Sleb [Paperback]

'I think we could finally be looking at Britain's answer to Bret Easton Ellis. And about time too. Holmes has given us not only a first class satire on the cost and price of fame but an unglamourised image of the modern man in the self destructive - but ultimatley likeable - Chris Sewell. Encore please.' Sam Oliver, Fiction Buyer, Waterstone's Newcastle; "Chock-full of cultural references. American Psycho for the new century - with laughs" - Steve Birt, Assistant Manager, Ottakar's, Gloucester

Deliciously sharp celebrity satire... SLEB is terribly clever.. Andrew Holmes, like the departed Felix Carter, could be far more than a one-hit wonder.

Holmes is a very funny storyteller... SLEB is an enjoyable and well-executed novel.

A very funny and enjoyable book... Holmes's caustic perspective manages to hit the mark.

A tragic, funny, touching and terrifying account of a descent into alcoholism. Brilliant characterisation and a cunningly devised plot. A talent to watch.

'A satire on the seductive appeal of celebrity . . . It's a page-turner: no doubt about that.'

'Holmes is clearly a promising novelist ... [Sleb] is a thoughtful character study, as well as a gripping psychological thriller.'

'A hit'

'Holmes is a very funny storyteller ... SLEB is an enjoyable and well-executed novel.'

'A funny and enjoyable book ... Holmes's caustic humour manages to hit the mark.'

Here's a top tip for the heavy drinker...Never get drunk and force your way into the home of the country's biggest pop star wielding a gun. It's bound to go off, big time. Christopher Sewell is famous. He used to be an advertising sales executive with a wife, a drink problem and not much more. Now he's serving life for the murder of Felix Carter, who used to be a famous pop star with an acting career, a drink problem and the world at his feet. Only he's dead now. How and why Chris killed Felix is a mystery. Until, that is, he agrees to give a single interview from prison. Just the one interview, mind. You know what these celebrities are like...Tremendously sharp and at times laugh-out-loud, this is a delicious satire about celebrities and their fans, and the way the media attempts both to satisfy and to inflame our obsession with success.

Andrew Holmes is a freelance journalist. He is 32-years-old and lives with his wife in Stoke Newington. SLEB is his first novel.

I stripped off when I got home, let my suit fall to the lounge floor and went through to the bathroom where I sat in the bath with a can of lager thinking of my TV appearance tomorrow, getting excited by it. I wonder if Sam will be watching. Hope, hope, hope that she is. I don't want to think of the alternative, that she might miss me altogether and all of my efforts will have been in vain. Instead I concentrate on her seeing it and plot myself into the future. A future that includes her coming back to the new me, the flat tidy, me going back to work and heading up my team, tackling Luke Radley and taming him. Then, a baby perhaps. Sam's mum and dad coming to visit their grandchild, proud parents standing by. Not unreasonable dreams. Neither are they unobtainable. Not if everything goes according to plan.

So, feeling lightheaded and happy, I got out of the bath, pulled the plug and let Colette Carew drain out my life. In the bedroom I put on the Felix clothes because they're clean and new and they suited my mood. And then I sat on the sofa, ignored the mess, and watched Being Felix Carter.
‘Yes,' he says. ‘I do have a problem with drink. Look, I was there at the beginnings of rave culture, right? When all that mattered was having a good time. That's what we lived for. Then all of a sudden I'm in the charts, I've got Smash Hits asking me what I had for breakfast. And I'm – what? – twenty years old, still a young lad, really. And all of a sudden you're given everything you want. I mean everything. You have no idea. You're like this money-making machine. You're making money and everyone around you is making money off you. So you service the machine, right? You keep it happy. And if it wants oiling, you give it oil. And, yeah, I need a lot of oil. Ha ha.'
He picks up a packet of cigarettes and takes one: Marlboro Lights, same brand as me. I reach for my own.
‘I could do with a drink now actually. Want one?' he says to the interviewer, but, of course, the interviewer is sitting behind the camera, so it's like he says it to the camera, says it to me.
‘Cheers, Felix, don't mind if I do.' I raise my vodka bottle to toast the screen.
‘Are you drinking at the moment?' asks the interviewer.
He does a comical look around him. ‘No. Why? Have you got some tinnies?'
‘Got a couple in the fridge, Felix,' I say. Although, of course, I haven't. I've drunk them all.
‘I'm having some time off for good behaviour,' he says. ‘The thing is with booze, it's like women. I can't live with it, can't live without it. Other people have cars, I have a wagon, and I'm either on it, off it, chasing after it or running away from it. But I tell you what – it's always there.'
I nod in agreement.
‘What sort of a drinker are you?' says the interviewer.
‘Ha! Mouth open and in it goes,' I say.
‘Ha! You know, I do it like this,' says Felix, making a drinking motion with his hand. He goes on to say more that I don't hear because I'm laughing so hard at our combined joke.
‘Do you drink alone?' asks the interviewer.
‘Oh, all the time . . .'
I cheer a little, raise the bottle in another toast.
‘Drinking alone, Felix,' I say to his talking head on the TV, ‘it's the only way, mate. It's the only way you can be sure of good company, isn't that right?' But I'm not sure if I believe that.
‘You once said that people didn't believe you had a problem. Why was that?' says the interviewer.
‘It comes down to how you handle the drink,' he says. ‘It's like it completely tears down all of your psychological defences, and even stuff like just how unfair the world is gets me down. I call them the demons, man. The demons come, and sometimes the only way to get rid of them is to start drinking again.' He says this last bit directly to the screen. Directly to me. I feel a shiver. Felix knows the demons.

And then this portion of the programme ends and we go to a break. After the break there is footage of Felix in concert and I find myself unsteadily copying his on-stage swagger around my lounge, using the bottle of vodka like a microphone.

I feel different. For the first time in weeks I feel happy. Like I'm not alone, and like everything's going to be all right.