David Codd

David Codd is possibly the most boring man in the whole of the United Kingdom. No, really. I should know. I’ve had to live with him all my life. Right, is that it? Can I go now? Oh, I can’t. You want more. How much? I am quite busy. Okay, just give me a second or six and I’ll try to make something up ...

David Codd was born (obviously) in a hospital some time in the late 1970’s. Even then, as a small and smelly baby, he was a massive disappointment to his parents (a trend that has continued into later life with pretty much everyone he has ever come into contact with). Fast forward forty odd years and he’s married (somehow) to a beautiful wife with two wonderful children (you have to write that; it’s the law). All three try to live the best life they can whilst ignoring him at every available opportunity. I don’t blame them. I would do too, but I’m not allowed. Worst luck.

Anything else? I could mention Norwich City and running, desert boots and parsnips, but what’s the point? Nobody’s interested. I’m not even convinced that anybody reads this far. I could write anything. Blancmange. Talcum powder. Lamppost. Hedgehog. I think I’ll stop now before I embarrass myself. Be seeing you ...

Note to reader - don’t let any of this put you off the books. They’re great. Better than great, in fact. A cracking good read. It’s just the author you need to steer clear off. Like dog droppings on a crowded pavement, he’s best avoided at all costs. That is, unless you have trouble sleeping, of course.