|Here's some socks|
I have a big, fat, sweaty, guilty confession to make. I can’t contain it any longer. I’m bursting with the magnitude of it. I’ve given it a lot of thought and many many times I told myself not to give in. “Don’t go there,” I said. “Keep your trap shut.” But similar to the way the eff word bursts out of me in mad bursts of rage and disbelief, sometimes I have to warn people, this is the time to admit that I really really don’t like something.
It’s a book.
A book written by someone I really really admire. Someone I have been following since the beginning of their career. For years now. I even have bits of newspaper interviews and sound bites from them sellotaped into the backs of their older novels.
It’s been in my possession since its release such was my haste to get my hands on it and I have been reduced to calling it my bathroom book.
You do so know what I mean by a bathroom book. Everyone brings a book or a magazine into the bathroom with them on occasion.
Anyway, I still have it and I’m still reading it. Almost a month later. Usually I stock up on digestive biscuits, tins of beans and loads of apples for the lads when I have something new to read and then I just point them in the general direction of the food piled up on the counter top and say, “food.”
Then I point at my book and say, “fek off. Give me two days. That’s all I want. I’ll be finished in two days.”
But this time round I am bitterly disappointed with my new book. Maybe I’m having a bad day. Maybe it’s the Easter holidays and I’m a bit emotional. I don’t know. But I do know I cannot get on board with this latest tome.
And here’s part two of my confession.
I know! There’s more. Now I really am crying.
The last book was only okay too. Much better than the previous one and heaps better than the (forgive me!) absolute pile of shite prior to that. I remember thinking the only reason that one was published was because it’s INSERT AUTHOR’S NAME HERE work.
Oh god, I’m not able for this. I’m really not.
I’ll just have to go and find some rushes somewhere near a body of water and whisper my disappointment into them.
Don’t follow me now.