Enoch Powell, genial host of X Factor

Existentialists are getting younger these days. Last week, I overheard a little girl skipping along in the park next to her dad:
Little girl: “Sometimes I think I want to kill myself”
The Dad remains quiet.

I love laughing at clueless old people. They make it so easy. I’m sure they have a chuckle about clueless young fools like me too.

My Grandad, watching X Factor: “That Enoch Powell is a bit hard on the kids!”

Yes Grandad, Simon Cowell is making them all sing a musical version of ‘Rivers of Blood’ next week.


Am I the only man (man? ha!) to have a phobia of eating bananas in public? How on earth do you stop it looking like you love cock? Normally, I like playing around with the idea that I’m gay. Especially when it makes Esther mad. But I want to be a sex object when I want to be, not inadvertantly and for someone else’s pleasure. It must be wank being a woman (so to speak). How do you ever escape from the eyes looking staring, winking, probing?

Anyway, back to bananas:

For a start, you have to unpeel the fucker like a giant yellow foreskin.

Then how to start eating? Do you go for the tip, or snap it off to make any watching pervs wince? Some of the giant genetically modified ones look like porn cocks, absurd in girth and length. They make me feel really inadequate. Everyone’s got it in for someone. In these instances, I’ve got it in for the fruit. I want to demolish it to teach it a lesson. The only thing size does is make you first for the chop.


Freud said “everything longer than it is wide is phallic”. But then he was a man. And men apparently can’t get over sex. Rumpy pumpy, hows your father, beast with two backs, slap and tickle.

Yesterday I went round the Manchester Met Fine Art degree show.It was all so-so. Not enough superficial shock and one dimensional sensationalism for me. My hopes were briefly lifted when I saw a little booth “Adults Only: Contains Sexual Material” written outside it. I quickly pushed through the heavy black curtain into the clammy, confined space to find a middle-aged man craning over a small table. Seeing me, he scarpered. The table said “Sorry we have run out of pictures, more coming tomorrow”.

Dang it.

Another piece I saw had a girl recreating key looks from the last 50 years in a periodic table of identities. The passport size photos ranged from 60s Hollywood starlet to 2010s Abercrombie and Fitch nonce.  What a shit age to live in, I thought. I showed the picture to Esther.

“Cindy fucking Sherman” she said with a sneer.

This piece is titled "Feinin's prosthetic body after Cindy Sherman' photograph, "Untitled #255"". I just think it is funny.