I've had a ton of nasty emails regarding my recommendation of this blog, claiming literary merit. I'm right and you are wrong. Wrong, only because the prologue to the blog entries is at the end, not the beginning. So here is his introduction to himself.....

Before embarking upon this little blog adventure one feels it would be pertinent to share a few personal details. I cannot, if I am truly honest, and, at this early stage one should at least be trying be truthful, trust in the absolute and charitable nature of writing such an introduction; that is, I suppose, this is more for my own benefit than the benefit of anyone else reading it. I am unashamedly self-indulgent. To suggest otherwise would quickly lead you to believe me a most terrific liar. Here we are then, ready to oblige my whimsy. And I’m all about indulging my whimsy as often as possible.

I was born in a leafy little village in the county of Dorset (in the south of England). This was some time around the end of the seventies, although I sharn’t furnish you with an exact date. My family home was a modest Edwardian country house with some acres of land, a pond, a long gravel drive-way, and a garage full of mostly dismantled classic cars. We didn’t have servants, but we did have a part-time cleaner and chap who would tend the garden once a week. I grew up with my mother who, in the 1960s, ran a certain, somewhat famous, boutique on London’s Carnaby Street. My father was in the army, like his father and grandfather before him. I hardly saw him and I can remember, word for word, the only conversation I ever had with him:

“Are you going to join the army?”

“No, I want to work in television.”

We never spoke again. Although that is at least partly because he died in the Falklands war a couple of months later.

I am the youngest of four children. Lucas, my brother, is the eldest and he did join the army. He’s married to Felicity, who collects pig ornaments. Then there’s the spinster, Charlotte, who is in her early thirties. She drinks two bottles of red wine a day, smokes constantly, and writes incredibly sad novels about being a thirtysomething spinster. Next is Annabelle, the baby factory. Annabelle is thirty and is constantly pregnant. Unsurprisingly, considering her predilection toward copious over breeding, Charlotte does not talk to her. Annabelle is a full-time mum and she’s married to Colin, who collects stamps, plays golf and, in a event that made him go up endlessly in my estimations, once got arrested for curb crawling. I mean, wasn’t he getting enough sex at home?

By way of my degree in Philosophy and Modern Languages at Oxford I landed an entirely unrelated job working for a large advertising agency in London. I am ridiculously good at my job without trying.

Three years ago I sold my house in London and bought a bachelor pad down here in Brighton. I am single by choice, finding the mere concepts of co-habitation and monogamy to be hilarious and upsetting and baffling in all kinds of ways. I have very little respect for my fellow human-beings and I am perfectly comfortable exploiting and manipulating them for my own gain or even amusement… in particular those less intelligent, less wealthy, and less attractive than me. Which is most people.

If you met me you would think me a charming, handsome, gentleman. My manners are impeccable and I can be warm and jovial (if I believe doing so would benefit me). I am witty, hedonistic, cultured, depraved, professional, perverted and angry. I generally prefer to sleep with girls ten years younger than me, mostly because they are easier to impress and less likely to harbour delusions that I might actually want to develop some kind of emotional connection to them. My façade, then, is perfect.

What lies beneath is what this blog is all about.

Again, worth going to.