Authors: Andie M. Long
Ball Games Book Two
By Andie M. Long
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Copyright (c) 2016 by Andrea Long
All rights reserved.
Cover photo from One Dollar Photo.
This book is dedicated to Nikki Levy, ETM
Evil Task Master, and Mistress of the Twitter Universe.
Once again thank you to the following people who assist in getting these books into print.
To the Midland Meet up girlies, who inspired the series by taking me into a sweet shop!
To my sister Maz for all your support and love as always.
Special thanks to everyone who beta read this novella and loved it, even if you did then nag me to write the next one!
To Michelle Dunbar, Editor Extraordinaire.
To my ETM (Evil Task Master) Nikki J. Levy for all the encouragement and support.
To my Indie Erogenous Zone ladies who keep me sane.
Love, kisses and sparkles to the Tiara Team.
Thank you to all the readers, bloggers and fellow authors who are so supportive.
With a final thank you to my family, friends and work colleagues who encourage my dreams.
Yorkshire Slang Guide
Welcome to the second novella in the Ball Games Series. You do not need to have read Book One to enjoy this novella. Now you may be reading this novella from outside of South Yorkshire, England. This story is centred around the Turner family, who I hope you will become familiar with as I write further novellas in the series, all complete stand-alone stories. While I refrained from writing in the broad Yorkshire style of ‘Where’s tha bin?’ (Where have you been), I did want to leave in some British and Yorkshire words as I love providing an opportunity to learn new rude words, (I’m naughty like that.) So what follows is a list of what you will come across in the novella. If I’ve missed any feel free to contact me and I’ll teach you what they mean. I hope you have fun reading the Ball Games series. It came about after a meeting of like-minded book readers in Birmingham. We happened to visit a sweet shop that sold Camel Balls (you can Google them if you don’t know what they look like). As some of the meet-up were bloggers who had formed an alliance called
All for the Love,
myself and fellow author Beth Ashworth joked that we would have our own group,
The Camel Balls
Such is a writer's imagination that a few months later when I saw some e-books with rude titles I thought it would be fun to write one called Balls. Then Tyler Turner said he wanted a book cos his sister had one, so here is Snow Balls.
8 January 2016
- hard work/tedious.
- to make a mistake.
- breasts, usually to describe large ones.
- another word for cuppa/cup of tea. It’s brewed in the teapot, or mug.
Can’t be arsed
- can’t be bothered.
- get on with it.
- really, e.g.
I’m dead busy.
– a response when you say something really obvious or stupid, e.g. “well duh.” (pronounced durr).
- I don’t know. Again Yorkshire people shorten phrases.
- old person.
- sarcastically saying thank you.
Go for broke
- take one last risk.
- a thousand pounds (money).
- used a lot in sentences by young people even though it's not needed,
e.g., You’re like smiling.
- laze around.
- Not slang but a British show where you have to be extremely knowledgeable about a subject.
- stolen it.
Out on the razz
- going out at night for lots of drinks.
Paste the living shi
t - to hit hard.
- a guess.
- mess about.
- to go into your house quickly to get something. Also, if you go around to someone’s house uninvited, e.g.,
Oh I just thought I’d pop around, see if you were in.
placed before a word like s’alright, s’okay. It’s alright, it’s okay. Sometimes Yorkshire people can’t be bothered to say the whole word.
- sickly sweet
- to work something out/understand.
- evening meal.
Three sheets to the wind
- hit, used as that’s the noise it makes. (please do not hit your own ear to check. Oh you have already? See daft
- a word for vagina, used to say a person is a despicable person or idiot if proceeded by daft.
- English pounds (money).
- fast asleep.
Having a Christmas Day birthday sucks. Nearly everyone buys me joint presents, or they wrap my birthday gift in Christmas paper because they can't be arsed to get another roll out. Lazy fuckers. I get excited that it's my birthday and annoyed that other people get presents on it. It's
fucking day for God's sake. They don't have to share theirs.
My sister, Camille, argues with me when I say this. She says I always got a present on her birthday in case I had a jealous strop about her getting all the attention. She got all the bloody attention anyway. Four years younger than me and a girl. She was always making a play or a puppet show. The folks never stopped applauding her and telling her how talented and special she was.
Boys don't do that shit. All I wanted was to be left alone to loaf.
It's eleven am and my mother shouts up the stairs telling me to get my arse out of bed and join them for present opening. Like I said, it's my birthday, but I have to watch them open their presents first. I stick on my tee and joggers and walk downstairs. Fucked if I'm having a wash today, it's Christmas. Soon as the presents are opened I'm going back to bed. I'll get back up for Christmas dinner and eat chocolate for tea. Even better, after lunch, I'll sneak a couple of my Dad's beers upstairs and settle down to play my new Xbox One games.
'Finally, he appears,' says my sister, who's come over to eat Christmas dinner. No doubt she'll be spending the rest of it with her boyfriend, Dylan. Perfect bloody Camille. She went to Uni, where of course she got First Class Honours,
she owns her own business, a play centre, right here in Rotherham. It's doing great. As my mother says "if she landed in a pile of shit she'd come out smelling of roses". Even so, I love her to bits. Don't tell her I said that, though. I enjoy tormenting the life out of her. That's a big brother's job.
So, today I am twenty-five years old. A quarter of a century. Wonder if I'll get a bit of extra dosh in my card, with it being a special number and all?
We go through the Christmas present-opening ritual. My mother is obsessed with Christmas. She starts way before December so by the time we get to Christmas Day she's almost had enough of the season. On Boxing Day, she often takes the decorations down, saying it's over. She makes a Christmas diary, adding an event to each day of December. My poor father gets dragged along to Carol Concerts and the lights being switched on. I peeked in the bag containing the sexy Santa outfit. I was almost sick. It's my mother and father for Christ's sake. They're old.
Everyone has to take turns opening their gifts. I'm well happy when I get Fallout 4. That's my day sorted, working my way through the levels.
Mum looks disappointed as she opens soap sets and gloves. 'Every year I go to a stack of trouble, working out what people like and buying accordingly—and all I get is soap.'
We hear this same story every year. Mum can't use perfumed products so all these gifts go straight into a charity bag.
'I thought I made it clear that I wanted an Icelandic Christmas this year.'
She'd read this year’s nutty idea on Facebook. Apparently people in Iceland wrap each other a book and hot chocolate. They open them on Christmas Eve and go to bed to read and relax with their book and hot beverage. I've no idea if it’s true or just crap. Mum continues to pout as we finish opening our presents. Then my dad hands her an envelope.
'Oh my God. A one hundred pound Amazon voucher. I can get so many books with this. Thank you, Tim.' She leans over and kisses his cheek.
Camille and I lock gazes and nod.
I hand my mother one package and Camille gives her another.
'What's this?' She opens them to find
Discover the New You
a hardback book released by Tatiana Patrick, an ex-Victoria's Secret model. Our mother goes on a self-improvement mission every January.
'Oh my God. This is exactly what I wanted,' Mum says, leaving out the fact that she mentioned it in passing every ten minutes in the run up to Christmas. She opens my present. An assortment of Hot Chocolate from her favourite coffee shop.
'Oh, my babies and husband. Thank you for knowing me so well. Merry Christmas everybody.' She kisses Camille and me on the head like we're two years old. Then she leans over to Dad and plants one right on his mouth. For fucks sake.
'Okay. I'd better get in the kitchen,' she says and makes to stand up.
'Ha ha.' Every year is the same. They pretend they've forgotten it's my birthday.
Of course, now I'm twenty-five my cards are few and presents are non-existent. It's money in my cards and that's my lot.
My mum sits back down, a smile forms on her lips. She gets a card out of a large pocket at the front of her Christmas apron.
I open a card from my Auntie. By this age, you know who every card is from before you open it as you can recognise the handwriting.
'There's nothing in it. She must have forgotten the money—or the postman's nicked it.’ I shake out the envelope as if notes will miraculously appear.
'Oh, Miranda said she was stopping it this year.' says Mum. 'We agreed to put an end date of twenty-five on all you kids.'
My Auntie is almost as loopy as my mother. She'll be pleased she can keep her money and spend it on DVDs. She has hundreds of them. Could never possibly watch them all. Just likes looking at them. Won't let me borrow them either. What a waste.