I spent much of the month of July
attempting to drink myself into comfortable oblivion in a bid to escape
reality, which has why there have not been any blog updates of late. My life,
which never seems to run in a straight line for long, has recently been
violently twisting and turning at a rate that has left me feeling seasick. My concentration
span is down to less than five seconds, and I’m finding it damned hard to
commit words to paper.
Still, here goes with the latest
installment of this, the pretentious and largely unread thoughts of a worst
selling novelist.
Early reviews for my latest book,
The House of Fox, were not just bad - they were borderline vitriolic. I got the
impression folk didn’t want to critique my work, so much as form a pitchfork
wielding mob and turn up outside my home, demanding I be burnt at the stake for
having the audacity to write such a piece of bullshit. ‘Puerile’ was the word
thrown up the most often. My argument would be that of course it’s puerile; I wrote the fucking thing. It was never
going to be anything but puerile.
One guy said he found House of Fox really boring, because he’d personally participated
in all the lurid acts described in the book and there was nothing in there to
excite his imagination. I can only say I take my hat off to the man, although
I’m still not entirely sure as to whether he was reviewing the novel or
boasting about his own sexual prowess.
One or two more positive opinions
are slowly starting to drift in, but it’s safe to say House of Fox will remain
firmly in the love it or hate it
camp, with the vast majority of readers falling into the latter category.
In other news, the two ladies who
have moved into my house have turned out not to be the rutting nymphomaniacs
I’d hoped for, but rather a couple of fundamentalist Christians, who eat, sleep
and drink Jesus. They never swear, watch only Christian movies, listen only to
Christian music and pray before they do virtually anything. On laundry days the
washing line is crammed with neat rows of eminently sensible underwear.
Many years ago I learned never to
argue with religious types, as it’s such an utter waste of energy. Faith will
trump logic, evidence, common sense and reality every time. I’m not the sort of
fellow who likes to cram his opinion down other people’s throats – live and let
live has always been my motto – but last night I got the feeling they were
making a first attempt at trying to convert me, and if this scurrilous
behaviour persists I will have no option but to return the favour and drag them
down into my own, personal darkness.
So God, if you’re listening, I respectfully ask you to encourage your servants to keep their mitts off me, or I will introduce them to
jazz, vodka and butt plugs.
