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Price £8.99 (US $14.95)
ISBN: 978-1-84748-692-7

Q: What has thousands of buttons, weighs half a hundredweight, makes you sweat bucketfuls and helps raise thousands of pounds charity?

A: The author's whistle and flute (suite) which he wears proudly as the Pearly King of Peckham.

George Major's story is a tough one. Abandoned in the 1940s by his mother, he spent years trying to find her, drawn to the pearly king tradition from the age of eight which he knew was in her family. An abusive father and a truly terrifying maiden Aunt Hilda saw young George packed off to an approved school in Surrey.

Long before David Jason immortalised the character Del Boy, George became a well-known character in the Peckham area and his life as a costermonger on the streets of South London was hilariously interrupted by a spell in the army � including eight weeks in the glasshouse in Colchester. George's deafness, coupled with his Norman Wisdom 'cheeky chappie' patter, endeared more than it annoyed, and in his twenties he was crowned Pearly King of Peckham. In this time-honoured capacity, he has fund-raised tirelessly for charities far and wide and met many members of the Royal Family and dined with the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh.

Packed with Dickensian anecdotes and pearly love, this memoir is not only the inspiring story of one man's fight against hardship to serve his country but also a portrait of a disappearing London and a tradition that still glitters brightly on our city streets.

£1 from the proceeds of this book will go to Capital 95.8's Help a London Child.


Buy at AmazonBy writing two books and a third one in mind. You might think that I love writing, but the truth of the pudding is that I don't. Rather than write a letter, I would go and visit the person. If I did write a letter, it would be no more than half a dozen lines

Coming away from school with no education that left me unable to read and write, which nowadays can be a big draw back. I was determined to learn to read and write, which took years to complete. I am poor at setting out my words and my spelling is the worlds worst. So when I set out to write my books, after friends always saying to me George you should write a book, I would say I can't read or write properly and friends replied just write from your heart George. So by hand, I started to write my books. No typewritters as you know of writters doing but by hand. Giving me a bloody cramp in my wrist. Most of my writing was done during the night and core blimmey wasnt they long nights. Then I would pass on my writing with my thousanads of spelling mistakes with no paragraphs, no comas, and no full stops to a friend of mine to type out for me. Then I would read through again and add corrections to any mistakes that I had made. I suppose I could have put all my words on a tape recorder but I felt happier to write my words by hand. So each chapter I had gone over and over again to get it as I wanted it. So you can imagine how I felt when the publishers said to me that I don't need a ghost writter. Then to see the results of my work in final print in book form was just amazing. So that's why I want to share this with you all to encourage anyone that thinks they cant bloody do it, well they absolutley can if they put their mind to it. Everyone has a story to tell and you don't have to be highly educated. Each story that is told someone can learn something from it, not everybody is perfect not everybody comes from an ideal background but we all have something to share.

The most difficult part of writting my first book was my childhood. In which I had locked myself up in my second home in Cyprus, for three whole weeks to be able to relive my childhood for the first time, which never in my life had I wanted to do, now just to share with you all. In them three weeks, I must have cried a river. Living of bread and ham and drinking buckets of Rosie Lee (tea) and sleeping for just fourty hours in that three week period. On them hand written scripts that I wrote on, which I still have, the traces of my tears and my sweat. Having sunk into a deep depression and having lost loads of weight an ordeal I would not want to relive. Therefore, with my writting under my arm I travelled back home. As I travelled on the plane still with my abusive childhood written under my arm, which I could not afford to loose after so many agoninising hours and weeks writing. I fell asleep for the first time feeling totally relaxed and somehow free.