KARL WIGGINS

Perhaps if I knew that things were going to turn out the way they did, I might have stopped every once in a while and paid a little bit more attention. But real life seldom turns out the way we expect it to. This is, of course, the way it should be because it is only life’s pitfalls and surprises, upheavals and wrong turns, dropped balls and personal goals that make each of us the unique individuals that we are. If we accept this, then it’s easier to understand that the first path we choose doesn’t always have to be the path we’re destined to remain on for the rest of our lives. Life is about enjoying the journey and embracing our fate. All the lessons I’ve learned have come from the people I’ve chosen to let into my soul, whether they’ve nurtured me, given me pain, danced with fury at my antics, brought tears of joy to my eyes or simply loved me. I was born during an era of great social hangover. It was the mid 1950’s and Floyd Patterson had just won the world heavyweight title by knocking out a 42-year-old Archie Moore. Instead of just women of dubious virtue, mothers and housewives were also starting to use hair colouring. In America, New York mobster Albert Anastasia was shot in a barbershop by gunmen in the pay of Vito Genovese, and the Ku Klux Klan forced a 25-year-old truck driver to jump to his death from the Tyler Goodwin Bridge for making remarks to a white woman. In England Teddy Boys became the first group of teenagers to differentiate themselves by wearing loud-coloured drape jackets with velvet-trimmed collars, drainpipe trousers and suede shoes known as brothel creepers. They wore their hair long for the era, using plenty of hair cream to get the quiff at the front just right and sweeping back the hair at the back into a Duck's Arse or DA, as it was called. Teddy Boys rioted, tore up seats, and danced in the aisles of a cinema at the Elephant and Castle in South London that was showing the American film ‘Blackboard Jungle.’ Gangs were formed and there were violent clashes with rivals and attacks on the West Indian community of Notting Hill in West London. Before mods and rockers, before skinheads and greasers, and way before punk, the youth culture of Great Britain was waking up amidst a hangover of empty beer cans, stale cigarette smoke and rock ‘n’ roll. My goal, my life's ambition if you like, is to give direction to comedy, purpose to satire. And this is probably why I write the way I do, in order to use self-deprecating humour to bring to the fore situations that just don't stack up. To demonstrate that serious issues can be approached with humour. Embarrassingly, a number of the reviews for my earlier books seem to involve people losing control of their bladder; 'Anyone who is a bit saucy, very fond of boobies and doesn't mind peeing slightly when they laugh too hard, this is the book for you!' 'Best not to read this book on the train if you have a full bladder because by the end of your journey you will have a damp patch in an embarrassing place.' 'I have to admit that I wet myself twice while reading it but this may in part have been due to my age and a couple of bottles of a fine St. Emilion. 'Due to the laughter, you owe my secretary one clean pair of knickers. Two reviewers have even suggested I should tour as a stand-up comedian; 'I found myself laughing out-loud and even sharing segments with my spouse ..... I think Karl could tour as a stand-up comedian.' 'Mr Wiggins has views on life that are expressed in a manner worthy of any stand-up comedian.' So my scribblings do seem to raise a smile and a chuckle, and either way you look at it, that has to be a good thing. Hardly any subject is taboo to the Englishman when he's laughing, and this often seems insensitive to other cultures, but the bedrock of the British sense of humour is a strong sense of sarcasm and self-deprecation. The British can be very passionate - and if you doubt that try going to a football match - but that passion is often hidden deep in our humour so that other nationals often fail to recognise the deadpan delivery and are never too sure if they've been involved in a serious conversation or just a little bit of friendly banter. Having said that, my style of writing is now appealing more and more to the American market. I used to write a regular column for a newsletter in Copiague, Long Island, New York. I'm really enjoying connecting with the people over there. Interestingly enough, my writing style has been compared to two people, both now dead, Charles Bukowski and Socrates. Their names keep popping up in reviews; 'Mr Bukowski, meet Socrates. This is an exceptionally amusing collection of observations of daily life.' 'The prose style reminded me quite a lot of Charles Bukowski's short essays and observations.' 'It reminded me a lot of Bukowski's novels, but particularly Factotum and Post Office.' 'Had me laughing out loud several times, which doesn't happen often to me. It reminded me a lot of Bukowski's novels.' 'Karl Wiggins is like a contemporary Socrates.' (I swear those are all completely separate reviewers). I'm sure both Socrates and Charles Bukowski would turn in their graves. But then again, maybe not. However, over the last few years, I find the world moving in different, if not frightening, directions. Now I wasn’t born bright. I don’t understand the logic behind the way certain governments and religions are moving, except that something in my bones tells me this ain't right. And when shit doesn’t make sense, I start thinking about it over and over until it does. The way the planet is spinning right now doesn’t make sense .... but it’s starting to. And I’ve recently been writing quite a bit about this