I didn't know they gave awards for bad sex writing, but they do:
Sometime nominee Ian McEwan, one of Britain’s greatest novelists, once graciously described the Bad Sex Awards as the prize every writer longs to win. He has yet to join the ranks of John Updike, Norman Mailer, and Tom Wolfe, all of whom, in the awards’ 17 years, have been judged to have inflicted on readers the worst piece of erotic writing of the year. Every year the Literary Review compiles a short list of offending new fiction, with debut novelists as vulnerable as big stars.
The awards, held at the In and Out Club in St. James, a conservative, members-only London club chosen purely for the bad-joke value of its name, are conducted in a Carry-On-Up-the-Literati spirit, which means that I can only describe myself as a Bad Sex Awards virgin. On a freezing night, while publishers are cutting back on lavish launches, here the Champagne flowed freely, and around 200 people were squashed into the usually sedate venue. Novelist Howard Jacobsen and historian Andrew Roberts, alongside just about every literary editor in London, all listened intently as the nominated passages were read aloud. This is the circus of smut and schadenfreude that is the Bad Sex Awards.
Mmmmmm...smut and schadenfreude. In a room full of people. Sounds like a dream night out to me.
Go read. Enjoy.
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