“Sturgeon was right,” says Ben.

I don’t have to respond since I know what he’s referring to. It was once put to Theodore Sturgeon, the Science Fiction writer, that 90 per cent of SF was crap. Sturgeon’s Law, as it’s become known, derives from his reply: “Yes, but then 90 per cent of everything’s crap.”

“But,” says Ben, “he was being generous. I reckon in reality we’re talking 99.99999.”

I stand, point to his beer glass. “You want me to ask the barmaid to just pour in the 0.00001 per cent good bit of a beer?”

“Tell her to smile at the hidden camera. The brewery are always watching.”

I go to the counter for two more pints. I’m concerned about him. Okay, we couldn’t meet tonight in the Mr Morris wine bar on account of it being taken over by a private party, and Ben doesn’t like pubs because they remind him of book shop chains; and book shop chains, with their unfair publishers’ discounts, are close to putting his small, independent book shop out of business. But, still, his mood seems darker than normal.

“Do you really believe that?” I say, returning to our table.

“Actually, yes. And not just because the book world has bent over and offered its arse to the corporate todger. I mean, I reckon we stock more than a fair share of good books at our place but when I say ‘good’ I just don’t know what that entails any more.”

“Let’s keep it simple,” I say. “Surely Shakespeare is good.”

He takes a long swallow of beer, grimacing as if expecting something less homogenous to have hit his throat.

“I don’t know. When did you last read a Shakespeare play?”

“Read one? Probably not since college, over thirty years ago. But — “

“Okay; so when did you last see a Shakespeare play in the theatre?”

“Well . . . ” Shit. I recall seeing Ian McKellen do Macbeth, or was it Hamlet, when I was a teenager. He was great. He must have been great. He is great. And I think I saw ‘A Merchant of Venice’ with an actress I was in love with at the time and wanted to impress by going to see Shakespeare as keenly as I’d trot along to Stamford Bridge to watch Chelsea.

“I see,” he says, in the tone a doctor might use when he’s just diagnosed your liver is full of alcohol memories. “So, when did you last see a Shakespeare film?”

I’m about to mention Joss Whedon’s adaptation of ‘Much Ado About Nothing’ then remember I’ve had the DVD for several months but haven’t removed it from its cellophane wrapping yet.

“I really enjoyed ‘Ten Things I Hate About You’,” I say, “which was based on ‘Taming of the Shrew’, wasn’t it?”

He sighs, drinks more beer. “You’re proving my point,” he says. “Shakespeare’s great but he’s also boring. Which is another kind of crap.”

“But in that case, what isn’t crap?”

“Honestly? Not much. Everything’s over-hyped, either by condescending media whore critics talking about popular culture that they hate but feel they should praise because that’s what ordinary people like, or anally-retentive supporters of the classics who don’t actually enjoy them, just think studying high art makes them better people.”

“So everyone’s full of shit?”

He laughs. “Yes. You, me; the barmaid over there, even if she does look like Audrey Hepburn. We’re all full of shit, but we never admit it because if we did, we might as well just hand in the keys and let McGonads turn the world into one giant turdburger.”

“If everything’s crap,” I say, “what gets you up in the morning?”

“People are full of crap but lots of them do great things, every day. Writers on the other hand — I just don’t think they try hard enough.”

“To be better writers?”

He holds up his hands. “Okay, let me come at this another way . . . I’m not really saying there aren’t any good writers or any good books. But there aren’t enough of them. There are too many writers producing crap because it sells but not admitting to it, and too many readers buying crap because it’s easier to digest or because someone else told them it’s not crap, and the end result is that we give prizes, money and fame to half-wits producing stuff that really should make them ashamed.”

“Are you including all genres in this?”

He nods. “No exceptions, although some are more full of crap than others. But definitely no pass for literary fiction — that’s full of the worst crap of all: written by insecure tossers who think they’re actually pretty damn clever. They’re not. They’re transparent, boring and predictable. If you don’t believe me, try reading anything by Virginia Woolf.”

I shudder, remembering having to study ‘To the Lighthouse’ at school, thinking I must be missing something but suspecting that in fact the book was just good at looking clever without possessing much actual substance.

“See?” he says, noting my Bloomsburyian frown.

“Okay, but if you’re right, what’s the answer?”

He shrugs. “Call a moratorium on reviews, prizes, blurbs, etc — anything that suggests a novel is good. Instead, we issue everything in plain brown covers with the word ‘CRAP’ across the top of it. Then, we might just be pleasantly surprised. Or not.”

We sip our drinks in silence for a while, then I say, “When I’m writing, it’s like there’s this bank of sensory material right in front of me, within easy reach. It’s full of character tics, and word runs, and story twists. I want to get the story finished, so the easiest thing to do is reach for what’s to hand. But most of it isn’t really mine, is it? It’s all the digestible crap that the world puts in front of us, to make sure that what we produce won’t actually make anyone else think or pause or reflect.”

“Same as when you want to tell a girl you love her.”

“I think it takes courage to push beyond that immediate bank of help, to reach into the unknown — of oneself, really. Because, once you do that you stop being a follower-writer and become a leader-writer.”

“And there’s no guarantee anyone will go with you.”

“You might not sell any books.”

“Or your shop might have to shut down.”

The barmaid is leaning on the bar, staring at her phone.

“I remember reading somewhere,” I say, “that Audrey Hepburn moved away from making films and spent the last part of her life working for UNICEF in some of the most disadvantaged places in the world.”

Flickering blue light makes the barmaid’s eyes seem on fire.

“Yes,” says Ben, “but people only remember her films.”