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The Book I COULD Put Down.

 

Hi.

You know me now, and you know I read. I read like a chain-smoker rips their way through thirty or forty a day. Book-wise, I read two books a week. I don’t smoke. People say it’s all for the best — because smoking is bad for your chest. Dolly Parton and Victoria Coren Mitchell beg to differ. In the 0.001% chance the ladies are reading this — because nothing, contrary to GCSE Maths, is impossible — sorry.

I was in Waterstones — like I always am when I want new reading material. People think I'm in there every Saturday, but I'm not. My reading alternates between Harry Potter, The Hobbit, and Dracula — and sometimes Roald Dahl if I’m depressed. Next time you see me — if you know me — look. I’m always reading those three.

Anyway. The book I got was called The Anxious Generation. It gave the same vibe as the question: Without the use of a calculator, answer the first six digits of pi.

It was the most mind-numbingly boring and stupid book in the world. It blamed the downfall of Gen Z on technology. What a load of slack! You’re telling me the reason I’m depressed is because I watch reels on Instagram? This is a reel that popped up the other day — make of it what you will: watch here.

The book was written by a man who makes King Charles look like Chapel Roan. The writer was born in the early 1960s. He should be watching ITV and eating beans, not moaning about Gen Z. It was his generation that screwed us over. Old man yells at shadow. You hear me?

He missed a trick with that book. He grew up in 1970s USA. He could have told us how not to be anxious. He could have told us to ride our bikes or run naked through the trees. No, he never.

Anyway, go and make a cup of tea.

Bye!

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