Face Ache

He's Dostoyevsky. He's allowed.

Now, those of you who know me know that I'm a book obsessive. Every room in my lair is lined with books (including my shed). So it goes without saying that I've seen the mug shots of many an author. You know the shit - turn to the inside back cover, gawp at whoever had the time/ money/ obsession to belt out 350 pages of whatever.
So WTF is going on with those mugshots? Christ, have you ever seen such vile, egotistical pretentious toss? It's not the pics that are the problem but the gurners who inhabit them. Without a doubt you'll find them peering earnestly at the lens as if their tome is of such import that it reduces Dostoyevsky's efforts to the Chick Lit bargain bin. 
Jesus, as a journalist I've tossed about the idea of writing a book a thousand times. And you know what? If I had found the time/ energy/ obsessiveness to write one I as sure as fuck would not come over all Bon(i)o about it. I suspect that my book jacket pic would feature me unhinging my jaw with a stupefied grin while champagne dripped from my fringe. I'd look like I'd been happily flogged with my own winning lottery ticket. What I would not look like is some snotty prick forced to gaze upon the illiterate proles that surround them. No. I save that particular look for when I'm watching Jeremy Kyle.


Snow Go 

This dwarf ain't called Happy

As I type this my lovely offspring is glued to Snow White. It's not long into the film when the eponymous heroine flounces into the seven dwarves' digs for a rummage and a snooze (dragging half the fauna of the bloody forest behind her, I hasten to add). 
Now, in the light of the recent UK news that homeowner Vincent Cooke was relieved of a murder charge for stabbing to death the burglar who was raiding his house, who could blame the dwarves for setting about Snow White with their hatchets, thereby saving us another hour of Disney schmaltz? 
Just sayin'.