I know I’m a bit late on this, but it’s still worth a mention. If you were wondering what Morrissey has been up to lately, the people at the Literary Review will tell you. They’ve just given him their Bad Sex in Fiction Award. You might remember Morrissey. He used to sing for the Smiths, before they changed their bylaws to forbid membership to people without first names. Here’s the unnatural act of literature that brought home the prize:
‘At this, Eliza and Ezra rolled together into the one giggling snowball of full-figured copulation, screaming and shouting as they playfully bit and pulled at each other in a dangerous and clamorous rollercoaster coil of sexually violent rotation with Eliza’s breasts barrel-rolled across Ezra’s howling mouth and the pained frenzy of his bulbous salutation extenuating his excitement as it whacked and smacked its way into every muscle of Eliza’s body except for the otherwise central zone.’
A greeting (“Salutations, friend!”) that performs public acts of extenuating, whacking, and smacking is sure to get noticed by those judgmental types who hand out unwanted awards. The laws of good punnery forbid calling the competition stiff, but you can see that Morrissey earned his laurels. Read a bit more about it at the Literary Review website.
We’re coming near to a special time of year, when the Guardian passes out its Bad Sex in Fiction Award. They look at all the reputable “literary” authors out there, and decide which of them wrote the worst sex scene.
The competition isn’t exactly stiff, if you get my meaning. Here are last year’s nominees. Ben Okri won it, but I don’t know how anything could beat the twitching fairy penguin of Richard Flanagan.
What would an alien from another planet think of all this? Believe it or not, we don’t have to wonder. They aren’t impressed.