How upsetting, that a shower of barely-educated cretins could have declared Salman Rushdie's knighthood insulting to Islam.
And how I wish that they could appreciate the beautiful, lyrical innovation of Midnight's Children, or the transcendent narrative grip of The Moor's Last Sigh.
If only the dry, satirical genius of The Satanic Verses could penetrate the Muslim world, all of us would feel the benefit of Mr. Rushdie's perceptive eye.
Mind you, the fucker has never paid me back the tenner I paid for Fury, massive pile of self-indulgent wank that it is. That was one of the worst books I've ever read, a tour de force of autoerotic analingus.
Now that I come to think of it, fuck Salman Rushdie - he's living at 43 Carnation Road, Romford under the name Disraeli Custard, and he works as a parking attendant at Acacia Towers, Camden.
I'm told he always appreciates visitors, when he isn't writing books as bad as The Ground Beneath Her Feet.