A Wedding Is A Funeral Which Masquerades

Prostitution Reinforces All The Old Dumb Clichés About Women's Sexuality; That They Are Not Built To Enjoy Sex And Are Little More Than Walking Masturbation Aids, Things To Be Done To, Things So Sensually Null And Void That They Have To Be Paid To Indulge In Fornication, That Women Can Be Had, Bought, As Often As Not Sold From One Man To Another. When The Sex War Is Won Prostitutes Should Be Shot As Collaborators For Their Terrible Betrayal Of All Women.

Whenever I Am Sent A New Book On The Lively Arts, The First Thing I Do Is Look For Myself In The Index.

When I Moved To Brighton From London In 1995, I Was Struck By What I Thought Of As Its Townliness. A Town, It Seemed To Me, Was That Perfect Place To Live, Neither City Nor Country, Both Of Which Like To Think They Are Light Years Apart But Actually Have A Great Deal In Common.

It Is Also Interesting To Note That The Original Supermodels Are Now Making A Comeback After Being Dismissed In The Nineties As Being 'greedy' By A Gaggle Of Male Designers Who Lived Like Sun Kings.

Grooming Oneself With All The Crazed Compulsion Of An Under-exercised Lab Rat In Order To Hook A Rich Man And Obtain A Lush Lifestyle Makes A Certain (albeit Seedy) Sense.