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Neil Charley has lived in Coventry, London, Chafford Hundred, Chafford Hundred again, and—because apparently one lesson wasn't enough—Chafford Hundred a third time. He’s also lived in a few places he’d deny under oath, plus one he’d deny under torture. After finally exhausting the possibilities of Chafford Hundred, he moved back to Coventry, proving once and for all that his learning curve is a perfectly horizontal line. He now lives in Shropshire (seven months and counting, a fact delivered with confidence and a straight face).
Along the way, he’s met every type of character Britain can produce, usually over a warm pint in a pub with sticky carpets. The trouble is that people are broadly the same wherever you go: the brilliant, the baffling, the barely house-trained, and those who should never be allowed within ten feet of a meeting room—or a sharp object.
Years spent in cricket and rugby changing rooms prepared him for a certain level of chaos. But nothing—not a flying stump, not a collapsing scrum—prepared him for the corporate purgatory of Barclays, Lloyds TSB, VISA Europe, National Australia Bank, and Bank of Cyprus. He even returned to Barclays at one point, helpfully confirming a long-standing talent for making absurd decisions.
After surviving enough inane meetings to qualify for some sort of compensation scheme (emotional, if not financial), he eventually realised that real life was already a low-budget absurdist sitcom—one with no laugh track and even worse lighting. His books draw heavily on British sarcasm, pub logic, and the psychological scars left by conference calls that absolutely should have been emails—and emails that should have been a single, merciful GIF.
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