Donbledore has flown in from Seattle, and is trying the hospitality of the local Bed and Breakfast. He brought me wonderful news from Samantha Tiffany, the UK literary agent. She assures us that "Punk has delivered".
Yo to that!
Her one query was over this particularly gratuitous passage in the last chapter, where Punk reveals his eight year old toilet humour in all its sordidness. I wish Samantha well, but both Donbledore and I have suggested that Punk removes it, and he is sticking firmly to his "no rewriting" policy.
I apologize in advance for lowering the tone of this esteemed website. Perhaps seeing his words on the web will bring Punk to his senses. My old sparring partner, Lord Crappenleigh, (new name invented by Punk) introduces himself as follows :
"I'm Giles Crappenleigh. Not Crapwell, or Crapalot, or any of the other names that the rock press have tried over the years. Some of my friends do insist on calling me just plain Crap. Crap as in the game, that is, not the shitty slimy stuff that stains your underpants. I was very good at it at one time. Shooting crap, not having a crap, that is. As far as I know, you can't be good at having a crap. Although my previous wife was very bad at it. She was constantly constipated. Couldn't push it out however hard she tried. Used to pull the most awful faces.There was also a friend of mine at college who used to come and report back to us every morning about the quality of his aim. "Didn't touch the sides this morning", or "Just a little stain in the left" or "Sprayed it everywhere, must have been that bloody curry"! It's a bit like being at prep school when you have to tell matron whether or not you're successful. "Successful in number one", "slightly runny in number two" Funny how the English are completely obsessed with their bowels…"
hmmm.
"Suffering is our experience of the distance between what we are and who we wish to become."
