A JEALOUS AND WHINY RANT ABOUT OTHER PEOPLE AND HOW MUCH BETTER THAN ME THEY ARE: THOSE WHO HATE ME SHOULD GET SOME ENTERTAINMENT FROM IT

Stephen Dedman's story collection Never Seen By Waking Eyes has come out. And he's just sold a story to a pretty damn good market.

Sean Williams has been invited to join yet another major project where he'll be side by side with numerous famous and groovy people.

Claire McKenna has her novel with a US agent.

Martin Livings has just about finished his story for Fading Twilight.

Adrian Bedford is writing and selling books like some sort of insane book writing selling thing.

And I'm so stupid I leave my tie at home so I can't go into town with Luscious for breakfast and have to leave her at the train station so I can go home and get the stupid tie for the stupid work that I don't even want to stupid bloody stupid want to go to today because God knows, it's not like I'm a real writer, just some stupid fucking amateur pretending he deserves to be with the big boys instead of just accepting he'll never get anywhere and all he'll ever manage is to sell a few pieces to local magazines and be forgotten the moment he dies or leaves the scene. Not like I'm actually fucking writing anything anyway, fuck it.

Right now I feel like the character from the Rowan Atkinson sketch: "Robert can not be here tonight, because he is in Hollywood, starring in a major Hollywood blockbuster. I, on the other hand, am here, not having been offered even a walk on role in an 8 millimetre pornographic movie..."

I hate myself so much I could spit at my reflection.