Pebblehead’s Book Of British Pebbles is something of a departure for the bestselling paperback potboilerist. Best known for his fat airport-bookstall blockbusters with one-word titles ending in an exclamation mark, his latest tome is a picture book featuring hundreds of snaps of pebbles accompanied by sprightly and vivid explanatory texts.

“For many years I have been collecting pebbles,” said Pebblehead, sheltering from the rain under an umbrella outside a sordid backstreet bordello where he was buttonholed by an eager young cub reporter from a regional newspaper, “And it occurred to me to exploit my success as a writer of potboilers to bring the joy of pebbles to a wider audience. Pebbles are too often ignored and neglected in this day and age. I want people to notice them, admire them, pick them up and plop them in their pockets and take them home, then place them on their mantelpiece or windowsill and give them a good polish with a rag and a spraycan of Mr Brightly Dazzling propietary pebble polish from time to time. They are also very useful for chucking at swans if you have a fit of pique when taking a turn around your local duckpond.”

And with that, the indefatigable paperbackist clamped his pipe tighter between his jaws and flounced off in the rain towards some fresh hell.