Nobel Pinter

'When we look into a mirror we think the image that confronts us is accurate. But move a millimetre and the image changes. We are actually looking at a never-ending range of reflections. But sometimes a writer has to smash the mirror – for it is on the other side of that mirror that the truth stares at us.'

Genius or Dick?

PD. Ooh look at me, I'm doherty, I support QPR, write poems and stuff, because I'm cultured and sensitive but oh so tortured...and I wear a hat that makes me look a right gezza/wally...you know, like the artful dodger or summing. The world stinks, and I'm a rock n roll son of a bitch with ma Bob Marley posters and me New York Dolls vinyls. Oh yeah, and I do a bit a charlie as well. As Kate. Yeah?

Of course Pete Doherty probably wouldn't say this. Why does anyone give a toss anyway? Is it because he smacks himself up? So what, he's hardly a role model. I know I couldn't care less what he does with his life or how crap his songs are. It's a right he has, and when people say he's squandering his talent, well on the evidence of what we've already had, what talent? As far as I'm aware there's only ever the latest celeb teen mag, NME who's proclaimed his god-like genius, and written fake fan letters (I have it on good authority) Strange, and ironic, considering, there's no god. Don't know about any of you but I don't actually know anyone and have never met anyone who has more than a passing curiosity for Pete Doherty, let alone own any albums or have been to gigs. Perhaps it's a London thing. Curious? Buy a Clash album, see how it could have been done in 1976. Thirty years later, this retrowank is wearing thin.

Let's not beat around the bush with fake concern, designed in a celebrity death watch suit. No-one gives a shit. There is no shining star to be damaged. But I'd defend his right to push sub-Clash shite into the music industry, just don't expect me to like it. I've known journos to say 'Pay me...and I'll give him a wrap of brown that finally send him to the great Albion in the sky.' If he wants to become the new poster boy, a'la Zammo in Grange Hill, then who am I to Just Say No? If it wasn't for the shit gigs and cult like obessive nature of a hundred and odd insecure fans wanting to say they'd witnessed the next Cobain or Morrison, he'd just be another member of The Libertines, which no matter how you try and rationalise it, are yet another shit MOR band wih guitars, styled hair and not a lot to say.

Turdner Prize UK Tour

If you unfortunate enough to be a commuter then your day probably won't be helped by the Turner Prize's attempt to gain more attention by imposing itself upon the public in the form of some kind of mobile art gallery at some of the UK's train stations. So you'll have a chance for yourself to witness the house of indifferent, anodyne shite, which attemtps to pass itself off as art. Janet Street Porter reckons that it'll be a great opportunity for the public to see the talent of great British art, blah, blah. Like we have to go to London to see art. Like we don't have art galleries everywhere else in the UK, which I have to say puts a lot of the stuff on display in London to shame. So folks, soon you'll be able to voice your opinion and maybe suitably interact with the art. Me, I'll be staying in and listening to the Kate Bush's album.

MICK HUCKNALL: Undisputeably a Cunt?

We're well aware by now that Mick's hair colour often brings about that snide and silly animalistic vitriol in people, even to the point where poor Mick feels it tantamounts to racism...but that is only half the point. He's still a cunt, isn't he? Don't believe me? Then check out the recent Q magazine interview in which he drop kicks a Cuban fan offstage and then storms out. Does he later apologise? Of course not. He's Mick Hucknall. He's rich and sold millions of records, he's better than that. But this poor Cuban fan who only wanted to join his hero onstage may face three years in jail according to reports after it emerged that Police found cannabis on the young fool. Will Mick step in to save him, and use all this so called influence? Nah, 'He's a silly boy. A very silly boy,' was all Mick had to say on the matter before getting onto his jet.
Source. Q magazine (December 2005)

Just Duff By Name?

I had the misfortune to catch Duff Hilary on the Late Show with Letterman. Yeah, we know she can warble, we are probably aware that she does the blonde bimbo stereotype not many favours (or every favour if you happen to be blonde and stupid). But, christ oh christ wept buckets, why did this airhead really feel that anyone would find her pathetic Paris Hilton act complete with pooch fashion accessory anything less than stomach-churningly dull or duff? The Jessica Simpson-esque witch proceeded to introduce this pooch on her poor audience and get the poor mut to do some party tricks (which as it happened where no more than when dogs shake a paw or get into their poised to pounce stance.) Someone please call the RSPCA. Someone needs putting down fast.

Ooh, it's Stella McCartney! (The Emperor's New Clothes)

I know it's a bore and very simple to write so much hate filled piss cakes, but people make it easy. Take Stella McCartney. Nothing against her personally. I mean, sure she's the daughter of Paul, she's hardly going to struggle. I understand she designs clothes. And from what I've seen I can't say that there's anything particularly that distinguishes her from most other British fashion designers. I suppose they're like artists, prone to bouts of the emperors new clothes syndrome. But none of this is important. It's the arseholes, the shallow sad lives that are willing to queue outside for four hours outside H&M just so they can bag a bargain and tell their mates, 'Ooh look, I've got a Stella McCartney...aren't I great?' Well, excuse me if I don't entertain this collective middle england gasp. Maybe it wasn't surprising that the majority were women but what was more surprising, considering that it was H&M, was that there wasn't a stampede of gay men, demanding McQueen!

This problem does go wider and it is particularly annoying. (I swear blind it does exist). It's the habit some fuckers have, to refer to items of clothes as fashion designers. Hence,

Prick. Ooh look it's a McCartney. Think it'll go with my Miyakke? Oh I don't know. Maybe it'll go with that McQueen belt or those Starke shades.

Me. I'm sorry for you. I used to be like that. Die soon.

Go ahead, if you want to be back-stabbingly despised or kind of treated as a secret joke. These people are living, and exisitng like they are in Absolutely Fabulous or Glamourama, and they need to be beheaded. There is an aristocracy out there but it's not the upper class, it's the new art media elite (again I have some experience in this area until I got myself better. But this tale does create other problems as I'll explore next week.) and they have to be stopped, as their stupidity and twattery inspires cold blooded murder. These will be the same cunts who will queue for years outside of King Harrods. They're just clothes. That's all.

Art Attack!!

Yes, I know. The post title is a rip off of that CITV show with Neil 'Number 73' Bucahnan. It's been a fortnight of pointless award ceremonies, with more to come. Firstly, I was at the Q Awards, then the Man Booker Prize, rooting for the Zadie Smith book to fail (and fail it did). But coming up soon is that infamous prize, that so called contraversial event in the art world known as the Turner Prize. Part of me wants to be there to insult the artists and judges intelligence and judgement, and the other part of me wishes to be there so I could present the prize, with the opporuntity to precede it with my speech.

I was once invited to sit on the panel once but was unable to as I was in hospital at the time, having my stomach pumped, and ever since then, my open-minded approach and expectations of the arts has been tested and disappointed. But if they were to invite me to make a speech, this would be the speech I would give.

My Turner Prize Speech by Smirnov Kool age thirtyish.

I've always had an ambivalent relationship with art. I was never any good at drawing, and I wasn't old enough to understand that the concept of 'art' was a very broad, if not limitless concept that could justify just about anything. My understanding of art as a kid were a number of things; Paint Along With Nancy, Take Hart, Hart Beat with Tony Hart, Rolf's Cartoon Club and my experiences of art at school. I enjoyed Rolf Harris' and Tony Hart's art can be fun approach, even though I wasn't technically good enough to create anything remotely worthy of being featured on the gallery. Meanwhile at school, my experience of art was in part tainted by the teachers. In my secondary school a teacher called Mrs Calaghan (who we called chameleon because she kept going red in the face) was a miserable cow who just had us drawing crappy things placed in front of us, but she just bored us shitless and her apathy at the school rubbed off on us. The most interesting thing that year in the art class was the dare for my friend Tony, to drink a mouthful of wood glue, for a laugh. As I got older I eventually developed an appreication for the impressionists, expressionists, then the pop artists, the cubists, surrealists, the dadaists and contstructivits et al. My own personal favourites include Kandinsky, Kokoscka, Hopper, Rothko, Caulfield, but I have a problem with a lot of modern art, particularly modern british art. Maybe I've been looking in the wrong places. Maybe the wrong places and institutions have misguided me, like the Turner Prize for example. Let's just nail a few things.

Rachel Whitebread
The K Foundation got it right in 1993 when they awarded her the 'anti-turner prize' award of £40.000 as the worst artist in Britain. Ironically she was also the winner of the actual predictable farce which IS the Turner Prize. Although her recent installation of white boxes arranged in any old way doesn't feature in the 2005 award, it still continues to invite not the sense of awe as it should but complete and utter stony faced indifference.

Tracey Emin
Her 1999 infamous blag, My Bed, emodies the idea as with Emin herself, the stereotype that most artists are self-obsessed. They might tell you that this is just introspection but it isn't, not when they are selfish enough to expect others to believe that we are actually interested in their vain and shallow lives, their pathetic and embarassing offerings. Would it mean the same if their work was actually, (maybe an outdated idea perhaps) presented in a technically high standard, both aethetically and creatively? Again far from displaying anything enlightning, shocking or intriguing about the human condition, it just bores me. Is it Arts perogative to be boring? Are her naked pics more interesting than her piss-discharge stained bed? Why is my dirty bed not an art work? I feel it would have more to say about contemporary life, than Emin's own self-soaked world. Maybe I misunderstood her motives as a cry for affection and love. Maybe I took he piece as just artifice, which I had every reason to believe it was. But none of this is interesting.

Martin Creed
Perhaps a more contraversial winner than Tracey Emin. No, definately more contraversial. Emin's work had some effort and content, this piece that won in 2000, The Lights Going on and Off, which was just that, is a big lazy pile of shit, not just a ploy to display the fraud that is modern art, but this being the case the joke is also on the judging panel for displaying their ignorance that would both thrill and annoy Duchamp.

Charles Saatchi
Most Saatchi's are twats, the world would be a better place without them, at least our London based one's would. It's difficult to tell if he is Brit Arts biggest saviour, benefactor, or gullible godfather. What is clear, is that this art dunce, has made no secret of his naviety when it comes to recognising good art from the emperor's new clothes. Also the Saatchi building is a monstrousity of architecture that deserves to be pulled down, or punctured by an aeroplane, and like the other attention seekers, that his known as the art world, his significance should be recognised for what it is-complete bullshit.

Turner Prize
Difficult to know who needs to be stabbed, the judges, the artists? What's the harm, it's just fun, it's only an annual pantomime, something to take the kids to, hardly a breeding ground for the Bacons, Monet's of the future. Does the art world really give this horror show credibility? Does great art really divide the public or is this just a purely manufactured truism that sounds good when said at parties? This year, there's a bird obsessed with her arse. Nothing wrong with that but why does she feel we should be interested in HER ARSE when they are far more superior, ugly and ordinary arses out there!? And there's a piece by some bloke (I really cannot be arsed checking his name) who's produced an installation which is a old shed, called something like shed, boat, shed again. It comes from the same school of art technique as Martin Creed, you know, the famous, long established tradition of HAVING NO IDEAS.

As I've said I appreciate a lot of modern art, I'm surprised that this prize only seems to focus on the more negative aspects. But art isn't merely about raising questions. This justification doesn't wash for decades. Art should be brave enough to take the lead and answer questions or offer alternative theories or suggestions. All this, 'this piece confronts us,' or 'whatever experience, history the viewer brings' is bullshit and anyone in the trade will tell you that. Of course it doens't have to meet an agenda or follow a paint by munbers approach and there's no subject that cannot be captured. I particularly liked thr Myra Hindly portrait with kids hand prints, now that was brave amd what you might call daring, but not particularly shocking. Technically it achieved something. Is it too much to ask, however, to be artistic, not to produce an object of mediocirty, something can be insprational? In the last week Bansky has achieved more in his recent exhibition than the Turner prize winners of the last 14 years.

But what is it about modern art that is meant to be particularly daring? You couldn't be daring if you made a life-sized replica of Thatcher made from the colelctive shit of the royal family, collected by aides, and delivered the sculpture with your mate dressed as the twin towers. Someone tell me what's daring because I feel nothing but a mixture of indifference with disappointed. The only link to daring I can find evidence of is like a sleeping David Beckham piece or something by Wolfgang Tilmans, and all of the artists above, the dare to be mediorce, the dare to take the piss, the dare to produce something that says nothing, that challenges nothing, the dare to expose themselves, the dare to appear to be minimal and cool, the dare to be an elitist, the dare to have nothing to offer, the dare to leave the viewer feeling empty, the dare to watse their lives, the dare to express their ignorance about issues that affect them, their world and their place in it, the dare to be trivial. Why, when anything can be done in the name of art, when the world is your pallette, for fuck's sake, why ask someone to give a shit about a ballsed up shitty shack that doesn't know or care whether it's a fucking boat?

There was a time when Fritz and I found oursleves sucked in by these kind of cynical people, and their lifestyle, and that was a particulary cynical time of our lives when we expected our excess and lazy partying and shopping to kill us before we were 25. It's only looking back that I realise that all these stypes, who presented themselves as so liberial, multi-cultural and were going to change the world, smash it to pieces and reassemble itself and start again, were actually the most bland and conservative people you would ever meet. They talked about a lot of things and only did 1% of them because 99% of the time they failed or were too lazy or hungover to get out of there beds. All this 'look at us, were all outsiders, but some of us, are even further adrift..' mantra was total bollocks. This lot wouldn't know art if Daniel Libeskind ran up to them and put a crystal spire through their collective chests and twisted it...twisted it.

Autumnal Bloodlust

I love Autumn, walking through a parade of trees, raining down its leaves, the distant burning smell in the air, the nip in the temperature. Maybe Justin Hayward summed it up better in The War of the World's classic, 'through Autumn's golden gown we used to kick our way...' Anyway enough sentiment, what do you care what I think about Autumn? I certainly wouldn't care about your views, unless they were filled with bitter, spiteful, twisted, hateful, vitriolic bloodlust.

I was having a discussion the other day, defending my viewpoint that people, as a whole, are hateful. We really are awful. We stink, we invade each other's space, we always fuck everything up, we're only in it for ourselves, we're mediorce and tasteless, we worship shitty things, and really have no clue about anything. But we think we do. We really think we are the best thing to happen to the world. But the only thing that brings us joy is to see the failure of people or success when its at the expense of each other. We try to make progress, we try to get along, but invariably it's in our nature, not just to disagree, but to dislike each other. You sort of think what's the point. Why don't we all commit mass suicide? So, what keeps us going? Well, it's obvious, it's either our selfish quest for success, fame and money, or its our shameless cowardice to do away with ourselves in the face of what will prove, I have no doubt, complete and utter futility.

You may say 'Bollocks, what keeps me going is love, food, sunshine, steak pies, iPods and porn.' Sure, but you're just a selfish cunt, though, really. Admit it. Isn't love selfish, isn't the vanity of wanting, and believing you have a right to be loved selfish, when poor fuckers out there don't even have an option or opportunity to even live beyond one week, because fuckers (aka the human race) have chosen to deprive them of opportunities? No, we are a hateful, embarrassing race, and if there is justice in the universe, and we are lucky even to encounter intelligent life, they will be suitably intelligent enough to wipe the whole fucking world out, never fucking mind bird flu.

I mean, what other species could commission 'Spoons' and 'Swingers'?

Goodnight, Ron...

Oi, Geldof!

I have a bone to pick with you, me old man! I read an interview with you last year in Record Collector magazine where you called ABBA shit! Now I respect your opinion, as much as anyone else's. I'm sure Mr Bob Geldof can take it just as much as he dishes it out, but let's back up a cotton picking moment...

This coming from the man who only had one decentish song!
This coming from the self appointed Saviour of poverty because 'I only did it cos no-one else would bollocks!'?
And do I have to mention the Big Breakfast?

You realise your opinion goes against many of your own contempories and heroes who would vastly disagree with you. While sometimes having the odd questionable lyric and song, not to mention the odd dodgy costume (which many, many lazy journalists and so called talking head observers are so fond of telling us because they are thick as pigshit and have nothing else of value to say), they still piss on you from a great height, Geldof! Got that?

If you want to dismiss them as shit, then I take it this includes the production, the girls voices, everything, eh? And while we're at it, wasn't it a copincidence that while everyone had to go through some pointless headline grabbing lottery to watch the crap Live 8 concerts, strange how you crappy named daughters, didn't have any problem. Don't patronise us and pontificate anymore, and sell us mediocrity to get your message across. It's kind of difficult to accept fake concern from a millionaire. Don't ever question the working class and try and make them feel guilty when they aren't the bad guys.

I haven't finished with the Make Poverty History...Make Geldof History, Make Curtis History...oh fuck off, I can't be bothered!

last laugh?

Well, my good friend who intends to publish his semi-autobiography about me has had his MS refused on the grounds that it's a bit lewd. So? Find out in December when hopefully it will be published by the indie, Autonomous. (I'll provide a link for it when it's available to order) The last laugh is on you Macmillan.

The Entertainer

Speaking of Henry Kelly, the country could do worse than his none threatening, light hearted form on television these days. There's not many presenters of European themed game shows who when speaking to a Dutch man would have the nerve to make the brave observation that everyone is thinking.

Henry. So, I see you're from the Netherlands. I don't suppose you wear clogs, do you?

Dutch Contestant. Not these days, no.


Just give him some TV space. He was one of the less funny ones on Game For a Laugh. He's been called many things, tosser, wanker, and even a cheat, after it reportedly emerged in 1988 that he had been cheating on his wife. But hey, I'm sure we can give hima chance, even if we put him in a new production of The Entertainer, Irish accent an all. Imagine him delivering the line, 'I'd rather have a glass of beer.' (You have to be there).

Failing this he has taken on a new momentum on the web, courtesy of sites such as http://spacemonkeys.freewebspace.com/news.html which take Henry Kelly admiration to serious heights of worship, including audio snippets, images and even in sharing the proud news that Henry Kelly came '7th in the recent most attractive voice on radio Radio Times readers' poll. He finished above such reknowned broadcasters as Nicky Campbell, Steve Wright and Ed Stewart.'


On the subject of another Kelly, my mate reckons that Lorraine Kelly gets more and more sexy with every passing child she drops. Now that would be a lovely thing for Mrs Kelly's husband to observe, but coming from a 32 year old bloke on the dole with debts, seems somewhat disconcerting.

Back to school

Not for me of course, but those on BBC 2's Art School (or whatever it's called.) For those of you with jobs, it's basically another of those programmes where 'celebs' are, presented as 'real people'. Well, ooh! What a fucking great insight that is. In this case it's as artists, with feelings, aww! And perhaps the one whose feeling the most by her horrified expressions and tears, and knowing head buried in her hands to capture the right level of anguish for the cameras is the wannbe earth mother, Ulrika Johnson. Can she take critisicm. No! (Can any of us?) But rather than just grumble and imagine all kinds of death for the art teacher/critic like any sane person would, Ulrika would rather sulk and show us how sensitive and deep she is.

As for her art work. Not too bad. Pedestrian at best. Her subject matter is a bit dull though. Naked women, an obession with the naked female form, and looks, naked children on a secluded beach, with her faceless naked mummy. As I said, not bad, but I've always found the obsession with motherhood in art to be sooo boring. (I know I wouldn't understand unless I've been a mother and an artist at the same time...like I care) But what I object to is that somehow, if you're a mother, your feelings and sensitivity is somehow greater than anyone else's. I reckon they should have got John Leslie to critique her work. Now that would have been a picture!

By the way, I was going to put a pic of Ulrika but I thought I'd upload Henry Kelly instead. Because I can, and after the week I've had I'm past caring.

Barrymore's Appendix:Go to hell!

Oh well, here we go again. Been busy lately, drafting treatments, going to pitching lunches and the rest of it. Fritz is getting worried that since our last big project, Best Before:December 2001, we haven't really produced anything, or at least had anything worth producing. That's to be understood to some extent when you realise that the majority of people have no taste and are a bit thick. Don't believe me? Just click on that tab to the top right of your screen where it says Next Blog. (This isn't a blind link or an advert, promise) What you'll get is a random surf to the blogging community. No doubt you'll will see that I'm in very poor, and to some extent, whacko territory.

But that's besides the point, that commissioning editor from Five, was supposed to have understood my proposal for Barrymore's Appendex, a surreal four part comedy about Michael Barrymore, who happens to have a dodgy appendix, but also with an undertone which answers his critics, as a once popular and much loved British entertainer. All I got was 'But Barrymore woon't do it, he's in New Zealand, and besides, it doesn't represent Five's remit.' You got that right! This coming from the arseholes who repeated the ever so hilarious Peter 'all I have to do is over explain my witty observations at the top of my voice and repeat a few times for the dullards and they'll lap it up' Kay at the top of the Tower. I feel such a bitch tonight! While I'm at it, as I was watching, though god knows why, Bands Reunited:Frankie Goes to Hollywood, why the fuck do American programmes have to subtitle English accents? Do they think their viewers are deaf stupid or what? For fuck sake: IT'S FUCKING ENGLISH! Make an effort! Fuck me, we have to put up with more than enough American slang. Jeez, I ain't dissing ya, but you gotta have respect, you know what I'm sayin'?

But I've had some good news. For the past few years, a little known writer, has used my trials and tribulations for a semi-biographical novel about me, called REPILKA, which is being prepared for publication later in the year. (Yes, for real, cynics!) If you click the link on the right, called Gobsticks it'll take you to the authors other works. And no, I haven't slept with him, just in case you were wondering. Come on, what do you take me for?

So all, in all, a pretty mixed couple of days. By the way, Nighty Night really is a pile of shit, dressed up as 'ooh, look, clever dark comedy' , and why didn't no-one give a shit about Lucas and Walliams when they were funnier in Pie and Mash? Don't talk to me about comedy. My whole fucking life is a comedy.

Found that Hart and Soul?

This sit-com idea has been with me for ages. Since UK's Channel 4 has been scraping the barrell for years, and it's clear, due to the endless imports, the unfunny Leigh Francis and Peter Kay vehicles, 'reality' programmes and constant cheapo best of compilations, that the Canary Wharf building need my help.

With this partly in mind I've proposed a treatment for a new sit-com, a dynamic sit-com, which would actually feature actors and TV celebrities whose work WE ACTUALLY ENJOY, two characters who are remembered with warm affection and nostalgia, and actually possess at least one talent. Yes, Tony Hart and David Soul. Hence the title of the sit-com, Hart and Soul.

The pitch? Oh, I don't know, they play themselves. Tony Hart has a lovely modern studio flat, but is disturbed by his loud, heavy drinking, partying, pizza eating new neighbour above, the incorrigible, Soul, who is in the UK to land the BIG acting job, following Springer (which he talks about all the time) but has to make do with little jobs advertising E4 and all that. Meanwhile, Tony Hart, wants to sell his serious art works to galleries and things but alone at night, alone, he talks to Morph. The duo clash, argue, fight, smash things, but always have a begrudging respect for each other. I was going to up the ante a bit, and suggest that this version of Tony Hart had no heart and David Soul had no soul but I felt that this was just taking liberties. Oh yeah, and the theme tune would be the predictable T'pau's 'Heart and Soul' only mashed up with the theme to 'Hartbeat'.

Grimaldi Forum Ladies Room, Monte Carlo

I also promised a pic of the toilets, the kind of place Richard Pryor's Brewster would like to die in. But I don't think they were as beautiful as two years ago. These are from the ladies room, the men's are in blue. I apologise for the slight blur but you have to appreciate that I was in a rush to capture the aesthetic beauty, the stillness, the ambience...

Lovely Vache

As promised here's a cow from the Monacow parade.

Lindsay Lohan?

I know little or nothing about her. Well, this is not really true. I know that she is a hollywood actress (or actor if you're a feminist) and she also makes music. In either fields the quality is questionable. I understand that she is like most young females in this arena in that she is often prone to bouts of questionable behaviour and fit throwing.

I also have every reason to find Hollywood and everything it represents as largely mediorce and trivial and basic, actors included. In many respects what I'm saying is that they don't possess anything that interests me in the slightests. I don't care about gossip, their fame or money, they could walk in my room now and I would probably not bat an eyelid other than to say, 'Hey, what are you doing in my house at while I'm writing my blog entry...hey, come on, take a walk! No, really, get out!'

But with Lindsay something feels different. She interests me. I find myself curiously attracted to her. Now if you know me, you would understand why this is wrong on many levels. But, what attracts me about her aren't so much her looks but this plays a part but not for obvious reasons (although I can see she is attractive and has a couple of other points going for her). It isn't her questionable talent, but I did tolerate her in Herbie: Fully Loaded. In fact I used to have an orange VW Herbie called Hurbie. I couldn't drive it but Fritz would drive me around. Last time I was in that car you wouldn't believe the trouble I got in. But that's for another time. What draws me to her, is that she has an aura of madness about her. Behind that smile, and in those eyes is a crazy girl dying to get out. There's also something suitably masculine about her, something which feeds my curiosity, and intrigue. It's also in her voice. The idea that something dangerous and shameful lurks underneath. I can identify with most of these qualities. And because of this I find her lovely. Don't worry if you're reading this Lindsay, I'm too busy to stalk you and wouldn't if I could. By the way, Lindsay, what was Jamie Lee Curtis like to work with. I'd be interested in her auditioning for my next play.

I suppose for those of you who stumbled on this for hot gossip and are obsessed enough about her to keep reading, as I promised some goss about her, well here it is. As you know there was some concern that she didn't attend the Herbie: Fully Loaded premeire, in London, and had to rush home for 'family issues' or something. What actually happened, and I know this because, one of my colleagues was there, was that she had some videotapes to return. OMG, text that one fuckers! Apparently she had rented out 'War Games, D.A.R.Y.L and Cocoon'.

Michael Jackson's comeback?

Well, back safe and sound from Monaco. BTW, I forgot that the VIP Room bar was actually in St. Tropez and not Monaco. (It's been a long week, I know). Anyway, since it was partly a trip on business and pleasure I did spot a curious thing while I stopped over in Nice on the promenade de anglais. Noneother than Michael Jackson's lowkey comeback gig, which explains a lot. It's been no secret that since his penchant for court appearences his status in the US is rather low-key at the moment and it's been rumoured that he has been laying low considering his options.

It's also no secret that he has some financial problems which may account for his impromtu gig by the beach in Nice, and here I have the evidence. The gig itself was small, consisting of a set that included Billie Jean, Thriller, and Black or White after which he danced to the side to get changed into some Lycra for an encore of modern performance art dance. At the time of writing I believe that you can find him appearing on the Promenade around 10.30-12, giving performances, posing for pictures and inviting members of the crowds up to dance with him. Amazing.

I'm going away to Monaco for a couple of days. I have to see the Cow Parade, and of course my favourite toilet in the whole world at the Grimaldi forum. If I'm in a good mood, maybe I'll post a picture of a cow, or the interior of the toilets. You will agree, if my photos do them justice, that they are fantastic, but being inside them is another thing. It's just a shame that they have to be used for accepting human waste when they'd make quite a nice wine bar. Then maybe I'll get off to VIP club. But we'll see. In the meantime here's a lovely picture that's being developed for a poster, for an upcoming satire.

'LOST' + Undue attention

They are in fact living in the future...after a wayward nuclear explosion blew their plane out of the sky, and shed a cargo of pigs and polar bears over three islands. The fact that this plot device has been ripped off ITV's , 1999 series, 'The Last Train' doesn't matter much to the yankos. Future episodes? Think 28 days, meets, The Beach, meets Blue Lagoon, meets Dr. Moreau, and you're way off. Think Fantasy Island, Castwaway, Lord of the Flies, and, god, you're not even close. Think 24, think 24, think X-files, think Models inc. It hurts but this is where the producers are at. Don't think Mork and Mindy though. Yes, ironically it's also true that the scripts were lost after the third episode, which is why Ron Howardsway, had to start from scratch, with a crayon, and a bag of angel dust. But really, in three years Locke dies...and the social experiment that the island is, will be taken over by Walt.

Don't you hate reading bogus blogs claiming to know all the rumours about what's going to happen in soaps? Don't you hate reading blogs where the height of humour is discussing the fact that all the streets where they live are named after birds? Now this is where I feel cutting off fingertips wouldn't be a bad idea. Someone should have done that to Rowling years ago. I'm sick of having my book launches hi-jacked by middle-class kids dressed as witches, clutching Harry Potter, and getting in the way of my modest queue. Popular culture? And what gives Rowling the leave to present herself as a godess in that interview with Paxman? She really is a witch! (And yes, it is jealousy. Have you seen how much money the bitch earns? Who wouldn't be envious of that...for creating nothing more than a rip off that racist cow, Blyton, and Potter, who isn't racist as for as I know.) Someone should hi-jack her launches...any ideas? Ooh incitment...slap my wrists, Mr right dishonourable Clarke.

No blogs aren't about seeking attention for me. I get too much attention if anything, usually from men, normally bald, with tight shirts and expensive aftershave. I'm going to have to stop going to Elton John parties. (Or Jabba, as I like to call John, since he calls me Pippi, and like Jabba, he has his hangers on. But he's lovely. Isn't the video for Electricity really beautiful? How many men in their late 50's can be in a video where two boys, Billy Elliot, and a 16 year old can innocently dance and embrace while being leered at, by a bloke behind a piano? No, bless Jabba, I love him, in a way.)

Bolloggs to Popular Culture?

I've decided to be nice to my publishers and agent and include a blog of my thoughts, and dish dirt about the foul celebrities I have to put up with almost on a daily basis. My agent thinks I should be looking to comment more on popular culture, and promote my work. But what could be more popular and common than writing a blog? Now I'm not a reviewer as such, I write plays and films and things, but I know enough about critics, celebs and their habits to last me a lifetime.

My partner wants it to be a space to consider some of my creative ideas, TV proposals, ideas for musicals, concept albums and the like. We'll see. Maybe it could prove to be an entertaining launch pad for a couple of projects, and to share news, rumours and gossip. You wouldn't believe the stuff I hear. I'll have to let you know what's in the pipeline. As for my blog title, Best Before, you're gonna have to wait and see what all that it is about, but it revolves around a few things that have happened and may happen again to yours truly, and is linked as well to the launch of my new multimedia project due to take place in Manchester, UK. It's all hush, hush, well it was...but Manchester isn't what it was, and after the experience I had, will never be the same. I'll also let you know something about Lindsay Lohan very soon. I have spies everywhere, and since I'm going through my current obsession with her...I even dragged myself down to Leicster Square (god I've never spelt that word right. No excuse...I'm there enough) for the Herbie:Fully Loaded premiere, just to see her in the flesh. But was she there? And I now know why. Really. Well, allegedly.