Following James Elroy’s wondeful study of a gruesome murder in 50s L.A., The Black Dahlia, crime hackette Lynda La Plante has written a money-spinning rip-off called The Red Dahlia, set fifty years after the first murder, timed to coincide with the release of the Scarlett Johansen movie and plagiarising large portions of its illustrious predecessor…

A hop, a skip and a fortnight goes by, casting askance glances shoulderwise. Curious at glinting Fortnight’s eye, I call up my calendar and find that every day for the last month is heavily annotated, the little squares filled with digitals. Since the 14th Aout, I’ve been to Manchester once, to see the paternal side…

I just went downstairs for yet another photoshoot, to provide comic characters for the magazine. As per usual, I supplied most of the outfits from my wardrobe (what does that say about my dress sense?) I was dressed up as a motty-style football commentator, with sheepskin and mike, glasses perched precariously on nose’s end. As…

Myself: Begob!The Pissed People of England: What? Wherefore the irishisms?Myself: Agh, I’ve just got back from the Saint’s Row launch event which was lavish in the uttermost. The Pissed People of England: More so than the brothel-party in Paris? Than the Scarface binge in Madrid? Than the Wincle Beer, Cider and Spirits festival? (sotto voce)…

God’s balls, Father…oh, sod, I said GOD’S BALLS, FATHER.Humph… sntft. What is it? What’s seized your piss-addled brain the night?Oh, did I wake you? Apolo-You did and deliberately, you inadequate pancreatic wretchery. For what craggled notions am I dragged from me som…sombre… somnabulances?Oh, just… well, blast and blood, I was trying to decipher these here…