Notes from an incredible intellectual genius who just happens to be an independently published author (or Supreme Being)

It's been a hard day at yet another marvellous signing event for my insanely popular teen romp, ‘Shall we buy this one or that one?’ which charts the lengths a pair of naughty boys are prepared to go as they delve deeper and deeper into a town’s number one supermarket in search of half-price ice-cream, only to stumble across a new brand offering a carton of what is purported to be the finest ice-cream ever made by slaves. On sale at a massively discounted price, with free plastic spoons, the intrepid duo dwell on what could be the most important decision of their lives. Will they regret the purchase of an unknown manufacturer or will it be a major discovery worth killing each other over?
I know; you don’t have to tell me how amazing it is.
Today’s signing event was held at Britain’s premier book store, T’Bargain Bonanza Bookshop, in hugely affluent Widnes, conveniently found in the town’s prime location sandwiched between Sound Pound and Rossiter’s bingo hall, opposite Wetherspoons drink emporium and a very chic fishing tackle shop.

The huge swathe of fans, most of which had camped for three days in local sewers and wheelie-bins to get a glimpse of me behind the table presented by the Sheik of Hounslow for the invaluable help that my last book, ‘How to Make a Child Smile’ offered to his wives, were well behaved.
But trouble is never far away when news of my superlative omnipresence filters down to the ghastly big-name authors who try to emulate my incomparable work.

These scheming, envy-riddled celebrities were out for my blood again, heckling and haranguing customers with their wildly expensive, embossed front covers and silk-laminate digital business cards.
Try as they did, no one was interested, but this just made them angrier and angrier.

As an independent publisher of my own genius works, the big-name authors (who are constantly hoodwinked by their pilfering, corporate publishing houses into honouring signing events at recycling compounds and British Legions in order to write off taxable income against costly marketing strategies) don’t seem to be able to digest that their own income is being frittered away in front of their eyes like that of a 60’s rock star.
Ongoing denial of how little they mean to the public (in the intellectual sense, you understand) has brought about a sharp increase in suicidal tendencies amongst the elite authors.
I keep on telling them to man up, smell the coffee, read the situation, but they just won’t listen.
At the signing event, at precisely ten minutes past eleven, the big-name authors came out from behind their wallpaper-pasting tables armed with their inferior titles. Management held their breath for the sheer audacity of what they were witnessing as the big-name authors were seen to be smiling at customers.
When Marty Amiss held out his hand, suggesting that he may be about to try and actually hand-sell a hardback version of his latest crackpot novel, ‘Lion L’, management were forced (under strict new guidelines issued by the nose-picking graduate-insects at head office) to close the store down and batten down any escape routes.
Some of the less brash hand-selling big-name authors flung themselves at windows but came down with a mighty crash, causing displays to fall on top of their flailing bodies.
Among the big-name authors were the usual ringleaders, JK Tolkein and JR Hartley, frantically pestering customers to buy their books for the price of a can of Tennents Super under the spotlight of red-flashing CCTV cameras.
As the crowd pushed them further away in abject disgust, the harder-nosed big-name authors did what they always do; they started to ransack the store, feverishly looking for cans of Super they imagined they’d left over the years for posterity.
Excusing the ransacking’s citing as a protest against the mega-successful independently published authors, people looked on as the shamefaced authors went wild.

I couldn't actually see what was happening because the kind staff had placed a security shield around my ivory and gold-inlay table at the front of the store, but it’s a common occurrence nowadays and I know how they work.
My beloved fans blocked any missiles from hitting me, and when I bravely stood on my table to offer myself to the riotous mob of celebrity authors, as would Jesus in similar circumstances, offering my vast royalties for the day if only they would take to the street, lost forever, where they belonged, they would hear no sense and just threw more books at me.
One even shaved the lapel of my new silk Armani jacket (I always throw away jackets after events anyway).

When the police arrived, they completely battered the big-name authors with truncheons and dusters and other harmless effects while I toiled with my devoted following, signing copy upon copy, enriching the lives of ordinary people lovingly, effortlessly, and in the way I perceived a Supreme Being of Natural Beauty might dole out books to twerps.

Of course, I tried to stop the police but it was no use. My outraged, fanatical friends, the police force, for which I have no control over whatever, just couldn't resist.
One officer told me in no uncertain terms how he had tired terribly of the big publishing houses' authors, referring to two of the big-name authors present as the main culprits.

'They just churn out crap time and again, sir. And I'm sick of it!' he screamed, plunging his truncheon into the ribs of Stephanie King, the hugely famous 300-book deal horror fiction novelist from Favor 4a Favor, who I had generously pointed out to the officer for future disturbances.
'The thought of an independently published author being treated with such contempt, your grace, blatantly disregarding the bewilderingly obvious talent on offer, is just too much for a man of my limited intellect to bare,' said the officer, holding out a copy of my book for me to sign in between thumps.

Of course I had to ask him to join the queue in an orderly fashion and wait his turn like everybody else, which he did humbly enough, I suppose.

Once the bruised, tormented rioting celebrities had been placed under heavy guard behind their rickety wallpaper-pasting tables, their hands were glued to the surface to stop them from reaching for a book and shaking with Super-withdrawal, while a butcher stood over them, charged with the task of chopping off a finger for each false move towards customers and a fingernail for so much as an upward glance to members of the unsuspecting public.
Four meaty cage-fighters had also been drafted in to stop any of the big-name author mob from complaining.

I found this quite unsavoury, but the management were adamant that lessons needed to be learnt once and for all. As JR Hartley tried to stare me out, I heard an ear-piercing scream and noticed that the butcher had mistaken his task, slicing off his treasured index finger.
Once I had completed my signing after precisely two hours and zero seconds, I called my limo and demanded that all money taken from sales of my book, which represented 98% of the day’s takings, be returned to customers. One manager stupidly laughed at my request, but he was silenced by my friendly policeman buddy with a sharp right hook, breaking his jaw in half.
My bodyguards guided me through the delirious crowd, thinking nothing of brandishing their guns to ward off my cherished fans, who by now were either in the process of fainting or had fainted, trampled upon by those still wobbling, hysterically trying to screech my name as they collected the notes that flew through the air.

It's hard to tell how these big-name authors survive and I’m seriously thinking of writing a set of guidelines on how to write a perfectly inglorious book without the aid of big publishing houses. It’s so easy but their pride won’t let them see it.
I keep telling them to get a real job, but they just won't listen. It seems they all want to be independently published these days.

I made it back to my suite for the full-time results (the Arsenal fans are right; you can't just buy class) and poured myself an appealingly non-alcoholic cocktail to resume chapter three of my latest masterpiece, 'The pigeon who just couldn't give a hoot', while my favourite groupie massaged my aching temple.

It is, indeed, a very sad day for big-name authors, but I suppose they only have themselves to blame.
Pestering customers in bookshops cannot and will not be tolerated under any circumstances, especially when I'm there. I'd love to know who they think they are because nobody else seems to care.

Oh whatto! Newsflash.
I've just received an email from the store, offering to pay for any psychological damage that may have been caused by the unseemly actions of the celebrity authors.
T’Bargain Bonanza Bookshop also issued a statement, which they are prepared to make public, that they will beg me to come back for forty days and forty nights on the condition that I don’t empty their tills again. We’ll see about that.
I’ve written back, saying that I’d be more than happy to indulge the bookshop with my omnipotence so long as the convicted big-name authors present today, whose publishing houses have not relinquished their contracts within the next twelve seconds, are billed for the entire renovation of the store.

Good riddance, I say. It's about time the little guy had a voice.

'Now, Geraldine, how did you say the pigeon story should go?' I ask my masseuse as she dictates the story to me.

It's such a hard life being an independently published author, you know.