I heard this today from a good friend.

There’s a lot of truth in it and a fair amount of sadness too.

Why don’t manuals sell the way they used to – is it because we’ve lost the patience to fix things?

Will anyone ever publish a set of encyclopedias again when wikipedia simply rapes it of its intellect?

Is their a Bible or Koran out there waiting to rewrite the future?

Is there an ounce of courage left in mainstream publishing?

Is everything in publishing governed by what’s gone before?

Has publishing eaten itself?

Is it too late for it to rescue its soul from the bile?

What if Frantzen had a billion bastard clones?

All these answers and more can be found at your nearest Amazon depot.


As the plague of common-as-muck injunctions blur into one, we are seeing the rise of its super-rare cousin, the super-injunction, superseding it.

Whatever next?

Why not leap straight to hyperultraextrasuperinjunctions and be done with it?

It seems to me that the language of superlatives is to blame. We’ve lost the ability to use short simple words in an order that is easy to read yet sinks in deep. Is it the fault of legal people. Well, maybe not. They have their tongues tied behind their backs to remix metaphors. Hang on, I’ve caught the disease now. Help! Save me from this grandiloquent guff.

Walk the dog.



Time for bed.




Dear Coalition

If you cast your minds back to 1688, you will recall the whiggery movement that stood to subordinate Parliament, the crown and the upper classes, which in turn gave rise to the Liberal party in the mid C19th. Within this calendar year, mark my words, there will a renaissance of extraordinary force from both within your cosy twosome. These insurgents do not yet know who they are, but by God they will.

Run for cover when the time comes. You have been warned.


Today my daughter threw more gusto into the dismantling of her lego tower than she did into the building of it.

Within the hour I’d received an email about an artist exploring the architecture of excavation. Join him at:

Tell me readers, who is watching us and pulling the chords of chance?

FROZEN TYPIST (# 74,904)

I’ve noticed a thing or two over the years about the process of recording thoughts on a keyboard.

My right hand gets cold. Only the right, not the left.

Is it hypothyroidism? Or is this because I hit more keys with the right than the left? Is it because this right hand is really only a right forefinger, such is my stunted ability to type?  This doesn’t happen long hand as the left hand knows its role which is to steady the book while the right generates its own heat and energy.

To stave off the big chill, I am slouched next to a fading fire with my right hand closest to the embers. I just grabbed a slice of bread which is turning to the very early stage of toast, so it must be working.

If you encounter cold hand symptoms while writing, practice piano instead. Failing that, climb into a fire.


Is where it’s heading.

Privacy is what publicity wants to be when it grows up from its pubescent phase of entitlement and adoration.

We will relinquish our exits and fort knox-ify our entrances – goodbye facebook, linkedin, twitter & co.

This will cleanse the whole of society in a self-diagnostic manner.

We will feel better, even those who held 50 conversations at once without ever truly being in any one of those conversations.

Spoken language will shrink.

Body language will rise.

And we’ll all live bovinely ever after.