And I promised myself I wasn't going to cry...

Yes, in all the excitement of having my nether-regions accused of destroying women's lib in its multifarious forms I've forgotten something. St. Martin's Press (blessed be thy name) have asked me to write an acceptance speech for the upcoming Thrillerfest event in Phoenix. No you and I both know that there's bugger all chance I'll actually win anything, but the consensus seems to be 'better safe than sorry', and SMP have got someone going along who's been nominated to read out mine speech, should the universe suddenly take a sharp left turn into Bizarroworld.

Now I checked and the bloke in question has to read out what ever I write word for word. Hmm... a slightly more filthy and degenerate mind might use this as an opportunity to embarrass the arse off of someone by making him come out with an unending stream of filth and confessions of sexual deviancy. Bwahahahahaha! No -- no, must behave, must pretend to be like a proper writer.

*ahem*

Whenever I hear one of these, 'I never expected to win' things read out at a ceremony, I always think, 'Bollocks -- if you didn't expect it, how come you wrote a bloody speech?', but now I understand that it's probably down to someone in the publishing house brandishing a pointy stick (with a naked photo of Anne Widdecombe on it) poking the writer in the deviant male parts, and shouting, "Write an acceptance speech! Write it NOW monkey boy!"

Personally I expect that my speech will only ever be read out in the bar afterwards in a 'post-ironic' taking the piss style. But you never know. So, before I get cracking, does anyone want thanked for anything? Best answer goes in the speech!