, Elliott Ross
As mentioned yesterday in my debut column, which I hope some of you read and enjoyed, or saying that, even read at all, I was invited to attend a play at the Trafalgar Studios in London. The male lead, Elliott Ross, who kindly invited me, is a young British actor who I believe to a rising star and one to look out for in the future. This was Elliott’s first appearance as Charlie Luther Mason, and actually he blew me away with his performance in a very powerful production.
Admissions, a new American play written by Joshus Harmon, (author of Bad Jews) also stars Alex Kingston, Sarah Hadland, Margot Leicester, Andrew Wooddall and Ben Edelman who also plays Charlie when Elliott has a night off!
To give you a little insight into this very thought provoking story, Sherri Rosen-Mason (Alex Kingston) is Head of Admissions at a private school, challenged to diversify the student intake and she wants the world to know about it. When her son Charlie (Elliott Ross) is deferred from his university of choice, Yale, and his best friend is accepted, Sherri’s personal ambition collides with her very own progressive values. Admissions is 90 minutes long, but the exchange of family views, which were frequently heated, about race, religion, background and money will keep you thinking well into the night. The subject of the play is full of emotion and volatile in some areas that apparently has shocked some audiences into silence, including me. But saying that, there were numerous moments when the entire audience burst into laughter in unison.
The play first opened in March 2018 in New York. It won the Drama Desk and Outer Critics Circle Awards for Best Play. The production company then transferred the play to London, opening night was on the 12 March and it is running until 25 May, before heading out on a UK tour. 
I must close this review and draw the final curtain with a note about Elliott, who I must say was outstanding in his arm waving, foot stomping rants and thoroughly authentic in his performance throughout. I anticipate great things ahead for this young man, you heard it here first!

Be Gentle. It's My First.


As you begin to read this, you may just be wondering how on earth, a North London boy, (aged 54) has ended up with his own exciting (I hope you will think so) column in the Valley Times. Well after a few conversations with Brett Salway, (you just may have heard of him, who hasn’t?) it was mutually decided that I should write a regular column. I promise I will try and make it as entertaining as Brett, which I know will be tough, with book and author recommendations and sports news. On that note I must give my commiserations to all involved with Cardiff City but at least you have two meaty derby games with Swansea next season. I will also focus on movies, music and anything in the world of celebrities. Sounds good? Yes? Great!
Felly, yn fy ngwaith ysgrifenedig gorau posibl, gadewch i mi gyflwyno fy hun. Fy enw i yw David P Perlmutter ac rwy’n awdur.
I’m afraid that’s my limit of writing Welsh, with a little bit of help from Google, and thanks to a few people on Twitter who corrected the Google translation which apparently isn’t the best. I promise I will organically learn a little bit of your wonderful language on a regular basis. Honest. Talking of Twitter, if you wish to see what I get up to on a daily basis, then you can follow me  at and I may just follow you back. Currently I’m standing at 49,900 followers and I’d love to hit 50,000 before I hit 55 in July.
Anyway, as I’ve said, I’m an author and over the next few days, weeks, even months, if you still want me and if you find my column interesting, (do please let me know if you don’t, definitely let me know if you do), I will tell you in more details about me, my books and the movie that’s being made from one of them. I know, a movie. Very exciting, but for now let me tell you what this week has in store for me.
Today, Tuesday, (I hope you all had a great Bank Holiday weekend) I’m going to see a play called Admissions at Trafalgar Studios in London. I’ve been invited by actor Elliot Ross who is playing the lead male role in the play which has received rave reviews and also stars Alex Kingston (of Dr Who, ER, Discovery of Witches, The Widow etc., etc., fame) and Sarah Hadland, who was Miranda’s double act in, yes Miranda, but you knew that didn’t you. I will also be writing a review of the play for you to read, later this week.
On Wednesday in London, I have a production meeting with the executive producers of the film, Golden Mile Productions and co-producers, No Reservations Entertainment, along with director Christopher Butler, to discuss the latest in the book to movie development of Wrong Place Wrong Time. That’s me above, holding a copy of the paperback. But again, you knew that. This was my first book, a true story about a time when I went to live in Marbella in search of a fresh start and fell into an unimaginable nightmare.
If you continue this journey with me, which I hope you will, you will read more about this and my other books. But if you can’t wait (and why would you) for my next article, you can nip over to my website and check out my other books:
So, on Thursday evening, get this, I’m out in London with award-winning Hollywood actor Rich Graff. I know, a REAL Hollywood actor and little old me. I promise I’m not going to Madame Tussauds, he’s real. I’ll take a photo to prove it. Rich is probably best known for playing Lucky Luciano in Making of The Mob and as Heather Graham’s boyfriend, in the movie, My Dead Boyfriend. I will let you know how it went, and I’m sure as I’ve said, I’ll get a photo or twenty.
Finally. Friday. I have a meeting with St Georges Shopping Centre and Tool Box Marketing to go through the latest draft of the children’s book I am currently writing, which is about primary school children’s memories of living in Harrow, which is in Greater London. In January I visited three schools in Harrow in one week and hosted seven workshops involving 190 children. I came away at the end of them, not only with 190 stories of their memories, but on a huge high. These children were an inspiration and I can’t wait to see their stories in print. The book is due to be published in July. I will keep you updated.
So, that’s my week and yes, it’s a busy one. What are you guys up to? Let me know.
I hope you have enjoyed getting to know me a little, and as the days and weeks go by, I’m sure you will get to know more about me as I hope I’ll get to know you.
If you have any questions, why not get in touch, email me at I’d love to hear from you
Right, I’d better get ready for the theatre. Have to wash my hair. Thanks for reading and bye for now.

Friday, April 26, 2019

RISING BRITISH TALENT Christopher Butler as director for Wrong Place Wrong Time



Christopher Butler

Along with Executive Producers, Golden Mile Producers and co-producers No Reservations Entertainment, we are ABSOLUTELY DELIGHTED to announce that RISING BRITISH TALENT Christopher Butler as DIRECTOR for the #1 BESTSELLER, 
Wrong Place Wrong Time. 

We are so proud to have Christopher on board as director and can’t wait for filming

But first the exciting steps of casting for the movie, so WATCH THIS SPACE! 

Tuesday, April 9, 2019

13 - A #1 BESTSELLER on Amazon!

My new book about FOUR events that happened to me in 1977! 
Already a #1 BESTSELLER in #SwissTravel on Amazon 

13 - The 70's - A True Story

Chapter One 

Teacher’s Pet
It was a typical Sunday morning as I sat on the leather three-seater sofa which was pressed against the main wall in the living room. I casually thumbed my way through the pages of a tabloid newspaper, The News of the World to be precise, the occasional article catching my eye; ‘Suicide bomber kills twelve in Iraq’, ‘Superwoman Nicola Horlick splits from husband’, ‘Goldman secretary gets seven years in jail.’ In a world such as it was in 2004, there was nothing hugely out of the ordinary, not until I turned page five and in one heart-stopping moment, came face to face with something that brought my whole world to a complete standstill, rendering me completely motionless.
The faint whistle of a kettle coming to the boil in the adjacent kitchen was the only sound penetrating the otherwise silent room, but the Sunday morning tranquillity had already been shattered by the thundering in my head as I stared in disbelief at the page in front of me, while the pages of my past were torn apart by the revelations it contained.
It was the main headline on page seven, normally a lucky number for me.
Not just the headline though, it was the accompanying image, of a man with guilt engraved on his face, that lured me in. The face of a man who had lured in many, apparently. A face that was instantly recognisable to me. A face from my past. A face I thought I’d forgotten.
“Fuck.” I whispered to myself, as my body sank deep into the worn leather. I tried to swallow the silence, as the words I’d just read took a moment to sink in.
An array of multiple four-letter expletives exploded from inside me, as the story in front of me catapulted me back to 1977 and brought blurred fragments of my past into sharp focus.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” I repeated out loud, thumping my bare right foot against the wooden floorboards in unison with my curses.
“Baby, what is it?” An anxious voice came from the narrow modern fitted kitchen where Kate, my girlfriend of six months, had been preparing coffee and buttering croissants for a very late breakfast. As she stepped out into the equally narrow hallway and walked towards me, I noticed out of the corner of my eye, her shoulder length blonde hair flicking from one side to the other across her makeup- less face. She wore a pink track suit, but my eyes were transfixed by what I was reading in black and white in front of me. I was vaguely aware of the aroma of the freshly painted magnolia walls which seemed, at that moment, to be closing in on me. I suddenly felt as though I was suffocating as I continued to stare in disbelief at the letters, words, sentences and paragraphs before me.
“Baby, what is it, what’s happened?” Her troubled voice spread through me like a knife slicing butter, but so disturbed was I by what I was reading, I didn’t answer, I couldn’t reply.
No words would come, I was still trying to absorb what I’d just read.
“Baby, what’s wrong?” Kate’s concern escalated to another level as she tried to grab my attention, sitting next to me on the sofa and taking my right hand in both of hers. But again, nothing from me in return.
I released my hand from hers, spitting the word “Shit!” into my palms, as I covered my eyes with both hands and pulled them back hard over my shaved head.
“Baby. Baby,” she repeated. “Answer me, please. Please answer me, what is it?”
I said nothing. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t, even though my mouth was ajar, nothing escaped, apart from the words ‘fuck’ and ‘shit.’

“Please what is it?” She tried again to prise a response from me. But I couldn’t reply. It wasn’t that I was being rude or that I didn’t want to respond, I was quite simply struck dumb with the shock of what I’d read. Face down. Hands on my head. Elbows on my knees. I couldn’t move. Staring at what was before me. It felt like I was paralysed from the neck up, with ‘fuck’ and ‘shit’ being the only four-letter words that intermittently spewed from my mouth.
“Baby, are you okay, please answer me, please.” Kate’s tone became sterner, but with more concern in her voice than anger.
Terror spread through me as the words I’d read sank in and brought back memories which had been lost to me, events which I’d forgotten, or had tried to forget. A period of my life, twenty-seven years earlier, flashed in front of me, replayed in a new and extremely disturbing light, and it was terrifying.
At that moment I was completely overwhelmed by fear. Fear of what had been and in light of what I’d just read, terror at what could have been.
Kate, ten years younger than me, and a lookalike for actress Alicia Silverston, friends and strangers alike were constantly telling her so, was startled by the sound of skin to leather as I punched the sofa’s green fabric several times with my right fist, leaving an indentation in the cushion and a red smear across my knuckles. It was the beginning of summer. June 5th.
The sun beamed its way across the slightly overgrown garden and through the open patio doors. The temperature was now a notch or two higher inside the two-bedroom, mid-terrace property I’d been renting for the past month in Exeter, Devon. The quaint little house situated in a cul-de-sac, was among several similar properties on a new development, established approximately fifteen months before.
It was the second house I’d rented since I’d moved out, thirteen months before, from the family home in a small village, three miles away. Divorce had been on the cards for several years. I’d stayed because of the children, my three beautiful children, but the relationship with my wife had been at boiling point and I didn’t want the frosty atmosphere to spill over to the children. I’d stayed in the area, so I could still see the kids, my business was there too and that’s how I’d met Kate. She lived on the road in which my office was situated, close to a large park, on the corner of a residential tree-lined road, but adjacent to a busy roundabout called the Clock Tower.
I’d moved there three months previously, from a smaller office that was within a period building, on an attractive cobbled alleyway, a little further up in the centre of Exeter. Kate had to walk past my new spacious, double-aspect windowed premises every day, as she went to work in the city at the Royal Clarence Hotel, overlooking the cathedral and the green. So, every morning at around nine fifteen and each evening at around five forty-five, like clockwork, I would relocate from my own office at the back, into the front area, to sit at one of the window desks. I would act like I was busy, you know, trying not to be too desperate, and we would glance at each other, have a little more eye contact, together with a little more of a smile, a little conversation outside and then inside the office, and so began a little friendship, which soon blossomed in to a relationship.
“Sorry baby. I'm so sorry, it’s just, just that I'm reading something, and I can’t believe what I’m reading,” I replied to her eventually, still in shock. She was happy for that, and I continued, shaking my head with disbelief. “And I c-can’t, can’t believe it and c-can’t believe that its him, or c-can I? I don’t know.” I continued with a slight stutter. A stutter that I’d grown up with after hitting my teenage years. A speech impediment I thought I’d left behind decades ago, but at that very moment it was another thing that came back to haunt me.
“Reading what and who, what do you mean, him? Who are you talking about baby, what are you talking about?” Kate quizzed, waiting for an answer from me, but carrying on before I could reply. “Look at you, you’ve gone as white as a sheet, like you’ve seen a ghost or something.”
I took a deep breath and blew out my cheeks, exasperated.
“It definitely feels like my past has come back to haunt me.” I murmured as I turned to look into her crystal blue eyes.
Since we’d been together most of our Sunday mornings had followed the ritual of waking up later than usual, especially after a night out, which to be honest happened most Saturday nights, grab a few kisses and cuddles, and eventually stumble out of bed at around eleven.
Once up, we would usually spend an hour or two reading the papers, purchased from the local newsagent a stroll away on the corner of the road. We’d have breakfast and then wander alongside the canal, pop into one of the many inviting pubs for a drink and maybe for a spot of lunch and sit outside if the weather was kind. The weather was kind today, but this particular Sunday turned out to be anything but kind, or usual.
“What do you mean, your past? What about your past? Please tell me baby.” She insisted with a puzzled expression on her face.
“My past from when I was at school.” I answered, clenching my fists, with the right fist still displaying a red glow across the knuckles.
“Reading what, tell me, tell me, what. What is it?” Her voice now also contained some anger, but I couldn’t really blame her, all she wanted was an explanation.
“Hold on. Hold on. I’ve just got to read it again.”
As I read the article for the second or third time, shaking as I did, still not believing what I was reading, small droplets of sweat trickled from my brow and splattered onto the paper that was spread out on the carved oak coffee table. Kate went back into the kitchen and returned with two mugs of coffee and a plate of croissants that we’d bought earlier, along with the Sunday newspapers.
Totally oblivious to what was hiding inside them.
By now I had completely lost my appetite.
Taking a sip of much needed coffee, Kate tenderly massaged the top of my hand and then interlocked her left hand within my right, holding it tightly.
“Is this what you’re reading baby, this?” She said looking at the police mugshot of a man in his late sixties.
“Yes. Yes, I am.” I replied with an additional nod of the head, still trembling all over.
She noticed.
“God, you’re shaking all over baby.” She turned to look at me.
“Do you know him?”
I took a deep breath,
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
There was a pause for a moment or two as Kate read the story in silence, in the biggest selling Sunday newspaper in the UK. As she read, her facial expressions registered and reflected every word, every sentence and every paragraph.
“Fuck! Baby!” was her first reaction.
“I know. Fuck indeed.”
“How do you know this bastard?”
“Well.” I swallowed and paused again for a second, “He was my music teacher.”
“What!” She squealed as she let go of my hand and turned to look at me again.
“Like I said, he was my music teacher. At school. From the age of around eleven till I left at sixteen, well fifteen and a half actually, where I grew up, in Edgware.”
“Your music teacher?”
“Yes baby, my music teacher.”
“Yes, really.”
She clasped her hand back into mine.
“Shit. And he did this?”
“Well, I guess so, it’s there in black and white, his name, the name of the school and everything.” I replied, nodding towards the paper. His pasty, wide-eyed face stared back at me with a look that made my skin crawl.
"But it says that he was popular, well respected and everyone liked him, did you?"
"I liked him as my teacher. I respected him for his music. I mean, he was on tour with an opera company. He was highly thought of in his field, and he did take me under his wing, so to speak."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, he always wanted me to sit next to him at his desk in the class during the lessons, or by his side when he was playing the piano in the music room."
"What, like a teacher’s pet?"
"I guess so."
Removing my hand from hers, I smothered my face with both of mine, at the same time closing my eyes, to try and erase this moment, pressing into the sockets with the tips of my fingers, not quite believing what I’d just read. I pressed harder, clenching my eyes tighter, pushing them deeper within my skull, until darkness took over, and a second or two later, a black and white light show dazzled me. I became dizzy and unaware of my surroundings, but then I felt Kate's manicured hand comforting my naked thigh. Her touch made me tingle. I needed her comfort at that precise moment. She huddled closer to me on the sofa. I sensed her morning breath, with a hint of coffee seducing the side of my face, and as she turned to me, she whispered.
“Baby are you okay?”
Removing my hands away from my face, my eyes still closed, mesmerised by the diminishing light show before me, I nodded.

But I was far from okay.
“Did anything, you know, did anything happen to you. Did he touch you or something?” Kate questioned.
Taking another deep breath and releasing my eyes, with the remains of the light show fading before me, I tried to focus through blurred vision on the photo of this pathetic, but once extremely well-respected teacher and pianist. His wide, shallow, glazed eyes, hollow and riddled with guilt, no longer hiding his secret. Looking deep into his pupils as they gaped at me in return, I reflected on my time at school, in his office, in his lessons and most of all, the school trip to Switzerland.
“Baby talk to me, please. I'm here for you, you know that, don’t you?”
Of course, I knew she was, she had been for the past few months, but it was impossible to know how to respond to her in this situation and I didn’t answer, I couldn’t. She didn’t know what had happened. I hadn’t told her.
In fact, I hadn’t told anyone.
Buy 13

The Titans of Ardana by J.S. Frankel

The Titans of Ardana 
by J.S. Frankel 

The Titans of Ardana

"Hold nothing back. Give everything." That's the catchphrase of Martin Calder, a teenager obsessed with the hit television show, The Metas. 

On a mission to get an autograph from the star of the show, Dana—no last name given—he comes face to face with reality. 

Dana and her twin brother, Van, the co-star of the show, aren’t exactly from around here.

Leftovers: A mix of six unrelated short stories by Joe Congel

Leftovers: A mix of six unrelated short stories 
by Joe Congel 

Leftovers: A mix of six unrelated short stories

Leftovers is a collection of short stories that are totally unrelated to each other. A couple are short-shorts while others are just merely short.

Enjoy a little bit of everything – murder, blackmail, embezzlement, excitement, action, betrayal, and of course, love.

So lose yourself for a while in a fun, quick, easy to read assortment of stories that will make you forget your troubles … at least for a little while.