Special Guest Blogger: Jack Kerouac

Before hippies there was the Beat generation, or Beatniks, who were all about berets and black turtlenecks, playing the bongos and writing crap poetry and they filled every coffee house and jazz club and part of their uniform was a copy of my book, On The Road.
I had been pitching books to authors for a decade with no success and then i sent in a semi-autobiographical book about a series of road trips me and my pal Neal Cassady took between 1947 and 1950, staying in some motels which were only slightly less terrifying than your average Bates Motel, and it became a success along with some urban legends.
It was written on a continuous roll of paper that i had taped together to form a 120-foot manuscript but the publishers wanted to add a further air of mystery and spontaneity to make it look as though i was one of those authors who could mash the keyboard with their fist and crap out a fully developed novel about a couple of guys driving around, listening to jazz, and doing drugs so they said i had written a free-flowing, stream-of-consciousness masterpiece in an drug-fueled burst of inspiration that transcended conscious thought in three weeks, but it had actually taken 10 years.
My political leanings were hard to fathom out, i was fiercely anti-Communist but hated the Capitalism side of things so both sides of the political fence hated me which may be what got me beaten up by three men outside a New York Cafe but while it may have been my political leanings, or it may also have just been three dudes who hated all the crap potery that they blamed me for which was now spewing out everywhere.
Icons such as The Beatles, The Doors and Bob Dylan were saying that they really dug me but as my writing style was to consume enough alcohol and narcotics to kill an elephant and then just see where that took me, it didn't make me the most healthiest person in the world and i died aged 47 of liver cirrhosis.