This thing is about feminism. Was going to call it Feminism but that stunk. Called it Kentucky. Last bunch of songs might be called Kentucky something or other. Wanted to diversify for a while, and avoid me me me. Began a science fiction story but parked it. A complicated democracy, the net.

'Guys should butt right out of feminism. Let gals get on with it,' murmured the last splodge. What I meant there - was - chaps can't go 'Oi, love, d'you need a hand? You put your feet up, pet, and let yer other halves help dismantle centuries of serious stifle for ya.' This was compounded by the fact that a girl who worked in an leftie/anarchist bookstore stroke grunge cafe in Belfast once pulled some feminism out of my hands and told me lads weren't allowed to do grrl stuff. Could never get it. Never understand. Feminism was ours. Hands off. Fair enough, I'll probably just feel all guilty and stuff. Exactly, she replied. At the time I remember thinking that this was very considerate of her, not wanting me to carry the sins of twat forefathers around like a heavy heart in a Sonic Youth t-shirt. Oh, the spunkiness of sonic youth. She probably had a crafty handle on the egotism this sort of universal guilt demonstrates.

What's a chaps response to this f-word then? If anything these days. What do I know? I'm factless and figure-free. I've only read scratches of feminism. I scrabble about to sound opinionated as it is. Maverick popslinger being a glimpse away from blathering chancer in sad fuck potting shed. Chin up, sycophant: all free to go. Unless you're God, in which case we're in this thing together. Go on with your Zennery-pokery. Feminism, then, in a rambling tangential fashion. Eyes right a sec, as I unzip my webbing tackle, warm up only average opinions (it's cold in this fuggin potting shed) and if they shimmy somewhere sinister you can come along and have them off atop the workbench with kinky sewing-circle scissors or turncoat-stomping Docs.


"French stirred by Michel Houellebecq's latest novel." I read on slim fence of newspaper pages. Chain-smoking shut-in scribbler Michel says geezers should get on their bikes and hump hardly legal Thai birds. "Best lovers in the world," gurgled the bad-boy sex-tourist (43) of frog-lit. From the Gainsbourg studios of admit-the-unadmittable, pitch your tent as a total low of masculinity. Max hardcore unit-shifter or the Chris Moyles of after-dinner discussion? Or merely French? Discuss, alors.

Post-liberalism. More than mouthy deejays calling callers dozy tarts, Mathersisms, billion dollar babes toasting their abuse of nicely-chiselled scrubs, the tenet being everyone's too busy to give a chuff. The advances of liberal ideas prevalent last century are now at an end round our way, it says. It's out of puff and a dull sight dotting the i's. It has scored all the goals it's ever going to. You can't advocate equaller than equal rights, abortions on tap, two-for-one divorce. Chill, mister. Capital gets the actions, the left gets the words. S'okay..

..words.. Don't come easy. The Word was God, and the lower echelons see a power in words the upper classes don't. One 'fuck' and you've a pair of slapped legs and no ninety nine. If attention's what you're after repeat to fade. Bickering beasties face-off as one accuses the other of making the accusation that the first had cast aspersions.

Freedom of words, freedom of thought. Possibly but even the most capricious verbals define our boundaries. Slapped legs. Not so the net, the place is heaving with hate-site misery. Do you feel your mother had a positive or negative influence on you? Stock analysis. Silence kid. Positive: wrong about some things, being human. Where's the relevance? Let's talk about sex, instead.

Geezer monkeys, see, might as well splash it about like mental cases. Lassies have found it proves to be the choosy Susie. Only the outer onion skins of the Show. It's not destiny. Not moshing around down at Spangles or Phorensiks, it's not. Zoom out on the sexual systems analysis flowchart, however, and interesting flaws and bottlenecks appear. Peaks and troughs of institutional misogyny, chastity belt risk-points, archaic armtwist and huff, unnecessary hand-offs to spank mags or the furtive use of subcontractors. The fertility control office. Take a look around but come back down to dancefloor planet earth before you log off.

It was like a bad episode of Hollyoaks. I went spare. Nuts. It was my kid too, y'know. Bitch. I had all the wrong responses on every concievable (sorry) level. Abortion should be taken on quivering chin, it's one area where chaps have responsibilities without rights. In the cost/benefits section of reproduction you get off underbudget and so within scope you're laughing your collective socks off.

Masculinity's in crisis! Fuck that for a game of soldiers. Someone whisks these things up and ensures they do the rounds to throw sugar in the feminist petrol tank. Masculinity always was in crisis round embittered gerbil-person Hampstead circles, maybe these have widened. Couldn't-score-for-toffee always comes up Essex girl stag jokes or a certain sort of after-dinner academic armtwist. Grow a beard, go down to the forest and go fuck yourselves. How's that for primal scream?

Pint-sinking misters are completely conscious of a two-dimensional version of 'masculinity'. 3D glasses required in an out-numbered environment. Out-valued is starting to bend their heads, Gavin. So to avoid disappearing down to the potting shed or post-liberal posturing - all the modern geezer has to do is relearn their gaze a glimpse.

You talk a good game, but what about my erection? Planet Matching Tracksuits reaches this feller's ears as tearfully droopsome. Yeech. Right proper girlies all done up, booties-aloft and somewhat befuddled on the hard shoulder. The right Mr Fix-it hitches up his Hugo Boss to reveal nicely chiselled arms replete with chunky sports watch. Better really, innit? Take your sarong and shove it. Very eighties.

White corporate power's a tough cookie and the juiciest bits are stuck to the bottom of this barrel like Teflon. Pockets of mid-range power, like everything else, are packed and transferable. If I ever snag hold of some I'll have a packed and transferable p.a. type up me me me ..words.. on the matter.


Oh balls. Where did that go? 'Men' the group, 'women' the group, begone the both of you. Pick a person, any person..

Northern Line person, today. Powdering in a compact, precisely timed to pause before we swung across the lane switches at Camden. Frozen with fascination over a slim fence of newspaper pages - the world, or an intrinsic part of it, at peace. Recalled lying silent and catlike watching big sister ready herself for teenage nightlife. Doubt her modus operandi was to become a commodity for gents, any more than we are all advertisements for ourselves. Except in Kentucky.

Christelle. Flatmate. Held back by her sex, I doubt that, but I'm not in her Golas. Held back by severe streak of self-doubt which she puts down to her mother refusing to discuss her unknown father except to the extent that if fuckwit provincial Catholic France had had abortion you'd have been a neverwas, young missy. Worse-case scenarios assumed, no-self-esteem self-harm and drug use assured. Au revoir to teenage screaming moi moi moi to nothing-much above, enter Black Books. A brilliant person who could do so much, if she'd stop seeking, needing approval. But not held back by being female, as far as I could see. God bless your jeans and t-shirt liberal Britannia. Drop the Celine, I'd advise. But my approval low on the ratings. Waiting for Big approval from nothing-much above. Rudest bookseller on Charing Cross Road, for a time. Michel Houellebecq would approve.

Best lovers in the world, mate. Do whatever you ask. Tee hee. Ms Mxxxxx. She loves you, she does. Follows you around like a little lamb. And we went where I said and did what I said we were going to do. Several chapters of head-bending hardcore sex later, (I overspice - armtwist and no-show interspun with aimless bouts of the aforementioned), the whole thing was emotionally illegible bar greed and self loathing. Best lovers in the world. Don't go there.

Feminism. Managed to circumnavigate the subject. Pardon me if it gets cherry picked as a catechism - the alternative is mixed signal insanity sauce. It's 8:30. I'm off to the Boston Arms, who are still wowed by the fact that the Stripes played there at just the right time, to double brandy myself into a far sexier silence. Time I did this thing, y'know, 'live'. Why did the Afghan Whigs have to split up? I hugged a snivelling wretch to my chest at a house party. I know, I know. They were. damn. fucking. goood. man. Shhh. "Understand! I'm a gentle man. I'm not the man my actions would suggest." But with the cranked-up kinetic energy of someone bashing a kaleidoscope of backstreet shi-ite from someone's cranium. Shhh. "Pavement. Gone. And Sebadoh," he whimpered. Hush, lad.

(Note (i) Last paragraph barrel-scraping and regrettable emotional blackmail, an advertisement for myself and a snivelling defense of the male placing.

Note (ii) As has been entire page.)