Thomas Corfield was born in London several years ago, definitely before last Thursday. This was a good year for all concerned, and for him in particular, because without it, later years would mean little. He owes a lot to that first year, and now lives because of it in undisclosed locations after having successfully absconded from probation. Although he finds making friends difficult, this is only because no one likes him. Including his mother, who didn’t bother giving him a name until he was nine. His solicitor describes him as having an allergy to apostrophes and an aversion to punctuation that borders on pathological. This makes the popularity of his books all the more remarkable. At least it would if there was any. But there isn't. So it doesn't. He was recently interviewed in Joomag's Meals of Food magazine, which didn't help anyone.
When you're not writing, how do you spend your time?
I breathe quite a lot. Mind you, I do that when I'm writing as well. I've tried not to, but find it impacts significantly on getting proper words out. Once I forced myself not to breathe for three minutes. It was a silly thing to do because I was sick all over my desk.
Sometimes I walk. I've tried doing this while writing also, especially since my arms were busy and my legs were getting indignant. But it didn't work out because every time I did so I left my desk.
Do you remember the first story you ever wrote?
Yes I do. As a child, my sister and brother and myself left an exercise book in the bathroom, and whenever we visited the toilet we would contribute to an ongoing story about our pets. Considering the locale, and the fact two boys were involved, it tended toward a distinct lavatorial theme, which we considered hilarious. My sister's contributions would vainly attempt to return the tale to something more respectable, allowing my brother and myself opportunity to swing it dramatically back towards the puerile with ever increasing vigor.
I still have the book, actually, and the first Dooven book 'The Purging Of Ruen' clearly draws upon it. I think all children should be encouraged to read and write while on the toilet, as it's surprising how much imagination arises in a situation offering limited opportunity for anything other than the obvious.
Follow a man barely deserving of the title as he flails through a turgid cesspit of human depravity, only to discover that he’s the one bunging up its U-bend, and explore the boundless absurdity arsing from a social ineptitude so crippling that it can only be facade.
What happens when the worst writer in the world inadvertently decimates the entire publishing industry? This, that's what.
These are the middle bits of a book universally regarded as being distinctly saggy at both ends.