This week’s post is short and grumpy and best summed up by lines from Billy Bragg’s song ‘A New England’, immortalised by the peerless Kirsty MacColl: “I loved the words you wrote to me, but that was bloody yesterday…” (copyright Billy Bragg, but just go and buy the track anyway, it’s writing as brilliant as any recent Booker Prize winner).

In November, Guardian Books asked for recommendations for indie (or self- as they call it) published books, promising a stream of reviews. Loyal Guardian readers suggested a lot of titles for them to try out. We have had two reviews in return. And they were both before 4th December.  Nothing since.

Indie authors continue to write quality fiction. They continue to sell books. They will do so without the aid of The Guardian, one supposes.

But wouldn’t even one decent review of an indie published novel contribute more to the literary firmament than mildly comic analysis of Chris Huhne’s potential to emulate Jeffrey Archer? For while it is more than likely that the disgraced MP would likely get a print publishing deal on the back of his reputation and no conspicuous demonstration of creative talent, quality indie publishing is going to go on a lot longer than his prison sentence.

Wake up Guardian Books.