I am merciless on the Gazette

My thirst for literary glory has surely been slaked to completion by a favourable notice in the Holloway Gazette. Apparently I “dish 80s pop dirt in spades.” If pop dirt of whatever era must be dished, this does sound like an efficient way to dish it. 

The review section is a paragraph sandwiched between a photograph of an apparently three-nostrilled local poppet, wigged and scowling at something called a Cancer Drive, and an expose of the Lancaster Way rat and maggot revolution. It seems a platoon of Bolsheviks furred and segmented has done what the residents cannot do, and recycled their offcast scrap into vibrant new life. To fully reinforce the horror, a 39-year-old student holds his or her nose and brandishes a sachet of cooking salt, which is apparently intended to ward off all wildlife. 

“I go outside and I just start itching,” this sorry creature booms in 14-point bold.

Perhaps a suppressed revulsion at being a student at an age when most worthwhile contributors to humanity have been long assassinated might be the culprit here, I hear you think. A subcutaneous existentialism of the itch may be the only kind available to the uncerebral maggot-haters of Lancaster Way. But no, the blame must be savagely levied on the defenceless. I resolve to write to this Islington Gazette. It will be my first prose output since I rescued Penguin. 

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