Gerard Thistleton tells lies, always has. He loves his wife, sons and daughter, a lunatic dog and five horses variously lame. No cats own him. He also likes good wine of any colour and loafing in his slippers. A mortgagee bank and a posse of creditors spoil the peace and quiet of an otherwise benign existence.
There's the Irish King, wily drinkers at a country pub, a couple of lawyers, one sinking below too good a well oiled lunch, another ascending fire stairs to smoke gunpowder and a man wandering in the after life.
These tales are the product of an untidy mind loose with the delights of the English language determined to ambush readers with the twist at the end.