That would be an existential matter

Дайте не над thy душой к скорбе; и afflict не thyself в thy собственном консультанте. Gladness сердца жизнь человека и joyfulness человека длина дней.

A book about a film never made, written by a man who never existed, discovered a man who was equally fictitious, edited by a fabricated authority which in turn was edited by real Editors all put together to screw with your head. It

. .

took me just over . . .

two months of perseverance, but this mighty 700 page novel, with footnotes and footnotes in footnotes and at least two stories at any one time running, I finally finished. It’s nothing short of amazing. Forgetting the parallel stories,

the num - . . erous appendices, the three of four page long footnotes, the obscure text layout and the erratic timeline, this

book is st - ill a
. . good old fashioned, scary book

. . . and
nothing
.
. . short of amazing.

Once again, much like here, some

. people disagreed with me

that it’s any good, . . but unless you read the book, you can’t judge it. So read it. Then

judge it. It’s rather good. That‘s why it has

huge cult following - something that I‘ve managed to

avoid

until after finishing the book.

I have a chip on my shoulder. I hate so many things. Often about London. Often just stuff in general. I try to let it go. I try to be positive. Truth is, sometimes I like to hate things. Other times these things, or people make me want to break down and weep. The careerist London twats. CLTs. (Look I coined a phrase. People will be quoting me in no time.) I can’t even say who these people are exactly. I think they’re symbolic people in my head that don’t actually exist. Convenient stereotypes to rage about that represents everything wrong with this city. Maybe it’s symptomatic of not knowing a person enough and sticking them in one generic group, the wine drinking, “apartment living”, couscous eating CUNTS. But there you go.

These people include the people who drink in All Bar One out of choice. The people who talk about jobs at parties. The people who go to Tiger Tiger without realising it’s shit. The people who read Time Out to decide where to eat. The people who have music tastes dictated to them by the radio. The people who get bankrolled by their parents from a satellite town in Hertfordshire and then talk about the problem of London gang culture at a dinner party. The people who think that the West End is fabulous and not some soulless money grabbing tourist trap, showing endless bastardisations of films and music in a theatre format. The people who think they’re a better person than their neighbour because they eat from Waitrose rather and Asda. The people who talk down to other people constantly (there’s millions of you!) The people who judge others because of their accent, background or dress sense. The people who wear fucking boat shoes when they’re not on boats. The people who talk about shares or the stock market as if it’s important. The people who use hands free but hold their mobile with one hand and the mic with the other. The people who think it’s sophisticated and chic to get drunk on cocktails in a place called Ma-fucknut-ti or whatever but sitting in an old man pub drinking Fosters with some good mates is apparently sad. The people who aspire to be a job title. The people who look down upon others for staying friends with mates, even if they don’t fit their new dynamic lifestyle. People who talk about the urgent need to get on the property ladder. The people who have had saving accounts since they turned 18. The people who don’t eat chicken because of Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall’s programme but will gladly order fois gras in an expensive restaurant. The people who have credit cards “just in case”. The people who think Snow Patrol is “grown up music” and assume that everyone forms a band to be on Top of the Pops. The people who listen to Radio One because it’s really “rather funny in the mornings”. The people who vote Conservative (yeah see what I just wrote there). The people who have been told all their lives what to do and somehow think that the fact they’re actually doing it is just coincidence. The people who aspire to own a model of car. The people who look up to businessmen. The people who still bloody think it’s rebellious to take drugs and will endlessly tell you about it. The people who tell you that you “must go to Glastonbury” as if it’s some kind of answer to something. The people who think that if you’re on Facebook your identity will be stolen. In fact, the people who worry about identity theft. The people who refuse to tell you their wage. The people who don’t want to be seen condemning prices in poncy places if they’re ludicrously unreasonable as they somehow feel worthy for paying the extra. And you know what. The people who cocking well moan about everything. And hate mongers. Their twats too.

Check it. Like looking in a mirror. Deep. Still it’s my blog so I’ll do what I want. (What’s this bit going on about? Didn’t think that through did I?)