03 January 2002. Third colour white, it had to be done. Bit of a mindwarp, the intoxication speaks for itself. I was going to re-do parts but decided to leave it as it came out last night. The title is in the masculine, though the doctor is female - there's no French feminine for the profession. I hope you .. like.

Spent the chimes of New Year at a Finsbury Park lock-in. Total de-tox dreamed of but massive sore-throat cold means Solpadeine. Feel the need for a total makeover of mind body spirit life lifestyle politics website dna ..urrgh..

29 December 2001. ..like dejavu..all overagain.. Part two, it feels to me. Normal twisty-turny service resuming next year. Have a marvellous one.

spliff drinkdrink miranda sawyer you're joking house eights and fours no way miranda sawyer's horny man drink oxide are pure islington dinner party drum and i fold bass where do you stand on miranda sawyer gonzalez ok? i fold oh drink definately miranda sawyer would get it two pair kings and nines hang on spliffdrink this is an islington drinkspliff dinner party

24 December 2001. too many..hangovers ..headfunny ..must ..tryto.. thinkcomplete..sentences.. updatesite.. head .. funny.. what.. did it? ..feel like an open book so here's a love story - of sorts - that's just made up. Nothing festive as such. Just RAM sweet RAM.

Seasonals and so forth. It's been a wild year, no? Stressful and momentous, terrible beauty and tenderhooks. But I hope you had some good moments and that next year will bring many more. Bring's not the right word. Anyway, I hope you're inspired and find/make success, happiness, peace. Americans, of course, have a constitutional right to the pursuit of happiness - a lovely poetic notion we could all adopt. America, I fear, is going to get all insular on our rest-of-the-world asses, the military excepted.

Santa-like, I want to find out where you live, shin up your drainpipe, slink around your house, grab you unexpectedly, chase you - shrieking - in, around and out of several rooms, wrestle you onto the sofa and kiss your eyes for just giving this website a look-at. Might make this a resolution for two zero zero two.

Two weeks at mach zero: out of depth in this restaurant two house red be warned they've got a toilet attendant and no-one tips less than two pounds the vanilla brulee's ok but the accompanying biscuit tastes like human skin blue after shock lunacy juice in rush hour underground curiously touching introspective folk version of sonia's you'll never stop me from loving you stops me in my tracks taking it's toll is it i can't do several nights in a row any more drinkdrink hello it's freezing out there who's been taping tv go home so you put the raclette under here drinkdrink and it melts why did you fold you had two pair what do you think about the kevin mcnamara thingy yeay the tvgh book thank you dancedrink drinkdrink hello mum i don't think i'll get back this year how's everyone i'm recording and writing everyone on the dancefloor my shrimps taste funny pint of old brewery please god i met a bloke in san francisco who said the eurodollar as he called it should have a picture of sinn fein on it drinkdrink and thought sean finn was a person no not after shock it's mouthwash i haven't heard compton for years house jacks and threes did you know ice cube's dad was a lecturer spliff drinkdrink clementine and almond cake it's nigella lawson mm very tasty i fold what are you doing on the 29th alice coltrane was john coltranes wife i'm still a millers crossing man even after fargo spliff i couldn't understand a word they were saying but they haven't made a bad film really hudsucker proxy was the nearest they got to spliffspliff bollocks how much would a taxi be from here spliff might as well finish off nigella i go millers oh brother blood simple i go fargo lebowski arizona what are you doing 29th

09 December 2001. Last week - Robots In Disguise, whom I met two years ago wandering about a field in Fu Manchu moustaches. "Coupla posh birds in Covent Garden clobber," grumbled colleague Paul. Well, I was pleasantly swung by their kooky brand of do-or-die DIY art pop.

Then I popped down to enroll at a course covering the legal and ethical implications of publishing. I haven't a foggy notion, like everyone else on here. The worst web sites are CVs In Disguise, hopefully this one stands on it's own two twisty feet as a piece of work, and despite the fact that it's democratic drift more than wot's wot, and even feels more like thought at times, material on the internet is - I read - 'unquestionably published', though 'the extent .. can be judged by the number of visits to the web site'. Haven't checked the official stats for a bit. Phew. Me, myself and a coupla stoners quickly disappointed by a lack of dwarf on donkey action. As Pornland remains yer favourite piece, try this:

In the news this week - 'Fucking nigger typist'. That's what Michael Fawcett, valet to Prince Charles, called Charles' former personal secretary, Elizabeth Burgess, at a meeting in Highgrove to discuss staff procedures. Once, as a McJobber in an investment firm, another (phrase in context) fucking nigger typist told me of her ambition to work on the front reception, ambitions persistantly denied. 'What gives?" I asked the boss off-hand. "I'm not a racist," he explained, adjusting his tie in the lift mirror, "Really I'm not. But we have clients - Arabs, the Japanese and so forth. They come to London, they want to see something blonde or Liz Hurley."

Let's face it, the pull of global markets means a lot of giving sway to the world's lowest moral denominators behind the scenes but it'll sink till someone says no. My advice to fucking nigger typists is to take that gun in their head back home and type about it as best they possibly can. Faster and more accurately than most.

02 December 2001. Ah! The winter Sunday. I can't find a clear reception on Xfm, pirates swing aboard the frequency - shouts to tha' Holloway crewww - so I'm listening to William Hague on Desert Island Discs. Man hung his boots up surprisingly quickly. Since relinquishing the responsibility of leading the Conservative party he's had the "time of his life" .. Chopin's Predule no 4 in E minor .. you were inconsistent .. "Both Ffion and Seb Coe are jazz fans" .. did the dirty on Michael Howard .. was image the problem? .. "I have a problem getting people to see what I'm really like. The press are so obsessed with perception, they thought everything I did - marriage, judo - was only to enhance my image."

"Do you still practice in front of the bedroom mirror?" Sue Lawley asks. "Speeches, you mean?" asks William.

Apologies for sporadic updates, the reasons are tedious. I read other people's weblogs and there comes a point when one asks 'what is this?' and one wonders who people feel they're writing to. I've always guessed they were writing to whatever was absent from their lives. That's where you come in. The world is full of sex objects, love objects, muses and make-dos. I sometimes want to thank you for casting an eye, but thank-yous suggest a close to something.

Divine inspiration. Bit of a 'wow' moment in the midst of recording. I've been wondering what to do if and when the Show is over. I'm pimping choons, just doing stuff - but a sequel struck me, or a main course. Dunno. As I explained to pal Joanne, two years ago I complained of being bored somewhere deep inside, despite heaps o' fun happening across the surface of my life. Now I don't feel that so much. I can't go back. I miss playing music live but to have taken four months off to cobble and keep together a band, rehearse and do the toilet venue circuit - would have felt like slowing down. Impatience.

21 November 2001. With many surrealists I'm not a taker, but I like Paul Delvaux. What's seductive is that he seems to concentrate on the relationship between archetypal points of his own consciousness - so one is left with the sense that he's not using his imagination as much as mapping it at a particular time. Almost by-passing the details of any specific dream, which will never mean much to you and I as third parties, the spectator is given a framework into which they should add their own content. To me it's therefore more personal and surreal than the morphing of elephants or a brooding Ernst which end up as daytime guessworks gone monumental or can even feel more like grouchy sleep deprivation at times. Drift into a bit of Delvaux, won't you?

Spookily this week I bumped into the marvellous Joanne, whom I met whilst at art school. It's strange meeting old friends, interesting to see if they've 'moved on' in the ways we'd have imagined. She has a two year old daughter and now works as a successful 'life coach'. Here's an article about her work, if you ever need 'lifestyle' 're-engineering' or wish to 'resolve' 'issues' with your 'partner'. You're so cool.

Deirdre! - girl's gonna get me arrested. .. excuse me ..

11 November 2001. As every liberal parent will tell you, kids don't really benefit from 'faddish' materialistic gifts for Christmas, they just need prolonged hugs with overdone words of love. Alternatively, the whole family could get down to Battle Royale. Flyer link, though it's still clay on the wheel to an extent. Hence working titles - as per the previous two flyers.

No real site entry as such, that's it. It's hard to toggle between song and prose etcetera sometimes. Have a nice week.

3rd November 2001. Been trying to find a book that someone said I have to read, mostly as the story begins while the main character is giving up smoking. Confessions Of Zeno by Italo Svevo.

Currently doing nicotine cold turkey. Bought an inhaler but it looks creepy, quite frankly, like you've just ate a pen. However it should usher in a fresher tang to garb and gob, some capital and life expectancy, sensual heightening, energy. And of course, time. How much time have I frittered on nicotine? Getting up to go to the all night garage, nipping out of meetings. At heights of cigarette insanity I've shaved half my face, taken a fag break, then sauntered back to finish the job. But the most inelegant of all was sharing an embrace with a young lady across a choppy English Channel, both of us having been cinematically enamoured by Paris or just thankful to have escaped the shabby carnival of souls that is Porte de la Villette bus depot. But memories of this romantic, student moment are also of the two of us continually sparking up over one another's shoulders, like a game of relay snog and puff. Shocking waste of a moment.

Over in France some geezer, right, is knocking out a novel by installment plan on the internet. September 11 he was so gutted, see, all he could post was a blank page. Read it and weep, it's how he feels. Not sure there's a benefit to firing traditionalist or even conceptual tomes up the pipe. That said, natter long enough and some truths will out, if truth's your thang. Writing on the net, you have to learn to deal with interpassivity and paranoia - "That thing you wrote, it's about me isn't it?" - yes yes it is. It is.