In March 2021, Britain and the world were firmly in COVID's talons. The kids were still off school; parents up and down the breadth and width of the U.K. were considering their sanity and selling them (Caus children are overrated anyway). The Royale family were accused of racism by Harry and Meghan (what! No way!). Amazon opened its first cashier-less store (I had to reassure my daughter we weren't shoplifting when we left), and having thought we had crossed all the Is and dotted all the Ts (see what I did there), with a respectable war chest in the bank, and what we believed was a feasible plan in place, the Falconers were packing up their lives to move to Ghana for good (having never been there, what could go wrong, ay?). Anyhoo. Read with me as I delve into the craziest six months of my life. I will list 17 things people should consider before moving to the big G.H! 

1, Airbnb/hotels etc  
Just know that what you see online is not what you'll necessarily get. And at times, no amount of reasonable money (the optimum word here is "reasonable") you throw at it can help! No sir-ee, Bob! 

“Look — I know she killed that man. I don’t know how, but I know she did. At least look at the text messages.” Frank argued.
Frank held a folder containing transcripts from Shelley Lank’s phone and emails. A back and forth between her and the man she was now spending her dead husband’s money with.
Creed paused for a few seconds, sighed, and then took the folder, pushing his lunch to one side. He pulled out the transcripts. Frank stood over Creed, hands palm-down on his desk. Creed shifted through a few pages. He leaned back in his chair, his hands braided behind his bald head.
“Well?” Frank asked.
“Well, it appears she was sleeping with Ranjit while she was married to the deceased,” Creed responded.
Frank’s eyelids fluttered, his mouth agape. He let out a small laugh.
​ “You think?” He replied.
Creed handed the folder back to Frank, then pulled his lunch back towards him.
“It’s open-and-shut mate. Old boy marries young tail, young tail marries for money, and makes sure the last years of his life are spectacular. When he pops his clogs, she gets all the pinkies. Seen it a thousand times, a tale as old as the sea. Now please let me finish my lunch — my kids are calling in five minutes, and I have to appear marginally interested.” Creed said.
Frank shook his head. “You obviously didn’t read the part where Ranjit asks her how long she reckons he has,” Frank replied.
Creed bit down into his veggie patty. “So what?” He responded.
“Motive, Creed, motive!

After three designers, a head full of ideas and concepts, I finally have my book cover for
'THE SWEAT'. 

TRUST ME, THIS ISN'T A RUN-OF-THE-MILL ZOMBIE STORY!
I wrote THE SWEAT in 2015; however, I didn't write a run of the mill zombie-themed book. I wrote about an overworked, underpaid Errol Jackson, who, after thirty years, is struggling to find the spark in his life and marriage but is reticent. I wrote about his wife Naomi, who's sick of his infidelity, but biding her time till her daughter is of age so she can leave with half. I wrote about their daughter Rubie, navigating school life and adolescence whilst approaching womanhood. I wrote about their son Shaq struggling to find decent work after finishing his degree, questioning his ethnicity's impact on his job prospects. I wrote about your family and my family and the neighbours next door. I then took the Jackson's reality and shattered it. I introduced an illness that affects two-thirds of the UK population. A condition that eats away at the rational and empathetic portion of the human mind turning the infected into lucid, cunning killers, able to think and deceive survivors. I removed all official authority and forced the population to govern themselves. I infected family members and friends and brought the threat into homes and onto their roads. I pushed the Jacksons and other families out into the streets. I pitted the English weather against them, the infected against them and desperate everyday people and added a shortage of food and clean water. I forced vulnerable survivors into joining ruthless warring gangs frantically trying to find and control essential resources, fuel, shelter, vice - and eventually the water and motorways going in and out of the capital. I gave liberty to some of the UK's bizarre subcultures now able to express themselves without persecution. I put the Jacksons up against all of this and ultimately made Errol and Naomi realise how much their union and family unit meant to them all along. I gave them hope of salvation in Brighton, and when they were close to getting out of the city, I split them down the middle and left Rubie in her father's care and a question mark over Naomi and Shaq's survival. THE SWEAT is a series of three books and is an original, thought-provoking, entertaining, essential piece of survival drama set in London.

​Follow me on Instagram: @Rpfalconer
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Check out my books here: Amazon  ​

When you think you’ve booked a trip to Austria and arrive at Oslo’s Gardermoen Airport, you know your journey has been planned by a man who hasn’t planned at all.
“You keep going on about Austria — you know we’re in Norway, right?” My wife said.
I threw her a patronising glance from over hunched shoulders as I pushed our luggage through arrivals.
“Ermmm, think I know where I booked Kris….” I replied.
She laughed, and I looked over at her again.
“The pictures you showed me were of Innsbruck Austria, this is Gardermoen in Oslo”, My wife affirmed.
I slowed to a stop and shook my head, tutting, “Do you know how ridiculous you’re about to look — Oslo is in Austria.” I said, searching the airport for evidence to back me up. I looked around, then down at the ticket stubs — then at the flags dotted around, and finally back at Kris.
“Shit — I could have sworn Oslo was in Austria?” I remarked.

So apparently, I’m an actor now? (He says, his wife rolling her eyes). No, seriously, I just filmed two promo videos featuring none other than moi. The promo videos were made for a new novel I am close to releasing called ‘THE SWEAT’. THE SWEAT - is the first book in a three-part series following a Black British family doing all they can to survive a nationwide infection that transforms everyday people into mindful murderers. ‘THE SWEAT’ strives to add something new to the survival genre by being told mainly from the perspective of a Black female protagonist. The story seeks to explore how easily savagery, cannibalism, racism, bigotry, and open sexual exploitation could rapidly manifest - in a once civilised, first-world nation - where social-judicial filters, guidance and deterrents cease to exist. 

​Click here >>HERE<< to stay up-to-date with THE SWEAT's progress

Watch my two promo videos below -  featuring the wonderful
Horaios, keep up-to date with her on instagram @Miss_unique_individual   

                                                                    
​RP: Guys who’s up for uh drink next week Saturday?
 
Shane: Which day bro?
 
RP: Saturday.
 
                                                                          Prince is typing….
 
Carl: [Inserts inspirational meme with the twinkling flowers]
 
Ricardo: Let me check my cazendar.
 
Ricardo: *Calendar
 
Prince: Why not. Where and what time?
 
                                                                             RP is typing….
 
Shane: Do you mean this coming Saturday or next?
 
RP: This coming Saturday.
 
Shane: As in the 5th?
 
Jay: [Inserts smiling emoji with sunglasses on]
 
RP: Yeah the 5th.
 
RP: @Prince Thinking Westfield, Busabi?  
 
Helen: I don’t like Chinese.
 
RP: @Jay is that a yes or a no?
 
Ricardo: Oh, you meant this Saturday.
 
Corey: Sounds good.
 
Carl: [Inserts inspirational meme about Jesus]
 
Prince: It’s Thai.
 
Jay: Is that the place we went to last time?
 
RP: Nah, that was Wagamama.
 
Helen: @Prince Whatever it is, I didn’t like it.
 
RP: @Helen are you on coming out at all? we can look at other places.
 
Helen: No, I can’t make it.
 
RP: SMH…

Prince: [Inserts Gif of Drew Scanlon the white guy blinking]
 

AK-47 or White widow? Shane asked, grinning as he pointed at a menu as if either one of us had any business dabbling in strong marijuana. We could barely handle cigarettes, let alone smoke any of those strains of weed, that sounded more at home on an MI5 terrorist watch list than in rolling papers. We eventually requested the weakest space cake they had and left to take in the rest of De Wallen.

Eight of us were in Holland for the Rotterdam carnival. As part of our package, we had a day trip to Amsterdam scheduled, and my O-my was it going to be a trip (pardon the pun) that none of us will ever forget. Getting high didn’t appeal to Missy, Prince and Helen, so we (Shane, Ricardo, Carl, Jay and I) decided to split our group in two and meet back at the coach at the end of the day.

Now let it be known that De Wallen (where the red light district is situated) is a small enclave of Amsterdam and is probably one of the craziest sections of any city worldwide. With women in windows and weed, the word ‘liberal’ doesn’t do it justice at all. Suppose De Wallen were a bike rolling down a hill, it’d be brake-less, without a seat, stabilisers, or wheels - just a rickety old frame trundling at full speed into those fiendish red lights below. 

Anywho, we had a good laugh throughout the day and were on the way back to the coach. Jay and I were deliberating on how the “weak space cake” was a little too weak. Unsatisfied, we happened upon, and decided to stop off at the most stereotypical edible peddlers I had seen there. So there are five of us squeezed-up in this weed takeaway shop, plastic inflatable palm trees everywhere, reggae beating over the speakers.
The guys behind the counter wore red, gold and green string vests and had locs. In true British fashion, I began small talk. I assumed they were Jamaican, and with me being of Jamaican heritage, I asked where in Jamaica they were from.

​They both answered ‘Barbados’. ‘Oh’, I replied - Now here’s where Carl swears I had doomed our expedition, for I went on to state - “So you guys aren’t real, Rastas then?” Carl reckons that on account of my faux pas, the brother going to get our order from the cabinet stopped in his tracks and looked back at me in complete disdain before selecting an entirely different batch of space muffins to those requested. Anyway, we paid and left. Carl, Shane and Ricardo had walked up ahead, opened their muffins, and ate them whole. 

Decided i'd drag my ass into this century and have a trailer made for my book.  BIG props to our actress Olivia Murray - 100% pure unrefined talent. Enjoy, share, comment.