By Andrew Boulton

Difficult as it may be to imagine, your author was once a young man. Amongst his many, many pretentions and affectations (the studiously manufactured scruffiness, the fauxhemian sensibilities, the preposterously snooty opinions about any music other people had actually heard) was his righteous disdain for the exclamation mark. I was a gangling, pseudo-indie man-toddler who’d sooner gnaw off my own fingers than sully my ‘art’ with this coarse and vulgar blotch. (As such, what I wrote often read like Michael Owen telling a particularly uninteresting story about hamstring injuries).

Nowadays, hardened by the demands of a decade’s copywriting, I take Read full story ›

Source: The Drum