Monthly Archives: December 2005

Who the Arse Does Tim Brooke-Taylor Think He Is?

There’s a man com­ing to fix my TV, which tried to neck itself last week after inad­vert­ently being left on for a whole epis­ode of Threshold, and the repair com­pany is only able to give me an appoint­ment time accur­ate to the nearest geo­lo­gical epoch.

So I’m forced to spend a whole day stuck inside the house wait­ing for him to come, a job made much more dif­fi­cult by the neces­sity to avoid the fact that it’s a nor­mal work day and I should be inside the house any­way, actu­ally work­ing. Here’s how it goes:

Posted in Evil Sulphura, The, complete mortification, editorial consultant, not writing, wrath | Comments closed

Broke, bit­ter, usu­ally half-cut by lunchtime

Two months ago, as I was in Las Vegas shoot­ing Osama bin Laden with a machine gun, a man con­nec­ted to the pub­lish­ing industry was read­ing the choicest extracts from my novel. Before him were two stacks of paper: one piled heavy and high and marked ‘NO’, the other much shorter, marked ‘YES’ and, I’d like to think, haloed with tinkly stars dan­cing to a heav­enly coloratura.

Posted in drinking, envy, photos, wrath | Comments closed

Truth, Beauty and Above All Quantum Superposition

Sud­denly I’m at an ima­gin­ary party.

“Nice party,” I say to a passing poet, rather lamely. She nods politely. I look around, a bit lost.

“Listen,” I say, “do you know why I’m here?”

“I don’t even know why I’m here,” she says crank­ily. “Why am I a poet? You’re mak­ing me up, you tell me.”

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The Other Georgia

There is a man look­ing in my study win­dow from the back yard. I sud­denly can’t remem­ber where I keep the cricket bat. He’s swarthy, and he’s tap­ping on the glass and say­ing some­thing which I can’t hear because I’m listen­ing to some tra­di­tional Geor­gian choral music on my head­phones and I’ve just turned up the volume as high as I can stand to get the full majestic effect.

Posted in Naomi Robson, complete mortification, neurosis | Comments closed