Author Terry Ravenscroft has 16 books to his credit which are available across all Amazon Stores, some of which like the Stairlift to Heaven series are best sellers in their respective genres.
AUTHOR LINKS : Connect with Author Terry Ravenscroft
Terry Ravenscroft is a well known former scriptwriter to Les Dawson, The Two Ronnies, Morecambe and Wise, Ken Dodd, Alas Smith and Jones and many more top comedians and television shows. He now writes comedy and humorous books.
Author Page at Amazon : http://www.amazon.co.uk/Terry-Ravenscroft/e/B002P8R1WK
Website : www.topcomedy.co.uk
Twitter Handle : @terryrazz
Facebook page : http://on.fb.me/ukZ78e
Stairlift to Heaven Series- Book Spotlight
Ebook : STAIRLIFT TO HEAVEN 2 - Further Up The Stairlift
Genre : Comedy, Humour, Entertainment
Author : Terry Ravenscroft
UK Amazon : http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0088NPKKQ
US Amazon : http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0088NPKKQ
Reviews : Multiple 4-5stars
Blurb : A further volume chronicling the life of an old age pensioner. As with its 76 x 5 Star Reviews predecessor Stairlift to Heaven those people of non-coffin dodging age should not be put off by this.
Everyone will be old someday, if they’re lucky, and there are valuable lessons to be learned here in coping with old age, as well as dogs and dog walking, horses, faith healers, gipsies, solicitors, council officials, busybodies and sundry other nuisances, plus advice on hoovering, letter writing, mounting a defence should you be taken to court, coping with being sentenced to Community Service (if your defence, like the writer's, proves to be inadequate), how to get the best of, and avoid the worst of, a holiday in Turkey, what to do should your home be burgled, what to do if your bank has 'good news' for you and lots, lots more.
Written by Terry Ravenscroft, former scriptwriter to Les Dawson, The Two Ronnies, Morecambe and Wise, Ken Dodd, Alas Smith and Jones and many more top comedians and television shows.
Excerpt from Stairlift to Heaven 2 (Further up the Stairlift)
April 1 2011. WATER.
It was a dark and stormy night. Actually it wasn’t dark and stormy when The Trouble and I, accompanied by Atkins and his wife Meg, set out for the pub.
But it very soon was. “Just an April shower,” I said, making light of it when it started to rain after we’d been walking for a few minutes.
“More like an April monsoon,” said The Trouble, a few minutes later, when not only had the shower failed to stop but had turned into a downpour.
It absolutely lashed down. Our destination, The Fox in the hamlet of Brookbottom, was just a mile away. If it had been ten miles away at the bottom of a lake we couldn’t have been wetter when we eventually arrived there.
For the last day or so the weather had been cold, given the time of year, so it was some consolation that there was a roaring fire in the lounge bar which would allow us to dry our outer garments. When we had placed them on the backs of chairs positioned round the fire a welcome round of drinks was called for.
“What are you having, Razza?” asked Atkins. “The usual?”
He turned to The Trouble. “How about you, Delma?”
“A gin and tonic please, Richard.”
“And for you Meg?”
Atkins’s wife thought about it for a moment. “I think I’ll just have a water.”
On hearing this Atkins just didn’t hit the roof. He went completely through it and a hundred feet up into the air. When he came down, no less apoplectic than when he went up, he shot daggers at Meg and said: “You bloody well will not have a water!”
Meg was at a loss. “Why not?”
“Why not? I’ll tell you why not. Because I’ve just walked through about a million gallons of the bloody stuff, that’s why not. I’m soaked to the skin with water. And you think I’m going to buy it? Well you’ve got another think coming!”
“That’s not water, it’s rain,” scoffed Meg.
“And where do you think water comes from?” said Atkins, like a ratty teacher addressing the class dunce.
Meg ignored his sarcasm. “Besides, it’s a mineral water I want. Buxton Water.”
“It probably is from bloody Buxton.” Atkins could have been right; the spa town of Buxton is only about ten miles to the south east as the crow flies and the wind was blowing hard from that direction.
“Yes but it won’t have minerals in it, will it?” Meg pointed out, as intent on getting her water as Atkins was to deny it her.
“Then I’ll piss in it for you,” said Atkins
Meg’s pained expression indicated that this wasn’t an addition she would welcome. An impasse having been reached The Trouble entered into the conversation. “What will you be drinking, Richard?”
“Not bloody water,” said Atkins.
“A pint of bitter.”
“Beer is ninety per cent water,” said The Trouble, matter-of-fact.
Meg shot a smug, triumphant smile at her husband.
“I’ll have a Scotch then,” said Atkins, and said to Meg: “So you can take that superior grin off your face.”
“Spirits are the same,” said The Trouble. “Ninety per cent water. If you have either beer or whisky you’ll be ninety per cent as guilty of drinking water as Meg is.”
At this point I had a King Solomon moment. “Why don’t you,” I said, addressing myself to Meg, “have a pint of bitter, but just drink ninety per cent of it?”
Then to Atkins I said: “And why don’t you have a pint of bitter and just drink ten per cent of it?”
Atkins had a Gordon Ramsey moment. “Why don’t you fuck off one hundred per cent and mind your own fucking business?”
In the end Meg had to go to the bar and buy her own water. Atkins told her he hoped it choked her. A couple of hours later, watered, if that’s an appropriate expression given the circumstances, our clothes dry again, we emerged from The Fox. It was still raining but not nearly as fiercely as it had been when we arrived there. The wind was still coming from the direction of Buxton. I thought of suggesting to Meg that if she walked along with her mouth open she could get some free Buxton Water but decided against it in case it got Atkins going again.
Amazon UK Reviews
Amazon US Reviews