The King of Sunday Morning is a geezer. Not in the traditional sense of the word as in old man. This geezer is a face, a wannabe, a top notch bloke. He is the greatest DJ that never was. He should have been. Could have been. Would have been. Now becoming a has-been.
Tray McCarthy was born into privilege but with the genetic coding of London’s violent East End. Having broken the underworld’s sacred honour code, it is only his family’s gangland connections that save him. But in return for his life, he must deny that which he has ever known or ever will be and runs to Australia where he is forced to live an inconsequential life.
But trouble never strays far from Tray McCarthy and eventually his past and present collide to put everyone he has ever loved in danger. He must now make a stand and fight against those that are set to destroy him and play their game according to his rules.
Set against the subterfuge and violence of the international drugs trade, The King of Sunday Morning is the tale of what can go wrong when you make bad decisions. Tray McCarthy has made some of the worst. He must now save those he holds dear but in the process gets trapped deeper and deeper into a world where he doesn’t belong.
“I want three pump-action shotguns, about twelve sticks of dynamite and a blowtorch”
THIS BOOK CONTAINS EXPLICIT LANGUAGE, FREQUENT DRUG USE AND SEX SCENES – NOT RECOMMENDED FOR PEOPLE UNDER 18 YEARS OF AGE
And now, a few (hundred) words from King of Sunday Morning author, JB McCauley
Once upon a long ago, I was a club DJ. I mixed with gangsters, celebrities, models, wannabes, has-beens, drug takers, drug dealers, music lovers, dancers, good guys, bad guys and everything that sits in between. My life has been a constantly evolving world of misadventure and the pursuit of the never ending dream. When I wrote the King of Sunday Morning, I wanted to write a book that depicted that world. A world that was not necessarily a portrayal of my life but a portrayal of what my life could have been. It is a Shakespearean tragedy that delivers hope where despair and the headlong rush to destruction are the only path available to those involved.
I have lived in nightclubs. I have grown up on the dance floor. Some people will only recognise dance music as a necessary evil to their Saturday night. The white noise that buzzes through their ears as they try in vain to communicate with potential suitors on their quest for Saturday night romance. I value it so much higher.
Outstanding dance music is like all other memorable forms of music. It takes you to another place. It takes you to another time. It reminds you of the good moments. It can lead you into a pit of despair when it takes you back to broken relationship, lost loves, to the trials and tribulations of a noble cause. It is the beat by which you measure your life. It is the memory of your existence and can represent the evolution of man. It is the message stick. It is the tribal drum. It is the rhythm of the Shamen. It is the song of our hearts.
As you can most probably tell, music plays a very important role in my life. It has shaped me. It has transformed me. It has allowed me to live my life with freedom and has given me moments of sheer ecstasy. It has also allowed me to meet a broad spectrum of people who have done nothing but add to the fabric of my existence.
When I sat down in front of a blank piece of paper and planned this novel, I wanted all of that in a story. I wanted people to understand that world and not to dismiss it out of hand as something that was alien and which was of somewhat lesser value than their normal everyday experience. The flawed characters, the incongruous heroes, the men of low morals, the women of low self-esteem. All of these people can be loved. All of these people can be cherished. We do not have to respect or forgive them but we can love them for what they want to be not what they are.
Whilst no one in the book is derived from any one person, characters, characteristics, outcomes and inspirations are the product of a life well-lived. Authors and writers absorb the world around them. They have the ears of a bat and the sight of an eagle. They miss nothing. They would make excellent spies. For them the kitchen table, public houses, even the doctor’s waiting room, are areas in which they thrive. There are no secrets for them. There is nothing that is taboo. They will regurgitate, they will embellish they will build and they will lay bare. For them the story is in the telling not in the tale itself. For them it is the journey not the final destination.
I have tried in the King of Sunday Morning to deliver all of that. Many people will have no knowledge of what it means to take drugs, to dance until dawn, to say no to a gangster, to live life without any regrets. But all of us at some point in our lives will experience blinding love and will have to make choices. Choices that will affect those that they love and which will determine who stands by them. The rules that govern these choices are very rarely based on selfless acts or the generosity of spirit. Although The King of Sunday Morning exists in a world where hedonism and the pursuit of one last high seems all encompassing, the standards by which these people live their lives are, for them, set in stone. They may be askew and slightly off kilter compared to the rest of society but it is their code and it can never be broken.
Although set in this toxic underworld, the underlying message of The King of Sunday Morning is one of hope. It is misogynistic, violent, profane, realistic and shocking but also filled with tenderness, humour and passion. I hope I have woven enough of an intricate tapestry to lend substance to a tale which could have just been a basic commentary on modern culture and instead given the reader something to think about. For at the end of the day, reading is about enjoyment. No one wants to be preached to. We all want to find our own way and if we find that in the escapism of some well-crafted sentences, then I believe there is no greater reward for an author.
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