Some literary loose ends. As Smallbeds found out, it was in fact O'Brien's centenary yesterday. Smallbeds responds with his reasons for reading O'Brien and a couple of short essays to help you in. If you can get through At Swim-Two-Birds without your shoulders shaking in mirth at at least one point, I'll buy you a pint of Plain, or Thwaites, at your discretion.
The Oxford English Dictionary appears to be online now. At least, none of my several uses of it over the past few weeks have resulted in being asked for money.
I rest easy this morning because after a hiatus of several months, I have resubscribed to the London Review of Books. It's felt like being on the wrong side of a closed door, shut out from conversations far more interesting than mine.
I thought I'd save money and read it at the University, but it's term time now and the library is a din of overdressed Facebooking teenagers. No amount of visible bra straps and tight black miniskirts is enough to stop me wishing they'd shut the fuck up. The only times it's quiet is before 10am and after 6pm, when the Asian students silently sit with their books on Macroeconomics and Physiology, and the elderly man in genital-hugging cycling gear makes long notes in pencil about the social history of Lancashire.
My name is looby and I am a pedant. A future project is illiteratelancaster.com. Were the site starting today, we'd open with these.
Call for Works: Open Up North.
Open to what, the artist's cat?
Exhibition of polite and appreciative contemporary furniture