Iain: Who could imagine that the world would have an appetite for an on-going series of books about the devil himself running wild in the suburban streets of Birmingham?

Heide: Well, actually, he gets to go on a bit of road trip this time. In fact, here’s the blurb:

There’s life in the old dog yet…

When Jeremy Clovenhoof realises that he’s become too fond of his creature comforts, he signs on as a roadie for a Danish heavy metal band and goes on tour.

A whirlwind adventure of sex, drugs and rock and roll awaits this horny devil. However, things take a turn for the ridiculous when they pick up a band of Morris dancers on their way to a grudge match competition in the North of England. Will the world ever be ready for the unholy fusion of rock music and folk dancing, especially when it’s Clovenhoof centre stage?

The ninth book in the Clovenhoof series is a madcap romp featuring talking dogs, disco-dancing angels, naughty vintage books, flamethrower guitars and a conga dance into the gates of Hell.

Iain: Sounds brilliant.

Heide: We would say that – we wrote it. But in case you’re in any doubt, you can read the entirety of the first chapter at the bottom of this newsletter. We’ve cleaned up some of the language in case you wanted to read it at work or on the bus.

Iain: Seamlessly cleaned it up. You won’t even notice the changes.

Heide: If you want to pre-order the Kindle version or indeed get the paperback right now – 

Iain: Really?

Heide: The paperback is available RIGHT NOW. Yes, you can click on this link and order the book in your favourite format.

Iain: And audiobook listeners, be assured we’ll get the audio version out to you as soon as possible. Crafting quality audio takes time.

Heide: Happy reading!

CHAPTER 1

Jeremy Clovenhoof loved Wednesday evenings. He had a whole Wednesday night routine which mostly involved him laying sprawled on his sofa with a glass of lukewarm Lambrini in his hand.

The sofa wasn’t exactly a sofa, it was the leftover bits of his bed. It turned out that you could, in fact, cut a bed in half with a chainsaw. He’d not only won a drunken bet, he had also invented a new piece of furniture. The sawn-off end sat on top of the larger bit. Clovenhoof had named it a sleeping sofa and it was surprisingly comfy.

Wednesday night was also Great British Bake Off catch-up night. Clovenhoof had spent most of the past ten years mocking anyone who watched the competitive cooking show. The idea that you should watch other people making and eating food and not actually get to try any yourself was as nonsensical as watching porn without being allowed to vigorously pleasure yourself (a belief which had resulted in him being kicked out of every arthouse cinema within a twenty mile radius).

However, Clovenhoof had found fresh enjoyment in the cooking show when he started compiling a mental list of which baked goods he would most like to eat off which contestant’s body. Was it macarons off Samayah? Was it a sloppy cream gateau off Ashley? The list had turned into a complex tally chart, then into a series of badly executed photoshop images, and then into a whole viral thread of online posts that had ended up with him blocked by the TV company and no less than six celebrity chefs.

Jeremy Clovenhoof also loved Wednesdays because for the last month or more, Wednesdays were the nights when he would have a visitor from the Old Place pay him a visit.

There was a knock at the door. Clovenhoof paused Bake Off.

“It’s unlocked!” he shouted, which was technically true. Clovenhoof had lost his flat keys on Monday and had booted the door in with a well-placed hoof kick, ripping the lock from the door and taking a decent portion of the door frame with it.

Rutspud, a small sack over his shoulder, peered carefully round the door before entering the room. Rutspud was a demon of the Sixth Circle, and he was visiting the disgraced former Lord of Hell, so perhaps he was right to be cautious. The great and powerful, both above and below, might have opinions on demons wandering the mortal world and consorting with a dictator in exile. In particular, the great and powerful below might want to take action against such a demon and make an example of him (or perhaps a dart board or a string of sausages – Hell could be very inventive when it chose).

“Good evening, Lord Satan,” said Rutspud.

Clovenhoof always thought Rutspud had watchful and expressive eyes. Expressive eyes which hinted there was a whole range of thoughts going on in Rutspud’s brain at any one time; but since the little demon possessed the rare gift of intelligence, he mostly kept his mouth shut and those thoughts to himself.

“It’s Jeremy, Rutspud,” said Clovenhoof. “Big Jezza. Hoofmeister. King Dong. Any of those. I haven’t Satanned in years. Get in here, get comfy with me and give me all the goss from the Old Place.”

Rutspud plopped down onto the edge of the sleeping sofa. “Things are much the same as the last time we spoke. There is a good deal of interest in some of the apps we’ve developed in the lab. We won a special commendation for the parking app we created. It charges a booking fee for a parking session, even when parking is supposed to be free. It also contains a signal blocker, so that it always take a minimum of twenty minutes to pay for parking, no matter where you are.”

“Incredible work.” Clovenhoof wanted to applaud the evil, although he was glad he never paid for parking. It was one of the benefits of always getting other people to do the driving. Clovenhoof loved the concept of driving, but his hooves just weren’t ideal for pedal pushing.

He waggled his half-empty bottle of Lambrini at Rutspud. “Libation?”

“Ah,” said Rutspud and reached into his sack to pull out an unremarkable wine bottle. There was a cork inexpertly shoved in the top of it.

“Is that what I think it is?” said Clovenhoof.

“Do you think it might be fermented fizzy monk’s *PIDDLE*?” said Rutspud.

“I do,” said Clovenhoof.

“Then you’d be right.” Rutspud pulled out the cork with a satisfying plosive sound and topped up Clovenhoof’s outheld glass.

“I normally drink the commercially produced stuff,” said Clovenhoof, savouring the drink’s rough bouquet. “But when in Rome…”

“You ever been to Rome, lord?”

Clovenhoof snorted. “Who’d you think gave Nero the idea to crucify Saint Peter upside down?”

As Rutspud poured himself a small cup of monk’s *PIDDLE*, Twinkle crossed the room to have a sniff.

Rutspud drew back in surprise. “It is a miniature monster, but unpleasantly fluffy,” he said.

Twinkle was a Yorkshire Terrier and the description of unpleasantly fluffy miniature monster was not far wrong.

“I’m looking after him while Nerys is away on this training course with her frenemy, Tina.”

“Training course?”

“Jungle Boss or something. A load of *BOLLARDS* that involves messing about in the woods and burying your own turds, I think.”

Twinkle looked at Rutspud expectantly. Rutspud poured a splash of the monk’s *PIDDLE* into a little bowl that had been put down for the dog. Twinkle inspected it and then gave a tentative lick.

“Wouldn’t Nerys prefer the other one to look after her dog? You know the one. The weedy human who looks like he’s just discovered life is a joke but he doesn’t understand the punchline?”

“Ben?”

“Is that his name?” said Rutspud.

“He would do, except he’s thrown himself back into getting his bookshop profitable again. Thinks there’s going to be renaissance for small local high street shops.”

“Renaissance? As in…?”

Clovenhoof shrugged. “Cheap labour, poor hygiene and deadly turf wars, I guess. Now, what do you need help with this week?”

Rutspud emptied the remains of his sack onto the low coffee table. He placed a bottle of liquid, a thing looking like the leg of a cheap pottery cat, and a scrappy fragment of a map onto the table. “Your help is requested. We have urgent questions, my lord.”

“Ah, as always I am happy to help.” Clovenhoof puffed up with self-importance. “Do we have the usual rounds on Geography, History and Science?”

“We do indeed,” said Rutspud.

The reasons for Rutspud’s visits were due to a complex series of events, involving a dangerous rise in the average temperature of Hell, an incursion by a band of Welsh monks, a magical wardrobe built by the author of the Narnia books, and a monstrous flood that had destroyed Satan’s magnificent Fortress of Nameless Dread. The simple, short-sighted version was that Hell’s newest ruler, Lord Peter, was a *FUNK*-up and Hell was in a mess. The simple long-sighted version (which Clovenhoof preferred) was that the Big Guy Upstairs was a *FUNK*-up and subsequently Hell was just one of many places in a mess.

And it turned out that Clovenhoof was the only guy who could help fix it. The folks downstairs still needed him.

“Brilliant,” he said. “What do you need?”

Rutspud smoothed the map flat onto the table. “This small fragment is the only remaining record showing the inner courtyard of the Fortress of Nameless Dread. Partial features only. You can see here that there is a correctional fountain – whatever that means.”

Clovenhoof scratched his belly in reflection. “From what I recall, it flowed with fabric softener. A pungent scent of springtime flowers. Anyone who took a dunking would be soft and fluffy for weeks.”

Rutspud quivered in horror and looked at the very fluffy dog which had made short work of his drink. “Good grief, that sounds awful. Right, thanks.”

Clovenhoof thought there was something awfully familiar about the map, but he was already on his second bottle of Lambrini and starting to mix his drinks, so thoughts didn’t necessarily come easy to him.

“Okay, next one.” He grabbed the weird little cat leg from the table and heard it crack in his grip.

“Be careful with that!” said Rutspud. “It’s St Zita’s Pipe of Order!”

“Is it?” Clovenhoof looked at the two broken pieces in his hand. It was indeed a small clay whistle.

“That’s what the box said.”

“What box?”

“We just found it while digging out the foundations for the new Fortress of Dread. It was in a capsule with ‘St Zita’s Pipe of Order’ written on it.”

“But there were no instructions or anything to indicate where the ‘order’ part comes in?”

“No,” said Rutspud.

“Right.” Clovenhoof stood up. “Maybe you blow it and it gives you whatever you order. I need to go and get some superglue. Keep talking. Tell me about the bottle.”

Rutspud was forced to shout as Clovenhoof wandered across the landing into Ben’s flat in search of glue. “The liquid is called The Tears of Lilith.”

“Are they like the actual tears of Lilith?” Clovenhoof shouted back. “Or is it just a fancy name? Like for a perfume or something?”

“I don’t know.”

Clovenhoof walked straight into Ben’s flat.

The place was like a super-distilled answer to the question ‘What does a single man’s home look like?’ The dining table was covered in wargaming figures and the paraphernalia needed to craft hundreds of over-priced wargaming miniatures. Underpants were drying on the radiator. Recently, Ben had decided to put some of his Heavy Metal LPs on the wall, like they were pieces of art. To Clovenhoof’s eyes, it just looked like they were there because he’d run out of space to store them in the cupboard.

Ben was hunched over his laptop at the kitchen counter, a look of disgusted consternation on his face.

“Glue, Kitchen,” said Clovenhoof, hoping Ben realised he was referring to the man’s surname and not the room they were in.

Ben was so taken with whatever was on his screen, he didn’t even bother to tell Clovenhoof off for not knocking. He just waved a hand at the wargaming table. “Somewhere on there,” he said vaguely. The horror on his face seemed to be permanently fixed.

“You watching that Two Girls, One Cup video again?” said Clovenhoof.

“Huh?” said Ben, finally looking up, blankly.

“I said, you had a good day, mate?”

Ben blinked. “Busy. More than busy.”

“Good,” said Clovenhoof. He spotted a yellow tube of superglue among the snippers and abrasive tools on the table and snagged it up. “Heard from Nerys at all?”

“Huh?” the fazed Ben repeated before replying properly with: “She sent me some photos. I think they were doing folk dancing and singing business mantras this evening or something.”

“Fascinating,” said Clovenhoof who really didn’t care, and left.

You can order the whole book here!