Bitter Suite Symphony

I quite like Peep Show. In the same way that I quite like, say, having garishly painted nails raked up and down my naked torso whilst all manner of filthy suggestions are whispered in my ear... Or Mr Kipling Almond Slices.


Peep Show is so good that it renders the material written by its two main actors - David Mitchell and Robert Webb - for their own show That Mitchell and Webb Look as unfunny as a Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Crisps special commemorating the human rights abuses at Guantanamo Bay. Messrs Mitchell and Webb have, however, penned one exceptional sketch.


It's set in World War II during the German withdrawal from the collapsing eastern front. One immaculately uniformed Nazi SS Officer uncertainly sidles up to another, his face clearly betraying the torment of a question with which he has wrestled for some considerable time, and asks: "Are we the baddies?"


This question takes on a particular significance in the light of Our Tone's performance at the Chilcot Inquiry.


The epic ongoing adventure of 'My Left Foot' featured an MRI Scan on Friday afternoon. I made my way to the X-Ray department and was directed to a Portakabin around the back of the hospital which looked quite worryingly like an outside toilet. Now, I have nothing against outside toilets - I've done some of my best work in al fresco W.C.s - but it's not the first location which springs to mind when you're required to have subatomic particles zapped through an injured body part. I disrobed - removing my nipple bar so as to be entirely metal-free - slid into a flattering green cotton smock and climbed into the Siemens MAGNETOM Symphony Maestro Class MRI machine.


Just before the radiologists legged it out of the room they handed me a pair of headphones and a grey cable upon which sat a 'panic button'. I wish I could tell you that Nine Inch Nails was kicking off when I slipped on the cans, but I can't. Instead it was the iniquitously polite Jazz-Funk stylings of Level 42. Luckily the contraption started up, making a din not unlike an M60-2000 Main Battle Tank rolling over Susan Boyle giving a full-voiced rendition of 'Amazing Grace', and thankfully brought the sinister, easy-listening nightmare to rather an abrupt end.


I spent the next half an hour trying to stave off a cacophony induced mania as my left leg vibrated like a Platinum Rabbit Plus and the Symphony thump thump thumped like the bass drum intro to 'Blue Monday' by New Order. Afterwards, feeling a little sick, I limped back to my car to set off for home and was assaulted by a sound far more malevolent than Level 42 and considerably more disorienting and disturbing than the insistent clanging dissonance of the MRI machine.


Tony 'Charisma' Blair was in front of the panel of the Chilcot Inquiry and it was being broadcast on Radio 5 Live. Labour Chancellor Dennis Healey described being attacked by his Conservative shadow Geoffrey Howe "like being savaged by a dead sheep". The panel itself seems exclusively populated by a herd of cadaverous livestock. If they wanted someone entirely insipid they could at least have made an effort and tried to get Anthony Worrall Thompson on there. As the country he misled in the run-up to the slaughter (the term 'war' is kind of stretching it a bit) the least we deserve from Tone is public humiliation in the form of a poorly executed quiche.


He claims he'd do it all again and that he has no regrets, like some mid-eighties, big hair metal balladeer. I half expected him to warble:


"I'm a cowboy,
On a steel horse I ride"


"The world is a safer place," he says without fear of having his spleen removed via his left ankle for uttering such nonsense. Questions sidestepped in favour of a soliloquy cheerleading for similar action in Iran. Hundreds of thousands of Iraqi civilians dead. Hundreds. Of thousands. No reprisals. No retribution. And for the watching world the message is loud and clear: if we fancy it, we'll do it again...


Are we the baddies?

What the f$%k is NLP?!?

I went to a party last night. I know! I don't drink and I don't socialise. But it was a surprise birthday celebration for my mate Irv. Or rather Ian Irving. So I had no choice. Right now he's a very big player in the Experiential Marketing scene, but back in the day he was part of a team who made a music video for my previous band and we've kept in touch ever since. The festivities kicked off in Londinium at 8:00pm, but having to wend my way via Britain's terminally blocked arteries (M6 and M1) meant my perfectly laid plans were fucked and out of the window as the tailback from Hades finally spat me out in Clapham 2 hours late.


For the duration of my arduous journey - soothing soundtrack provided by Miles Davis - I was thinking: "I could just drop him an e-mail or a text... Why am I even doing this?" The answer arrived most eloquently in the slack-jawed, joyous incredulity on Irv's face as I stepped into the venue. Awesome! It was fantastic to see him again. Many, many emotional, manly hugs later and Irv plays the perfect host as he introduces me to his guests (the great, the good, the beautiful and the celebrated) variously as: "The first celebrity I worked with", "The poshest man I know", "The coolest man I know", "He's an intellectual" and "Watch out! He'll NLP ya!" as he pulled a dramatic Bruce Lee pose.


The last of these intros generated the response which forms the title of this blog. Joel Beckett (Lee from The Office, Jake in Eastenders, Stand-up comedian and voice over artiste without compare) asked if it meant I could get inside girls' knickers really quickly: his enquiry accompanied by some extraordinarily sexually graphic hand gestures. Erm...


In those tumultuous and rambunctious surroundings it was difficult to give an appropriate response. So I figured I'd do a quick intro.


Ready?


Ok...


Whatever you do, do not think about a quaint little cottage situated at the foot of a mountain, the immense, glistening white slopes stretching ever upwards to a cloudless azure sky. Snow enveloping the cottage, covering the windows and piling up against the ornate wooden door. A beam of sunlight tumbling into the white, frozen valley and illuminating it with a bitter, glittering fluorescence.

What happened as you read the above paragraph? Did you picture in your mind's eye the cottage, the mountain and the snow even though I advised you not to? If so that's because the only way to make sense of what you read or hear is by engaging a little with the experience yourself. Once you grasp that truth the rest is all fun and games because just by saying a few words in the right way, you can transport people to specific places and influence the way they think. Richard Bandler and John Grinder, the founders of NLP, integrated Noam Chomsky's concepts of language and hypnotic patterns used by Milton Erickson to identify powerful tools of influence and persuasion. Thus, NLP is essentially the study of communication and its effects.

The most high profile exponent of NLP (amongst all his other trickery) in the UK is probably Derren Brown and in his book Tricks of The Mind he details how he attained his qualification in this discipline by attending a seminar with 400 other people for 4 days. My experience in becoming a certified NLP Practitioner was totally different. I studied with only 3 other people for about a fortnight under the tutelage of a world renowned NLP authority, Rintu Basu, and I had to competently demonstrate hypnosis, fast phobia cures, swish patterns and the accessing of eye cues amongst other similarly freaky things before I could graduate.

I volunteer this information so that you know that I know what I'm talking about. And whilst I may be an avid student of social interaction and its consequences, you're sitting there, reading this blog and that means you're already aware that language affects perception.

And politicians know this.

They know that in inter-personal communication if you're able to control the level of abstraction, you control the communication itself. The 'hierarchy of ideas' is a model which allows us to move (or 'Chunk') up and down, through and between different levels of abstraction from vague and ambiguous to definite and specific, and is one which everyone from Winston Churchill to John F Kennedy to Barack Obama has exploited.

If we take 'sex toy' as an example. The phrase 'sex toy' is at a particular level of abstraction. If we then chunk down on 'sex toy' we move to a lower level of abstraction - something more concrete and specific. So if the subject of the communication was 'sex toy' we might ask 'What type of sex toy specifically?' and chunk down to 'Rabbit Vibrator'.

If we required further detail we could 'chunk down' one more level by asking something like 'What type of Rabbit Vibrator specifically?' And we might get a response of 'Ultimate Remote', 'Aquagasmic Double Pleasure' or 'Wet n Wild Waterproof'.

With each increasing level of specificity we are moving down through the hierarchy of ideas and down through levels of abstraction. And, of course the further down you go, the more specific you get and the more opportunity there is for contention. For example, I might, as my personal political campaign platform, say we need to look to build a better, more vibrant Britain. Very few would disagree with that. However, were I to more clearly delineate the component parts of my policy and state that we would work our way towards this Utopian vision of Britain by feeding bits of Dermot O'Leary to a grizzly bear spazzing out on amphetamines on prime-time television every Friday night, the less creative amongst you might disagree with what seems a radical strategy.

When Obama talked about 'Change' and 'Hope' and 'Yes, we can' these were all concepts abstract enough for everyone, the world over, to be seduced by and rally behind. The specificity and day by day revelation of the detail of his programme of 'change' is what has so disappointed us all. And we see a similar tactic employed by David Cameron and the Tories. This is from Our Dave's website:

"David's vision is of a country where people have more opportunity and power over their lives; a country where families are stronger and society is more responsible; a Britain which is safer and greener."

See? It's impossible to disagree with ANY of those statements. Keep it vague and you'll invite complicity. In this instance most now perceive Dave as the Prime Minister in waiting. For now he'll avoid debate on definitive budgetary and taxation plans, for fear he and his party come across as cold hearted, Vampiric entities.


Pity, then, Gordon Brown who, at the last Labour Party conference, felt compelled to outline specific policy details with timescales. And figures. And percentages. And projections. All in an effort to make us love him more and instead lost the support of both his party - who recently staged yet another (failed) coup against him - and The Sun. Personally, I think the latter's a very good thing indeed. New Labour's lasting legacy will be that they presided over a near pornographic widening of the gap between rich and poor whilst grinding their collective tongue ever deeper into Rupert Murdoch's sphincter of supreme, nefarious darkness. Seriously, why would you want to consort with pure evil like Mr Murdoch? A man whom, it's fairly obvious, spends his waking hours hacking the limbs off orphans.

Anyway, Gordon is in desperate need of some basic instruction on the use of language to persuade, influence and reshape perception. If you see him, put him in touch with Basil Creese Jr. He'll NLP ya!


Now, take your knickers off and bend over.

Con Anniversaire

Today is the first anniversary of Barack Obama's inauguration as the 44th president of the United States and the election returns yesterday in the U.S. Senate race in Massachusetts, soaring budget deficits, the loss of 4.2 million jobs in the U.S. economy in 2009, an unemployment rate of 10 percent, unmanned drones killing civilians in Afghanistan and Pakistan, Afghan troop escalations, inertia as a response to Israel's obduracy towards the notion of self-determination for the Palestinian people, bank bailouts redirecting funds from the worst off and the failure to close Guantanamo Bay... ALL of these mean that the romance has definitely soured.


I'm being honest here, I saw this coming, and not just because I remember the intoxicating days of 1997 when we had a new, young, dynamic, thrusting, impossibly moist and sexy Prime Minister in Tony Blair who, likewise, talked eloquently about effecting 'Change' (By the way, does anybody remember how that turned out? Anybody? Ah yes, it's coming back to me now... Blair turned out to be yet another lying, megalomaniacal, war criminal politician playing fast and loose with government at the expense of the nation's constituents). No, I knew it'd go tits up, because on Obama's inauguration day I got a text from an ex-girlfriend and I was able to parallel my rejoined relationship with her to his travails as president.


Let's call her 'Yachi'. She lives in Australia and I haven't seen her in well over a decade. We reconnected via Facebook and I was genuinely pleased that we were back in touch. I'd like to make it clear here that there was none of that 'flame still flickers' nonsense going on. We were very comfortable with where we were in life. Besides, I continue to transmogrify, day-by-day, like a caterpillar into a thoroughly breathtaking, and utterly pulchritudinous butterfly; whilst the passage of time has, regrettably, dragged Yachi down a very badly lit alley and kicked her face in. Repeatedly.


So inauguration day and she's all "Isn't this amazing?", "Never thought I'd see the day," and so on, and so forth and it IS amazing because she's on the other side of the world and we're in touch and she's dead funny. She'd let me know how things were with her daughter and her husband and her business and I'd let her know what was up with me and when she laughed I was transported back to a time when we were laughing together. It felt lovely and much seemed promised both for a new political dawn and a lovely mature friendship.


You know what's coming, don't you?


One day, a few months later, I got a text from Yachi telling me that she'd just been back through the history of my Facebook status updates (read them, if you have a spare weekend, they're quite the thing) and that she found me thoroughly despicable - a self-obsessed fop who plainly has emotional issues. She offered both a damning litany: detailing my imperfections and deficiencies and her hippy-ish nonsense/self-help prescription as a cure for what obviously ails me.


"What fresh lunacy is this?" I bellowed in a voice not unlike Brian Blessed. Internally, of course. I'm not totally unhinged. Who did she think she was?


Now, I'm a placid individual, but this remote commentary upon my very being agitated me severely. I mean, she's probably right. You think those things about almost everyone you encounter on a daily basis, but you don't actually tell them, do you? What kind of absurd, Kafkaesque world would that be? Can you imagine sashaying stylishly up to the window at McDonald's and the spotty faced assistant asking if you'd like some self-esteem with your fries? Ridiculous. I don't need 'friends' pointing out my shortcomings with such breathtaking frankness, that's what one's family's for. Besides what can one seriously glean from 'wall' postings filled as they are with almost exclusive reference to what's on TV, getting drunk and musings upon obscure, non-reproductive acts of coition? That would, essentially, cast every last one of us as couch-bound, alcoholic, sex addicts. Which is utter bollocks. Or not.


Anyway. What a crazy woman. Which, strangely, was precisely my opinion of her all those years ago.


Needless to say I de-friended Yachi in a hurry. I can do without someone that judgemental in my life, superpoking me with suggestions as to what underpins my escapist behaviour. The emotional process I went through in this episode - a crude bastardisation of the 5 step grieving process - mirrors almost exactly my response to Barack Obama's presidency: shock, denial, anger, disillusionment and, finally, acceptance.


A lot can change in just a year - disappointment upon disappointment heaped high can change a person and drive a stake squarely through the perfected image of those upon whom we have bestowed our deepest affection. That'll teach me to get my hopes up.


What in the name of Lord Brett Sinclair was I thinking?

A Friendly Game of Football

It's good to be me. Even my name rocks like a motherfucker. Go on, whisper it slowly whilst looking at yourself in the mirror. It's practically an explicit invitation for hot, sweaty, taboo breaking, transgressing all notions of moral decency Rumpy Pumpy.

'Twasn't ever thus, I must confess. Back when I was younger, like all children, I wished I was just like everyone else. I wished my name was Steve or Gary or John. I wished my hair didn't draw comments about it looking like a 'microphone top' or a brillo pad. I wished that when I walked into my form room for registration that the BNP and NF logos on exercise books didn't bother me so much and that I too, somehow, could view the Swastika as mere playful badinage. I wished that when greeting the Postman with a cheery "Good morning" his response wasn't a terse "Fuck off, you Black bastard!".

But I'm lucky. Very lucky. Because I can call on these experiences and it's all that stuff which makes me the neurotic, fragile, insecure and uniquely fascinating man I am today. I love being me. But more than that, I love showing off. And music.

At my Infants' school, apart from spending Story-time cross-legged on the carpet looking up Miss Hayler's skirt - tights and flowery knickers - my abiding memory is of coercing the other pupils to participate in my epic plays. I was always the lead, natch, and Ulysses was my favourite. I got my Mother to fashion a toga out of a curtain and away I went. Pretentious, moi? Mais, bien sur.

Later, as the world's best drummer (tm), I was recruited to a band attempting to ride the Manc/Oasis wave onto the idyllic beach of female adulation and riches aplenty. We signed to EMI for the lucrative record deal and Creation for our publishing. The experience of being in a band with a bunch of paranoid cretins is one I'll share at a later date. Maybe. But my experience within the industry itself was amazing. On tour in Portsmouth one evening I was asked to play for Liam Gallagher's celebrity football team.

A short couple of weeks later and I'm at the East London stadium arrogantly striding around in a blue stripey football kit, which, frankly, doesn't suit me in the slightest.

The final whistle blows and we've won a bad-tempered, dour and niggly game against Space (Female Of The Species) - after an earlier, shoddy six-nil defeat to James (Sit Down, She's a Star) - which, being honest, wasn't in the spirit of the tournament. At all. Mancs vs Scousers is always a tense affair as the pride of the M62 is at stake. I played the decisive role of the defensive midfield hitman to great effect and whilst our opponents banged their heads without reward against our brick wall of a defence, we nipped up the other end and scored. One-nil! Eat my totally-against-the-run-of-play-goal!!!!

It's Robbie Williams next in the Quarter Final.

The!

Quarter!

Final!

I mean, it's got the word 'Final' in it so that's pretty impressive, isn't it? Robbie's got Mark Owen and one of The Prodigy making special guest appearances in his team and they seem pretty handy, but nothing a couple of chest-high tackles won't sort out. We might have a chance of winning this tournament.

In the opposing half of the draw Blur have been steamrolling everything that gets in their way. This is mainly due to Phil Daniels and Iron Maiden's Steve Harris who are quite simply awesome in their midfield. Damon Albarn, on the other hand, plainly can't run and doesn't look as if he's ever seen a football before. Another celebrity attempting to swallow the rigid phallus of the zeitgeist. Plus his floppy hair is just annoying. Nah, they won't be a problem.

As I move to shake the Space captain's hand I'm distracted by a persistent, high-pitched screech which envelops the whole stadium. What the-? Is that the fire alarm? A bomb alert? I look around at everyone else on the pitch and they're all acting like everything is in order. They aren't scattering for the exits as I'm considering doing. Am I the only one who can hear this? Meanwhile, Space fella's now drawling some compliment or other, but my eyes are drawn to the stands which rise impressively over his shoulder - the edifice glinting in the early afternoon sun - as I attempt to decipher this unsettling cacophony: it's like an itch in my brain that I just can't scratch...

The performance 'high' and adrenaline rush imperceptibly subside and suddenly my brain click whirrs into action - the picture morphing into sharp focus. Whoah! That, my dearest, gorgeous, gentle reader, is the sound of thousands upon thousands of decidedly agitated and hormonally charged individuals greeting our victory and begging for autographs. Needless to say I remove my shirt, flex just a little and stride over to oblige my devoted public. I remember distinctly in that single moment as I grabbed the gold glitter permanent marker, aimed it at the proffered body part and asked "Who shall I make this out to, baby?", that I was thinking "Wow! I LOVE showing off. And I love music!"

The Quarter Final? We lost. Three-nil. I couldn't get anywhere near Mark Owen. Robbie nutmegged me, rounded the keeper and backheeled the ball into an empty net for the third. Everything after that was an incandescent haze of shame and humiliation. My muscles stiffened up so much before the end of the match that I shuffled around the pitch awkwardly as though clutching a newly minted 50 pence piece between my impossibly pert buttocks. James beat Robbie's team in the semi-final before drubbing the much-fancied Blur in the final seven-nil. But, hey, we made the Quarter Final! And whilst the odd visit to a counsellor has been an entirely necessary staple in subsequent years, I still LOVE showing off. And I LOVE music.

Wanna See Something Scary?

Clive Barker is one of my favourite writers. His stories of lost, haunted souls searching for salvation and redemption, but instead finding themselves in a dark cellar having their skin untimely ripped from their bones by inter-dimesional entities, what's left of their screaming bloody form veiled in barbed wire, whilst nails are driven into their skulls are always entertaining. He paints vivid pictures in a prose so deliciously sensual it somehow renders his grotesquerie both intoxicating and alluring.

I've even got a couple of books inscribed by him. The first is Hellbound Heart - which became the Hellraiser movie - in which he wrote "I wish you my darkest nightmares." The second is Imajica in which, at my mischievous prompting, he giggled like a school girl as he wrote "Get down with your bad self!"

There are those who feel he's - and I'm using the vernacular here - 'fallen off' since he got married (and certainly Gallilee reads like a meandering 582 page love letter to his new Black husband) validating the assertion that those in love disappoint us as they too closely resemble conquerors who have laid their heads to rest. I've got my fingers crossed that his long-awaited Scarlet Gospels novel featuring his two best-loved characters - Pinhead and Harry D'Amour - is a return to diabolical form.

So, my addiction to the alternative means I dig Clive Barker and the scary stuff he writes - like you didn't see that coming. However, as massive a fan as I am his twisted imaginings are as an episode of Dora The Explorer in comparison to The Shock Doctrine by Naomi Klein. Her previous works (No Logo and Fences and Windows) have concentrated their beam on the atramentous, sinister nature of Multi-National Corporations highlighting their rapaciousness. No Logo in particular was a significant jump off point for me: what's the truth behind a brand?

Does IBM creating the first ever barcode so that the Nazis could track inmates in their concentration camps bother you? Would you ever forego Hugo Boss accoutrements and vestments because he was the clothing designer of choice for the Third Reich? How about Caterpillar constructing and supplying specially armoured bulldozers for the Israeli Defence Forces, the better to destroy homes in Palestine? For my part, being teetotal may make the following an irrelevance, but if I ever slummed it with the other plebs and drank a beer it wouldn't be Heineken since their MD sent a memo to the makers of a TV programme they sponsored complaining that there was far "too high a proportion of negroes in the audience." Or Coors, whose owner infamously told a group of minority business leaders that the best thing slave traders did was “to drag your ancestors here in chains.”

The basic premise of The Shock Doctrine is the exploration of what is called 'Disaster Capitalism'. A philosophy which sprang fully formed from the loins of Milton Friedman - the Anti-Chomsky and the fella who gave Thatcher her best ideas. Essentially if you get in quickly enough after a natural disaster you have access to the sacred Tabula Rasa of Empire, an opportunity to change the very social fabric of a nation: bending the will of the people and their resources to private enterprise and profit. Acts of God or Acts of War As Decreed by God ((tm) Tony Blair) offer opportunities not just to rebuild, but to create new democratic and market-oriented client states. The 'reconstruction process' looks to sell off the government-owned businesses propping up idealistic and ineffective economies which couldn't possibly work in the either the free-market or the real world.

From Iraq to Afghanistan and then to Aceh, the cast of characters in this shadowy endeavour are always the same: international financial institutions, consulting firms, engineering companies, NGOs, government and UN aid agencies swarming like locusts looking to pick clean the broken bones of a damaged nation.

Fuck Candyman. These are the unearthly seeds of nightmares right here. Whilst Clive Barker creates chillingly fantastical worlds The Shock Doctrine meticulously picks through the entrails of our bleak reality. It is a true work of horror which bespeaks so eloquently of the evil that men do that I took an age to make it to the end of the book. It was a harrowing experience. I'd finish a chapter, rivulets of sweat kissing my furrowed brow, anxiety and panic beating an angry tattoo in my solar plexus. I would attempt to abandon the book in a darkened corner of my study and it would glint mockingly at me from the murk and gloom emitting a sweet siren song which was so hard to resist... I'm glad I made it to the end eventually, because it opened my eyes to the 'play book' now being employed in Haiti.

Surfing like a mofo I recently discovered the website of an influential American Conservative Policy think tank The Foundry whose mission is to "formulate and promote conservative public policies based on the principles of free enterprise, limited government, individual freedom, traditional American values, and a strong national defence."

As I write this their latest communication reads: "The world needs American leadership. The alternative to an America willing and able to lead is not a paradise of peace through engagement. It is a world where the undemocratic, the unsatisfied, and the illiberal powers of the world advance at the expense of American ideals, American interests." I don't know about you, but reading that makes me want to undergo a radical spinal procedure which would allow me to gnaw at the backs of my knees for comfort.

Last Wednesday and in the aftermath of the earthquake in Haiti The Foundry reverted to type ignoring the human tragedy instead suggesting the catastrophe offers a chance to advance the Empire followed by what I swore was pure comedy gold when they advocated Bill Clinton and George W. Bush as frontmen alongside Barack Obama in a public diplomacy effort to help improve the perception of America. I actually laughed out loud in a manner not unlike like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day when Andie McDowell's character reveals she studied 19th Century French poetry in college.

But there it is, boys and girls. Announced today. George W. Bush and Bill Clinton flanking the current President of the United States of America for a photo opportunity signalling the march of the Venture Capitalists. It's like the overthrow of President Aristide, the diminution of Haiti to a sweatshop or the debacle in New Orleans never happened. The equivalent of employing your rapist as your Trauma Counsellor.

There's a bit right at the end of the movie Hellraiser when the agents of Hell return for an escaped prisoner. They suspend him from an elaborate series of chains, hooks and razors and tear him apart in a red plume of blood, flesh and sinew to exact retribution. Just before the grisly denouement the protagonist - a mask made from his dead Brother's skin slipping from his now mangled face - turns to the camera, licks his lips and intones in a dreamy rapture "Jesus wept." Not bad Mr Barker, not bad... But check out Obama, Clinton and Dubya posing together like some kind of freaky Busted reunion. Now that's scary.

ITV 7 - Evening schedule: Sunday 9th Jan 2010

7.00 Fern Britton's Bloodbath

In which the bubbly 52-year-old former This Morning presenter undertakes a series of fun, feel-good, frothy celebrity interviews as she opens her wrists in an elegant freestanding ceramic bath with marble soapdish, mounted taps and stylish nickel fittings.

7.30 It hurts. It hurts. For the love of God, kill me!

Celebrated author and convicted perjurer Jeffrey Archer continues his tour of the UK in an audacious quest to find someone who will end his, and our, torment. This week: Spindles Town Square shopping centre, Oldham.

8.00 The Real Me pt12 of 38

Our ongoing series in which Parliamentarians reveal their hobbies and we catch a candid glimpse of them off-duty. They work hard and play hard too! Tonight: MP for Shipley, Philip Davies, dresses up in a Nazi uniform and takes aim with a cordless, air-powered nail gun at a specially modified aquatic incubation unit filled with baby seals.

8.03 Vasectomy against the clock - Live from London O2 Arena

Elin Nordegren attempts to perform a Vasectomy with a dessert spoon and a length of twine in front of an arena crowd in under 2 minutes. Will she go 'Key-Hole' or 'Open-Ended'? Big Brother Series 4 winner Cameron Stout is on hand to cover all the action with incisive comment from Johnny Shentall.

8.05 P.P.I-Spy

Fascinating monetary discussion. A panel of Independent Financial Advisors combine watersports and prudent fiscal husbandry as they recommend comprehensive cover for loans, overdrafts and credit cards through the analysis of market leading Payment Protection Insurance policies, whilst urinating noisily into a skip.

9.00 I'm begging you, please don't do this

Deluded partners in relationships which have quite obviously run their course grovel and beseech their callously aloof and indifferent 'other halves' not to end it, whilst their tearful, jittery children await the outcome in the studio audience. Vernon Kay hosts.

9.30 Cluster Bomb Lottery

Fearne Cotton presents the show where five contestants compete to win a big money jackpot. 43 Gazan orphans, wearing numbered bibs, gambol through randomly selected burnt-out shells of buildings in derelict Palestinian streets as bets are placed on which one loses a limb first. All five players could share the spoils or just one of them could take the lot!

10.00 News & Weather

Mark Austin blindfolded, bound, gagged and suspended from the studio ceiling attempts to communicate the day's headlines. Plus, in a special report, Gareth Gates investigates what lies behind a horrific spate of ritualistic child sacrifices in Uttoxeter and meets a former witch-doctor who now campaigns to end the practice.

10.45 When Harry Met Sally in Stalingrad (dir. David Fincher 2006)

Box-office flop. Unsuccessful remake re-imagined during the WWII siege of Stalingrad. David Fincher sets out to explore the bleak nihilism of existence within narrow, well-defined Rom-Com parameters. Daniel Day Lewis is Harry, a wounded Russian sniper experiencing a crisis of confidence in both himself and Stalin's vision of the future. Lena Headey is Sally, an autistic Nurse in the field hospital where he recovers and ultimately finds redemption. Also stars Adam Sandler.

03.45 Nightscreen

A scrolling succession of ads on postcards gathered from city centre telephone boxes. Looking for a cheap, well-used TV? Keep watching...

The End Of Everything

Those twin blueprints for life in the 21st Century - The Holy Bible and Hollywood - continue to embed the message that the end of everything will be accompanied by a cacophony: the bewildered multitude screaming as the world ignites and fades to black. The reality, however, is far more mundane. The end has already come. Quietly. It sneaked up while we were all looking the other way: like a gentle game of 'What's The Time Mr Wolf?'. You exhale, open your eyes and nothing is as it was.

Or where it used to be.

I came to this conclusion as I read through the Ofcom Broadcast Bulletins. Gotta love Ofcom, they're a body set up to protect us from offensive material broadcast on TV and Radio and the updates they post at regular intervals on their website are an absolute laugh riot. However, whilst you're doubled-up with mirth you're also crying like Charlie Sheen's anger management mentor because it's fairly obvious we're all in Hell. Actually, that's understating it somewhat. It would appear that, as a species perpetually in search of ever more base entertainment and distraction, we've clubbed together and bought the controlling interest in Satan Worldwide Enterprises Ltd.

But before I present the choicest morsels for your delectation I'd like to offer you their disclaimer:

It is Ofcom’s policy to describe fully the content in television and radio programmes that is subject to broadcast investigations. Some of the language and descriptions used in Ofcom Complaints Bulletins may therefore cause offence.

Okay so first up, and this proves just how precious Ofcom is, The Unexplained Channel showed a film called People From Space on October 30th 2009. The basic premise is two couples investigate an alien crash site, some weird stuff happens and they, similarly, start acting weird. Over to Ofcom:

The film contained varying levels of offensive language, including frequent use of the word “fuck” together with frequent references to milder language such as “asshole” and “dick”. The film also contained sexual language such as “I just came” and “I totally sprayed my shorts”. In addition, it included two female characters talking about sexual fantasies, with one character saying she wanted to be “spanked”.

Awesome, eh? "I totally sprayed my shorts". I'm going to start using that phrase in casual conversation just to watch expressions change amongst my peers. Anyway, we're all adults here so we can all fess up to having had nights like that, right? So what's the problem?

Ofcom received a complaint from a viewer who considered that the offensive language and sexual content was unacceptable for broadcast at 15:00.

I see. Fair enough. You wouldn't want to be watching Bob The Builder, have your finger slip on your reasonably priced Asda universal remote and encounter

two male characters talking about the contents of a pornographic video which they said included girls “fucking their brains out”.

It would just be wrong. And this is the wondrous nature of Ofcom: they investigate and respond to our complaints.

If you slide down to the bottom of this page, you'll read about my encounter with the legendary late night Freeview programming. In the plethora of stations assigned to Channel 94 upwards there is a succession of Adult channels offering a profusion of women of varying pulchritude in g-strings thrusting their bottoms at a camera perched at the end of a bed. Public Service Broadcasting if ever there was such a thing. These programmes kick off from midnight and it's fun to watch the reassuringly polyester sheets get progressively more oily during the course of the show. And by 'fun' I mean you can literally feel your soul dying inside.

Despite the late hour, practically all sexual content has to be excised and thus we're presented with girls possessed of misshapen silicone oddities masquerading as 'Devil's Dumplings' (copyright BlackAdder) in a detached, entirely asexual gyration redolent of the angry, sexless lapdance received by Mark in series 4 of Peep Show.

Go and ask your Mother, I'm a broad-minded individual, but fully understand those who would be offended by the bawdy ribaldry described above. However, were I more puritanical in my tastes: longing for an era in which the bustle, the hoop and a chaperone were the primary ingredients for a night out and I were to happen across Babestation or Partyland or Bang Babes between 1:00am and 3:00am I would turn it off and make my way to bed, harrumphing like Tiger Woods eating his pureed evening meal through a straw as he recovers from his recent reconstructive surgery.

What I wouldn't do is sit in front of my widescreen television screen with a pen and paper eagerly noting every vile transgression.

23 June 2009, 01:00 to 03:00 approximately

The complainant here was concerned that the presenter spanked her buttocks and close up shots of her genital areas were shown while she was only wearing a thong. Overall the complainant believed the sexual content included in this programme was excessive.

and

the presenter lay on her back with her legs up in the air and apart talking on the telephone.

Morally it's the equivalent of that conundrum where you place a dead cat on a lightly buttered croissant and throw it out of a top floor flat window to see how it lands. Or something. Were I a mutant I would delineate it thus: On the one hand, how in the name of Simon Cowell's bowel movement can this pass for entertainment? And on the other, why would anyone complain? And on the other, shouldn't we all feel empowered to voice our disquiet?

Generally Ofcom tend to find in favour of these Channels because it's past the watershed and that's behaviour one would reasonably expect to see, but let's face it: it's over. People are dying through their lack of access to basic resources. There's a perpetual war for a peace which benefits the few at the cost of many. Injustice is still in the hizzouse. And right now as I type this at 1:48am there will be men tuning into watch women disinterestedly trying to heave their buttocks right through a TV screen whilst others pore over the detail to issue complaint.

Hell in a handcart, people. Hell in a handcart.

Recognising Progress

I was recently asked to be a keynote speaker at an event discussing the Black contribution to History and its importance in a British context. Whilst I enjoyed the experience of regaling all with my mellifluous tones and it was plainly a thrill to have the Mayor as my warm-up act, the full-stop to my speech arrived just before Christmas in the form of Trinidad-born Ronald Samm: the first black tenor in the UK to sing the role of Othello in Birmingham Opera Company's production of the Verdi opera. In real terms this may not seem to represent much of an achievement at the end of the first decade of the twenty first century: the lead role in an opera taken by a Black man rather than a White man in blackface, but universally positive reviews for his performance assume a poignant resonance with far-right parties across Europe growing in popularity and 22% of those polled after Nick Griffin's disastrous Question Time appearance saying they would consider voting for his party. And late one recent evening, availing myself of the Knutsford M6 motorway services, I was confronted with a 'smiley watchover voodoo doll' which, as you can see, is essentially a cruder (!) version of a golliwog. I mean, it's even wearing a loin cloth and holding a spear for fuck's sake!

All of which begs us to posit this most vital of questions: what does it mean to be British? Can it be right that my parents' endeavours on behalf of this country (my Father was stationed in Germany with the R.A.F. and my Mother dedicated decades to the welfare of others in her work for the N.H.S.) become a mere sidebar to the colour of their skin?

Parliamentary debate on race and immigration has deliberately conflated these two separate concepts and now exists within an extremely narrow framework (so narrow, in fact, that here in the North West the BNP were able to pointedly quote Gordon Brown's "British jobs for British workers" epithet on their campaign billboards entirely without irony), whilst the system of filters in the media ensure that no other perspective is offered for debate. For example, the real causes of immigration - adverse conditions in countries of origin, global inequality, war (the UK sells arms to many of the countries topping the UK list of asylum applicants, despite the fact that military conflict remains a root cause of refugee flight), injustice and human rights abuses - and their connectedness to the impact upon us as a nation are ignored. The dominant mainstream discourses hint at immigrants as a dangerous 'other' in relation to Britain’s 'law abiding majority' whilst reiterating fears and reinforcing prejudices, thus securing a negative image of immigrants entirely disproportionate to their statistically insignificant impact upon society. Debates around themes such as belonging and nationality, ethnicity and xenophobia specifically target immigrants and refugees reinforcing the idea that the new societal danger should be associated with a newly arrived section of the population.

And so to 2010 which represents the sixty second anniversary of the Windrush arrival, and it is in an unfortunate climate similar to that in which my forbears alighted upon these shores that Philip Davies Conservative MP for Shipley recently enquired: “Is it offensive to black up or not, particularly if you are impersonating a black person?" and in a recent radio interview with George Galloway suggested that what one needs to consider with 'blacking up' is whether or not any offence is intended. He also asserted that Political Correctness is a recipe for disaster with zealots dictating what we can and cannot say. Somehow, he extrapolates that not 'blacking up' plays into the BNP's hands. Thankfully the nation has moved on from curling up on the sofa to watch The Black and White Minstrel Show and Love Thy Neighbour. And as we think back to those times of racial insults bandied about as mere banter, aren't we glad? He also suggests bald people and those with red hair suffer the same level of discrimination as black and minority people and asks, disingenuously: "Why it is so offensive to black up your face, as I have never understood this." Well, Phil, let me explain:

History forms the architecture of the present and ever since the European Age of Exploration, when white people first encountered and entered into sustained relations with those of a darker complexion, 'people of colour' have been the very special object of the white man's deepest - and perhaps primordial - fears and fantasies; they were seldom conceived as fully human, or culturally and intellectually equal. Blackface minstrelsy created in the 19th century was specifically designed as a sneering lampoon which revelled in asserting that Black people were inferior. A contemptuous shorthand for racist images and ideas which played an influential role in globally propagating, communicating and sustaining abhorrent stereotypes which still hold fast today. Enoch Powell and London Mayor Boris Johnson referencing 'Picaninnies' and 'Watermelon smiles', 34 years apart, quote directly from this 2 century old canon.

But it's plainly not just Mr Davies who needs enlightening. In a move as baffling as it was pernicious the October issue of French Vogue featured a 13 page spread dedicated to Dutch Model Lara Stone in blackface. Australia, a continent with a despicable history of racism and, according to Professor Colin Tatz, guilty of genocide on at least two counts, saw Harry Connick Jr appear on the Hey Hey It's Saturday television show where he was forced to endure a blackface 'tribute' to Michael Jackson. Harry, to his eternal credit, expressed his disgust. The host, performers and other panel members insisted it was harmless and certainly the all-white audience were grinning and clapping along and booed quite loudly when the routine was cut short.

Whether it's the Mexican government sanctioning a series of mocking minstrelsy styled stamps, Formula One fans in Spain jeering Lewis Hamilton whilst in blackface, Croatian football fans aiming monkey chants at black footballers or Oxford University Rugby students blacking up for a 'Safari Bop'; they are all of them at pains to justify their behaviour by saying they are not racist, it's just a bit of fun and when confronted by a negative reaction they go all Heath Ledger as The Joker and ask: "Why so serious?". Well, perhaps it's because the intent is always a lampooning mimicry designed to shock. There are those who'll question the veracity of the following statement, but as an adult I have a concern for impact: I take responsibility for my actions and if I'm insensitive enough to say or do something which hurts someone's feelings I apologise. That's what adults do. It's not a political action. It's just good manners.

It remains to be seen whether an aftershock from the cultural and political seismic shift represented by Obama's victory across the Atlantic ultimately reaches Britain where parliament has a mere 15 black and ethnic minority MPs out of a total of 646 (it needs at least 58 to reflect the demographic profile of the country). For now though what is thrown into sharp relief is the notion that Western Europe is intrinsically more tolerant than the United States. Despite a purported embrace of diversity and social justice, Europe remains very far from the harmonious ideal. Black and minority individuals in Europe are allowed to help shape fields such as sports, arts and culture, but are seldom found in the upper echelon of politics and policy-making. By contrast the United States, which often, rightly, has to bear quite pointed criticism on the subject of racism, is no stranger to successful, high-profile Black and minority politicians. The dramatic social change which took place in their Civil Rights era happened across the whole of the country at the same time and allowed an acceptance of minorities in elected office and positions of authority. Whereas the histories of Germany, France, Britain, the Netherlands, Belgium, Italy and Spain are not connected to one another in the same way nor have they experienced the same types of change at the same time. Each European country has had a very different history, particularly when it comes to colonialism and their quest for Empire, but what they have in common is a deep-seated belief in the inherent superiority of Western European culture.

It looks as though, for the next few years at least, Black and minority people of Britain will have to live our political ambitions vicariously through Barack Obama. In the meantime we should celebrate the fact that Ronald Samm has managed to manfully bury the emblems and motifs of racism and, in this arena, has rendered the point of contention one of ability not race. A mere trifle perhaps on prima facie evidence and, as discussed previously, restricted to a domain in which, traditionally, we're allowed to play, but this has a much wider cultural significance. Never again will it be the default position that the lead role in this particular opera will go to a white person wearing blackface, and when stacked up against the calculated cynicism of Philip Davies MP and dodgy soft toy manufacturers, that is real progress.

My Mate, the Porn Star

Aficionados of porn will understand that there needs to be a certain amount of cheesy preamble before we get to the meat, so to speak, of this piece, but bear with me: it's worth it.

Now, I don't know about you, but I don't watch television any more. I can't be bothered. I can either youtube it or get the boxset. I refuse to give Rupert Murdoch more do$h to expand his evil empire and if the BBC can't run a charity appeal because it threatens their perceived impartiality then I'd rather opt out completely. So I've got a Freeview set top box, but I never watch anything on it.

Besides, there's too much other stuff to do. For example, at the moment I'm trying to identify the person, or persons, leaving expletive strewn, insulting voicemail messages on my mobile 'phone. And they've started getting really creative with their descriptions of the violence to which they'll subject me. I initially thought it was a wrong number, y'know some chavs making a random prank call, but it's been going on a while and in the most recent calls they've started addressing me by name: "Baaa-sil, Baaaaaaaa-sil..." they coo in malevolently musical sing-song voices as they enunciate vivid descriptions of horrific brutality. I'm sifting through my mental contact list and trying to work out who could possibly be doing this. See? Much more fun than Corrie or East-flamin'-enders. Probably.

2009 was the year of The Wire finally hitting the mainstream in the UK and, prompted by constant hectoring (in print) from the brilliant Charlie Brooker, I broke my strict 'No TV' embargo and attempted to watch it 'live' on BBC2 which screened the series in its entirety. I managed the first 4 episodes before the midnight timeslot drove me to a "fuck this shit!" rant when, bleary-eyed, fragile and sleep-deprived on the Friday morning I inadvertently deleted a file at work and had to start all over again.

A few short weeks later, without explanation, my left foot swelled up to the size of a small Nissan hatchback. I bought the DVD boxset of The Wire, like I should have done in the first damned place, and watched it at my leisure over fifteen days as I languished in excruciating agony and isolation on my sofa. Big Charlie was right. TV was invented for works like this.

And for sex which looks like sex, but plainly has nothing whatsoever to do with sex.

Let me explain.

When you're ill your body clock sets itself to a timezone somewhere in Central America. You end up losing great swathes of time to pain and delirium. I'd be waking up and going downstairs at 1 in the morning to start my day. Retrieving the disc from its impressive labyrinthine packaging and turning on the TV, I'm confronted with a vastly different Freeview TV landscape. It's a bleak and desolate vista of infomercials, unsuccessful Star Trek spin-offs, Friends re-runs and what 4 Music describes as 'Party Bangers': eloquently reminding me what I'm not missing.

Some of the more interesting channels have either finished broadcasting or are scrambled. Channel 84 is CNN; Channel 85 is Russia Today; Channel 88 is Teachers TV; representing the former, whilst Channel 93 is reserved for Television X which is the latter and intermittently offers a 5 minute free trailer preview, which you have to be pretty on the ball to catch. Being a drummer of some renown, my timing is pretty fucking awesome, but for some time now I've chosen not to tune into their sensual delights. However, when I last did so there was a riotous explosion of silicone, a veritable cacophony of silk gussets and dirty blonde hair with impossibly dark roots. Of course this is British TV so, despite being unquestionably post-watershed, the programme makers are unable to suggest that anything remotely pertaining to consensual sex is taking place. Nevertheless it was a mildly diverting kaleidoscope of musical colours cascading from the screen. Until I recognised a bloke with whom I used to work in accounts fake-banging the living daylights out of one of the models. From behind, no less. And it turned out he wasn't a mere dick for hire, but had his own show: Roger Cock: Northern Exposer.

I know what you think I was thinking: "You lucky, lucky bastard." But no. My gobsmacktitude was so far off the scale I would have required a sturdy stepladder and a pair of high-powered military binoculars just to make it out as a dot on the horizon. Neil?!? A porn star?!? It couldn't possibly be true. But it was. A little less hair, a little thicker around the middle and a little less fresh-faced. There he was: offering a resigned, smug shrug to the camera as a not unattractive, pneumatically enhanced brunette reached for his crotch with what I surmised to be a very experienced and capable tongue.

Now, you have to understand the esteem in which Neil was held by his colleagues at work. In short: he wasn't. The women had decreed that he was singularly unattractive, a bit creepy and very, very weird: so you didn't want to be seen hanging around with him because;

A. Women are rarely wrong in these matters and

B. What if it was contagious?

Many a snigger was emitted behind his back during the course of the working day, usually prompted by his distinctly 'before' skinny physique, his decidedly geeky steel-rimmed spectacles and his penchant for Sean Connery impressions. In short he manfully represented the archetypal nerd who had trouble wooing the opposite sex. He'd regale me with stories of dates gone horribly wrong and I'd usually be thinking: "Poor girl." Generally speaking he wasn't quite as unpopular as Gareth out of The Office, but you get the picture.

So, there I am watching him on screen and I must confess to finding it all more than a little disorienting, terra firma visibly shifting. If Neil's a porn star then, seriously, which way is up? By that yardstick I should be Pope. It hit me hard, I don't mind confessing and I resolved to get in touch with him just to have him explain how he made the tricky transition from Financial Administrator to Porn Star.

We met up for a drink. He turned up in a huge black BMW and, over a grapefruit and lemonade, we shot the breeze about what we'd been up to and when we'd last heard from ex-colleagues before heading back to his gaff to appraise his new career path. He firstly showed me an audition he'd just shot of a brunette named Tracey dressed in vivid red lingerie. Her screen test was the textbook 5 step porn presentation, which was; 1. Getting on all fours on a black leather-look sofa. 2. Aiming her bottom at the camera. 3. Arching her back. 4. Slowly easing the lace waspie upwards to reveal an intricate tribal tattoo. 5. hooking her thumb into the material of her g-string and snapping it back with a loud percussive Thwack! between her arse cheeks. Simple as. I shifted a little uneasily in my seat when I realised that I was sitting upon the same sofa upon which she was grinding her hips.

He then put on a couple of his shows which had aired on Television X and, frankly, they embarrassed us both. I mean, I haven't seen this bloke in 5 or 6 years and all of a sudden his bucking, hairy arse is taking up the whole of the television screen and then he's waggling his todger at the camera lens. It's not like I could say: "Nice sack, Neil!". Instead we got through it as best we could: rather uneasily at first, but loosening up with each passing frame, genuinely laughing at the decidedly dodgy dialogue, Neil eventually providing an elucidating running commentary: "This scene in the chip shop is my absolute fave... I was a bit tender there, because I'd only just shaved... The girl on the bottom in that lesbian sixty-nine was a bit reluctant..."

What I want to know is how do you go from pen-pushing in Accounts to Porn Star?

It was pretty natural really. I just glided into it. I'd always been into photography and got into shooting nude models, which evolved into videoing nude models, which progressed to me fucking nude models in front of a video camera on a tripod. Looking back though I was very naive: I was doing hardcore stuff with facial cumshots, full penetration and the works, tried to sell it and, of course, they can't show that in this country. My work wasn't being commissioned and I was feeling sorry for myself when a photographer friend helped me re-cut it for the soft-porn Brit TV market and I haven't looked back since.

Regarding the pen-pushing I'm still doing that. There's no way I'd be able to sustain a living on the type of money I make from doing porn, so essentially I just do it in my spare time.

So the porn's just a part-time job? You're aware that the ordinary bloke, watching with one hand a mere blur, would imagine you to be doing this full-time.

Well, the way it works is you're asked to make a trial run of four episodes and on the basis of its success they commission a series of twelve more programmes. For the trial run of four you'll only make £200 profit, which is £50 per episode and you can imagine the time and effort: hiring models, locations, shooting, editing and whatnot. The real payback is if you get a twelve run, because I can make about £10,000 profit on one of those and that's what bought me my Beamer.

Most fellas are thinking "You jammy get!", but do the people around you - your family and so on - accept what you do?

Well, my parents don't approve and my other half would rather not know about specific details, which is why I'm whispering. It makes it easier for her to deal with if she's ignorant of exactly what I do. It's difficult really... The male neighbours around here love it. They see the procession of women snaking in and out of my house for auditions and they love it! They're always telling me how they wish they were doing what I do and how lucky I am. Managers at work, though, are a little more wary. They warn all the female members of staff to watch themselves around me.

What?!?

Yeah, apparently the managers make a point of instructing all the women to be very careful when they talk to me... In case I lead them astray, I suppose...

Riiiight... Isn't that a bit, like, weird, that you'd have to work in an environment where you know that's how people feel about you?

I dunno. I don't really care and I can't. I can't let them affect me or what I want to do. It's their problem at the end of the day. That's just how they choose to deal with it.

Ok... How do you go about choosing models for your programmes?

Oh, here look.

(He retrieves a brief case from behind the sofa and riffles through it, emerging with two ring-bound folders).

Model agencies, Basil! They're ace! I just contact them and get them to send through their client portfolio. I look through and if if I fancy one of the girls, I'll hire them. Fancy a butcher's...? (so I did, with Neil offering a Ben 10-trading card-style critique over my shoulder: "Had her... Done her... Did her from behind and accidentally went up the wrong hole... She ejaculates when she orgasms..."

Sorry to get all Derek Acorah, but I'm getting the vibe that your Non-Sex Sex isn't simulated.

All the stuff on Television X is, but mine isn't. I'd rather pay extra for the models who'll actually do it rather than just act it. I'll film the full performance and edit out anything that's too hard later on. That way people can look at us fucking on screen and just instinctively know that we're really doing it and get value from it. What I usually do is work out with the cameraman the path the camera will take during a scene and just make sure I've got a hand or a leg blocking the view of what's really going on. And for the overseas markets we'll do some shots where I move my hand out of the way.

If it isn't simulated, aren't there health considerations?

Oh yeah, definitely! All the models have to turn up on set with a recent verified negative AIDS test result or they don't work with me. I have to get tested regularly and I actually had a scare not that long ago.

You what?

Um, well. I had a positive result, but the 'B' sample was fine. It was just a glitch. It was very worrying for a while there... And then one of the models claimed she was pregnant by me. I counted the days back, watched the scene and I'd actually cum in her mouth, so it couldn't have been mine. She was just trying to trap me. It's all in the game though, right?

What about overseas markets? Any movement there?

Nah, not really. There's no way I can do anal in my programmes so my shows won't sell overseas. At one point I was talking to John T Bone (the man behind The World's Biggest Gang Bang featuring Annabel Chong taking on 251 dicks and its imaginatively title follow-up The World's Biggest Gang Bang 2 featuring Jasmine St Clair who sparred with 300 - ed), who was based over in America, about possibly shooting a movie over there, but the difference in costs made it impossible. Over in America models will do full sex for about $100 dollars a pop. Over here it costs £350 -500 at least. His proposed figures didn't stack up so I said 'forget it'. Shortly afterwards he got arrested in Thailand for trying to make adult movies. They don't allow that kind of thing there. Sex tourism's fine, but no porn. Strange.

What about locations? Where do you film this stuff?

Usually we'll hire a country house and hope the neighbours or the owners don't find out. We've had to cut short a number of shoots because of complaints. One shoot we did a woman was walking her dog, saw absolutely everything through a chink in the curtains and threatened to call the police. Luckily she didn't, but when I bumped into her the next morning she said she was more peeved that she hadn't been asked to join in

Real breasts or implants?

Oh, it's got to be real. Every time. An implanted breast just feels like a flexed bicep. It isn't sexy at all.

Your lubrication of choice?

KY Jelly.

So is there a goal here or are you just having a ball?

Hey, you've got to have a plan. This is a route to the mainstream for me. Once I make enough money I'm going to set up a production company which will allow me to make the films I want to make. I'd still have the Porno imprint, obviously, but I'd also make mainstream films. I've always wanted to make a film that was the British equivalent of Die Hard.

And that was it. It was great catching up with him. He hadn't changed at all. We didn't keep in touch after we chatted, which was a shame really. The strange thing was that when I got home and listened through the recordings of our conversation his voice was almost inaudible - a halting soto voce - because he didn't want his girlfriend to hear how much he loved having sex with other women. His house, a nice semi-d in Stretford, was groaning under the weight of discs and fotos featuring him shagging all manner of women in all manner of positions. There were thousands of pounds worth of camera and editing equipment scattered casually about the place and yet he couldn't talk about any of it in tones louder than a whisper. When I asked who he really, really wanted to work with in the future he said: "That Tracey. There was definitely a spark between us. She's gonna get it. Hard!" You can't argue with that. After all, it's not like he's trying to be Kubrick or Kurosawa. I don't know if Neil's still in the porn business and I'll never watch Televison X again to find out. Seeing him in that context was just way too odd for me. And I told him so... I also turned down his lucrative offer of my own series and, on reflection, that might have been a mistake because y'know what? Maybe he's the one leaving the messages...