Guest blogger: ROYSTON BLAKE

I see the Writer has been spouting shite again. One mention of him in an article in one of the brainy papers and he's off down the pub, going on about how he's "at the vanguard of a new wave of young writers kicking against the cliches and producing ambitious, challenging, genre-bending works", or whatever. Well...

My dad used to have a mate who drove a Vanguard. And let me tell you, it was a fucking nail. All I remember about it was blue smoke out the back and dust up front as motor after motor frog-hopped you. So being a Vanguard is fuck all to be proud of, you twat.

Plus, right, who's really doing the graft here? The one who sits on his arse and types? Or the one who gets out there and makes things happen, pinging swedes and fighting for peace and justice and keeping them out who ain't welcome? He writes down stories... I fucking AM stories.

Who's the Vanguard now, eh? Actually can I be a Ford Zephyr? Zodiac MK4 at a push.

So if you should see the Writer down the pub, giving it that and bragging about how he's "kicking against the cliches", you just remind him who's wearing the size-twelves here and who's got the steel toe-caps. Then sit back and watch him get wankered on less than fifteen pints. The fucking lightweight.

Oh yeah, and join FREE THE MANGEL ONE, cos there's fuck all point doing "girder-bending works" if they ain't getting published.