Have not blogged for a while- a clear case of blogging disfunction. Whether life is just too awful to write about or simply just too tedious to bother who knows.

But I've been busy lecturing, and pleased to receive emails demanding extended lectures because 'I'm a provocative cunt' - all in the nicest possible way- makes you feel better. Got a gig in Oxford tomorrow, that bunch of estate agents in that particular middle class concentration camp are really going to get it.

I'm concerned for a TV show last night, a dating show that appeared to adopt all the qualities Albert Speer and Leni Reifenstahl gave to the Third Reich with NO SHAME AT ALL. I asked Julie this morning ' Is there anything redeeming about that show we saw last night? She said 'No'. 'Not even the ritualistic humiliation of men?' I said in the lift. 'No'. The girls were arranged as if in some brothel line up, they chose the guy up to a point by switching off their interest. The bloke attempted to charm them. It appeared the needs of the ladies involved lurked very much on the surface of their lovely outfits. Eventually the bloke chose from those ladies who had perhaps in desperation left their lights on . The girls had a universal love of champagne and Peter Andre lookalikes with Irish accents, but were disturbed by magic tricks. Fuck me, since we live in a fucking magic trick.

Julie also said that all the girls would have turned all their lights out straight away if I went on the show, for all I'd have wanted to do was to fuck them publicly over the champagne bar table.

Weirdly, this strikes me as the precise appeal of the show; those unfortunate inner thoughts, and it does not bode well for western civilization. JG Ballard would have understood this as the truth of our times, and perhaps our future.

Poor Cilla Black- Blind Date was just a tea party.

Watching Question Time. It's a bit boring, a bit predictable, a bit awful in it's mediocrity of opinion- a world of grey shoes. So I get to wonder; whose opinions would I really value? When faced with the question of whether a man should run down the street and beat the shit out of an intruder in their home- I'd like to hear.......Keith Richards.

Apparently my lecture at UCL caused an 'International Incident'. Glad I've still got it in me.

Bethnal Green met Las Vegas today as I sat in The Old George watching the cable guy rig up more TVs. It was pleasant to be the only one in there, but more than that, I could observe carefully the modern world. Making the electronics function is no doubt a big industry. Many guys all over spend their days on how to equip facilities with feeds from Italy or Spain to watch football in Fulham or Florence on fifteen screens. Since I was the only one in there I suggested to Keith, the landlord, much engrossed in this process of improvement, that it should be 'dancing girls' next. The Old George is a big place, and with just me in it a bit of a waste. You know what he said- 'I'm thinking about it'. In which case I shall endorse myself as chief architectural consultant. I already have ideas!

The lecture at the Bartlett was much about this sort of thing.

Did a lecture at the Bartlett this afternoon, I hope they weren't too offended by my language.

A good observational moment; New Year 2010. The pubs yesterday were empty except for the drug addled mates in over animated huddles wearing too few clothes, the streets only for the conspicuous staggering of those trying to find home in similar states- one figure in our landscape suddenly broke in to a run, then ran in to a road, then stopped, bewildered, then forged on- who knows where. I enjoyed it, in a strange calm, sat with Julie in the Old George fully dressed; the only customers other than those still struggling to stay high from the night before. It was a choice between that or 'The Guns of Navarone'. It was time for pondering and the pondering did not bode well. We felt numb and stroked the pub cat.

I went out today with the same feeling, but also a rather lovely comprehension of age. What life was ten years ago, how it is different now. What will the next decade bring? Can we bring ourselves to our senses? Can we even think anymore? Certainly age brings something, some melancholia for certain.

I went down the White Horse, life begins again, the dancers danced, and to be honest, I'm glad the so-called celebrations are over.