"The Groucho Letters" (Simon & Schuster, 1967) is an estimable collection of correspondence to and from the great American comedian, actor and writer Julius Henry "Groucho" Marx.
Groucho's writing is so good that I have lost the ability to write my name, let alone a comprehensive missive to my one reader (Hi, Mum).
It's like trying to play golf after watching Tiger Woods on TV.
Despite my good intentions, my more-or-less daily blog is, yet again, embarrassingly late.
I have, each day, sat down at my computer to write, but haven't been able to come up with anything that would justify your esteemed attention.
I think part of the problem is performance anxiety generated by the Groucho Effect.
Another is a short little span of attention (P.Simon, 1986) combined with the distractibility of a teenager.
The frustration of watching a boneheaded, impulsive egomaniac (who is bereft of even the faintest sign of insight) making pococurante decisions which affect the immediate future of us all (Hi, Donald) is a constant distraction to rational thought, like scrotal hives or an erection, and doesn't contribute to the creation of a masterpiece worthy of a connoisseur of fine literature, such as your good self.
So I thought bugger it, friends make allowances. Any shitty old blog is better than no blog at all.
An observant reader (and, since I only have one reader, that would be you, Mum) would immediately notice that the image of the magnificently moustachioed gentleman at the top of this post is, indeed, not Mr Marx.
In fact it is a photograph of a distant relative of mine who would not consider for a moment the idea of suing my arse off for using his picture (even if he were still alive), unlike Messrs Simon & Schuster, publishers of "The Groucho Letters", who undoubtedly be delighted to do just that, in spite of the fact that my recommendation of the book would immediately boost further sales, and in spite of the other fact that, although it is only small, it is the only arse I have.
Save Clibrig's arse - BUY THIS BOOK!
In fact it is a photograph of a distant relative of mine who would not consider for a moment the idea of suing my arse off for using his picture (even if he were still alive), unlike Messrs Simon & Schuster, publishers of "The Groucho Letters", who undoubtedly be delighted to do just that, in spite of the fact that my recommendation of the book would immediately boost further sales, and in spite of the other fact that, although it is only small, it is the only arse I have.