Andrew WoodcockAndrew Woodcock coughed his way into this world in the industrial Midlands in 1952, a place time and the Luftwaffe forgot. A bright child, Andrew passed his eleven-plus, and attended the local grammar school. He was published at 18, truly awful poetr, which convinced him that the Nobel Prize for Literature was his for the taking. Sixty-six years later, the dream is still alive, but considerably more distant. Read More Read Less