It’s 6:30pm and I am currently in my studio. Working with me is Daniel Paul, head of visual pleasure. I’m bored of working, but Dan doesn’t want to leave yet because he’s “too busy”. What he’s actually doing is trying to translate what Uberding – a German blog site he did an interview with – has to say about him. I can only speak fake German, so I can’t really help. The tagline of the blog is pretty hilarious though: ‘…uberlife, uberstyle, uberfashion, ubernight, uberyou, uberme…’
In order to fill the time, I have decided to write some sort of stream of consciousness, kind of like what the surrealists did. Automatic art, yeah? So, here we go with my trickle of shit…
It’s cold. Really fucking cold. I have a small heater under my feet, but it’s not really cutting the mustard. If I had mustard, I would rub it over my body to make myself warm. Instead I’m wearing all the clothes that I wear outside, plus a Christmas jumper that I bought from Camden, well, last Christmas.
Seriously, I’m actually shivering and Dan keeps on making strange noises. Shouldn’t have eaten so many chips – they’re weighing my stomach down and making me feel slightly queezy. The last time I felt this queezy was when I watched Saló by Pasolini. Have you watched that film? If I say you should, and then you do, please do not judge me. It is a good film. Maybe I should explain myself slightly. The film is an adaptation of one the Marquis de Sade’s novels, but set in Italy during the Nazi-fascist reign in WWII. A group of fascist aristocrats kidnap a around twenty young Italian men and women, take them to a mansion in a town called Saló, and proceed to sexually abuse them. The four aristocrat men listen to stories recounted by prostitutes about their sexual experiences, most of which are pretty extreme. They do this in order to ‘get in the mood’. When they are sufficiently aroused by the prostitutes’ tales of exchanging bodily fluids with deprived bishops, they choose one of the teenagers to do something weird with. At one point, for example, one of the prostitutes talks about someone peeing on her face. A man then gets up, drags a girl into the bathroom, and makes her watch him take a pee in a urinal whilst she’s having a wee on the toilet.
Fuck it’s cold.
I first started watching this film with Luisa, Jon, Nina, and Becky at my house a week ago. We were around 30 minutes into the film so some freaky shit – freaky shit? Who am I? – had already happened. One of the prostitutes recalls the time when she killed her own mother so that she could visit a man famous for being an avid coprafiliac. That’s someone who’s massively into eating shit because it makes them feel sexy. Apparently Scatman John used to be one, and that’s why he died. I don’t think that’s true by the way. I think he’s living in an island in the Caribbean with 2pac, Elvis and Marylyn Manson. Wait, he’s not dead. He just wishes he was, or something. Anyway, she informs her audience of her experiences with this man, who apparently ejaculated on seeing her eat turd. Curious. The main aristocrat guy then praises the prostitute for killing her mum. Apparently she had no choice, as the pleasure she would get from smearing poo poo on her face was just too much to resist. The mother got in the way so that’s that. Off with her head. I’m such a loser. At this point, a girl starts sobbing. The aristo asks: "why?", and we are informed by one of the other strumpets that her mother died trying to protect her from the kidnappers. The man gets super horny about this for some reason, and takes down his trousers. He lays a turd in the middle of the room, pulls his trousers up – no wipe, by the way – and screams at the girl, telling her to eat it:
Do you reckon Scatman John and 2pac would get along?
That’s the point in the film when the Doovde cut out, and everyone let out a sigh of relief, me included. Luisa then said “Oh thank God, we don’t have to watch the rest of the film.” This was when something really weird happened. I found myself on the brink of saying: “Come on, let’s put it back on. I want to see what happens. I’ll wipe it with my t-shirt – I’m sure it’ll work,” but thankfully I held myself back. However, even though I managed to avoid my friends judging me…
My mum’s just called.
Sorry… yeah, so even though I managed to avoid my friends thinking I was a pervert, the damage was already done. I now knew that there was a pervert inside of me, waiting to be unleashed. But it was actually a good film, with a clear political message: ‘Fascists eat shit.’ I’ve watched the whole thing since – not by myself, I’d like to add – and it truly is a classic.
Instead of cleaning the Doovde - as I did a few days later - we put on Magnolia instead, which funnily enough turned out to be…
…a pile of shit.
Dan’s finished now, so I’m off.
Thank you, and goodbye.