D.C.J. Wardle

 

dcjwardle@gmail.com

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Vincent Crow Export

Vince negotiated his way through the airport, past the authorities and into the untamed wilderness beyond. As he did so he found that his lack of indigenous language skills was the next obstacle to help

to reinforce his new appreciation of the different levels on the scale of being abroad...

 

In Vincent Crow: Export, we re-visit Vincent  to see that his unique but ad-hoc approach to self-improvement has has inspired him to journey east. He throws himself into the unplugged depths of the Asian business world, with support from his unlikely benefactor, Jonathan Fairchild.

 

Inevitably, the cascade of disaster that permeates Vinces approach to personal advancement means that this new chapter of his life in a foreign country is anything but straightforward. The challenge of starting from scratch in an exotic land could be overwhelming for the most seasoned of entrepreneurs  and Vince has the added complication of bringing his nan along for the adventure, which may not be the most astute decision that he has ever made...

DCJ Wardle: The first Vincent Crow book plays out in a number of locations in the UK, and by the end Vince gives the impression that he is starting to cope a bit better with his social ineptitude. I decided it was high time he was taken out of his developing comfort zone and set him some real challenges, as far from home as possible... I have traveled to and worked in a number of Asian countries, and so in writing this book Ive enjoyed the opportunity to drawn from my wanderings and create the backdrop in which Vinces new adventures unfold.

THE THREE OF THEM WOULD BE QUITE A TEAM...

WELL, APART FROM HIS NAN

 

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Excerpt from Vincent Crow: Export

 

Vince had only ever been to Wales when it came to being ‘abroad’.

 

When you’re about ten, and you’re comparing far-flung foreign adventures into the unknown with other compatriots of a similar level of life experience, then Wales definitely counts in the ‘abroad’ stakes. No doubt about it. When you’ve reached your twenties, however, and are suffering some backpacker’s tedious monologue of their egotistically mind-broadening ‘year out’, which included six-months discovering themselves spiritually in remote corners of Peru by banging on a drum with some other stoned teenagers, then bringing up Wales isn’t going count as proof of an equal footing. Even if you do have photographic evidence that demonstrates you were there for a whole week at the beach, and it didn’t rain once, the first time that had happened ‘in, like, ever’ (or at least since pre-Cambrian times).

 

As Vince stepped off the plane at Feiquon’s international airport, he decided that Wales really was a very different kind of abroad to the one he was in now. In retrospect, he now realised that the conversation he’d once had with an arrogant young returnee from Peru at the bar in the Carrot and Jam Kettle, where he defended the notion that a weekend camping in the Mumbles was a comparable adventure to a trek through the Peruvian rainforests, was based on a marginally floored hypothesis.

 

The wall of Feiquon heat and humidity that engulfed him on the steps of the plane was a shock to the system. He was mopping the sweat from his brow before he’d even descended to the tarmac. The uncomfortable stickiness was almost worse than working in the kitchens at the Carrot and Jam Kettle on a busy Friday night in the summer, stench of chip-fat aside.

 

Behind him Natalie was liberally applying her new duty-free perfume, and behind her his nan was standing in the oval doorway of the plane with a lighter in one hand and a cigarette in the other. The limited pace at which her aging frame could propel her forward in a straight line meant that the distance from the aeroplane steps to the door of the immigration lounge was definitely at least one fag’s-worth