The Ink Spots famously sang, “I don’t want to set the world on fire, I just want to start a flame in your heart”. Much like them,  “in my heart I have but one desire”. Well several, actually, but in terms of this blog I can narrow it down to the one (which I like to refer to as “poking sticks in bears’ ears”) and it’s certainly not to encourage a Fahrenheit 451 style reaction to disliked texts.

If you are stranded in a cave during a blizzard with Katie Price’s back catalogue and 6 copies of Women In Love, by all means get kindling those naked flames. In the main, though, I advocate a strict policy of books and fire only meeting in the form of sparking up a fag whilst engrossed, enjoying tastily barbecued foods with a holiday read, or possibly the use of candles to create a romantic and/or eerie ambiance in which to peruse an appropriate genre of fiction.

It remains to explain, therefore, why, as a bibliophile, I have chosen such a (ho ho) inflammatory name for this loosely jointed collection of rants. I won’t lie to you: vanity and laziness, mostly. The idea for this blog arose from a series of book-related grumblings that began on my personal twitter, http://twitter.com/burnyourbones – named after a Luke Haines lyric, in case you were wondering – and so this name seemed to both tie in well with its original source and encapsulate the incendiary rage a book that is not to ones taste can inspire.

Most of the time I am basically slating stuff for not being realist enough even when that is probably not what it is trying to do in the first place. A great friend read my first rant and described this blog as “like a Daily Mail for books”, but then followed with “we really need a Daily Mail for books”, which made me lower my fist slightly.

If I have besmirched the good name of your favourite author, if I have missed the point of a seminal work, if I have made glib, tasteless and facile remarks that are beneath the dignity of the BINMAN of the great poet of the human soul I dare to speak of in my paltry “web blog”, then all I can say is: I’M NOT SORRY and I’D DO IT AGAIN IN AN INSTANT. I only hope that, though your hands may shake with rage and tears of anger may blind you, you can manage to splutter out your rebuttals. In this way both reader and writer may learn something, if only a variety of ever more colourful insults. And as another old song goes, “there’s more to life than books, you know, but not much more.”


One response

23 07 2010

Gonna drive by your house in Leeds, innit, in teh dead of nites, like, and stik up a blue plaque.*

*ok, I admit, I am not in Leeds, BUT I WOULD!

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