The following is taken from a period running up until about August 2009 and is all entirely true. Unless I'm asked in court, in which case it is entirely lies.

Dog Horn is run by loose criminals. Both are borderline alcoholics. One is a registered sex offender who sits atop a throne of cushions, and the other is an escaped mental patient who is strapped to the desk where his computer sits.

Sitting on his throne in the living room, the Editor-in-Chief inspects the devastation of last night's 'staff' party. Empty cups and glasses of every kind are strewn about the floor in a pattern that would make sense only to a seven year old child who'd been fed nothing but blue Smarties for a week. Most are completely empty, but the odd few are filled with whatever remained at the end of the night. Cans have almost defiantly been used as cigarette trays and are now giving off a repugnant stale smell. DVD boxes are strewn on the floor between masses of pillows and appear as though they have enjoyed their own personal Christmas time, that has periodically been wiped or licked away.

This might not seem like an office to the untrained eye, but within all of this madness there is method. Around the room are kept old manuscripts that are so bad that the only good way of using them is as throw-away paper towels. We tried to recycle them but the council took one look at a thriller we rejected, set in a world completely inhabited by gays, and charged us with crimes against humanity. Stacks of books that we have been sent to read are piled almost ceiling high in the corner and we are desperate to read them but resign ourselves to watching Hollyoaks instead — it's far easier and is guaranteed to make us feel better about ourselves afterwards.

The computers come out, the door is closed and a bottle of red wine sits besides my chair. The real works starts now, after we have had a glass or two. We sit and laugh at stupid jokes and occasionally one of us will come out with something completely mad that leaves the other looking worried. But the ideas that spew forth are brilliant and wicked, if only we had a pencil and pad or a braincell left to remember them, as the second bottle of wine is opened and we make a call to our favourite chicken take-out. Some minor updates are made to the website and the Editor mentions an idea he's had for a book about crazed drug dealers that live underground — after all, we are working and it's good to act like we are doing something.

It's turning midnight and the room now smells of spice and chicken carcass. Our favourite contributor has written another masterpiece and we are both chatting to her on Facebook while she analyses our personalities to a worryingly accurate degree. We love her so, and spend the next hour discussing her work and checking outside to see if she's in the bushes watching us. She isn't; it's just the police taking away the girl across the road again.

Somewhere along the line it's turned 2am, and some friends of ours are leaving a club and one of them has weed, so we clean up the room and throw all the glasses in the dishwasher on quick spin. Before we know it there are ten people crammed into the living room (office), drinking flat lambrini that was left over from some other time and the room smells of smoke and weed.

Tomorrow will be another night and we can get down to some real work then.

As I said at the start, if asked in court this was entirely lies.