In which the author promises not to mention sheds or Kylie Minogue
Dostoyevsky had his Raskolnikov.
Rowling had her Potter.
Tolkein had a veritable treasure trove of characters to amuse, excite and entertain.
They all, however, pale into insignificance with the glory that is McCarthy's Twat.
And that, my friends, is the number one reason you should buy this book.
This site has been at a state of war with MyBoyfriendIsATwatDotCom since February 16th 2005.
It is time, then, that temporary truce was called so that I might provide a review of the charming Ms Zoe McCarthy's book "My Boyfriend is a Twat". She's not the three-times-in-a-row Best Blog in Europe winner for nothing, you know, and her publication - which unlike some blog-to-book transfers we could mention hem hem - is an excellent adaptation of her tales of everyday woe in Belgium.
And yes: My Boyfriend is a Twat really is rather good, especially when you bear in mind the real-life smelly sock-and-snoring research that poor, poor Zoe had to undertake to get the thing written.
The poor girl - bless her - even had to go clothes shopping with him just so you might find yourself amused by The Twat's blokish manner in the face of perfectly reasonable shop staff. We have detailed this behaviour before on these pages as part of Coleman's Shopping Paradox, and Zoe and The Twat are living, breathing proof of its existence.
Zoe details every last fart, hideous head shaving accident and firework inspired disaster as a warning - and a guide - to any other reasonably intelligent woman who is thinking of taking a hapless single bloke under her wing. And poor The Twat, for he appears to possess absolutely no hap whatsoever, if 243 pages of hard-backed goodness are anything to go by.
However, one thing blights this truly beautiful relationship. The Twat seeks a shed.
Enshrined in the Magna Carta of 1215 is a man's right to his own outbuilding. Be it shed, coal hole or workshop, it is his right to tinker about, putting nails into jars, secretly brewing grain alcohol and observing the ways of the spider.
However, The Twat knows his limits. He would not misuse his shed rights to construct a ninety-foot tall statue of Kylie Minogue, standing astride house and garden wearing nothing but a mini-dress and a smile. He would not do that. For this would lead to the construction of an equally tall Dannii Minogue colossus, and he hasn't got the wood.
Not to mention the fact that Zoe would kill him. TO DEATH. I'm probably dead already even mentioning the shed controversy, when I should be extolling the virtues of BOOK. However, by selling a million copies of My Boyfriend is a Twat, The Twat probably deserves any out-building he so desires.
You may contribute to the Buy The Twat A Shed Fund by sending me all your money in used notes to the usual address (Behind the Hot Water pipes, Second Cubicle Along, Gents Toilets, Weymouth Station), or through the purchasing a copy of the rather excellent and funny My Boyfriend is a Twat book.
Errr... just buy the book. It might save a life. Mine.