11th January 2003. d)
won the vote (95.2%). Nevertheless I'm going to Spain to see my
family who are there, and to work on something new for 2003. Just
spent the morning being chased around Hackney City Farm
by some hard-looking geese. There's a memorial poster there
to Stanley (the bronze turkey) who tragically passed away just
before Christmas. Hmm. ~
send in the spies and take out the inner circle that's what i
say do you know anyone at all who thinks iraq is a good idea i
don't know a single person i
know where ms dynamite lives no way lets go round maybe she's
having a party solaris hasn't dated 2001 has dated a lot but solaris
hasn't isn't a dakari supposed to be slushy not like a slush puppy
just not watery where do you work work i'm doing A levels ~
Happy New Year. A word on these characters, finally. Maybe as
this was written and published in real time - nice for slow readers
- it's hard to say where they're based. They've ended up a musical
chairs of imaginative spaces. Spaces which I have no right to
claim, never mind turn into a kind of burlesque. The narrative
sticks have to fall somewhere, things cross around and mutate.
A total turn of the screw at the end, no confusion. Poll Vote:
In 2003 DPS should a) Go off-line and do something in the approved
fashion, b(v0.1) A sequel, b(v0.2) Something different, drop the
gags and faff, c) Get a life (watch the Cheeky Girls), d) Join
the Cheeky Girls (every band should have a Bez). Vote vote vote.
Christmas, thanks for reading and apologies of the timetabling
of the damned. By now you'll have had your fill of dirty
dancing (staggering sideways around wotsername from Human Resources).
Come grope something lovely
with your bloodshot eyes and ruined mind, my friend. Further chapter
ahoy in the workless week between the Viennetta and New Year.
Post-fiction options: (a) 60s 70s and 80s Nite at the Drum And
Monkey (hell yeah) (b) a house party in Kentish Town, or (c) Vic
Twenty djing at the Garage. Hmm. Mentioned Paris. Max Beckmann:
great to watch progress, pure neurosis before he came to Paris,
then he seemed to get flashy and started acting the painter. Out
went the tawdry sex in war-torn brothels, in came sauve self-portraits
replete with bow tie. Then went to an exhibition
of author's bedrooms, no less - joined a throng around Marcel
Proust's actual bona fide scratcher - nicely wrought iron affair
with deep blue sheets - picturing him all tucked up and remembering
times past. Which could be New Year (d).
Turtlebean Soup. Chop and fry one onion, two garlic cloves and
a celery stick (with leaves) until soft. Add three pints of decent
vegetable stock and 225g of turtlebeans or black beans (soaked
overnight). Simmer for one and a half hours. Remove half the beans
and a little stock and blend. Add this blend, three tablespoons
of dry sherry, the juice of one lemon, black pepper and half a
teaspoon of cayenne pepper to the pot, simmer for another 15 minutes.
Fill four bowls, grate with a decent cheese. Grill as French Onion,
serve with homemade-if-you're-bothered salsa and crusty bread.
Apologies for the dead air. Unfair to dedicated droppers-in. Either
the Queen's dark forces at work, early separation anxiety or sick
of the sight of my own voice. Guess that the key to a well-planned
serialisation would be to have prepared a few enstallments in
advance, to cushion such eventualities. But. More discipline*
next year. (Year). Where are those pesky songs recorded
in a bunker? Uploading snags, I'll try again when I get back next
week. (Hand of Fatima-covered apartment block in Belleville, Paris.
You thought this story was all made up. Hopefully seeing some
exhibitions - Velasquez and Max Beckmann. Modigliani maybe. Can't
decide if his mesmeric, aquiline portraiture is passion-fuelled,
or the work of a one-trick turtle. There's a short sharp career
for you, I suppose. If you die young at least your work was consistent.)
9:00 am. The Ministry Of Fiction, Whitehall. Speculative Structure
Testing Division. "Good morning, Mr Loudermilk." "Good
morning, Mr Clapwick." "Any closer to nailing that Nabokovian
mirror-trick?" "By lunchtime, I suspect. Nice weekend?"
"Quoits with Hermione Quackhandle. She was before your time.
Successfully satirised the reader as virtual witness through an
oblique form of internal trialogue." "Excuse me, Mr
Clapwick. My office?" "Lord Beaverboard?" "Yes,
this curriculum vitae of yours. I've had it retrospectively verified
and it's revealed itself to be entirely made up. Is this how people
imagine they'll secure a position at the MOF these days?"
"I thought it would help, sir. Hit the ground running, as