I sniff a competition. Write 150 words by a novelist you have not read and have no intention of reading.

Would Beckett count for this competition. You say he's dead but how can you tell?

I like it John. Where to start? Jilly Cooper? Will Self?

David Foster Wallace! Surely the most talked about and - uncoincidentally - least read writer of the age. But even he is dead.

Even fewer words.

Irvine Welsh

-Angus, c’moan! Maggie is sayin, tryin tae shake her boyfriend oot ay his skag-induced stupor. -We’ve won the fuckin Lotto!
Angus opens his eyes. Pish holes in the snow.
Maggie gestures awa tae the black an white TV balanced on toap of a deid baby in the corner ay the room. Their numbers are oan the screen. -We’re in the fuckin poppy! D'ye hae the wee ticket?
Angus feels aboot under the sleepin bag.
-Aye, but it’s goat a bit ay shite oan it. An puke. An pish.
-Kin ye still see the numbers?
-Ah cannae see fuck. Yir pimp detached ma retinas last night wi that fuckin crowbar, remember?
Maggie taiks the ticket oaf ay him. -Aye, ye kin.
-Whae d’ye soond sae fuckin miserable aboot it? Angus sais, tryin tae stab a passin rat wi a hypodermic.
-Jus proamise me we won’t let the money change us.

LMFAO, Rob.

I'm very glad to hear it. I hope you managed to get it reattached OK.

Rob, nice one - but the correct local usage for 'the' is 'ra'; 'of' is ' o' '; 'boyfriend' is a strange English musical show; 'sleeping bags', if known at all, are somnolent female 'loaby dossers'; 'numbers' has no 'b'; etc. Bit of a rewrite needed to achieve the real argot, I fear.

Strictly speaking I'm sure you're right, Nigel, but I'm attempting to channel Mr Welsh rather than the real argot, and that's how he spells these words, at least in the stuff I've read. And I think I have to make certain allowances with the vocabulary for the non-Scottish audience or the piece will be incomprehensible!

Aye, Rob, and Vicky willna know tae gie ye the vouchers. (Sorry if this is wrong, Nigel. My Scottish isn't what it used to be. It never was.)