Sack race

Japes they are gibbering on over on the Guardian ’bout the GLA (not to be confused with Ransome’s GA or the Great Aunt lest any 7 yr olds be reading) Britain’s greatest living author. Would there be any difference in this question and lining up six different varieties of puppies, lying down on the pavement, and trying to assess which was the best tail wagger. I think not.

 I have a much more cavalier solution to the quest. Stick the writers into sacks and instigate a race, preferably down a traffic congestion charge street to add challenge as they locate change. Or make them trot the railway tracks to Dundee. If there’s no track due to the Tory assault on British Rail, then make them lay one, pick axe and bucket provided. Finally take all tomes dump them in deep bucket of water and then sling them at various heads of candidates or volunteers to be entirely democratic, and let them decide which title makes the most violent impact. Eh voila.

The World’s Greatest Reader is certainly the Puffin who I noted kissing a book the other day and murmuring to himself “it’s so beautiful.” I doubt even the edgy — voice of a blah blah generation, I can describe a traffic light like no other, verbally plumb in a sink before you’ll find the plug and get to literary grips with the arse of end of donkey … Monsieur Amis can top that.

Mr A is however my best hope for a novel about teeth and dodgy jaws.