Messy Christ Mouse to you one and all!

See Harley Quinne, hisher hair of marmalade, hisher eyes of honey, hisher skin of milk. Eyes slied down, a figure thin as a needle, a figure thin as a rain, stepping slow yet moving fast. At times, both hisher feet leave the ground at the same time, yet still Harley Quinne strides on... a shadow full of purpose.

All is stuntered silence quiet... All is glitchless still...

"Quickly now..." heshe whispers, in a voice like ice melting in hot whiskey, "Hop on up into my pocket... we've no time to lose..."

And so you do.

And all is the richness of tinned-goods and glittering lips, saliva rich, saucy, opaque, vague.

"You know," heshe says, norrow eyes smiling, silvered teeth gleam "if you end up in prison... they don't even let you out for Christmas... Can you imagine that?!"

And no you can't.

The night is all frozen-food goodness and flaming pie. Oh the flaming pie of the evening! And oh how the air is sharp as a knife, sharp as a gleaming spitmask! By fuck sir that is sharp, oh that is!

Musclemen stricken with muscle wasting diseases, shuffle on snow-tuned corners. Short, short peoples with dark eyes and secrets, smelling of the earth and sweat, moving out of sight. Female performers with one leg shaved, framed by elongated doormen that flow and flood the doorways of blackened doorways shining. Faces gone wrong.

And Santan, a misshapen wreckage beneath red and ragged clothing, breathing hard, making his way between the naked animal complexions of the spindled things that waddle in gutters that rain grey-brown water in turn. All milky eyes turn to admire Santan's steaming, threadbare sack, that sags exhausted,like a bruised gonad, over Santan's vast, misshapen shoulder.

Kneecapped urchins carved from spuds and spud sacks leap from the windows of gleaming, amber inns, encircling him. Their hungry, animal eyes pierce the air like pools of oil in their ashen, ruptured faces. Bruised harlots loiter in phosphorescent doorways, like bruised, over-ripe fruit.

Inside, Gents with indecypherable voices and cider ruined features, spill their flesh over chairs and children alike. Their cancerous complexions are fly-haired, their dribbling teeth carved from chunks of pure nicotine. Eyes astray as overcooked fingers fumble for the windfall flesh of over-ripe barmaids.

Santan moving through gutted tea-bag streets, his coughing a contaminated brook damned by a brace of rotting hare, as splintered, limbs snapped urchins flicker and retreat beneath the wide-screen gaze of Harley Quinne.

Rollo.

Robbie Williams still looks like a chimp.

Rollo.

"Tolkien's stated aim was to tell fairy stories, Peake's stated aim was to break windows. Tolkien has mass sales, Peake has more likelihood of longevity. For Peake was an original visionary where Tolkien was manipulating existing images."

Michael Moorcock

So the ratpackers are 'in'. I don't care how obtuse this sounds but this really fucks me off. Fucks me off. Fucks. Me. Off. Why can't the main stream just leave well alone - occasionally, quite by chance, they decide to vamp off something really quite cool. Wankers with no culture copping other people's - desperately attempting to read the minds of a 'youth' they have nothing in common with.

Just fuck off you cock rags.

Robbie friggin chimp features Williams does his Frank impression and he gets a pat on the back from the fucking media press fuck me - it was simply a question of market research. It was his fucking PR / management's idea. Jesus fucking Christ.

"Robbie can't sing."
"True."
"Maybe he could do a Frank... Frank can't sing... not really... he just kind of 'intones'..."
"Yeah... let's get Robbie a tight suit and a swing band."

Accept Frank had personality. Frank had style. Robbie is just a cynical chimp-faced dancer from Stoke. Frank was a connected man. Robbie is just a grizzled coke hag. Frank was a party guy, Frank was a guru. Frank was of a generation of party cats into Jazz and blues and cocktails and suits and the gangster: Robbie is a friendless, talentless Zero who is obviously bored with stardom. Robbie is quite obviously a miserable, haggard, imbecile, utterly void of personality or style. And he's from Stoke.

Rollo.

9.55
Nathan Barley is interviewed by Syrie Johnson of the London Evening Standard for a feature examining the lifestyle preferences of a group of careeless-but-wealthy freelance twentysomethings - an article which proves so infuriatingly snooty and pointless, it makes anyone reading it grind their teeth with rage.

"Nu Media Trustafarian arse wipe superiority: wether you like it or not."

Rollo.