» Posh

Swearing at random strangers
Preferably at railway stations / foreign airports.

This I do for kicks. God and my one-60th-of-Shropshire-owning family, plus of course good old sphincter-stretching public school inflicted on me a completely ridiculous accent. I tried to shake it, but couldn't and now can't be arsed. Especially when I'm drunk I say things like "haice" for "house", "ears" for "yes" and "nehho certainly bloody nort" for "no". I know the ghastly middle-class despises swearing, so whenever I meet an example I cannot stop myself from saying fuck repeatedly, even if it's interviewing me for a job. I love watching in its face the conflict between the desperate urge to doff-cap or tug-forelock and the equally shrill and impetuous desire to inflict upon me its petty, conceited and ghastly little set of values. Canting ruining drivelling snotty bastards.

I can't remember the last time I made myself a meal that wasn't breakfast. I have huge debts because I buy most of my meals at the various eateries of the Fulham road. Also I can't remember the last time I washed any of my clothes. Apart from funerals/weddings, I don't think I've worn a suit since my finals. I get a stiffy when I kill defenseless animals. My father is a baronet and I'm the younger brother so I won't inherit. Fucks me off, that. Fucking "Mr.", indeed, just like some ghastly fat plebeian peonic pick-up-truck-driving shaven-headed squat ugly builder.

This set of attributes and what the odious middle-classes call "value-judgements", and an ancestry that goes back a few hundred years before 1066 means I am as posh as I am repulsive and as aristocratic as I am physically dirty and mentally unhinged.
(Sat 17th Sep 2005, 0:00, More)

» Teenage Poetry

Angry Limerick
There once was a moggy called Miles,
Who suffered from terrible piles.
He sat down to shit
His anal ring split
And he screamed in agony and died of blood poisoning. The end.
(Sat 13th Aug 2005, 13:51, More)

» Pretentious bollocks

My last installation in the Tate.
It was a fettid pile of solipsistic post-masturbatory wipings-up.

Contemptible, childish, lacking in import. Ashamed of myself. I have seen the light.
(Wed 28th Sep 2005, 20:24, More)

» The Police

The Police
I think they're bloody wonderful. The best police force in the world, ours. Bravo the Police!

I got arrested once, in Soho. It was "disorderly whilst drunk". At first I was alarmed by the fact they thought it would take five of them to bundle me (weedy, vaguely effeminate) out, but then my confidence grew and I abused each one of them dreadfully, calling them all sorts of things. "You disgusting, revolting, ugly, steatopygian, unctious turd of odium," I said to one. May not have said steatopygian, I forget. "Take your hands off me this instant you fucking c***ing slimy festering grunting pig," I said to another, and so on and so on and so forth.

In every other country in the world, The Netherlands included, I would, as a mere entree to the feast of violence that nature dictates must be brought to bare on a drunk who is abusive to a cop, have been beaten black and blue. At the very, very, meagrest and scantest, most tinysome least.

But was I? Did they? Not a bit of it. Not even slightly. Not even a hint. They locked me in a cell, brought me water when I banged on the grill, called out a psychiatrist when I said I'd throw myself off Westminster bridge if they released me (it was four in the morning by this time), and on booking me in, indulged my request for a phone call. I called a friend who had witnessed this all and was waiting in the reception area; we gossiped for fifteen minutes, as if nothing had happened. No book was thrown: no charge was brought; I was paraded before no snivelling PLMC magistrate. At six thirty in the morning I was set free to roam home.

I really must hand it to the police. Restraint personified.
(Mon 26th Sep 2005, 20:20, More)

» Teenage Poetry

Uebercringe
An embargo on your hips dear boy;
Their mason should be shot.
For which is worse: to see or feel
The sedition of your trot?

An outrage: such salubrity
Is seduction thinly veiled
And that is an unpleasant game -
I know: I've tried and failed.

The beauty of your hips I think
Is the shape they cut in air
Like a crystal cutter's finest piece
For them -- O -- how I care!

But you must try to quell them!
Walk more sullen, dear.
That way we'll all waste far less time
In staring at your rear.

Forgive me these confessions,
For I mean no grief by them:
It's just that, well, your body
Is utterly a gem.

It really is a treasure rare
Of smoothest, purest joy,
So very sad to tell myself
You'll never be my toy.

My plaything never shall you be
For you aren't Greek in Lust
But I'll admit that I'm not too,
For me there's only love.

But I love you so intensely ***,
To hint is just to lie.
It's so tired a phrase -- but true
You're the apple of my eye!

Who knows why, 'eh, who so cares?
(I address these lines to me)
The bad fact is I kid myself,
A fact the world can see.

---
I sent it, too. Someone shoot me.
(Sat 13th Aug 2005, 13:47, More)