The Man with a Bee in His Bonnet

For God’s sake! I have just been invited to a book launch – online, I hasten to add, nobody invites me to physical ones anymore in case I scoff all their champagne – to a novel called: “The Boy who Flew with Eagles!” by some American.

Yes. Literally less than a year since an unheard of Swede filled our shops with one of history’s most unoriginal blockbuster titles, followed just recently by his 5^th one called something even more dreadful like: “The Girl who fell in the Stinging Nettles on her way Home,” every writer and his cat have jumped on the lumbering band-wagon before it collapses under the over-burdened weight of illiteracy, bearing titles about 'people who did something, to something, with something else!'

Well, ladies and gents, for once I have decided to join them in this topical last roll of the wooden-wheel and come up with a few short scribbles of my own.

My debut – under the name of Stig Fastman – is called:

The Man who Annoyed a Nation. - It is quite a simple story where it’s curly-haired English protagonist, who is also its antagonist, manages to irritate everyone in the entire world, and makes millions of pounds doing it.

A follow up is entitled:

The Man who annoyed even more people, even that nice Mr Morgan - about a London barrow-boy who makes millions of pounds by saying 3 words, once a week.

This is swiftly followed by a complete series of rehashed stories:

·         The Dog who went for Walks,

·         The Cat who dug my Flowers up, and finally,

·         The Cat who dug my Flowers up again, but wont do Anymore (Haha, take that you Bastard, BB-guns rule!).

Then follows a European theme –

·         The Girl who Played with Silvio Berlusconi,

·         The Girl who Wanted to play with Silvio Berlusconi, and

·         The Girl who will Probably play with Nicolas Zarcozy very Soon.

Before I finally cash in with:

The Dragon with the Girl Tattoo (on his Penis) – a tale of sub-normal paranoid romance erotica by some sex-starved bimbo who is about as illiterate as David Beckham’s adam’s apple.

Is originality really a thing of the past – or is that irony?