Two men sit outside Dalston Oxfam. The younger of the two squats, attempting to roll a cigarette from the dust left in his otherwise empty tobacco tin. The older stands, dabbing and wiping at a swollen eye with a handkerchief.
The rain has cleared and it is warm, but the men are shivering. Their cheap puffa jackets have swelled with water like ugly sponges.

Radio 4's 'Today' program just ran a feature on fixed wheel bikes. It's finally dead.

I've been writing a short performance about an old friend and an old girlfriend. A looming sense of historic inertia crept over me while I was searching for pictures to illustrate the performance (the collection of short performances is going under the name of, 'Short Power-point Presentations Concerning Life and Death'). These stories I tell and re-tell seem to solidify my present existence in a past in which I have no interest. A past in which, if anything, I am slightly disappointed.
  Then I realised that it wasn't a crushing sense of the past that was making me feel this way, I just had to shit. The shit is the past. The way we move food and waste through our bodies is, for me, closely linked to our idea of time and progression. Ironically, it provides a better metaphor for temporality than history. What ever we eat, it comes out brown, and how ever much we shit, we can never stop eating. Eating and shitting is a cyclical process, and though we may not like to think about shitting when we are trying to eat, they are, in reality, one and the same.

Likeacoiledspring.

I went to pick up a fridge from my uncle's house this morning. It is a small place and when I used the toilet he was probably standing about a metre away from where I was shitting. I felt bad, especially as it reared out of the water like some frozen sea monster.

Later I was walking back from Kentish Town Sainsbury's debating the merits of kicking a puppy to death for art. I saw a tramp holding a can of super strong lager. I briefly considered the ethics of paying a homeless man to commit suicide, but then he stopped me, gestured towards my bag and asked, in a well spoken American accent, where the Sainsbury's was. I told him where it was but was confused. My assumptions about the nationality of street drinkers were confronted enough to prevent me from warning him that the Camden Sainsbury's sells super strong lager at an unreasonable mark up, and only in packs of four. Which, if he was a street drinker, and not just an erudite New Yorker casually necking a can of Super Skol, would be both prohibitively expensive, and rather cumbersome

I'm just getting ready to hop on the throne for a right old blaff.

I am just doing a bit of background research so I can write a review of the current show at Seventeen gallery of Jaime Davidovich's work. Here is a great piece of him talking to 'The Best Artist' on his public access television show, 'The Live! Show'

I got it wrong, I haven't pooed yet, though I feel it may be soon. Here is a lovely section about silence from a Frieze review, well done Christopher Bedford

"If silence has a cultural application, it is as an elegiac device.  As the title suggests, Jonty Semper’s The one minute of silence from the funeral of Diana, Princess of Wales (1997) is a recording of the minute’s silence held in Hyde Park, London, on 6 September 1997 to honour Princess Diana.  Alive with ambient noise, singing birds, occasional coughing and a crying baby, the audio-track is most remarkable and moving for its impurity, for the crowd’s failure to maintain utter silence.  The sum of this collective effort and related failure, Semper seems to suggest, constitutes one model of public respect. As if to demonstrate his claim, Semper follows this minute of what might be called ‘living silence’ with one minute of dead, clinical silence recorded in a studio, an astute and emotive reminder that memorializing silences are defined, in effect, by the impossibility of their aims"

It is 09:55am, I'm just about to leave for work. I haven't pooped yet and though I'm not a gambling man, let's have us a little wager. I predict it will take place at 11:15am. About 15 minutes after I finish a big cup of coffee.

I'll add to this post later and tell you how close I was.

I've been blocked up, I ate some wild garlic on holiday and it probably had dog piss all over it so I felt a bit ill, and then I drove home and realised that my life was somewhat hellish and then got really stressed and made pathetic little turds like chocolate coated raisins for a few days.

Alton Towers
I went to Alton Towers on the last day of my holiday. It was full of people from the north-west, and some people from the west-midlands. All their haircuts made me sad. But the most sad was when I saw a man in a 'Nemesis' t-shirt sitting on the Ripsaw after the ride had finished. He waited on the ride with a hopeful look on his face. He wanted to go round again. Eventually the man from the ride had to come and tell him to get off. It made me not want to go on Ripsaw.
But I did anyway, and then got a wet crotch. Maybe the ride was Nietzschean and gave me a wet crotch to punish me for falling prey to the emotion of pity, the most useless of all human emotions. Or maybe everyone got a wet crotch. I will not be forced in to definitive speculation on the possible philosophical leanings of mechanically animated objects.

They also play bad, mid-tempo music in every space in the park. This must be an attempt to keep people's energy levels up as their adrenaline levels take them from delighted-screaming-child mode to super-depressed-verging-on-psychosis come down. We went to have a cup of tea and try to relax and the background music was an endless pastiche of 80's guitar music. I put a jumper on my head, closed my eyes, stuck my tongue out and pretended to play a mini-electric guitar. It was both a high and low point.

Prince William
Yesterday I worked a four hour shift at the Whitechapel gallery. Prince William came to officially open the gallery. I held a door open for about 2 hours. I asked for a door-stop, but was told we had run out. My job could have been done by a concrete block. Do you think Prince William ever opens a door for himself? Does someone wait outside his room until he wakes up, and then, hearing him rise, do they tenderly open the door slightly, and go to his bathroom, and open that, just in case he needs to wee? I have sympathy for people in constricting situations. The royals are confined to their cages; their big, gold and platinum, tax-payer funded cages. Do they know this? Do they yearn to open their own doors? Or at least, not have to be so gracious about other people holding doors open for them? Prince William could, in all likelihood, open his own doors. But yesterday, like every other day, he didn't.
He did, however, walk past a colleague of mine and make a sort of swooshing noise, whilst wiggling his hand to signal that he was coming past. It reminded me of a well off, southern student at northern university in an R n' B club.

I made a long shite, of varying shades of brown, like a sad rainbow.

I also made the first of the sequences from my next film. It is about Truffaut and the Jackson 5ive cartoon.

I finally started working on video again becuase I went to an inspiring show at seventeen gallery. It is a solo show by Jaime Davidovich. Actually, it is more a curated show-piece about Davidovich's, 'The Live! Show'. Either way, the footage of the show is incredible, and I love the feeling of old video. Like when John Cleese goes outside in Fawlty Towers, which on youtube looks exactly the same.