…with this spine-tingling deliciousness playing in the background:


It makes me feel a bit sick, and I think I like that in a piece of music.

I won’t lie, I also really, really like this:


I am fully aware that I have execrable music taste, but conversely, what fun is cleaning anything without a little help from Lady Gaga?

And finally, in a shock move even further out of the good taste bracket, I rather like this, campest of all camp mashups: http://audioporncentral.com/2010/02/pheugoo-electric-gaga-dance.html

Seeking refuge in other media in a quest to bring a little bit of quality to this marshmallow-mashup evening, I have been enjoying Martin Creed a lot, lately, and this piece of writing is my latest discovery: http://www.martincreed.com/words/ifyourelonely.html

I like it in the main because of the short prose-poemy section at the end. I like the rythm of it, and the sixth-form diary entry feel of the whole thing. I also like the idea of a non-aspirational workaholic, the idea of addiction to a process rather than a result, finished pieces as a by-product of another thing entirely. I suppose, in a way, poems are like that for me. I have to write things down. I wish I could write everything down, all the time, every single moment of lived experience. I can’t, of course. So I write some of it down, prized moments or ones I suddenly remember. And then I refine them. And sometimes, good poems come. And sometimes, terrible ones comes. And most often, they don’t come at all, other than to gloop onto the page, glumly waiting to be deleted or crumpled up or shredded. But it doesn’t matter, because the point was writing it down.

Hmm. Not sure I ought to have written that down. I feel a bit peeved that I don’t have a loftier motive. In fact, I feel suspiciously like WIlliam Wegman. I think I feel a lucrative career with canines coming on…