Visitors

It's going to be like Spaghetti Junction here for the next week or so. What with her mother in and out all the time (STILL trying to impress me with the disappearing white stick-in-the-mouth trick five times while she's here), the fuzzy headed rocker from Nottingham and someone from Edinburgh who, apparently, reads this fair blog quite regularly.

Now that's the right attitude. I don't want visitors. I want pilgrims.

No, I'm not dead

I've merely been working on other projects. Fluffy: a lifetime on all fours is an experimental sound and vision installation at the Institute of Contemporary Arts which examines a worldview based on eyes just six inches off the floor. Some critics have described it as an iconoclastic challenge to modernism, which forces us to re-examine our relationships with people and objects - as big a breakthrough as the renaissance development of perspective. Others have said it's just a video camera strapped to a cat's head. Fuck them. As long as Charles Saatchi stumps up the necessary wonga to buy it, I don't care.

Then there's my first novel about a furniture upholsterer sent to a concentration camp, entitled Life is suite.

Finally, I'm in discussions with Disney about starring in a remake of The Cat from Outer Space. The movie is fine, but it's dragging my lazy ass to all those premieres that is the real sticking point.

So there. And I bet you all thought I'd be sitting at home all day, eating, pissing and shitting. Well, don't believe a word you hear from those two fatties I live with.