There is a magazine on sale in the shop where I work - possibly called Chat! or Now! or something similar, that has the tag line Life, death and prizes!!!!!! (All of which appear to be nestled in between stories of the girl who's tortoise sat on her head and nearly killed her, a child who dialled 999 when its mother was attacked by a wayward albatross and a man who left his wife to sleep with his sister's pet Border Collie.)
Life, death and prizes!
I'm not even kidding.
People will buy anything. It genuinely bemuses me. They'll spend 68p (or whatever) on that, but won't fork out a few more pounds for something like Oscar Wilde, William Shakespeare, Douglas Coupland. Why? How come we stigmatise books, all of which are bursting with entertainment, imagination and wonderment, and yet hold up there glorified leaflets, monosyllabic transcripts of Jeremy Kyle episodes as genuine, worthwhile reads.
There is literally nothing else I can say about that right now.
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