Anything, but Toast breaks curfew

It's going on midnight and the whole street smells like a spilt cup of vodka drink the morning after. I just had to log on and use that, because it seemed so brilliant as I composed it coming out of the cinema.

The joke goes something like: What are the saddest two words in the English Language? "What party?" So I ended up seeing 2001 by myself, because everyone seemed to be booked for the night, or rather unwilling to sit through a strange, sterile Stanley Kubrick film with me.

The guy didn't turn out how I thought he'd be. Half-way through his book I realise this and become impatient with his sketchy timelines and tedious self-analysis, justifications as afterthought. And the insight isn't there, for someone who worked through two election campaigns with the President, he had surprisingly little to share in way of juicy gossip, which is what a book like this should be filled with really. You get the shadowy outline of a great man who is indecisive and so in-need of the approval of others that he must at least make a public spectacle of siding with them despite his own beliefs.

So the extract turned out to be better than the real thing, a four-hundred-and-fifty paged monster with not a hint of scandal or Monica. Only in the later stages, when the author himself discovers via Kenneth Starr the facts about his employer, does he recall specific moments with this strange little vixen. It is worrying that such a powerful government in the free world is run so precariously, literally flying by the seat of its pants. That vital information should first be uncovered by news-hounds running to and fro behind the CNN anchor-person and a president can only sit in his tiny little back-office with his 10-inch tv and watch it break along with the rest of us, is truly dissapointing.

Waking up this morning, the second thought to cross my mind was, of course, autoerotic asphyxiation. More specifically, the indignation of it all, should a man be masturbating with a noose wrapped tightly around his neck and a flimsy piece of furniture holding him up. Should the chair slip, should he push too hard in those moments where he is lost, leaving his feet to dangle just there, centimeters from the plush soft cream coloured carpetting. Won't he think it silly? Such a silly impossible situation to be in. Then as he starts to choke and lose his breath, does he continue this train of thought? Even with death imminent does he still think it such a hilarious situation that perhaps someone will come right through the door and slap a fresh cream pie in his face? Maybe it's better if I don't think about these things. Instead, I should stay up real late and work on damned sequences.