Literati wankerati

So there they all were last night, the cream of the british literati scene comprising of a super-agent, Penguin big-gun, and two of the hot young things from the Brit-Lit scene - lets call them Mr and Ms Brit Lit. Mr BritLit (BL) was flanked by his ingenue blonde artiste girlfriend, who sat curled up on the couch sipping cocktails looking like she belonged in a 60's movie with Brigitte Bardot. Ms BL who arrived late wearing knee high black boots (with silver zips at the back) fish-net stockings, and a black pencil suit sucked vigorously at a cigarette and sipped mineral water in a champagne glass. It's like hello, this isn't the Left Bank love. "Since when did writers start to look like corporate suits?" My friend asked. It's true, they did. Mr BL wore a black fitted V-neck sweater with Top Brand jeans (which I'm sure cost more than a hundred quid at least) with polished black leather shoes that didnt even have creases in them yet. And even though he sipped a beer and tried to cover up the posh accent you couldn't help but think - ah you can take the boy out of Oxford, but you can never, ever, take that Oxbridge wanky attitude out of the "boy". But best of all was the Penguin big-gun, calling Austin Powers - your mini-me is right here! Who larffed larffed larffed with his loud obnoxious larf, flanked by his blonde girlfriend and Mr BL's blonde ingenue, pretending like he was James Bond. Made me honestly re-think wanting this whole literary career.

Image of the night - Penguin Big-gun and Mr BL dressed up like twins in identikit sweater-jeans combo, flanked by their two blondes, laughing as they coiffed their wines like they were the f*ckin Gatsby's. Almost made me want to puke. I can still taste the bile in my mouth from thinking about that sight.

Here you see my image of hip young writers in their bohemian get-up come shattering down to reality. They're not living life on the line in the urban jungle, sucking out the guts of the world and spitting them out on the page like Modern day Ernest Hemingways. No they are just Posh twats who wear V-Neck jumpers and drink red wine while quoting 16th century poetry and commenting on how it holds so much relevance to us today (real example from last night). Oh how simplistically naive I be... stupid girl.