Shopfitters of the world, unite and take over

Things at once not big, not clever, not funny - nor challenging, as a result of the previous.

So much so that you hope you misheard, or in this case misread. So it is with the lackwitted attempt at sarcasm from dickwad who left the comment on the previous post pretending to be lit-twat Euan T.

Do me a brotherfucking favour; use a name, any name but preferably a good one. Show some imagination, anyone's imagination, but preferably a good one if not your own. Have a fuckin' go rather than piss about with half-arsed attempts at sarcasm, admittedly the highest form of wit but quarter-witted when at the disposal of this feckless impotante.

The arse crease, the butt crack, the bottom line is I will not take it personally, I fuckin' love it. The whole point of the Blame Game Name Shame is to rile people. What really offends me, what I may take personally if it continues, is the insipid nature of the bollock-drained comment left by that yellowest of recreants, that most jelly of fishes, the lowest milquetoast. That is, the habitually vapid, the daily jejune, the oftenmost anemic.

Did I hear you right?

Fantastic.

Let's have it!

Blame Game Name Shame on!!

Blame Game Name Shame

Well toute le monde I am back, from a two week Texas roadtrip with my old Oxford mate, Table Legs, followed by a one week work stint over there. Respectively I took in Houston, Austin, Dallas, Denton, Fort Worth and Arlington (henceforth know as Armpit Town, as it is truly the sweaty underarm of the west), and wrote a beauty of an article on the theme of escape and notions of a 'new past' in the works of Chinua Achebe

...I know, you wish to fuck that you were me. Well hold the back and front pages simultaneously, to say nothing of the centre-spread...

I am done with Texas, my semi-residence there is over, no more Pond-hopping for Truman. My 18 month flirtation with transatlanticism is no more. This was my last trip. Rose is returning come the summer. Together for good and all. Sure I will be back in a different capacity, to TX, as a visitor, but it is Hasta to my big-hat wearing, y'all-have-a-nice-day calling, you're-in-Texas-now chanting, ubercilious friends. I am away to get myself a writing career. Next time I hit US shores I intend it to be on a natioinwide book tour.

On which note I got my first agent rejection today. Some quarter-wit claiming that I must not have got his email of April 23. Well, not unless I have a fucking time machine. The dozy, coked-up lit-twat.

For the record his name is Euan (pronounced You-an, as in You an' who's army is gonna stop me now?) , he works at A.M. Impo-tant, London.

First victim of the Blame Game Name Shame. As Stephen Colbert would say, You're on notice!

Hey, so this Blame Game Name Shame is not going to win me any friends in the lit world. Who gives a fuck? I don't have any friends there now so I have jack shit to lose. Plus it will make it all the more satisfying when the book gets published and is shit-hot, as will be its progenies. Plus there is the film rights deal to consider.

I GUARANTEE this will happen.

So get in on it at the first floor - premier etage, baby. Write to your MP, Member of Congress, friend, or even friends, your local Fat Twat, publishers, agents - go on, I'll cut you a deal...1%

You think?!!

btw - I landed myself a gig writing for this tre-fooking-mendous mag, it is an online thing called The Standard. I'll be providing a weekly rant for them from Issue One, which is due for launch in May 2006. You should contribute too, if you have an ounce of conscience and a tonne of talent. www.standardraisers.com

Do it!

Go on, do it!!