From our literary critic, Tarquin Merryweather
I cannot even bring myself to name this year's winner of the Booker Prize for Fiction, as I believe the judges for this once prestigious award have stupidly overlooked some extremely more deserving writers. I myself expected that my latest book - "Gone With the Wind" - a thriller about a secret agent battling a crippling case of flatulence, would feature in the top five books.
As the "winner" looked incredulously at the audience with his award in his sweaty hand, his eyes betrayed a feeling of unworthiness. It was as if he knew that a more substantial rival had been overlooked. A rival book resembling a Tsunami that in open sea can pass by unnoticed but will at some point hit the shallower coastal regions, and hopefully, the shallower minds of the judges with tremendous force.
What had transpired early in the judging process? Conspiracy theories abound that in the smokey judges' den some transaction had taken place. I noticed a wry smile on one of their smug faces. I had to find out. I turned sharply, too sharply, and knocked a glass of champagne over a fellow reporter's lap.
Running like the wind, I made my way towards the judges, and like a polished magician's trick, they were no longer there, but expertly whisked away from the venue by their bodyguards. I looked down at their table hoping to find a clue regarding their strange decision for the award. It was a mystery, a mystery that I was determined to solve. I straightened my tie and headed for the door.
Mr. Merryweather has agreed to take a rest from his reporter's desk for a few months.