If you’re reading this and know me, you might realise it has been almost two years since I last wrote anything on this blog. Partly, this is down to indolence, but mostly because I had an epiphany revolving around the crapness / crapitude / crapsatchel / Crapola in Crayola, that is my prose.

Not only that, it also struck me: “Who cares about what you, who work in a law firm, think about music or books or films or art or anything of importance and substance? Your top cultural achievements of the last five years include finishing some quite big books and not making a complete dick of yourself when you had a brief online conversation with Jonathan Coe.”

It’s taken two years, but the funk* of self-pity has finally lifted. I’ve realised that it doesn’t really matter if my writing is an abominable excrescence; it’s a decent way to exercise my brain and, damn it, I quite like it when it’s not getting me down. Also, the two or three friends to whom I have whimpered were reassuring and/or told me to stop being a prat, which if anything is more reassuring than just being nice**.

So, having got that out of my system, my next blog post will be a list of my favourite books of this year. In the words of Mr Chuck D Esq.: “Consider yourself… WARNED.”

*I’m thinking beanie-hatted slap bass botherers pronouncing the word ‘funkay’ as opposed to, say, Funkadelic or Sly Stone, for whom Vince Noir’s egregious slur of funk in The Mighty Boosh as ‘jazz’s deformed cousin’ is just plain wrong.

**Please don’t take this is carte-blanche to call me a prat, I have a fragile ego and I will shun you for approximately 34 seconds if you call me a prat.”


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