Either I've suddenly become a lot more attractive of late, or there are some very strange people out there. Other than you, of course. You're not in the least bit strange. You're ... different. Yes, that's it: different. Not strange at all. No, no, no. *ahem*
Anyway, now that we've reassured you that you're still 'mummy's special little soldier', we can get to the point*.
People keep emailing me and asking for a signed photograph. And believe it or not, they're not actually after one of my nude Gloria Hunniford snaps either. Or even the ones I have of Anne Widdicombe in a thong. No, they want one of me. Perverts.
I honestly can't understand this at all. Yes, I have a lovely sexy beard, but that's not enough reason to go asking for 'artistic' photos, is it? The whole idea of scrawling my signature across a glossy eight-by-ten gives me the shuddering heebies. It's just WAY too showbiz.
And what, exactly, are these people going to do with signed photos of me? Does it feature sketchy stalker-style shrines, to be built upon over the years with used chewing gum, discarded pint glasses and locks of human hair**? Or is the word 'Voodoo' going to be involved? Either way it's creepy.
Mind you, some of us aren't so shy about putting ourselves out there as mega-multi-media-celebrity-types. Take Allan 'Sunshine Horror Bollocks' Guthrie, for example:
As I may have mentioned earlier, I took my very own copy of SAVAGE NIGHT with me to Poland. I read it on the way there, and She Who Must Remember To Bring More Books Of Her Own So She Doesn't Get Mine All Filthy With Her Naughty Fife Fingers read it on the way back. And we both loved it.
It's totally screwed up, twisted, violent and quintessentially Guthrie. She Who Must doesn't read a lot of crime fiction unless I twist her arm, but even she was gripped by the quality of Al's prose. What's the world coming to when a short hamster-like Orcadian can go round impressing other people's wives with the quality of their prose? It's not bloody wholesome, is it?***
Right, I'm off for a jolly good sulk.
* Not that there actually is one. I just like to pretend there is to make myself feel all important and special. 'Special' is another good word, isn't it?
** Probably pubic, you know what these weirdoes are like.
*** And I should probably state for the record, that She Who Must has never admitted to being gripped by the quality of my prose. But I'm not bitter. Oh no. Not a bit of it. But I will be interviewing for the position of 'Mistress' later in the week. If you're looking to apply for the post, please make sure your CV includes a photo and a brief description of three uses for custard not intended by the manufacturers.
Labels: books, ego, Stuff about me