O.K...

What Facebook has taught me...

....That nobody can spell...'proberly'....'formaly'........'thereselves'...

The Grilling of Griffin.

Earlier this evening I would have sided with the protesters storming the gates of BBC centre in London, I would have happily yelled abuse at Nick Griffin as he sauntered oh so smugly, in his usual slimy fashion, across the forecourt, and I would have applauded the girls shown on the news being dragged kicking and screaming from the entrance hall. I didn't think the BNP should be given the time of day- freedom of speech is a pillar of our modern democracy, and should remain so- but I questioned the decision to play into the hands of this fascist, he doesn't seem to have any trouble getting his voice heard in numerous dodgy youtube videos.

However, having watched him nervously scribbling throughout the program, squirming and laughing nervously, licking his lips so as to make yet another bamboozled half-arsed response, I am very glad that the BBC did air Question Time tonight. As soon as the program began it was clear that Nick, or 'Dick Griffin' as one man jibed, was in for a real roasting by not only the other panelists, but also the audience. It was like watching a little schoolyard bully, deprived of all his oafish servants, left alone to face the retaliation of his victims. The program exposed him as the idiot, the liar, the fascist that he really is. He does not understand the meaning of the word genocide, he calls the KKK mainly non violent and he refers to an 'indigenous' people of the U.K as if there ever was one. Since time immemorial this island has been a melting pot of different cultures, whether by conquest or migration.

When the BNP won seats in the European Parliament I felt ashamed to be British. I felt that I was living in a nation which was becoming increasingly degenerate and xenophobic and I questioned the fitness of my parents' generation to stop the rise of a fascist party. Tonight I've seen that most people out there feel exactly the same as I do. I could feel a massive collective grin spread over the nation as he was publicly humiliated.

Novel Peace Prize.

So now they give out the peace prize for good intentions it seems. I do not doubt that President Obama does have good intentions, but if one takes a brief glance down the portrait gallery of peace prize laureates one can not help but notice that they all have some sort of measurable achievement behind them.

It is a fair point to say that throughout its history the awarding of this prestigious prize has caused controversy on occasion- American Republicans questioned the nomination of Al Gore on the grounds that they believed global warming to be unproblematic. Several other recipients of the peace prize in the past have had dubious credentials, but at least they had credentials. At the time of his nomination Mr Obama was in no position to carry out any of his intended crusades, however well-meaning. It even remains to be seen whether or not he intends to increase the number of US troops in Iraq and Afghanistan!

I can't help but feel that this is simply a move to underscore the international community's disapproval of the Bush regime, a politically motivated move and a less meaningful one because of it.

Everyone I Have Ever Slept With.

When I first saw this tent by Tracey Emin I saw the names of men and women embroidered side by side and thought, oh she must be bisexual. I fell into the same trap as many others in assuming that this was just a list of names, a solitary monument to a prolific copulator. It wasn't until I watched an interview with Tracey on YouTube that I came to see that this piece isn't about how many people she's shagged, it is a recollection of all the people with whom she has been closest-sleeping side by side. The reason why I think that this is a really great piece of art is because, like Tracey said, people can go into it and instantly start recalling all of the people that they have been intimate with, its something which everyone can relate to. I also like decorative tents.

Night After Night.

At the moment I'm living for the whimsically grotesque decadence of Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland, the coming of the German Market (the one highlight in Birmingham's dismal calendar) and December, when I shall be running off to some faraway land, dancing in Italianate gardens by moonlight, writing poetry and painting on a boy.

X

Diary of a Dosser.

Today I woke up the Angela Rippon having a good old rummage through a lady's downstairs furniture. They were trying to get a bit of cash together so that they could leave behind their home counties, mother hen lifestyle behind for a bit and go on safari in East Africa. I still think its selfish to sell family heirlooms to take a holiday. Cash in the Attic ruins lives.

I ate a pizza for lunch, thats Italian. It was nice. I paid for it with cash from my attic.

There were two groups of tramps on the island earlier, rather than the usual one. One lot was sat on the bench nearest me, the others were sat opposite. I wondered whether it was just necessity that had separated them, or if they were two rival tribes, locked in some sort of grueling drinking battle. Which ones could down the most Frosty Jacks in the course of the day? A scrawny little dog kept going back and forth between them, like some sort of carrier pigeon.

I thought, christ, it must be so soul destroying just sitting there all day watching the world go by. Then I realised I was doing exactly the same only a few hundred feet higher. I might pop down and join in.