Monday, 29 September 2008
I cracked my wrist on Saturday night whilst having a little dance. "Were you under the influence?" the self-righteous brandy nosed medicine man asked.
"I don't drink!" indignantly.
"It's not broken."
"You're looking at the wrong x-ray."
Dear God, even though you don't exist, please save me from the experts. And while you're at it please save my choice of working life from the shamen who have chosen the entrants for this years Turner Prize. Between that and the collapsing banks run by the over fed buyers of such desultory emptiness, I fear I am watching the demise of civilisation as we know it. Nero's Rome must be close to burning again.
Anybody got a match.