This is a book about a small North-Western town called Millom. It started out as a little place which was built around an iron-ore mine. I was born in Ulverston, which is about eighteen miles away (the birthplace of Stan Laurel their particular claim to fame). Millom was plodding along doing nothing much but mining iron ore. The mines had closed down when I was a kid; and that was it really. There’s a prison camp there which houses lifers. It has hills on one side and the sea o the other, so if the residents get attacked by the Scottish, all they need do is side-step them and hopefully they will end up running into the sea and drowning. Knowing Millom’s luck the tide will be out. So, it’s on a pinnacle and few know of it … it needs a bit of Divine intervention and you ask; you receive (without fail); without knowing it; Millom asked (definitely without knowing it). In 1980 or so, a policeman was moved there. He didn’t like it and said so to the newspapers; and got a few quid in hurt feelings money. I found the paper on a bus, read the article, and actually tore my stomach muscles laughing. I read it and instead of getting angry, I thought ‘It’s wrong. It’s much worse than that.’ I then sat down and put everything I knew into a book. It’s written in Bizarre style (because, in my eyes at least), that’s the way Millom was created. Millom, the little Northern town, which God then forgot all about. Oh dear.