Welcome to the fictional blog of Pete and Jeff, two thirty-somethings sharing a flat, united by their social detachment and love of Doctor Who. Out of pocket, out of luck, and clinging to the hope that life begins at forty...

Monday 14 October 2013

THE LONG AWAITED SEQUEL!


Well, it's been a long wait, but we promised you a sequel to Life Begins at 40, and here it is! We're delighted to announce that BEHIND THE SOFA will be released on Obverse Books this November, just in time for the 50th Anniversary of Doctor Who. (Apparently they found it in Nigeria with all those lost Troughton episodes.)

Also, For any of you who have yet to read the first book, Life Begins at 40 will be seeing it's first release as an eBook to coincide with the sequel.

The book will be available for pre-order in the coming weeks over at obversebooks.co.uk

Anyone who pre-orders Behind The Sofa will automatically be entered into a competition to will a limited edition Doctor Who postcard signed by the Doctor himself, Matt Smith.

In the meantime, here's a sneak preview of what's to come. When we left them in 2011, Jeff was trapped in a burning building and Pete had fallen from a second storey window... Needless to say, they survived, but the incidents were not without consequence.

Read on for a sample of what's to come. Last time we saw Pete, he'd just fallen from his bedroom window, seemingly to his doom ...


Pete: Tuesday 7th December... Maybe

A rush of blinding light flooded my vision, as a series of half-remembered events from my life flashed in high-speed sequence, like a VHS on fast-forward. My barely coherent muttering didn't make much sense and came out in little more than a husky gasp. “...Shoes...”
Suddenly, there was a flurry of noise and activity: lights blinking, babies crying, bleeps bleeping. Shock #1: I wasn't at home. Where the hell was I? I poked my stomach a few times to make sure I was still myself... Whoever I was supposed to be. I needed a mirror. There was probably one around somewhere, but... Shock #2: I couldn't move! My body felt leaden, stiff, bruised in every possible way, and there seemed to be tubes coming out of me. Tubes! I wanted to cry out, but I couldn't for the life of me think who for. So I flapped my arms about like a pigeon and, by chance, laid my hands on a pocket mirror. Bracing myself, I squinted into the glass to see... A dandy with a mane of white hair, shouting repeatedly, a serious expression on his old-young face. It took some minutes, and a great degree of effort on my part, to realise what he was saying.
“Resist! Channing is controlling your mind!” But what did it mean?
“What?!” I screamed, trying to make it stop... And, mercifully, it did. Or, at least my hearing came back into focus.
I blinked and a mad-eyed guy with a crazed grin appeared over me, just inches from my face. “I said, looks like you're losing your mind!”
“I... I don't know where I am...” I stuttered helplessly.
“I'm Barry Waterhouse!” A disembodied hand thrust enthusiastically into my line of vision and promptly pulled away again. “I've got a famous brother, you know!” He spoke with the guarded cheeriness of a total idiot, his accent definitely Geordie, but almost as certainly Brummie too. “What's your name?”
“B...B... Barry?” I asked quizzically. He spoke so quickly. It was all I'd been able to take in.
“No way! You're called Barry too?” His curly golden hair jumped up and down, as he nodded vigorously, making him look like a cocker spaniel. “Are you sure?”
“I... I don't know. I don't even know where I am. Where am I?”
“Ehhhhhhh!” His dazed eyes lit up. “I like your sweater!” I found this hard to believe, until I saw that his t-shirt had a picture of Bob Marley on it. “I like sci-fi! D'you like role-playing? We should be friends! I've got a famous brother, you know!”
“What... Yeah?” I wasn't really listening. Looking past the Bob Marley shirt, I could see a line of beds in a long sterile corridor, people in white coats bustling frantically. “Hang on! Are we in a hospital?”
“Duuuuuurrrrr!” He stuck his tongue out and began began slapping his forehead. “Don't you know what's wrong with you?”
“No... What's wrong with you? You seem fine... Ish.”
“Me brother says I'm a moron!” He announced proudly, weird accent coming across particularly thickly. “Normally 'e looks after me... When e's not busy being famous, like!”
“Then who am I? And why am I here?” I whimpered. “I don't remember anything.”
“Ah, it'll come back to you, mate.” He slapped me on the shoulder with surprising strength. “Eh, you've got a nametag on your wrist. It says 'ere that your called... Erm, Mr. R-O-T-H. So your name must be Barry Roth!”
“Yeah, that's right!” I breathed a sigh of relief, and drifted back to sleep.

Pete: Tuesday 7th December... Probably

The next time I came round, a tall bloke with severe eyebrows was leaning over me, wiggling his fingers. Pen clutched in jaw, he scrutinised me critically. I tried to speak, but he reared backwards and cut me off with a clap of his hands. I felt my whole body reorientate, clicking painfully back into consciousness.
“Marvellous!” He said. “Welcome back to the land of the living, Mr. Roth. You're making sterling progress... And you've got a visitor.” The man had a badge swinging from his pocket. It showed his picture, except that he was much younger, eyebrows only marginally offensive. Next to the photo was the name 'Dr. Dre'. Of course, I was in hospital! Hang on... Dr. Dre??! Now why did that remind me of...
“PETE!” Another man, with a summer fete blazer and silly quiff, leaned in, seemingly about to hug me until Dr. Dre yanked him back. It was only then that I looked down, straining to see past my nose, cross-eyed. The shock hit me in gradual waves of horror, much like a 70s B-Movie where they could only afford a certain quantity of 'horror' per scene, 'Devil Rides Out' notwithstanding. Shit - my leg was in a cast. Then something else. Shit. Shit... Leg? Not 'legs', plural???
“My leg! My fucking leg! What the hell have you done with my leg?!”
Dr. Dre chuckled. “I think you may have miscounted, my boy!” Now, why did that sound familiar? “Don't worry. You've still got all your limbs in tact. The only things you've lost are...” He studied a clipboard. “...A little mobility, and a tiny bit of memory function. But it's nothing major. In fact, we've been surprised how quickly you've been healing.” He ran a finger to the bottom of his chart, head shaking as he muttered. “Temporary surge in intelligence... Possible extra-sensory abilities... One might almost say you're recovery is miraculous. Say... You haven't been exposed to any radiation recently, have you?” The man in the tweed blazer shook his head vigorously, a finger pressed against his pursed lips.
“No?” I replied, genuinely uncertain. Although I was starting to remember some things. Like... The man in the blazer was... “Jeff! What's with all this 'Pete' business? My name's Barry.”
“No it's not!” He spluttered. “Who the hell told you that?”
“That guy in the next bed...” I angled my head round, but he'd gone.
“Now then, Mr. Roth.” Dr. Dre replaced my notes over the bed-rail. “I must get on with my rounds, but I'll be back to check on you later. In the meantime, I'm sure you'll relish some catch up time with your boyfriend.”
Jeff spun round to call after him. “He's not my...” But he was already gone. There was an odd silence between us. It was all coming back to me now. Obviously, it hadn't been that long since we'd last seen each other, and already we had so much to talk about. But neither of us had any idea where to begin. It was just too much to take in.
“What happened to you?”
“Ah.” I tried to shrug, and found I was unable. “Don't really wanna talk about it.”
“Alright. Don't you worry. I've just got this feeling everything's going to be okay. And they assure me you're gonna be back on your feet for Doctor Who at Christmas. Which is the most important thing, eh?”
“Yeah... Jeff?” I smiled politely. “What are you talking about?”
“You know... The Christmas Special? That other thing we watch after the Queen's speech and The Royle Family?” He was doing that voice people do when they jokingly play something down.
“What? Wallace and Grommit? Only Fools and Horses?”
“No! Not Only Fools and Bloody Horses!” He spat. “Autons! Daleks! Cybermen! Yeti! Matt Smith jumping over duck ponds, shouting 'Oh Blimey!'” He grabbed me, panic stricken. “Amy? Rory? The gang? Off having adventures in time and space? Somewhere the tea's getting cold?!” I shook my head, as he violently shook my shoulders. “Wibbly wobbly? Timey Wimey!! Doctor Who?!”
“I'm sorry... What's Doctor Who?”

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