The Longfellow furrowed a brow and looked at him quizzically, ‘I mean it’s crap,’ said Cum-Bot.
They wouldn’t be so tolerant with a burning fag butt down the side of a slip-on, I can tell you that.
This must be how it feels to live in a totalitarian state. To be a victim of ever declining standards where there is not a single person of discernment and authority to whom you can appeal.
Well, wouldn’t all this cogitating lead me to come up with a sort of rival theory to the Big Bang and religion?
I could only find one serious review, I tell her, and I read from that. The reviewer calls it ‘borderline imbecilic,’ with chapters on shopping, picnics, and T-shirts, which he says are delivered with a sense of shame.
Now I find myself in a genuine predicament. I really cannot choose between suicide and arson.
Almost everything that everyone else says is not worth the air with which it is spoken, obviously.
No sour grapes on my part when I say that the gatekeepers to literary stardom in this country would be incapable of judging who is the most cunning between Joey Essex and the Duchess of Sussex.
There is a me in team. And there's only I in truth.
I’ll lose my audience if I give them much more of the poor me. -You don’t want to sound like Meghan Markle, do you? Look how nauseating all that is.