Alistair Coleman

[makes notes]

Ron.

“We’re good thanks”

All options at all prices still somehow available.

Happy birthday Gita!!

And there’s also a joke about the lyrics to the 1987 song Prime Mover by Rush, which very few people will get. But hey - anything can happen.

Yes, there’s a Bobson Dugnutt, and there’s also a Charlton Musgrove (a village off the A303 near Wincanton).

"I once rearranged a man's bones in alphabetical order," said Bobson, apropos of nothing much. Musgrove, who had done a lot of sighing recently, sighed. "But you can't read." "He was a librarian.” Bobson looked at Charlton who looked at Phil who looked at Bobson.

The writing progress: In the end, I’ve read through about a third of my WIP and made a few hundred changes. I know there are huge swathes to come that I will have to fearlessly edit. But not this bit. I like this bit.

(And also rather spooked because correctly spelled Jonathan Charles was my father’s name and it’s made my head go weird)

Your occasional reminder: Men - just don’t.

Many Viz readers got stang for that meme.

But he’s a creative mind! He loves nature and pets! And he has also made me doubt the correct spelling of Charles.

Everyone loves bees, especially the bumble ones.

And this is how I find out that James Whale had died.

Very “last known photo” that is.

EXACTLY

Join the Dobbies club.

I learned everything I need to know about the angry bastards from Wasp World (one mile north of the A30 at Bodmin).

Magazine think piece : If we liked wasps more, we could learn from them.

Yeah nah

MAYBE I AM.

I have made it to Dobbies for my coffee and cake and I am the youngest person here.

It is pushing lunchtime and I have done none of this.

Obvs.

The Dramatic Dmitri meme.

If they don’t get Dramatic Dmitri doing the chequered flag at the next race, I shall write a strongly worded letter.

*Hide the Pain Harold’s real name is András Arató, a retired electrical engineer who lives in Budapest. Do now you know.

Hide the Pain Harold (András Arató) at the Hungarian Grand Prix.

OH MY GOD THEY HAD HIDE THE PAIN HAROLD AT THE HUNGARIAN GRAND PRIX TODAY.

Where was he on Martin Brundle’s Grid Walk?

Thanking you.

The Whipping Into Shape includes an ending which is called The Battle of the Flat Roof Pub With A Dog On The Roof, which I had better write at some stage.

Errrr… [frantically rewrites]

It’s cool, I’ve wired it up so Douglas Adams is revolving in the opposite direction, thus neutralising harmful Dead Author Curses.

It was shortly after the gnarled old man's iron-toed boot connected with Edward's groin that he took the time to consider his poor life choices leading up to this moment of blinding white agony. "Ouch," he would have said, had he the mental capacity to speak, but his brain was fully occupied with coping with the pain while trying to avoid a second blow to his trouser parts. But at that precise moment in time, his only thought was "I hope he stops kicking me in the balls soon," which was extremely clear thinking for a young man in such an unpromising situation. Sadly, the old man had not stopped kicking him in the balls.

Pleased to note that the first four paragraphs are already nailed down. Come on publishers, send me money, the rest is even better.