What a dead-set Crap Year
Fresh on the heels of the debacle that was the Federal Election comes worse news.
BEST-selling British author Terry Pratchett has a rare form of Alzheimer’s.
All I can say is that maybe the idiot hippies are right and there is no God. That, or maybe the Big Feller upstairs is sick of waiting for the next Discworld novel and decided to get the author up for some more direct consultations.
Personally, and this is quite perverse, but were he to pop his clogs, I would get a lot more done a couple of times a year when the books come out. Of course, that just means that Bernard Bloody Cornwell would start pumping out a couple of extras each year and I would be back where I started.