More Goddamn Books

amy sketch
The green is printing ‘bleed.’ I cut the title down from eleven words to three letters. Is that better? I don’t even know anymore. In fact I might not even care. I mean I probably do but I just feel homicidally bored, know what I mean?

Hey, remember me? Yeah, I’m that fat facetious piece of shit who once wrote popular articles, both of them around the starts of ’12 and ’13 (and by ‘popular’ I mean more than thirty Facebook likes; and by ‘articles’ I mean social media toss but who are you to judge—if you can bare to look at yourself in the mirror for long enough to brush your teeth without poking out one or both eyes with your Oral-B then you’re clearly delusional anyway and we have much in common so let’s continue, you daft twat.

Christ, I forgot, there was that one about the Pope as well. Some liked it, some prefer living out their life as an indentured servant to a make-believe tyrant and counter ferociously any attempt to make them, you know, read what even the Tory rags of this rag-tag island of toe-rag proles can hardly deny. Need a final clue? Really? It’s child rape, my dear, and I’m never playing charades with you at Christmas.

Anyway, by the start of ’14 I was off my meds and rewriting The Monsters We Became or Fell For. One down, one to go and I’m even paying tax for the pleasure. Living the dream, my friends—living the motherfucking dream. So yeah, now I’m rewriting All But One of Those Lights in the Sky are Dead because it was either that or toss away that piss poor waste of a summer better spent and I don’t like throwing things away. It’s the same deal as before, turning over the soil while hacking the bush into something that won’t give me that kind of stomach-churning embarrassment self-expression is known for. And I know what you’re thinking—a man who gives his books such long names must be overcompensating for something; and you’d be right.

But it’s not all me, me, me, oh no, I’ve just finished editing my friend David Rickerby’s trilogy. He remains homeless and has as yet been unable to acquire a safe to lock subsequent works away from the prying eyes of the unwashed masses. I would say, “Pay the man!” but then I’ve edited three of his books already and posses a quite rambunctious goodwill at the moment.

If you got the Salinger reference, well done you; someone of your mental acuity must be crying out for a bit of Scandinavian pulp-noir, seriously. Well you’re in luck, my dear; Bloody Fields is available now. Also, come say hello on his Facebook group, or just like the page to assuage your middle-class guilt like that time you gave fifty pence to a busker because he was playing that song you like. Still couldn’t look him in the eye for more than a second though, could you? Well that’s okay, this isn’t about blame or judgement, we’ve all been there and that’s why we’re here. All I’m saying is, if you help this one dirty hobo out here then not only do you get a book to give someone from the bad side of the family this Christmas but you also get to stroll past all those shivering vagrants and dark-skinned amputees right through until the January fucking sales.

David’s sequel to Bloody Fields aka Aarhus Games Aarhus Rules will be available in the next week or two. The funny thing is, even though he writes about crime drama and murder while I write about doss cunts and how love makes them drunks, we still have been writing about the same old town, friends and flames, the same likely psychopaths who it’s always fun to watch clime high when it’s such a long way down.

The cynics among you may be thinking: “Well Parlett can’t be much of a fucking editor if his mate’s still homeless,” and you may be right but you’re also a cunt.

Christ, do excuse me, I didn’t mean to rattle on, I’d just been up all night working on that cover. I asked some people who I knew could make art and whose opinion I trusted to tell me what they thought but in all honesty, all I want to hear is my own opinion funnelled back to me: It’s shit, I’m a useless prick but it’s the best a dirty Paki faced bastard like me is capable of.

Admittedly, when I imagine people’s opinions of me they often employ my Stepfather’s rhetoric, which is clearly fucking hilarious. Oy vey.

I think I’m done now, Are we done? I regret not updating this blog more often but then most that live in Britain not of the ruling class know already that we’re pretty much proper fucked and those that don’t are either willfully ignorant or drown out the thunder of impending doom with the wildly irritating cacophony of their bullshit progeny.

Don’t want foreigners in Britain? Well who’s going to run the schools and hospitals? Don’t want to give free money to feckless fuckwits who breed and leech? Well what about their fucking children then, genious?  You’re creating a feedback loop. Do the world a favour, loop it round your neck and kick away the chair just as the first guests begin to arrive for the wee one’s birthday party.

Shit, sorry, I had to stop myself there. I think I’m done, Don’t you? Remember to buy Dave’s book or mine or neither, fuck you.


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