Blurbs are the butlers in the big mansion standing over the dead Lord with the cup of poison in his hand. We all know how they get on the back of the page. We all know how they worm their way onto the front of the page. It’s no secret. A phone call. A letter. An email. A friend and I used to play a game in the library. Before finding the books we would share and discuss, we would seek out the blurbs perpetrated by Norman Mailer. I wonder if he was paid by the word. Norman Mailer wrote the best blurbs. No blurb can stand up to a blurb done by Norman Mailer. Blurbs are the bastards Shakespeare wrote about. No reader worth his/her/it salt – vinegar, fish and chips – will read a blurb. They do sell books I will give you that but so does a clown and a famous football player. Blurbs are the best friend that calls once a year and asks for the couch to sleep on. Blurbs are the boring drunk that tells you all about the world and how you should navigate those rough seas of the world. Blurbs are the breasts that you can look at but not touch. Blurbs are the boils on your face. Blurbs are the belch. Blurbs are the arsehole’s bellows. Blurbs are the bed that is unwelcoming and cold.

Paul Kavanagh’s ‘The Killing of a Bank Manager‘ is out now, priced £7.99/$12.99.

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