A queer and hilarious Elizabethan romantasy series that’s basically Blackadder meets Netflix’s Nimona – an unlikely pairing but, seriously, it really works! 
From the bestselling author of Death and Croissants comes a murder mystery perfect for fans of Richard Osman, Julia Chapman, or MC Beaton 
Looking for your next beach book? Fans of quirky mysteries, cats with attitude, and seaside escapades… this one’s for you.
As summer gets underway and the great British getaway returns in full force, the hunt is on for a page-turner to tuck into beside the sea, pool, or park. Enter: Hettie Bagshot and Tilly Jenkins, the fur-midable feline sleuths of The No. 2 Feline Detective Agency.
Their latest adventure, Death of a Sandscratcher, is everything a summer holiday book should be – funny, offbeat, and just the right amount of murderous..!
From deckchairs to dodgy fish and chips, Death of a Sandscratcher captures the chaos of a classic British coastal town, complete with eccentric locals, melting ice creams, and a string of suspicious accidents at the funfair.
What starts as a relaxing beach break turns into a baffling mystery when Hettie and Tilly find themselves in the middle of a fairground murder spree. Forget your average cosy crime – this is paws-itively wild.
If you love your mysteries served with wit and whimsy, Mandy Morton’s voice is a delight. Think Midsomer Murders meets The Wind in the Willows, but with cats!
Yes, the entire world is feline – and no, you don’t need to be a cat person to love it. The charm lies in the way these cats mirror our own ridiculousness. Hettie’s obsession with pie? Deeply relatable.
Never read the series before? No problem. Death of a Sandscratcher works perfectly on its own, though fair warning: you’ll probably want to go back and binge the rest after.
Missing Agatha Raisin or Richard Osman’s Thursday Murder Club? This book slots right in, with clever twists, eccentric characters, and a tight-knit community hiding secrets.
Whether you’re travelling abroad or staycationing at home, you’ll want something that brings a little joy between chapters. This is feel-good fiction with claws.
Scones, seaside, and sleuthing, this book practically begs to be read with a cup of tea and something sugary. Preferably in the sun.
Published by Farrago, the home of humorous fiction to make you smile, this is a title you won’t see pushed in every supermarket, but should be on every reader’s radar.
Ready to join the case?
Death of a Sandscratcher is out now in paperback and eBook. Perfect for fans of humorous mysteries, cat detectives, and holidays that don’t go quite to plan…
Available at all good bookshops, Amazon, or direct from us at farragobooks.com.
When a school assembly is interrupted by an ALIEN INVASION, the fate of the planet falls into the unlikely hands of bookworm Finley Swinnerton and his trusty scrapbook. 
The 12 selected short stories will be published in September 2023 by Farrago, in a first-of-its-kind anthology dedicated to comedy writing by female authors.
Congratulations to the shortlistees!
The brand new Death and Papa Noel audiobook, exclusive to the Farrago Shop.
Perfect listening for when you’re wrapping presents, writing cards, going on a wintry walk or tucking up in bed with a big mug of tea this Christmas.
With the release of his new Christmas murder mystery, Death and Papa Noël, in hardback we asked Times-bestselling author Ian Moore what a very French Christmas is like at the Moore household.
Ah, the traditions of Christmas chez Moore. The Radio Times and a highlighter pen, being told to turn off James Brown’s ‘Funky Christmas’ CD, the argument over whether the lights go on the tree before or after the decorations, the children deciding a week before Christmas Day that their current interests are old hat, thereby rendering all unopened presents already obsolete and, of course, huge numbers of Natalie’s family descending on us for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.
Growing up, Natalie was always used to big Christmas gatherings hosted by her grandparents and for the last five years we’ve carried on that tradition and have twenty or so guests over the two days of Christmas (they don’t do Boxing Day here, which is a shame as Boxing Day, once the pressure is off, is the best day of Christmas) and I look forward to it.
Christmas Day fare is the usual stuff, turkey and so on, but Christmas Eve has always been my night – a new recipe or a twist on a classic. It’s my chance to show off. I love the planning, the preparation, the cooking and, as a stand-up comedian who just needs to be loved, the ‘applause’. It’s my night and I love it, even the stress. And, as you can imagine, an Englishman cooking for a large number of French people does not come without its pressures.
Last year, in an act of madness I decided to cook a fish curry. The sheer magnitude of it all only dawned on me mid-afternoon when I was preparing the meal. I broke out into a cold sweat as I realised that I was making a meal I had never cooked before for twenty-odd French gourmets (all French people think they are gourmets) and who, for the most part, had never eaten fish curry. Not only did I not know what I was doing, I did not know what I was doing on a massive scale. And it was fish; I might kill someone!
Thankfully, the meal was a success, but while every child found it difficult to sleep that night in anticipation of Christmas Day, I didn’t sleep either, convinced that I may have started a food poisoning epidemic.
I had planned a safer menu for this year with a selection of English and French sausages; well the sausages were English but the boudin noir (black pudding) were French and the andouillettes were definitely French.
It’s difficult to describe andouillettes, except to say that they are not for the faint-hearted; they are a local speciality, a large white sausage made up from the parts of animals usually reserved for the strings on tennis rackets or spare patches on a puncture repair kit. Needless to say they are something of an acquired taste and even fans of them very rarely manage a whole one.
All of my planning for this Christmas Eve had been in vain, though; I’d been usurped.
Natalie’s grandparents had both died a few years earlier, ‘Papy’ from a long and inevitably doomed battle with cancer and ‘Mamie’ a few months later, officially from an embolism but also because maybe she just wanted to. It happens quite a lot I think, when one half dies after a lifetime spent together – in this case fifty-eight years of marriage – the other finds the physical and mental demands of being alone just too much and it takes its toll.
Their house, a massive, almost Gothic monstrosity on the edge of town had been standing empty ever since, partly due to a very depressed local housing market but also because who in their right mind would want it? It’s on a busy road, opposite a builders’ merchants, next door to a kebab shop, and its rooms are so cavernous that heating alone would cost a fortune.
In the meantime, one of Natalie’s uncles had moved into the empty house and although it was lovely to have family back on our doorstep, to celebrate his move back home and the fact that his boyfriend had moved in with him, they would be doing Christmas Eve.
I won’t pretend that I wasn’t upset, but the decision was taken while I was away, possibly quite rightly, that I was strung out enough as it was without hosting Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.
It was a decision taken as much with my interests at heart as anything, but that had never stopped me from throwing my toys out of the pram before and it didn’t this time either.
To me it just represented another chipping away at my life in France, something else I had to give up. It’s inevitable of course; one of the many problems of being away so much is that, certainly on a domestic front, jobs that should be mine have to be done by someone else, and so when I do return, I feel a little left out, a bit spare. Obviously there are jobs that could only ever be mine; despite the harrowing journey back the previous week, the first thing I did when I got in was to start re-arranging the fridge which was frankly, after so long away, an organisational shambles but also the perfect ‘come down’ for an OCD-ridden fruitcake high on caffeine supplements.
But it’s the little things. I no longer prepare Natalie’s pre-dinner gin and tonic for instance, that responsibility now lies with Maurice, who clearly has some talent in that area.
The one small advantage of not ‘doing’ Christmas Eve was that I had more time for other things. The trampoline that had blown away the previous week needed to be removed from a neighbour’s garden across the road, which was quite some task; I was tackling it truculently and wondering how such a heavy, metal structure could possibly just ‘blow away’ when a passing farmer told me that it was right to get it out of sight, ‘otherwise the Roma might have it away.’
But by now the thing was useless, so in the end I decided to leave it in full view and hope that the local Romani population would indeed live up to their stereotype and ‘have it away’, that’s not me being lazy you understand, that’s just recycling.
My Christmas Eve ‘unemployment’ also meant that everything was ready. The presents were all bought, wrapped and hidden, though Natalie’s was, as ever, a trial as she veered violently between ‘I don’t want you to buy me anything’ and ‘I’d love a Pomeranian puppy’.
The dogs had had their visit to the ‘Doggy Parlour’, a twice-a-year shampoo and set which tends to leave them a bit confused. Natalie had returned from the parlour with horrific tales of what the Spanish do to greyhounds – apparently Sylvie, who owns the parlour, belongs to a rescue charity and greyhound foster home which is good news for greyhounds, but I suspect bad news for me.
Thankfully, Natalie hadn’t returned with an actual greyhound this time, though I feared a New Year Crusade coming on.
She actually missed an opportunity. I was so pleased to be home, so happy to be back, that she could have turned up with half a dozen and I probably would have just laughed it off; I was full of festive spirit. I love being part of big family Christmases. Christmas is a control freak’s time of year: so much to plan, organise and delegate. Orders to be barked, strops to be thrown – I love it. And the boys are obviously excited too. Samuel and I had already done the final big supermarket run.
Orders to be barked, strops to be thrown – I love it. And the boys are obviously excited too. Samuel and I had already done the final big supermarket run.
‘Daddy,’ he asked as we cut a swathe through Christmas- shopping dawdlers, ‘is this shopping list in the same order as the shop layout?’
‘Yes,’ I replied, a touch defensively, ‘otherwise it’s just chaos.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘It’s the only way.’
He really was becoming more like me, which while no doubt flattering, isn’t necessarily the best way to go for his own sanity. He had even started performing.
The highlight of this particular Christmas Eve was Samuel and Maurice singing ‘One More Sleep ’til Christmas’ from The Muppet Christmas Carol, which is, in my view, the best Christmas film of all time (sometimes I veer towards It’s A Wonderful Life, but Samuel and Maurice haven’t acted out those scenes yet).
They had secretly been practising for the previous week with Natalie’s dad on guitar and it was tear-jerkingly lovely.
It’s something of a tradition at French family gatherings, or this French family at least, that people get up and ‘do a turn’, something which I know to my cost.
The first time I met Natalie’s extended family (and there are hundreds of them) was at the wedding of an uncle and it was felt that the best way for me to ingratiate myself with the entire clan would be to perform.
This wasn’t my idea obviously – I would have been happy to write a card of introduction and buy each of them a drink, but that wasn’t an option, so I had to sing a song. It was quite, quite terrifying – and long before I’d started stand-up.
Even now I feel like I was the victim of some grand practical joke, part of some elaborate initiation test. I performed a drunken, mumbling rendition of Elvis’s ‘Love Me Tender’ and after that, to most people’s relief, this tradition seemed to fade away.
The fact my eldest children, lovely though their performance was, appeared to be mounting some sort of resurrection of this tradition was a bit worrying and there were some anxious expressions around the table, memories of previous karaoke horrors coming back from the distant past and encouraging some of the more deranged members of the family to insist on doing it every year.
Well, you won’t catch me warbling away, that’s for sure; this Elvis has definitely left the building.
Though I bang on about planning and menus and the like, Christmas Day is actually relatively stress-free.
There may be twenty-three people in the lounge, but everybody will have contributed to the meal.
Natalie will have prepared the foie gras, someone else will have brought the oysters and someone else the smoked salmon.
Natalie’s mum might have part-cooked the two turkeys, while I prepared the vegetables. Somebody else will have brought the cheese, another the bread. A fruit salad will be rustled up, other homemade desserts will arrive and someone else will have made a Christmas log. Brian, Natalie’s dad, will have baked homemade mince pies and a Christmas cake. Someone will have brought dessert wine (a Jurançon or a Sauternes), someone else the red wine, and there’ll always be bottles of the ‘family’ champagne.
Papy once owned some land in the Champagne region, where he was born, and the ‘new’ owners now provide us with a few cases of the stuff, in what some of the family see as recompense for the underhanded way in which they obtained the land in the first place.
Finally, and after having taste tested various high-class Christmas puddings throughout December, a winner will have been decided upon on and the whole thing will finally be set fire to by someone wobbling after hours of rich food and wine indulgence and wearing a dangerously angled, highly inflammable, paper crown. The children, of course, are spared all this and are excused most of the sitting down; not that they miss any courses.
So everybody does something. It’s obviously one of the signature meals of the year and the French want to be part of the preparation not just the execution, a case of too many cooks definitely not spoiling the broth.
Having said that, though, Christmas Day didn’t start too well for me.
Everything was pretty much under control by midday; presents had been opened, wrapping paper folded up and put away for future use (not my OCD this time, but Natalie’s), the table was laid, the turkey was on, the vegetables were ready to go, teams of oyster-openers were outside in the watery winter sun and already hitting the wine for their trouble.
And then sartorial disaster struck.
I had a chorizo sausage hanging in the larder, drying out for post-Christmas, non-turkey leftover meals; but it was in a precarious position and so really I only had myself to blame.
I reached into the larder without concentrating, not looking at what I was doing, until I felt something fall onto my arm.
It was the chorizo, as yet undried, and my arm was now covered in its oil.
Only it wasn’t just my arm, it was my sleeve. My beautiful new jumper, my heavy wool Breton- style sailing jumper which I had got only that morning was soaked in red chorizo juice; I looked like I’d been shot.
Of all the potential Christmas calamities that could have befallen me – like undercooking the turkey, dropping the champagne, leaving the cats in charge of the smoked salmon – there is absolutely nothing worse for a mod than gaudy coloured sausage juice on your new sweater.
Now, I like swearing and I think there’s an art to it; those who say that it’s neither big nor clever or that it shows a lack of vocabulary haven’t heard it done properly and are also cutting themselves off from the most vibrant and organic parts of language.
Badly timed, unnecessary swearing is crude and jarring, but when your best jumper has just been covered in spicy oil there is an opportunity for some really inventive expletives.
I prefer the use of alliterative word plus friendly word juxtapositions and Christmas time offers a whole range of opportunities for the switched-on potty mouth.
I was in the larder for a good couple of minutes, giving it the full invective, and eventually emerged to find everybody standing there, open-mouthed, staring at me.
The look on their faces was a mixture of shock and awe, like a particularly well-endowed streaker had just skipped through the kitchen.
Most of them weren’t even aware of what I was saying, but when such venom and poison are spouted, clearly the actual language element is no barrier. So I scurried back to the vegetables and pretended nothing had happened.
Personally my favourite part of Christmas Day has always been the turkey and stuffing sandwiches in the evening but that’s not really an option in France, not unless I eat them before we actually finish dinner.
The meal lasts all day and it’s not difficult to see why: firstly, there are about ten courses, each demanding a different wine, and each course is ambled through – there is no rushing here.
Each new plate seems to set off another philosophical debate or moral dilemma which must be debated at full volume. Nothing passes at the Christmas table without comment or counter comment, nothing.
And just when you think things may be flagging another course is introduced (the turkey was the sixth course to arrive) and if conversation gets a little dull, things are always easily livened up with a cracker.
The French, unsurprisingly, don’t do crackers; it’s a distraction from the important job at hand, which is eating.
Most of Natalie’s family are aware that Christmas at our house is an Anglo-French affair, the Anglo bits are Stilton, Christmas pudding, crackers and the music, and the French bits are everything else.
Watching a novice Frenchman having a cracker explained to him then by another equally sceptical Frenchman is a bit like watching two Americans discuss the rules of cricket.
‘We pull these things as we sit down to eat.’ ‘Why?’
‘Er…’
And you know that at this point he wants to say, ‘Because it keeps Ian and his kids happy. Just do it, for God’s sake, don’t set him off.’
‘And we have to wear this paper thing?’ ‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Why have I got a luminous paperclip?’ ‘Ah, foie gras! Thank God.’
I’m not going to defend any of the ‘jokes’ in the crackers. Most sentient English folk read them, groan and move on. But watching a clutch of French people cope with crackers while already having been through a good portion of champagne, oysters, sweet white wine and a full-bodied Burgundy is funny enough in itself.
‘OK, OK, I ’ave one. Oo ’elps a rabbeet get dressed?’ one of the throng asked to uninterested silence.
‘An idiot!’ someone said after a while.
‘Rabbeets don’t wear the clothes! Is eet a reedle?’ another said, a response that set off a flurry of philosophical debate about what constitutes a riddle.
Then came the punch-line: ‘An ’are-dresser. Sorry. A hare dresser.’
Silence.
‘I don’t get it,’ someone else said, and then came a number of explanations, all of them giving the rather tired pun far more gravitas than it deserved.
The French may love their slapstick and puns of their own, but there is simply no room, it seems, for frivolity at the dinner table.
The French don’t get sillier the more they drink, they get more earnest.
When at last it was explained that it is just a joke, a deliberately poor one as is traditional in crackers, a few of them looked at me, clearly bridging the gap between a joke in a cracker and my job as a stand-up comedian, holding me responsible for this nonsense and wondering just how secure my children’s future really is if it’s built on this sort of flimsy, substandard punnery.
Eventually, sated enough to render turkey and stuffing sandwiches unnecessary, we all retired to the living room and flaked out like a pride of lions after a particularly good kill.
Natalie, having put my injured sweater in to soak earlier, emerged from the bathroom with it miraculously restored to its former glory and I felt magnanimous or festive enough to allow even the cats and dogs in to join us.
Immediately Flame jumped on me and settled on to my chest as he usually does, started doing that non- claw pawing that cats do, purring heavily and then – as apparently male cats are wont to do – sprayed the foulest excretion this side of a dirty protest in a Bangkok prison cell all over my bloody jumper!
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Like I said, this family likes a performance at a gathering and they got a full five minutes of juicy Anglo-Saxon of the kind that some people would happily pay for. Quite magnificent swearing, to add to the already impressive effort I had made in the larder earlier.
It had been a long day and as Natalie and I put Maurice to bed the excitement he was still feeling, as children do for the whole of the Christmas period, was still very much there.
We talked for a bit about his presents and what, inevitably, he wanted next year and he began to drift off. I got up and went to switch his light off and then he said sleepily, ‘Daddy, what’s a festive-feline-fuck-knuckle?’
Natalie looked at me aghast. ‘Right,’ she said, ‘there have to be some changes around here.’
[This extract was taken from Chapter 11 of À La Mod: My So-Called Tranquil Family Life in Rural France by Ian Moore with permission of Summersdale Publishers]
Want to find the funniest books of all time? Top 10 Funny Books brought to you by comedian and bestselling author Ian Moore.
Death and Croissants has inspired many readers, including us. So, we turned it around and asked comedian and bestselling author Ian Moore… “What inspired you?”
We’ve selected twenty of the funniest books out there. Books that make you smile, snort, splutter, cackle, howl, guffaw, chuckle, chortle, roar, bust a gut, snigger, giggle, and have your sides splitting like never before.
If you find reading comedy difficult, it doesn’t mean that it isn’t easy. You just haven’t found the right funny book for you. But what about writing comedy? We asked the author of the witty Mathematical Mystery series, Jonathan Pinnock.
‘Ian Moore is a brilliant, funny writer’ JOSH WIDDICOMBE
‘Ian Moore is a master of comedy’ ZOE LYONS
‘Ian is one of my favourite writers’ JANEY GODLEY
Richard Ainsworth is preparing for the Christmas of his dreams: quiet, no guests at his French B&B and his favourite films on the TV. None of which seems on the cards when his rural peace is shattered by the unexpected arrival of a familiar face.
Valérie d’Orçay has hotfooted it from Paris with her chihuahua in tow and an invitation to a Christmas themed murder mystery game. Richard begrudgingly dresses up as Father Christmas, but the costume becomes the least of his worries when he realises this isn’t a game to everyone. As other guests arrive to join the hunt, can Richard work out who is the victim – and who is murderer?
Top 10 Funny Books brought to you by comedian and bestselling author Ian Moore. Want to find the funniest books of all time? Who better to suggest than one brilliantly funny comedian who has successfully translated laughter from the stage to the page.
Twenty-six years I’ve spent as a stand-up comedian.
I have performed all over the world, in cities, tiny villages, war zones, on boats, on beaches and one time, in a hotel suite in front of seven Harley-Davidson executives. It wasn’t the only gig I’ve done that felt more like a hostage situation. I’ve played to royalty, politicians, powerful CEOs, criminals, footballers, nurses, Freemasons, and an entire audience in Bahrain that spoke no English at all.
The fact that I have kept that going for twenty-six years means that you would think I’d know something about ‘funny’. Now, what I have also learned in half a century of wider experience is that ‘nobody knows nothing’, especially when it comes to comedy.
It is that most subjective of things, and there can be absolutely no universal agreement, so don’t let anyone tell you that something is empirically funny and that if you don’t agree you are simply wrong and boneheaded. This goes for stand-up, screen comedy, TV and film, and theatre.
In my opinion, it’s even more so for books.
You imbibe the humour in books differently, you read the words, you re-read the words (repetition and scrutiny are the death knell for humour) and then you can take your time to decide whether it is funny or not.
Or, it hits you immediately on a gut level and you just can’t help yourself and that is an incredibly difficult thing to achieve with prose.
What I’m saying is, you might not agree with my personal list of Top 10 funny books – and that is your absolute right – because frankly five minutes after writing this, I will probably have changed my mind anyway.
Ian Moore
Everybody starts a list like this by cutting off dissenters at the pass and saying ‘in no particular order’… and that is true for this list of Top 10 funny books, except for the number one spot.
P. G. Wodehouse is utterly peerless in the art of comic writing. Anything before him wasn’t as good, and anything after him owes him at least a passing nod if not an enormous debt of gratitude.
The Code of The Woosters is the very best of a quite phenomenal output, and if you don’t agree you are simply wrong and boneheaded.
The late Carrie Fisher’s autobiography is one of the rawest, most heartfelt and honest memoirs I have ever read.
It is also the funniest and therefore sits confidently in spot number two of my Top 10 funny books. She talks about her life constantly teetering on the edge of sanity and addiction and often falling over that edge. Fisher pulls absolutely no punches at all and does so with an acerbic, self-deprecating humour that at times will have you wincing, then laughing and then shaking your head in admiration.
It is brutally funny and drops so many names it’s like an A-Z of pop culture.
Along with Douglas Adams, the modern comic writing behemoth.
I was 12 years old, I read it and two things struck me. First, Adrian is a bit of a berk and secondly, how is this woman in my head?!
As with Carrie Fisher the humour comes through excruciating situations and the human response to them. Knowing that that human is basically you is very painful indeed, but absolute comic genius.
I’ve always loved the The Thin Man film series, William Powell and Myrna Loy firing snappy dialogue at each other. They are timeless although the first one was made fully eighty-six years ago.
What I didn’t know was how much of that dialogue was lifted directly from Hammett’s book. I thought it was a Hollywood-ized version of a more hardboiled noir. It isn’t.
All the fun and humour are in the original and yet the mystery is top notch too. This has to be an absolute basic of ‘comedy’ thriller writing: it must work as a comedy on its own and as a thriller on its own.
Humour doesn’t get much darker than this and yet while dealing with massive existential subjects like war, fear and greed Joseph Heller absolutely nails it.
This is a book peopled by grotesques in a grotesque world, all except Yossarian who tries to plead insanity to be sent home.
Only there’s the catch, only a sane man would claim insanity in a war… At times it’s a painful read, but also another work of comic genius that belongs in my Top 10 funny books list.
I’ve tried to concoct this list from books as I remembered them. I haven’t gone back to re-read or do a load of research. I wanted it to be honest – books that made me laugh, that stay with you because of that.
Nigel Williams was my favourite author for a while. His novels, mostly set in London SW19 were brilliant portraits of apparent suburban mundanity but with a wicked sense of humour and again great plots.
It left a big impression on me of what life I eventually wanted. Not to be a suburban murderer of course, but a comic writer. Then, he just stopped writing books and that’s a big shame.
Another one dredged up from the deep recesses of memory. It was another inspiration for me.
Comedy writing doesn’t have to be about big themes and grand thoughts, it’s about detail. Successful stage stand-up comedy largely is about observation, taking a detail that the audience knows all about and extending it, sometimes only slightly, and mining for the humour.
A run-down, bottom of the pile detective is perfect fodder for that.
As I say, I have tried to do this from memory, but I think the specific incident I’m talking about is from Danny Baker’s second autobiographical instalment. It involves a caravan and kept me in laughter tears for a full week.
As I said earlier it is mighty difficult to create a laughing gut reaction in prose, but Baker does this ridiculously often through three volumes of his memoirs.
And if you think three volumes is putting on some side, read them. There is nothing wasted here – what a memory, what a life, what a storyteller.
There’s a connection here with Carrie Fisher in that Nora Ephron wrote When Harry Met Sally and Carrie was in that film.
This is a ‘fictional memoir’, but like Fisher’s it is brutally, honestly written and concerns the breakup of Ephron’s marriage to Carl Bernstein when she was pregnant.
In all my time as a stand-up there is a common complaint, and it comes frighteningly often from women, that women ‘just aren’t funny’. You really are wrong and boneheaded if you carry that around with you. This is wonderfully funny, moving, superb and thoroughly deserves a spot in the Top 10 funny books selection.
I didn’t know whether to love this or hate it when I first read it. It tramples all over my Golden Age Hollywood sacred ground.
This is written from the point of view of a chimpanzee, a lucky chimpanzee, wrenched from his mother in the jungle but who ends up in Hollywood playing in the Jonny Weismuller Tarzan films.
It is a wonderfully caustic view of entitled human behaviour that never drags.
Enjoy Ian Moore’s Top 10 Funny Books? Try out his bestselling Follet Valley murder mystery series set in rural France, perfect for fans of Richard Osman, Janice Hallett or Richard Coles.
Death and Croissants has inspired many readers, including us. So, we turned it around and asked comedian and bestselling author Ian Moore… “What inspired you?”
We’ve selected twenty of the funniest books out there. Books that make you smile, snort, splutter, cackle, howl, guffaw, chuckle, chortle, roar, bust a gut, snigger, giggle, and have your sides splitting like never before.
Farrago has joined forces with Helen Lederer’s game-changing Comedy Women in Print (CWIP) to curate The Comedy Short Story Prize, the first award celebrating the funniest short story writing by women. The shortlisted entries will also be published by Farrago, the home of humorous fiction, in a special anthology in September 2023.
This is the newest addition to CWIP’s annual published and unpublished prizes and is set to showcase even more of the wittiest wit written by women – this time in a shorter form of between 5,000-15,000 words per story.
These celebrated writers will be welcomed into the CWIP family which already hails Dolly Alderton, Jesse Sutanto, Nina Stibbe, Laura Steven, and Candice Carty-Williams as celebrated alumni. Honorary awards received by Ruth Jones, Meera Syal, Jilly Cooper, and Deborah Frances-White both support and recognise the world of witty writers.
CWIP, now in its fourth successful year, recognises, celebrates, and encourages witty women authors. The Unpublished Comedy Novel prize each year is a book deal with HarperCollins. The Longlist for all categories will be announced on 14 December 2022 and the Shortlist on 22 February 2023. Recent judges have included Maureen Lipman, Lolly Adefope, and Joanne Harris. Earlier judges included Marian Keyes, Joanna Scanlan, Pauline McLynn, and Shazia Mirza. The winners will be revealed with much laughter and irreverence at the Groucho Club on the 17 April 2023.
The competition is open to female (identified) authors, including non-binary, writing in the English language, of any nationality over the age of 18 on the closing date: 14 October 2022. Writers from diverse and underrepresented backgrounds are encouraged to enter. There is no fee to enter.
All shortlisted authors for the Comedy Short Story prize will receive from Farrago £100, and the winner will be awarded a further £1,000.
Submissions for the award open 5 September. For more details and full terms and conditions visit the website www.comedywomeninprint.co.uk.
If you find reading comedy difficult, it doesn’t mean that it isn’t easy. You just haven’t found the right funny book for you. But what about writing comedy? We asked the author of the witty Mathematical Mystery series, Jonathan Pinnock.
We’ve selected twenty of the funniest books out there. Books that make you smile, snort, splutter, cackle, howl, guffaw, chuckle, chortle, roar, bust a gut, snigger, giggle, and have your sides splitting like never before.
Note that Farrago books are purchasable either as a one-time gift OR for reading by yourself. Ebooks from the Farrago website are watermarked and must not be shared or uploaded to websites or file-sharing networks (here are our full terms and conditions).
On a typical computer running Windows, you first need to install an ebook-reading program, such as Adobe Digital Editions. On a Mac, epub files can be downloaded and opened in iBooks.
On a computer, first click on the ‘epub format’ of your purchased ebook(s) to download it. Or press Download Ebook(s) to download a .zip file which you then need to unzip before proceeding.
Disconnect your device, and the book should be on your device’s home screen.
You need already to have an Amazon account.
The ebook(s) will then appear on your Kindle device (or Kindle app) after a few minutes, assuming the device is connected to wifi.
You need already to have an Amazon account.
On a computer, first click on your purchased ebook(s) to download it. Or press Download Ebook(s) to download a .zip file which you then need to unzip before proceeding.
Disconnect your device, and the book should be on your Kindle device’s home screen.
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