Straight White Male

Straight White Male

John Niven

Language: English

Pages: 384

ISBN: 0802123031

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


Irish novelist Kennedy Marr is a first rate bad boy. When he is not earning a fortune as one of Hollywood’s most sought after script writers, he is drinking, insulting and philandering his way through LA, ‘successfully debunking the myth that men are unable to multitask’. He is loved by many women, but loathed by even more including ex-wives on both sides of the pond.

Kennedy’s appetite for trouble is insatiable, but when he discovers that he owes 1.4 million dollars in back taxes, it seems his outrageous, hedonistic lifestyle may not be as sustainable as he thought. Forced to accept a teaching position at sleepy Deeping University, where his ex-wife and teenaged daughter now reside, Kennedy returns to England with a paper trail of tabloid headlines and scorned starlets hot on his bespoke heels. However, as he acclimatizes to the quaint campus Kennedy is forced to reconsider his laddish lifestyle. Incredible as it may seem, there might actually be a father and a teacher lurking inside this ‘preening, narcissistic, priapic sociopath’.

STRAIGHT WHITE MALE is a wildly funny and whip smart tale of Kennedy’s transatlantic misadventures. It’s an uninhibited and heartfelt look at the mid-life crisis of a lovable rogue.

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dedication you’ve shown in doing such a thorough job. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go and inform the recipient-elect’s representatives.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Oh dear.’ Standing up now, Bell added, ‘I must also ask that everyone here maintains total secrecy as to the identity of the winner until we have definite confirmation that they will be accepting it.’ He looked from face to face, lingering a little longer on Trencher and Costello. ‘Now I would normally ask you all to stay for a

new millennium moved into its second decade, Kennedy Marr’s face looked out from the photocopied newsprint: still topped with the same thick, black head of hair it had been nearly twenty years ago. The light of the anglepoise – still warm on Drummond’s naked head as he wrote. Warwickshire rain on the window. TWENTY CONFERENCE CALL WITH Scott Spengler. They were in Braden’s office, gathered around the matt-black, pyramid-shaped speakerphone: Connie, Braden, Kennedy and Danny the assistant,

you, mate,’ she said, smiling. ‘Is that right?’ Kennedy said, smiling too. THIRTY-ONE LUNCH WITH THE Dean had been exceedingly pleasant. Local pheasant and then apple crumble. He’d even broken out a bottle of ’73 Palmer. His offices were in the old part of the university: a Victorian cod-Gothic jumble on the northern slope of the campus, a few wings and a tower grouped around two quads lined with copper beeches. Through the Dean’s windows, over behind the tower and down the slope, you

Paige . . . what’s your second name, honey?’ ‘Patterson,’ she hiccuped, laughed. ‘Bone Collectors by Paige Patterson. And may all your points be gross.’ He clinked his glass to hers and they all drank the sweet, syrupy dessert wine. An underling came in with a stack of papers for Spengler. ‘Bihoveth hire a ful long spoon,’ Kennedy said, pronouncing it in the full medieval fashion, sounding out all the vowels, ‘that shal ete with a feend.’ ‘What’s that now, pal?’ Spengler asked. ‘“He that

symphony he floated down the Charing Cross Road towards the Strand, beatified, flooded with the deep peace he now knew came from knowing that life was at an end. Here they came, all around him, the humans. See how they joked! How they laughed, the air wreathing silver from their mouths, jetting in twin plumes from their nostrils. These fucking fools. Did they not understand? – they were all going to die. One day soon they would be on that bed, reaching for that final breath and finding it would

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