Andrew Price was born in Saltburn-by-Sea in 1961. Son of a policeman and displaced farmer's daughter he has two younger sisters who double-up as best friends.
Andy studied at Whiteheath Primary School in Ruislip Middlesex where he excelled at underachieving, reading Beano comics, and setting fire to things.
Somewhere between the ages of ten and twelve Andy failed his "Eleven Plus."
In 1972 the family settled in North Yorkshire. Andy attended Saint Francis Xavier Secondary School in Richmond where he successfully exploited the national programme of study to further demonstrate his remarkable ability to underachieve.
In 1977 Andy showed-up at Richmond High School for one year, gaining a leisurely 'O' level grade 'C' in English Language along with a basic working knowledge of a woman's physiology.
During the spring of 1982 Andy was sacked from his job at a local service station following his self-implementation of a personal bonus scheme. He learned from the experience and was subsequently never sacked again.
Almost without exception, every private company Andy has worked for went under within a year or so of his arrival.
Andy is extremely lucky: He has Barbara. Andy and Barbara are luckier still: They have each other - and they have Amy.
The mortgage is paid-off.
Andy Price can drink copious red wine and , at the same time, render the most credulous of incredulity incredulous, applying nothing but the witchcraft of bullshit.
He can also write a story.
The title isn't a reference to Enid's financial status; it's a plaintive comment on the miserable condition of affairs under which she labours following an unfortunate encounter with a lawn-mower.
Don't be fooled by the innocuous title - or if you are fooled, allow yourself to be fooled - so you can be shocked as you part the pages.
Whichever way you read it, you'll find it brutally funny, or else funnily brutal.
To all you readers who think you've read it all - well I'm afraid you haven't. Actually I'm not afraid, I'm worried - worried that you risk trudging through the rest of your days without reading this book.
I don't know how much the tale will cost you should you come to buy it,
but it won't be a fortune.
Whatever you pay you'll get a good return - I promise. You see I wrote the book for the reader, not for my own gratification, (although it did relieve an innate itch to create,) nor did I write for the glory. There is no glory in glory. As for money - I already have some.
The book is harmful, so if you're weak of mind, body or soul - be warned. I won't apologise in advance for the vulgarity, the dark humour, the agro nor the sneering sarcasm, it's necessary - of course it is.