A Bloke's Guide to the Zombie Apocalypse (eBook, ePUB) - Croft, Owen
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Because Half the Country Turned Into Shuffling, Brain-Dead, One-Way-System Zombies
Owen Croft
When the dead start walking and society collapses faster than a pint glass in a pub brawl, who do you trust? Not the Instagram survival influencers with their quinoa and crossbows. Definitely not the middle-management pricks trying to schedule a "zombie stand-up meeting."
No, you trust the proper Northern lad who's been prepping for this since 2008: 94 tins of 18p beans stashed under the bed, a cricket bat nicked in Year 9, and the grim determination of a man who's already emotionally dead…mehr

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Produktbeschreibung
Because Half the Country Turned Into Shuffling, Brain-Dead, One-Way-System Zombies

Owen Croft

When the dead start walking and society collapses faster than a pint glass in a pub brawl, who do you trust? Not the Instagram survival influencers with their quinoa and crossbows. Definitely not the middle-management pricks trying to schedule a "zombie stand-up meeting."

No, you trust the proper Northern lad who's been prepping for this since 2008: 94 tins of 18p beans stashed under the bed, a cricket bat nicked in Year 9, and the grim determination of a man who's already emotionally dead since Britpop died.

This isn't your yank prepper nonsense with bunkers and AR-15s. This is the real-deal, broke-arse British guide to outlasting the undead on a budget tighter than your nan's purse strings. Learn how to:

  • Barricade your house with shite you already own (including those final demand letters)
  • Pick mates who won't eat you first when the beans run low
  • Turn a lawnmower blade into a helicopter of tetanus and despair
  • Avoid the "sexy survivor" (she's trouble, mate - every single time)
  • And ultimately win the apocalypse by being too stubborn, too skint, and too bloody-minded to die


Packed with foul-mouthed wisdom, zero useful skills, and enough bean recipes to make you fart pure methane, this is the only survival manual written by someone who's already survived three recessions, two divorces, and the Spice Girls reunion tour.

If civilisation ends tomorrow, you'll thank the tight bastard who wrote this.

If it doesn't, you'll still laugh your arse off - and maybe stock up on a few extra tins, just in case.

Perfect for fans of black comedy, Northern grit, and anyone who's ever looked at their cupboard and thought, "Yeah... this'll do."

Warning: Contains language stronger than builder's tea and advice worse than your mate Dave's. Not actual survival guidance. Obviously.

Dieser Download kann aus rechtlichen Gründen nur mit Rechnungsadresse in A, B, CY, CZ, D, DK, EW, E, FIN, F, GR, H, IRL, I, LT, L, LR, M, NL, PL, P, R, S, SLO, SK ausgeliefert werden.

Autorenporträt
ABOUT OWEN CROFT

Born in the middle of 1970 in a damp, pokey back-to-back stone terrace house in Mossley, Greater Manchester the sort of house where the toilet was outside, the wallpaper peeled itself in protest, and the front door opened straight onto a cobbled hill steep enough to give a mountain goat vertigo.

While other lads were doing detention, Owen was at home hammering out stories on a battered Imperial 66 typewriter he'd nicked off his uncle for a fiver and a packet of Jammie Dodgers. Poetry, filthy limericks, half-arsed sci-fi, shopping lists that turned into novellas anything and everything got written down. He's still got boxes of the stuff mouldering in his attic: spiral notebooks full of teenage smut, margins packed with doodles of tits and monsters, and one epic 398-page fantasy novel written entirely in green biro when he was fifteen.

Life got in the way for a few decades factory shifts, dead-end jobs, hiking the Pennine hills in all weathers just to stare at sheep and clear his head, the usual northern rite of passage. But he never stopped writing. The notepads piled up like unpaid bills. Typewriters gave way to knackered laptops that smelled of lager and joss sticks, yet the words kept coming.

Now, finally, in his mid-fifties and with the patience of a man who's watched too many sunrises over Saddleworth Moor, he's dragging the best (and filthiest) of those decades-old manuscripts out of the cupboard, dusting off the sheep shit and the sarcasm, and actually publishing the bastards.

First came the notorious BUMBLECOCK books the ones your mum pretends she hasn't read in the bath. More are stacked up behind them like planes over Heathrow.

Just a lifetime of stories, a typewriter that still works if you hit it hard enough, and an industrial-grade contempt for taking anything too seriously especially himself.

Welcome to the mad bastard's library.
Mind the language. It bites.