Foyles SOLD OUT!

Foyles sold out of The Little Boy Lost and reordering, hurry and get yours!



Check out the new Book du Jour on SPBH The Little Boy Lost and Little Boy Found at http://www.selfpublishbehappy.com/2015/04/book-du-...

Proper chuffed




The Little Boy Lost and The Little Boy Found selected by Claire De Rouen to be sold at the new Impossible shop http://news.impossible.com/this-is-not-impossible-... Check out this brilliant endeavour if you haven't already come across it...https://www.impossible.com/home


Books now available at Foyles!

Books now on sale at the wonderful flagship bookstore of Foyles, 107 Charing Cross Road, London.

If you happen to be in there please make sure you move them to the front of the display...





London, England

Huge thanks to the wonderful Lu Bowan and fabulous Chris and Mark from Studio Thomson for their help, skill and support in the making of my first books The Little Boy Lost and The Little Boy Found. They have been a long time coming but look fantastic and I am a very happy bunny. They are currently available to buy from this link Buy Book and from Claire De Rouen and other select outlets soon.


Kate Nash

Rickmansworth, England

Today I simultaneously found out that Kate Nash went to my old school and that Mr Berditch, head of music was a pedophile and I'm not sure which I'm most surprised at.

He was a skinny little angry fella with glasses hiding slitty eyes and with hindsight looked pretty dodgy - its pretty easy to believe he kept tens of thousands of disgusting pictures and videos on his computer – but for someone moderately talented and semi famous to come from that wasteland of inspiration and knowledge is a real shock.

My experience at St Joan of Arc was utterly miserable…slap bang in the middle of the 80's teachers strike with no sport, drama and thankfully music – the school was run by uninterested teachers smelling of beer and the bullies bullied unhindered, often encouraged…inspiration comes from many places but not this one.

Emails flying between former pupils about Berditch included "but I thought he was my special friend…" and "All he taught me was to play the pink oboe and willy banjo…" which seemed really funny as he didn't, as far as we know so far, tamper with anyone at the school. But the article from the Telegraph rang about in my head… "Time and again I have to make the observation that somewhere in the world a child is being abused and violated by someone to satisfy the depraved tastes of those who download these images." It is not victimless, or funny or very sadly, surprising.




Rio, Brazil

Down at the Copa or along the classier Ipanema - be it early morning, late night, middle of the day, it didn't seem to matter – there were in their scores, grown men of all possible shapes and sizes wearing the skimpiest of speedos with nothing else save a pair of matching coloured havianas, walking tall, bowling along – looking for eye contact, for the chance to say "what me? Speedos? and what the fuck about it?" – pure fucking class.

Of course its hot but that’s not the only reason these fellas reduce their clothing to a few grams of latex revealing the size, shape and bounce of their cock and balls to the world – its confidence and its pride but above all I think a complete disregard for anything anyone else might think of them and I loved it. I thought about these speedos more than perhaps I should and eventually decided that I should give it a go… I pulled on a pair of adidas trunks - a bit longer than skimpy thong but still the nut hugging kind reserved in the UK for serious athletes and leisure centre nonces. I paired them with a t–shirt and orange havianas and headed to the beach – its impossible to walk without being conscious of how your lunchbox is moving and initially fluctuated between bowling and mincing – eventually settling into a Verve inspired bowl. After a few minutes of self consciousness, some frisbie and english keepy uppies(we got to 30 I think) we went to a bar and watched 90 minutes of football – I occasionally remembered what I was wearing and smiled, proud and unusually happy.

In the same way we are slowly claiming the St. Georges flag back from racists I think we should begin to wrestle back the speedos from the nonces.



Sau Paulo, Brazil

It was dogshit.

Sau Paulo was cold and wet, the stadium was fucking miles from anywhere and not finished – the hangover was taking its time to fade and we were surrounded by geordies. The crowd full of Admiral retro shirts and Sergio Tachini tracky tops making the temporary cold stand open to the freezing elements feel timeless. All we wanted was a win, I had lowered my expectations so very far - I had tried to detach my enjoyment from the result but as the game neared I couldn’t help but link everything positive and happy and wonderful in the world to getting a result. There wasn't.

There was a goal at least, 30 seconds of jumping and shouting and hugging and love for the entire universe prompting a few minutes of optimism and happiness soon to be undone by Suarez, who else...?

The journey home involved getting a train to find our taxis and dinner at a restaurant with a tree in it - gin and wine – a cork in our neighbouring tables salad lightened the mood briefly and we got stuck in…soon after we found ourselves at a nightclub where many of the very beautiful patrons would have sex with you for money if you wanted them to, some of them more than one at a time I am told.

I couldn’t help thinking that for that moment, for that entire day, and maybe for many years, I had been looking for pleasure in the entirely wrong place.

Russia 2018? No fucking way.

Christopher Paul Sharpe;

Chris is 6'4", has brown hair
and is from Watford, UK.
He has enjoyed taking pictures while
doing other things since 1978.

Email; info@christopherpaulsharpe.com
Instagram;  christopherpaulsharpe
Twitter;  @CPFSharpe

Design by StudioThomson, edited by Lu Bowan, built by Pumkin.