My bank manager has told me that I need to promote my book some more now that I’ve given up my proper job – or I’ll soon find myself on the breadline.
So, here’s a photo of it. It can be found in shops, some of which are mentioned in the link below:
Click here to find some of the places where you can buy my book
It publishes in paperback in the US tomorrow.
Thanks very much,
Brian
*End of shameless promotional message*
I’m really pleased to announce that my new book ‘Diary of a Somebody’ will be publishing in June with Picador.
The novel takes the form of a diary interspersed with about 150 poems and explores themes such as love and death, crime and punishment, family and loneliness, Wittgenstein and custard creams.
It’s available for pre-ordering from any bookseller. The page below provides good links to some of the online sellers:
https://www.panmacmillan.com/authors/brian-bilston/diary-of-a-somebody/9781529005547
It’s been lucky enough to receive some kind early reviews. Here are a few of them:
‘Nobody must find out about this unique gem, because I’m giving it to EVERYONE, and I want to appear clever and discerning. It’s a very funny/touching/novel/ poetry kinda book all about the big/little stuff, and above all, it’s eminently wrappable.’
Dawn French
‘Glorious. I will be astonished if I read a more original, more inventive or funnier novel this year.’
Adam Kay, author of ‘This is Going to Hurt’
‘The English comic novel, whose death this year was announced prematurely, is actually alive, well and in the safe hands of Brian Bilston. Here is a wonderful, laugh-out-loud comedy of suburban despair in the great tradition of David Nobbs and Sue Townsend. And it comes, of course, with the added bonus of Bilston’s poetry, sparkling here with all the wit, intelligence and humanity that has won him more than 50,000 followers on Twitter.’
Jonathan Coe, author of ‘Middle England’
‘Highly original, genuinely funny and clever, with a gentle humanity in between the lines. Brian Bilson should be Poet Laureate.’
John O’Farrell
‘In the future a new word will enter the language: a Bilston, which will denote one of those times in the day when we see the world from a perspective that is strange, wonderful and packed with a kind of gleaming joy. This book is a clock ticking with Bilstons.’
Ian MacMillan
I’ll stop talking about it now.
Thanks,
Brian
1. Delay with an urgent hesitation.
2. Be unwavering in vacillation.
3. Embrace the art of equivocation.
4. Read a book on procrastination.
5. Dilly-dally; dither; be dilatory.
6. Drink tea through the day continually.
7. Look up ‘avoidance’ in the dictionary.
8. Ignore all forms of worthwhile industry.
9. Break for lunch
10. Ponder the intrinsic nature of work.
11. Re-prioritise which tasks to shirk.
12. Allow three hours to hem and haw.
13. Lollygag; chew my jaw.
14. Stroke the cat; lose my pen.
15. Re-do tasks from one to ten
16. Lurch and flounder; loll and wallow.
17. Write To Do list for tomorrow.
They were sighted off the south-east coast,
drifting in towards the port;
their boat, a snapped-off block of ice,
melting slowly in the warmth.
By the docks, a crowd had formed itself;
mob-angry, it looked on.
Placards were thrust. A chant began:
GO BACK TO WHERE YOU’RE FROM.
‘They’re just economic migrants,’
declared a spokesman for the right.
‘They’ve come to rob us of our jobs.
It’s as clear as black and white.’
‘Tragic,’ said the Home Secretary,
mock-sadness suppressed his smirk.
‘We’d let them stay but here’s the rub –
they have no paperwork.’
‘They’ll undermine Our Way of Life!’
The warnings raged on Twitter.
‘They stink of fish.’ ‘They’ll rape your wife.’
‘There’s bombs beneath those flippers.’
‘PENGUIN CLAIMS “MY HOME IS MELTING!”’
The Sun printed in disgust.
‘But whose fault is THAT – except THEIR OWN?
What’s that to do with US?’
The last of the ice had disappeared.
The penguins battled through the foam,
swimming, swimming,
from land to land,
searching for a home.
But he had so many friends, they said,
on hearing the news.
And they went back through his posts,
searching for clues.
But no, there was nothing
to explain it away.
Just selfies, with filters applied,
from that last day.
I’d buy everything from a bookshop if I could.
All my food would come from there.
Atwooden tables I would sit, eating Dahl,
Kipling Tartts or chocolate Baudelaires.
There’d be flat tortillas, focaccia and the rye:
it would be a literary-luncheoned life of pie,
all washed down with a glass of Carver
or a Swift half, if I’d rather.
I would make myself an Eco-friendly home:
go Greene and buy recycled tomes.
It Wodehouse a Self-portrait in the attic,
where no-one else could look at it,
and a looking-glass, of course, for the hall,
(amazing how I’ve not changed at all).
My house would Spark delighted looks;
I’d build a coffee table out of coffee table books.
I would also buy my clothes from there:
ragged trousers, experimental novel underwear,
dust jackets and striped pyjamas.
Boyd by the comments that I would Garner,
my days would pass quite Harper Lee,
this bookshop life, these books and me.
I convened an academic symposium
and gathered together the great and the good
from a wide variety of disciplines
to consider the question, ‘What is love?’
The philosophers said we must first start with Plato.
The historians showed how it had changed over time.
The chemists spoke of oxytocin and dopamine.
The psychologists thought it was all in the mind.
The political scientists declared it undemocratic.
The sociologists deemed it a social construct.
The economists said that nothing else mattered
except for how little there was, or how much.
The linguists explained the word came from Old English.
The theologians claimed it came straight from God.
The media studies professors weren’t present
but they said they’d send their thoughts in a vlog.
The anthropologists spoke of love across cultures.
The mathematicians tried to work out its square root.
The neuroscientists pointed at MRI scans.
The musicologists played its song on a lute.
The art historians said it was all about perspective.
The geologists believed it from molten rock hewn.
The classicists read extracts from Sappho and Ovid.
The astrophysicists thought it to do with the moon.
The geographers tried to map all its contours.
The literature scholars quoted Auden and Keats.
At the end we were no nearer an answer;
we reconvene on Wednesday next week.
is love an abstract noun
is love a verb
is love actually on Netflix
is love a word
love is a temporary madness
love is a hurricane
love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs
love is a losing game
can love last forever
can love break your heart
can love2shop vouchers be used online
can lovebites scar
love can build a bridge
love can set you free
love can hurt ed sheeran
love cannot heal me
does love cure depression
does love have an age
does lovejoy marry charlotte
does love always fade
love does not need an explanation
love does not exist
love doesn’t need a slogan
love is all there is
This poem was constructed entirely from auto-completed searches about love on Google.
International cats
assert their right to relax
in international laps
at any time of day or night.
If disputed, they will cite
the Universal Declaration of Feline Rights.
International cats
sit on international mats
that proclaim WELCOME
in each of the world’s languages.
International cats can sleep
in up to seven different languishes.
International cats,
proud flouters of human orders,
support comrades across borders.
They extend the paw of friendship
to cats who flee catastrophe,
terror and cruel adversity.
Liberty, equality, caternity!
