Thursday 10 April

I wheeze my way without crutches to a reading by up-and-coming Manchester author Jim Bendy at the Pure Rock bookshop on Deansgate. With Petra Couture just out of her relationship and Bateman rarely less than his amusingly cynical self, I expect to have two staunch allies in tow when it comes to dethroning a writer young enough for me to be his significantly older brother. Yet we are ambushed by charm and talent tonight, despite the fact that all present but us are clearly Jim’s doting peers and admirers (a lucky few may even have experienced the rare acts upon the rump here described with mock-embarrassment). While it can be assumed that a more cantankerous novelist - Bill Me, Martha Aimless - would have throttled him with a leather bookmark, it is valiantly consistent with Jim’s anarchy that when Bateman admits to having stolen a copy of his work, the wunderkind simply laughs along with the tale. Happily supping in the Bear & Corgi at the time, I suppose it is safe to say that his publisher will take the hit. Never quite sure what to say to the famous, and with Petra departed, I stick to my own in the underclass; me and the crim talking of families, lust and writing for the remainder of the night.

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