By Evangeline Jennings
There’s a row going on down near Slough, some place called London apparently.
Here’s the gist.
The London Review of Books has a shit record when it comes to writing about or commissioning women writers.
When the kerfuffle exploded in their faces, their response was to get one of their stringers – a chick, obv, probably a hottie – to write them a doctor’s note and post it on Salon. They then answered all queries and complaints by pointing people at Salon.
So they’re not just institutionally discriminatory, they’re also wankers.
Fortunately, it’s clearly only a local parochial publication, much like the Manchester Guardian, so the London Review of Books – written by elitist establishment wankers for aspiring establishment wankers – says nothing to me about my life and I could care less which token Oxbridge litfic Queen Bitch they co-opt into their Some Of Our Best Friends Are Women hearts and minds campaign, because when you get right down to it, it doesn’t matter. Their Cosa Nostra attitudes will remain the same.
A simple rule of life. Never take anything seriously if it has the word London in its title. Except ‘London’s Burning’ and bits of that double album.