Mes Amis
With cheers to Beccy - who I understand is still recovering from her assault with a deadly hardback - for setting me off to find out more about The Bulwer Lytton competition.
Yes, poor writing must be rewarded. I mean, there's nothing better than truly godawful writing. Not just bad in a Grisham or Brown sense, but writing so truly and excretably bad that it gains a kind of genius all its own. This year's award winners are here
And as a taster, here's the winner of the Grand Panjandrum's special award (Ken Aclin):
India, which hangs like a wet washcloth from the towel rack of Asia, presented itself to Tex as he landed in Delhi (or was it Bombay?), as if it mattered because Tex finally had an idea to make his mark and fortune and that idea was a chain of steak houses to serve the millions and he wondered, as he deplaned down the steep, shiny, steel steps, why no one had thought of it before.
I don't know about you, but I'd keep reading...
Au revoir
Russel
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