'Bom chicka wah wah' my hairy arse

Yes, I know I had a rant last time, but tough. My dander is well and truly up today. Like a big flag on small pole*. I have been buying Lynx deodorant for years, not for it's questionable aphrodisiac qualities -- let's face it the thought of anything you squirt up your armpits turning you into a magnet for bikini clad women who need to eat more pies is pretty damn unrealistic** -- but because it comes in flavours that don't actually make me gag. But now they've gone all cleverclogs and come up with a strange twisty cap thing that you've got to twist before pressing the bit on top to make with the squirty.

Ha! So what happened to my one? Two squirts in, the little plastic nozzle bittie slipped down behind it's sodding sleeve. Even digging at the thing with a pair of scissors only managed to partially recover it, meaning that every time you press the button half the spray goes off at a random angle nowhere near your armpit -- like into your eye -- and the other half oozes down the inside of that bloody plastic sleeve, and from there all over your fingers.

And believe me when I say that the chemical stuff is long bloody lasting: eight or nine hours of hand-washing later and both paws still stink of 'Bom chicka wah wah'. I feel like Macbeth's wife: "Out, out damn Lynx!"

Worse yet, this means that I've gone through the whole tin in half the usual time, and only had the underarm benefit of about a third of it. This morning I got one armpit. What bloody use is that? Don't these people know I'm an international self-satisfied superstar? How can I maintain my sex god literary status with only one deodorised armpit? I'll have to talk to people sideways.

Has anyone ever met a writer, then gone back to tell their mates, "Oh yeah, he was really nice, had a great beard, and the most wonderful BO I've ever sniffed. Only on the one side though, his other side smelt normal."? I don't think so.

I am never buying the bloody stuff again. Instead I shall move on to something with slightly more realistic adverts that don't irritate the crap out of me.

And now we've got that out of the way, some news what does involve all of me and not just my oxters:

  1. Those strange people over at the Pulp Pusher have an interview with me and a Mr Ray Banks up on their website at the moment.
  2. COLD GRANITE has been longlisted for the Theakstons Old Peculier Crime Novel of the Year. Lots of really good books on the cards this year, so I doubt I'll be in with much of a shout, but don't let that stop you throwing away as many votes in my direction as you like -- vote now and vote often, and if caught blame Dan Brown (you know the drill).
  3. BOOK NUMBER THE FOURTH she finished. Well, the first draft is and it's winging its cheery way through the ether to my editorial ninjas, my unusual agent, and my trusty test reader. Hoo-bloody-ray! Now I can relax next week when I'm in Shetland, instead of lugging my laptop everywhere and worrying about getting the damn thing done.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going tear off all my clothes and run around the back garden shouting, "Finished! Finished, do you hear me? FINISHED! Bwahahahahaha..." until the police come and take me away.

* And no, I don't meant that in a dirty way you perverts.
** If you lived in the Artic Circle and wanted to attract seals rather than skinny women you could probably have a fair bit of success rubbing herring into your intimate underarm area. Not that I've tried this myself. *ahem*

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