Then - a critic: an evil, bitter, whisky-drinking miserabalist. Someone who even in my good days never wrote a valuable word but just poured his cynical vitriol out to a gullible intelligentsia. A seething mess of failed creativity. A black and damp spirit hovering around the newspapers and publishing houses of this two-headed little province. Ladies and Gentlemen - let us usher in Mr. Burnt Buttocks.
He now commenced a weak imitation of the gruff voice of Burnt Buttocks.
'Dukirk, Dukirk, Dukirk, Dukirk!’ He was enjoying this. Oh, how he was enjoying this!
'It's all over for you, Dukirk, just like I said it should have been eight years ago. This place knows you for the faker you are, the cut and paste pastiches of your limp brain. No publisher will go near you again, no newspaper could take you seriously, no opinion you have matters. You're 29 and you're headed one way Dukirk. I wouldn't even give you a library card or a fresh loaf of bread, Dukirk. If I was your parents, I'd demand you only say thank you and goodnight, given the way you've brutalized the language. Welcome to failure, Dukirk. I hope you enjoy your stay.' Trouble was, this time, everybody agreed with him. My thoughts turned to alcohol.
He waved away the getting-impatient baker’s apprentice, and, with a practiced hand, took another swig of his beer. I needed a drink and, with those first few sips, alcohol started working on me differently. Where only days before it had been full of happy ritual and bedroom frivolity, now it made me irritable, maudlin and woefully nostalgic.
