Name: Living The Dream
SKU: 1093
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Living The Dream Chapter 1

Harold James—magistrate, chartered accountant, golf club captain, father of four, and incorrigible womaniser—forced open his heavy, sand-encrusted eyelids. The relentless thumping in his head matched the rhythmic beat of the ocean, each wave amplifying the excruciating tempo of his monstrous hangover. His mouth was as dry as parchment, and the overwhelming desire for water clouded every coherent thought. Groaning, Harold gingerly raised his head from the damp, gritty sand, instantly regretting the decision as a fresh wave of nausea surged through him. Squinting painfully into the harsh glare of the early morning sun, he pondered, with bemused horror, why he was sprawled naked upon a deserted beach. Sand clung unpleasantly to his neatly-trimmed moustache, and invaded his nose and mouth. “What a night,” Harold croaked hoarsely, though the remark was born more of bewildered question than assured statement. Fragmented memories surfaced briefly—a crowded, noisy bar; the flow of expensive champagne; seductive whispers from two alluring young women; and the exhilarating yet frugal triumph of negotiating their provocative proposal down to a sensible price before retreating to his hotel. Yet from there, clarity dissolved into troubling fragments: two imposing, bald-headed men guiding him insistently toward a cashpoint; his female companions vanishing like spectres in the night; and a blurry drive away from Banus with those same menacing figures. After that, oblivion. With enormous effort, Harold forced himself into a sitting position, suppressing a surge of dizziness. He scanned his surroundings slowly. To his left stretched the luxurious yachts of Banus harbour, while a crescent of gaudy apartment buildings loomed silently to his right, their windows still night shuttered and indifferent. Behind him stood the imposing walls of an opulent villa, shielding its inhabitants from prying eyes. The chug of a distant fishing boat echoed lazily across the bay, the tranquillity marred only by the cry of a solitary seagull circling above. Harold’s blurred vision slowly sharpened, bringing the unpleasant revelation of his stark nudity crashing into clear, humiliating focus. Panic surged and his mind filled with questions Where were his clothes, his wallet, his dignity? But above all, one horrifyingly practical question dominated his throbbing mind: “How on earth do I get back to my hotel? I’m naked!”

Living The Dream Chapter 2

Tom Wilson, one-time prison inmate, feared gangster, and Puerto Banus drug lord, pressed the button, watching impatiently as the seventy-inch plasma TV rose from the foot of his king-sized bed. The mechanical whir transformed into a harsh metallic squeal, jolting the bed violently as it clicked into place. Tom growled irritably, silently vowing swift retribution against the fool who’d sold him such overpriced rubbish. Six grand, and it squealed like a slaughtered pig. The TV dealer would soon learn nobody took liberties with Tom Wilson without painful consequences. A muffled feminine moan emerged from beneath the Egyptian cotton sheets, briefly reminding Tom of last night’s entertainment. Another press of the remote switched the TV to BBC News, as he tried unsuccessfully to recall her name. Karen? Sharon? Fallon? Not that it mattered—the women who frequented his bed were interchangeable, disposable commodities. Last night, after meeting this particular girl at his club, he’d offered drinks and discreetly spiked her cocktail with Rohypnol—not enough to incapacitate her entirely, just sufficient to ensure her cooperation. She’d served her purpose and would again this morning before one of his men drove her back to town with a worthless trinket and a meaningless promise to call. Tom chuckled darkly. Banus was paradise—a constant influx of young women desperate to live out their fantasies, easily seduced by the promise of wealth, glamour, and excitement. The smarter ones retreated quickly, nursing their hangovers and wounded pride. Others fell swiftly into a pitiless spiral of drugs, prostitution, and despair. Tom had built an empire upon their weakness, turning naive girls into profitable assets. With an impatient shove, he jolted the girl beneath the covers. “Get up, you lazy cow!” She protested groggily; Tom responded with a sharp kick. Turning his attention to the window, Tom pressed another button, and silk curtains parted smoothly, revealing the breath-taking panorama of a perfect Puerto Banus morning. Sunlight shimmered golden upon the calm waters of the bay, the gentle hum of Miguel’s fishing boat drawing his gaze. To the uninformed, Miguel appeared merely a fisherman inspecting lobster pots. Tom, however, knew better. Concealed within those pots were his weekly consignment—ten large lobster shells packed meticulously with half-kilo bricks of cocaine, destined for his exclusive restaurant kitchen. By midday, the drugs would be tested, cut, and discreetly distributed, netting him no less than two hundred thousand euros profit by the weekend’s close. Two years of grim incarceration in Parkhurst had taught Tom Wilson a valuable lesson: survival required betrayal, cunning, and absolute ruthlessness. He’d willingly sacrificed his crew, even his family members, securing his greatly reduced sentence through betrayal. The diamonds he’d stolen from his father’s safe-deposit box upon release had financed his flight to Spain and laid the foundation of his new empire. Tom smiled coldly. Prison was merely a distant nightmare; today, he was untouchable, wealthy, free. Tom Wilson’s musing was abruptly interrupted as large red letters filled his seventy-inch television screen: INTRUDER ALERT! Before he could reach for the panic button, heavy bullet-proof steel shutters slammed down, obliterating his million-dollar sea view in an instant. A piercing alarm split the morning air, its deafening shriek designed to incapacitate any unwanted visitor. With a practised calm, Tom opened a drawer in the ornate bedside cabinet, revealing a fully loaded handgun. His fingers wrapped around the taped grip, smoothly pulling back the slide, chambering a bullet with flawless precision. He flicked off the safety catch and swung swiftly from the bed, hitting a concealed button that slid open the heavy reinforced door to his private panic room. Tom stepped inside, pressing another button behind him to lock the solid door shut, completely sealed and secure. Meanwhile, the girl who minutes earlier had been dozing in his Egyptian cotton sheets was now screaming in terror. “Tom, Tom !” But Tom was no longer listening. His attention was fixed on the bank of security monitors mounted in the safe room. He watched dispassionately as the girl struggled out of bed, overwhelmed by the relentless sonic assault of the klaxon. He grimaced irritably as she was violently sick onto the antique Persian rug. “Silly cow! That rug cost a bloody fortune.” As the girl crawled helplessly toward the bedroom door, pounding frantically to escape, Tom’s expression hardened. Calmly, he moved to a console on the right-hand wall, pressed a red button, and watched as fifty thousand tazer volts surged through the door handle into the girl’s trembling body. He observed without emotion as she collapsed, unconscious, onto the floor. “That ought to keep her quiet,” he murmured coldly. Tom’s gaze shifted sharply to another monitor showing a group of armed men sweeping methodically through his mansion. After tense seconds, Karl Muller, head of his security detail, entered the bedroom, his voice crackling over the intercom speaker. “All clear, Mr Wilson. Just another tourist, stripped and dumped by those Russian thugs. Should we take a ride down to their club and give them a strong message?” Tom gave a curt nod. “Sort those bastards out.” Karl glanced at the motionless form of the girl on the floor. “Do you want her gone?” “Yes,” Tom replied curtly, “make sure she stays quiet. Her clothes are down by the pool.” “Understood,” Karl answered coolly, effortlessly lifting the unconscious woman and carrying her out. Tom released the bolts, deactivated the alarms, and watched the shutters slowly rise to restore his serene ocean view. Anger simmered beneath his calm exterior as he stared out over the glittering Mediterranean. “Bloody Russians.”

Living The Dream Chapter 3

Harold James sat, naked and shivering, on top the villa’s wall, He had managed to climb up using a a gate hinge as a step. Wincing as sharp shards of embedded glass nicked and sliced at his skin Harold unceremoniously slid down the inside wall landing in a heap on the shrubbery floor Desperate to find something—anything—to cover his nakedness, he was abruptly attacked by a needle sharp palm branch, causing him to cry out in pain. “Jesus bloody Christ!” Before Harold had the chance to examine the damage inflicted upon his tender backside, two powerful hands seized him from behind. He was roughly spun around and hauled unceremoniously from the shrubbery onto the immaculate lawn. Two imposing, unsmiling men in dark glasses loomed over him. Harold’s trembling reflection stared back at him from their mirrored lenses. He began pleading frantically, his voice rising in panic. “Don’t hurt me! Please! I’m a magistrate! I’ve been robbed! You have to help me. !” His pleas fell on deaf ears. Without ceremony or courtesy, Harold was frog-marched across the grounds, past the shimmering pool, and thrown into the open boot of a waiting Mercedes sedan. “No!” Harold screamed desperately as the lid slammed shut, plunging him into pitch darkness. “You can’t do this! I’ll have you arrested!” From beyond the metal lid, a muffled voice growled, “Shut up you muppet .” Fear gripped Harold with an intensity he’d never known, as total darkness enveloped him in the cramped confines of the boot. His panic swiftly overcame his dignity; unable to control himself, he felt the humiliating warmth as his bladder betrayed him, flooding the floor of the boot. He tried desperately to stem the flow, but the indignity was relentless, his body determined to empty itself completely. The acrid stench quickly filled the air, overwhelming Harold’s senses, causing his stomach to heave violently. Before he could stop himself, remnants of last night’s dinner joined the foul mix, adding to his humiliation. But his black out ordeal wasn’t finished; to his horror, Harold realised his bowels had also surrendered to fear. Now, lying naked in the revolting mess of his own making, Harold’s fear consumed him . “Let me out!” he screamed desperately, banging against the cold metal. “ Let me out!” His cries went unheard as the Mercedes’ engine roared to life, propelling the car forward and flinging Harold violently against the boot wall. Pain exploded across his face as his nose collided with the hard, filthy surface beneath him, triggering a warm, metallic trickle of blood onto his chest. Harold sobbed uncontrollably, tasting iron on his lips, trying vainly to wipe the blood away, but succeeding only in smearing himself further with the revolting mixture of blood, urine, vomit, and excrement. “Stop! Please stop!” Harold wailed pathetically. “I’ve done nothing wrong! I was robbed—I’m a magistrate! I’ll call the police!” His feeble threat vanished unanswered into the suffocating darkness as the vehicle surged forward, bouncing Harold like a rag doll against the unyielding sides of the boot. Desperately, he tried wedging himself into a corner, but the slippery plastic sheet lining made it impossible to brace himself. A cold, dreadful thought flashed through his mind: Plastic sheet lining in a Mercedes. This isn’t their first time. These men are professionals. Harold’s stomach continued to spasm painfully, retching again and again, though nothing remained to expel. He curled helplessly into a fetal position, enduring wave after wave of gut-wrenching cramps, terrified and alone in the pitch-black nightmare. Though the journey lasted mere minutes, to Harold it seemed an eternity. His mind raced—how could this have happened to him? A chartered accountant, chairman of the parish council, deacon of his local church, and above all, a senior magistrate with over twenty years’ distinguished service on the bench. He knew the type of criminal he usually encountered—low-level petty thieves and drunks who stumbled incompetently through their lives and his courtroom. But these men were different. Professional, ruthless gangsters who wouldn’t hesitate to end his life. Harold sobbed bitterly, desperately wishing he was dealing instead with those pathetic miscreants he’d spent decades judging from his comfortable position of authority. As the Mercedes screeched abruptly to a halt, Harold crashed again into the boot wall, whimpering pitifully as he imagined the inevitable conclusion to his nightmare. He fully expected the boot to opened and a gun or blade to be his final sight. In a futile attempt to delay the inevitable, he pushed his naked, filth-covered body into the furthest corner of the boot shivering uncontrollably in terror. The car door slammed. Footsteps crunched ominously towards him, stopping at the rear of the car. Suddenly, the boot flew open, flooding Harold’s filthy, trembling form with harsh, unforgiving daylight. Squinting up helplessly at the silhouette looming over him, Harold raised his trembling hands in desperation. “Please—please don’t kill me!” Harold wailed in despair, pressing himself deeper into the car boot, curling into the tightest ball, desperately trying to become invisible. “I’ve done nothing wrong—I swear! I was mugged, I was just looking for clothes,” he pleaded frantically. “Please—I haven’t stolen anything or caused any harm—I was only looking for help!” A harsh voice, edged with cold disdain, cut him short. “Get out, you disgusting bum. Move, before I change my mind and drop you off at sea. Bloody hell—you stink, you pathetic old fool. Look at the mess you’ve made!” Harold didn’t require a second invitation. The shame of being naked, coated in blood, vomit, urine, and excrement barely registered in his panicked mind. He scrambled awkwardly out of the boot, tumbling clumsily onto the hard pavement below. The man towering above him glanced with revulsion into the boot. “For God’s sake, he’s even shit himself. I should make the filthy sod eat it,” he muttered in disgust, turning towards the driver, whose only response was the impatient revving of the Mercedes’ powerful engine. With a bang that made Harold flinch, the gangster slammed the boot shut. Harold instinctively curled tighter, expecting a brutal punishment for the desecration of the vehicle’s interior. The mirrored aviator sunglasses fixed disdainfully upon Harold’s pathetic form, reflecting back an image he wished desperately to erase: his middle-aged body smeared in filth, his pale, skinny legs trembling beneath his sagging stomach, and the unmistakable humiliation of naked exposure. Flies were already beginning their unwelcome investigation, buzzing enthusiastically around him, attracted by his disgrace. “You bloody randy old fool,” spat the man contemptuously. “Next time keep it zipped up, if you know what’s good for you.” Harold glanced about nervously, suddenly realising to his horror that they had deposited him in the very centre of Puerto Banus—the luxurious heartland frequented by the wealthy and celebrated, no secluded backstreet or shadowy alley. He shivered uncontrollably, partly from the morning chill, partly from abject humiliation. Moments ago, he had believed death imminent; now he was alive, yet he fervently wished the pavement beneath would swallow him whole. “Oh, Christ,” Harold groaned softly, as two unmistakable Guardia Civil officers, clad in their distinctive green uniforms, strolled casually into his peripheral vision. Panic gripped him anew, the memory of the notorious reputation of Spain’s police and its prisons foremost in his mind. The phrase ‘out of the frying pan into the fire’ echoed grimly, and for one irrational moment, Harold wished fervently he was back inside the boot. One officer clicked his radio, sighing with weary resignation. (“Aquí tenemos otra vieja cabra cachonda y desnuda. Será mejor que envíes una furgoneta.”) “We’ve got another naked randy old goat here. Better send a van.” The officers approached leisurely, making a token attempt to shield Harold from the gaze of curious passers-by. One briefly considered offering Harold his jacket, before deciding against it, repelled by Harold’s revolting condition. “Where are your clothes?” one officer asked flatly. Harold summoned a broken smile. “I don’t know, officers. Honestly, I woke up naked on the beach and—” But the policemen had already turned their backs, speaking animatedly in Spanish, ignoring him completely. Evidently, Harold’s predicament was neither novel nor particularly interesting. Resigned, Harold drew his knees tighter to his chest, vainly attempting to shield himself from prying eyes. Passers-by now gathered to witness the scene. A young couple paused, amused, the man took out his phone. Harold cringed as the couple laughed, posing for selfies with him centre-stage, the girl dramatically pointing out Harold’s exposed humiliation. He longed desperately to shoo them away, but instead curled tighter, averting his face from their lenses, prompting even louder laughter. Minutes later, a battered police van arrived. The driver tossed Harold a grubby, foul-smelling blanket, clearly a veteran of similar incidents. With considerable trepidation, Harold wrapped the dubious fabric around himself, standing shakily between the indifferent policemen. His sagging belly protruded embarrassingly above the cloth, his pale, thin legs trembling beneath. As more spectators gathered, camera phones clicking, Harold tried hurriedly to adjust the blanket. His movement exposed a large hole in the fabric, eliciting delighted howls and further photos of his naked backside. Red-faced and defeated, Harold sank miserably back down onto the cold pavement. The policemen seemed entirely oblivious to Harold’s suffering, deep in enthusiastic debate about the previous night’s football match between Real Madrid and Barcelona. Harold considered interrupting, but wisely decided against it, hoping silence might at least result in leniency. Eventually, the driver turned towards him, stern and unsmiling. “In,” he commanded curtly, gesturing to the open van. Harold hesitated briefly, but the look on the policeman’s face made arguing futile. Shuffling meekly towards the vehicle, Harold placed one foot inside—only to be propelled forward by a perfectly aimed boot to his posterior. “Goal!” shouted the Guardia triumphantly as Harold sprawled face-first onto the van’s filthy floor, provoking a hearty laugh from all three officers. Before Harold could steady himself, the sliding door slammed shut, the driver jumped behind the wheel, and the van sped off at breakneck pace, throwing Harold violently against its cold metal interior. His already battered nose met the van wall with a sickening crunch, and fresh blood streamed freely down his chin, pooling onto his chest. Instinctively, Harold wiped his nose with the stinking blanket, the foul stench immediately triggering another bout of vomiting. “Oh God help me!” he moaned aloud. Through the metal mesh separating driver from captive, Harold saw a broad, sardonic smile appear. “Don’t worry, amigo,” the policeman sneered cheerfully, “things can only get worse from here.” Harold wondered for a brief, hopeful second if the officer’s English had failed him, perhaps meaning to say ‘better’. Yet the malicious grin on the policeman’s face left no doubt as to his intended meaning. Miserably, Harold struggled to rise, slipping instantly in his own vomit, crashing painfully back onto the hard metal floor. Resigned, Harold gave up the struggle, lying motionless and defeated as the van raced onward, siren blaring, knowing with bleak certainty that if this humiliating episode ever became public, his life would be irretrievably destroyed.

Description

REAL SPAIN

Living the Dream is what every Brit tells themselves as they swap drizzle for dazzling sunshine, pack up their hopes, and set off to start afresh in Spain. But dreams don’t always run smoothly—especially when they collide head-on with Spanish builders, baffling bureaucracy, and fiestas that last long after common sense has gone to bed.

In this warm, witty, and wonderfully true-to-life tale, we see the reality of life in Spain through several very different eyes. From wide-eyed newcomers and seasoned old hands to sceptical partners and hopeless optimists, each character brings their own perspective on what “living the dream” really means. What they discover is a world where every trip to the town hall becomes an epic quest, every trip to the bar turns into an adventure, and every neighbour has a story you couldn’t invent.

Packed with humour, misadventure, and moments of unexpected tenderness, Living the Dream doesn’t just show the glossy side of expat life—it reveals the triumphs, disasters, and laugh-out-loud moments that happen when ordinary people chase an extraordinary dream.

If you’ve ever wondered what it’s really like to start over abroad—or simply enjoy laughing at those brave enough to try—Living the Dream will make you smile, wince, and perhaps even book the next flight to Spain.