I wrote a book. It’s not Thus Spake Zarathustra or A Clockwork Orange, but it’s decent enough for a first effort. Now I want to get it published. So would you if you’d literally been driven mad in the process of writing and editing the swine. I was possessed to the point where I saw blue spiders burrowing into my palms. I spent weeks without speaking to a soul and with only my fracturing psyche for company. Of course, it doesn’t have to be this way. You don’t have to flagellate yourself to create great art. But for this particular story I had to live it, no acting or contrivance, feeling the way the character felt, even if that meant feeling like fucking the wet sand your sister just pissed on. Problem is, our dear friends in the publishing industry have little interest in whether or not your work is authentic, from a real place that will connect, perhaps, with others. It sounds so obvious, but they want work that is GUARANTEED TO SELL. Doesn’t matter if it’s the most spineless, yellow-bellied, cookie cutter shit you’ve ever clapped eyes on – if it’s been written by a celebrity cook or singer then those pound signs start pulsing in Jemimah Bookseller’s noggin, down come her coolots and there’s Satan’s black cucumber fucking her in the ass before you can say ‘Henry Miller wouldn’t have stood for this shit’.
It’s enough to make you sick. Just a peep in the window of your average bookseller and you see what gets those registers a-singing: books by The Stig (lord love a duck), Jeremy Clarkson, Alan ‘fucking’ Sugar Tits, Cheryl Cole out of Girls Aloud, Dannii Minogue – and then of course the parade of cuntdom that is the ‘celebrity cook TV series spin-off’ by a variety of the country’s most fuckhanded individuals – Jamie ‘please piss on my face’ Oliver, Nigella ‘my Dad looks like a used condom but I’m happy to lick the cake mixture off your terrific cock’ Lawson, Huge Fearnley Cripplestalk and, of course, England’s number one cunt (sorry Bono, you’re Irish) and bully, Gordon Ramsays. He says ‘fuck’. It’s his trademark. “Make sure you put a few ‘fucks’ in with the recipes, Gordo, give the punters what they want, eh?” Page 78 - Chicken fucking curry with a side fucking garnish of fucking mindless bullying because Daddy didn’t love me, and I felt so, so small, now fucking cook it again and don’t burn it this time or I’ll say fuck again, or maybe even something really scary like I’M JUST A FRIGHTENED LITTLE BOY AND I’M GOING TO BULLY YOU SO I FEEL BETTER, EVEN THOUGH I’M 50 AND LOOK LIKE GRANITE MAN.
However, the book that really, really got my goat was Food for Friends by Levi Roots, featuring the Reggae Reggae Sauce man on the cover laughing like a Rastafarian hyena at the bewildering fact that he’s got a book on the shelf when all he’s ever done is jazz up tomato sauce a bit and wank off a dragon. I’m sure he’s a real nice guy, but that image and that book summed up for me what has gone wrong ACROSS THE FACE OF WESTERN CIVILISATION. Yes, Mr Roots, you are the epitome of the downfall of all that is sacred to God and man. It’s not your fault. Like so many, you’re just a puppet. But you symbolize the rot at the heart of the modern age, a disgusting disease that has been going on for some decades and has now reached epidemic proportions. It’s called ‘progress’… and it kills.
Look at how music used to be recorded (and still is in some enlightened quarters, like my kitchen) – analogue, none of this digital malarkey to ‘make things easier’. And guess what? 90% of digitally recorded music sounds like a dog turd in the ear compared to the lovely angelic golden masterpiece of heaven that is analogue sound. Maybe it’s just my luggers, but I can barely fathom how we could have mastered such a wondrous process only to desecrate it in the name of ‘progress’ – meaning convenience. Now you can replicate virtually any sound and ‘it sounds just like the real thing, yeah?’ Does it fuckola. The point is that there is SOUL in doing something, anything IN THE MOMENT, FROM SOURCE, and to condense these magical experiences into easily approximated mutations for the sake of convenience is to entirely miss the point, and DIE LIKE A SYPHILLIS-RIDDLED WEASEL IN A JELLY OF YOUR OWN PUS.
And so the ghouls and vampires of the advertising/marketing deathzone centre in on what they perceive as the ‘value point’ in anything, the soul or magic or wonder of a thing, and extract it and reduce it into a quantifiable and sellable product, usually these days in the form of an ‘experience’. Yet to do as such renders the true magic of the moment, the real experience, a lifeless facsimile of itself. Life is a living thing, and these murderous and vile roosters would sell their own babies’ quivering labias to the highest bidder, obliterating the life force from Life itself, reducing the gardens of Eden into parking lots for mummies as they drink the blood of virgin midgets and fellate camels in hospital waiting rooms.
Where was I? Oh yes – Levi Roots. These fidgety, cock-headed, whelk-pussied, juggle-nosed piss drinkers called publishers love fellers like Levi - instantly recognizable, ‘celebrity’ product. And the programmed masses lap it up like bukkake veterans. Of course there are novelists aplenty of merit on the shelves, yet a cursory glance at the bestseller list reveals a festering heap of clowns’ cocks, homogenized literary sick rice, a dizzying succession of ‘meaty’ novels about someone’s uncle in Ireland who fucked a tree and now the Pope’s got a hardon (just as a little aside, don’t you think the Pope looks the very ARCHETYPE OF A PAEDOPAPA?)
Phew, maybe I’ve got a little worked up under the collar about this, and maybe I’m actually adding to the overall malaise, but WHY CAN’T THEY JUST RECOGNISE A GENIUS WHEN THEY SEE ONE AND GIVE ME A BIG BAG OF MONEY?
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