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2003-11-04 - 3:09 p.m.

Tonight, another of my literary heroes tests my �never meet your idols� theory that I never pay any attention to. I don�t think you should, but you always do, right? If they�re there. It�s like I always think I would forgive a partner a night of indiscretion with a celebrity because you just would, wouldn�t you? You have to. OK, maybe you don�t and in real life, perhaps I would then hunt down and kill said celebrity, but you know what I mean. The upshot is that tonight I�m going to see Martin Amis, sweaty little hardback copy of London Fields in sweaty little hand, and he has Davids Mam*t and Sed*ris to compete with. The former was disappointingly, though predictably less than charming, the second the complete opposite, so Mart can sway the score either way. Of course, when I say �meet�, I actually mean �look at from about forty rows back in a crowded lecture hall�, but that�s as good as it gets for us mere mortals.

I often think that being a writer, going out on these reading tours must be more fun than a barrel of supremely literate monkeys. After all, when you finish your novel in the dead of night, type out the last word, knowing that you�ve done all you can to it, and it is as complete as it ever will be, there�s no round of applause. You probably just go and have a cup of tea or something. OK, you might go and cash that six figure advance and go on a four week drug-fuelled orgy of excess, but it still must be rewarding to stand in front of your readers and have them clap you.

Actually, come to think of it, it sounds a bit shit compared to the money and drugs thing. Forget everything I�ve ever said.

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