There’s quite a few writers who are sensitive souls, and the worst are those who like to dish it out but reach for the smelling salts and swoon when anyone so much as gives them a funny look.
Luckily I was born with the Sensitivity Gene missing, especially when it comes to dissing, and I find that like with gifts, I’d just as soon receive than give. Say nasty things behind my back, to my face – or both ways in bed – and not only will I not get upset but I’ll derive a mild kick from it. Just a little one, mind you – I’m not kinky!
I’ve had a bunch of feuds – Tony Parsons (‘Looks like a dying rhesus monkey’), Martin Amis (‘A little man in every way it is possible for a man to be little’), and Camille
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