I’m sick of the effete elite; navel gazing banner servants telling us this is that and that is this. Curtain twitching window worriers who tell us art should reflect the ideal – because they reject the real. Agoraphobic identity jugglers who have to find themselves in books so they can write it down in other peoples words and then wave it like a fucking flag while they march to the music of somebody else’s long dead band. I got no time to worry about who I am, or what shape the world is. I gotta put meat on this table and I ain’t gonna find it in here.
For the Urban Hippie – who sparked me off, again.