My flat is ‘a hole’. A hole filled with muck. A ring doughnut made obese with manure.

Small dust piggybacks bigger dust, biscuit crumbs compete with crisp shards for depressing supremacy in the foods-on-my-floor-that-do-you-no-good league.

Piles of that fine ‘70s Marxist quarterly ‘Telos’ reside resentfully to one side of the carpet (the top few still scarred from their recent encounter with a drunk young lady who vomited into the bag in which their new owner – moi – was carrying them back late one evening from a conference. It wasn't actually me who did the unpleasantly carrot-cubey damage, in case you were suspicious).

Flies make merry in the kitchen with a host of rotting plantains to sustain their burgeoning ecosystem, bath scum rises ever higher in the plastic tub, threatening to render self-scrubbing yet more unpalatable than it already is (why don’t I just move to France and have done with all this hygiene? I am neither an energetically gay man nor desirous of olfactorially-inclined strangers sniffing at my person).

I would clean the place, but it just seems all too bad-existentialism-inducing, like doing up all the plastic clips on your duvet when you put a fresh cover on (like leaving one clip undone is going to make the insides fall out when you’re asleep), or cleaning the vacuum cleaner properly (it’s supposed to full of that weird fluffy dirt, surely).

I dunno. I can’t cook, I can’t clean, I can’t put make-up on properly (Glueboot says I look like a little girl trying to look older – to be fair, that’s what the guy who sells me bus tickets says too – and to be even fairer, GB – ho ho, what a good abbreviation – has never seen me in make-up, she just said that cos I said it to her once and decided to repeat it at a later date JUST TO BE MEAN. Damm you, well-memoried Glueboot (despite your recent wholly fibbing claims to the contrary)!). But man am I well-read – compared to literally hundreds of other animals with vertebrae, I have done nothing but read for decades now. I have seen no important films (I confess to having NEVER watched ANY of all of the following: Citizen Kane, Casablanca, It’s a Wonderful Life, Lawrence of Arabia, Don’t Look Now, Touch of Evil, Triumph of the Will, The Night Porter, Rambo, Lethal Weapon 4, The Deer Hunter, any Fellini, any Hitchcock, etc. etc. I know these are ‘important’ because people talk about them a lot. The big verbal bastards.


Could I be any more Amish.

You may now remove any reference to my blog on your sites now. I am truly sorry for having wasted everybody’s time.

But, I have a question: how do people have time to watch all those ‘important’ films, AND read all those novels/philosophy books/comics, AND listen to all that music/pirate radio/official radio/live shows/downloads…? ARE YOU ALL ON CRACK? Answers on a postcard addressed to ‘Infinite Thought, 25, Culturally Retarded Towers'...

What I have seen, however, is quite a lot of films starring that lecherous old Teuton, Klaus Kinski. Horrah! Therefore, to contribute to the somewhat strange ‘old-skool feminism vs. machinic sex-animals’ debate going on over at K-Punk and elsewhere, I will state, quite openly, without shame or fear of being called a big fat old misandroid (heh heh, this is pretty clever if you work it out…..well, kind of…ahem) that Klaus Kinski is the most beautiful man THAT EVER LIVED. So there.

Off now to mourn the very imminent departure of all the 73 Routemasters….by going on one. Not my idea, of course, I hate the damn things. Being useless and no doubt in the process of being punished by God for not yet having learned how to cook, I once missed making the platform, saved narrowly from major head injuries by a fat jolly German who pulled me on and told me I had been a ‘very silly girl’ for trying to jump on an increasingly moving bus. So actually, all hail the 73! Perhaps he was an overweight relative of Klaus.....ahhhh.....sweet dreams, idle dreams....