Posted in comedy, humor, humour, Uncategorized, writing

I’m Super; Thanks For Asking [A Blog]

Meanwhile, in Britain.
Meanwhile, in Britain.

‘Sometimes late at night; I lie awake and watch her sleeping….’ sang Ronan Keating in that song that he stole from Garth Brooks and managed to make seventy times more middle-of-the-road and shit. What most people don’t know though, is that Keating chose the tune especially, to celebrate his horrific sexual fetish for climbing into the bedrooms of children at night, and pervily looking at them with his eyes while they aren’t awake. That’s just the sort of ‘man’ he is, and (I haven’t checked) there’s probably a good chance that he lives less than three hundred miles away from SEVERAL PRIMARY SCHOOLS. Is this what the Tories meant when they promised there would be ‘no child left behind’? I think it’s clear to see that, with the Savile inquiry and the stuff about Mr Blobby, Mr Cameron is more interested in giving his powerful media friends access to children’s behinds, than he is in sorting out this black wheelchair Muslim something something outrageous something needs to be done tuition fees gays marrying I don’t know.

I seem unable to write a book. That’s probably not good, considering. I’m seemingly capable of writing a totally different book. Several totally different books, in fact. Just not the one I’m supposed to be writing. Every time I go through an edit, all that the voice in my head seems to say is ‘This is terrible. You should throw all of this away. You need to start from scratch.’ Well, that’s not all the voice says. Sometimes it says ‘MASTURBATE IN THAT POLICEMAN’S FACE!’, or ‘You know what looks good on a dog? FIRE!’ Mostly it just tells me ‘GIVE MADDY BACK,’ but I digress.

I’m still writing every day. Sometimes I write an email to my mother to ask for her forgiveness. Sometimes I write a long and courteous reply to the Mis-sold Payment Protection Insurance people. Or to Pelé, to see if I can get free Viagra. But I’m not actually using the time I have wisely. Mainly because I’m not getting enough sleep or food, and because I hate myself and I want to die. That was a joke, obviously. I don’t want to die. And if I did, I’d be sure to buy myself an AR-15 first, and take some of you fuckers out with me when I go. The whole ‘school shooting’ thing is so fucking blasé at this point though, I think I’d probably go shoot up a zoo instead. Die, you fucking ostrich cunt, die!

I still find passages in The Boys of Summer now that make me want to do a slight re-edit, and I just can’t keep doing that. There comes a point when you have to leave it. With the new one, I want all of those moments to happen pre-release. And they have been. Constantly. I’m literally going into the text and removing specific words. Like ‘really’, or ‘just’, or ‘that’ or ‘then’. And any adverbs. Try this exercise with a copy of Twilight or FSOG. You’ll end up with a fucking pamphlet. A pamphlet that just has ‘Inner Chagrin’ written on it. And smells of quim.

Will Girl Afraid actually happen? Yes, it will. It’ll just be… different. It’ll be better, or else it won’t happen at all. I’m not interested in doing a second book that’s shitter than the first one, so until I can make it better, you might have to wait. In the meantime though, there will be two others- the untitled Young Adult sci-fi romance one about London in 2018 (some of you have read a sample), and the one that’s aimed at women who like wanking. That one will of course come with a free easy-wipe-clean life-sized effigy of my penis. That arrives in the post, but don’t worry; UK parcel mail is charged by length and width, so it should only cost you twenty-three pence.

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Self proclaimed author, cynic, saviour of humanity.

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