Underneath the Pavement Lies the Beach

This is something I have wanted to do for a while, write on a train. They somehow make me feel connected to history, memories of old films and other journeys replaying as we shift along the track, metal on metal. I really like trains when they go through tunnels. Those of us less than 30 years old will probably not remember the time when censorship caused ridiculous visual metaphors to be used in place of hardcore sex, so in place of vinegar strokes over hips, you had vinegar soaked over chips. I also like trains that take me out of London, and especially when they take me south to the sea, which is after all, everybody's home, given the chance.

I am pleased with the work I have done setting up "Five". Hopefully now I can carry on the Blog of Funk in it's funky blogness without having to compromise my syncopation and off-beat rhythms, at the same time as representing and being part of the explosion of independent media coverage of the election, of which blogging is a part.

Having attended artschool in the 80s I have a dread of all art about art, and so, blogging about blogging doesn't appeal to me that much. But using blogs for different reasons and purposes, extending the reach, developing the form of interactive publishing, me like. Five is bloggingly blogworthy in its utter blogginess, and I hope helps to reinforce the right of citizens to report freely on whatever they choose.

I anticipate that this election will prove a worthy test of the nation's resolve to report accurately on it's ability to govern itself, as much as a test of my ability to stand closer to the heat of the political kitchen.

I am also testing the strength of my family conditioning not to take part in politics, which is a good thing. How long can you live a life ruled by fear? Too long! But it isn't just maternal conditioning that I am personally addressing by dealing with politics, it's the conditioning of the academy, which taught me to disengage.

I decided to put the revolution at the disposal of poetry. That is something I can do immediately. It's situationist. I've adopted it as my rallying cry. You'll hear it soon in a street near you.

With these fine words, I am summoning up as much force of will as I can muster, to strengthen myself in anticipation of being easy meat for the hellcats of doom who would seek earthly power and dominion over us. I'm sorry, I meant to say, for the politicians.

What they don't realise is that I was Gaugin in a previous life, frolicking daily with smiling curvaceous island girls, careless of my western diseases, pretending Van Gogh was always the mad one, dreaming of taking my revenge on the salons of Paris, and all the while painting, painting, painting.