A chips & dips subsistence.

I'm chemical-drenched and anxious. Sense and reference (GODdamn it) will wait, I'm sure, until some tension - smooth as fingernail clippings through a narrow-as-it-is urethra- gets cyber-spaffed. Increasingly I understand that the pleasant morning-warmth of exclusivity is incompatible with anarchic, devil-may-care roguery. You simply can't hold hands and tell her she's a boring little dumpling at the same time without it being a mild sort of rape. Burns night - impossible to judge success when your room is as thick as that, but it seemed like we all stretched beyond our adolescence a little. From where I was splayed, anyway. Wool on pelt is a very good look for me. Nothing daring is possible without a little Joekaying. Steve Aylett happened, Ezra Pound happened, Larkin, Thomas, Deery, BURNS!, and an address that went unanswered. Making people laugh stimulates the very worst glands, shooting out pathetic youngest child brain juices, attention-flavoured and unnourishing.

Ok.

My blog has been generating a lot of media interest lately. As is the way with these things, blogosphere chatter about the new voice of anonymous, internet-based disrespect was quickly picked up by the mainstream press, and now the question is everywhere being asked: just who is this guy? Initially I was content to sit back and watch the speculation fly like rumour-shrapnel from a gossip-bomb, languorously squeezing my chew toy and laughing in that hollow, desolate way of mine. But a recent series of profiles were so wildly inaccurate that I've decided to finally set the record straight. I single out articles in The New York Times ('Tea with who?') and Haaretz ('I'll have some biographical FACTS with my tea, thank you very much') for particular opprobrium. Both of these rags had the gall to suggest, without a shred of evidence, that I am a white male in my early twenties! What follows is a brief bio which I hope will put an end to this shitstorm of misinformation.

The story of blog-sensation CCL in an unlikely one. The early particulars bear a striking resemblance to those of his non-namesake Abraham Lincoln. Born to a family of traveling bidet salespeople, CCL spent his early years gazing up at his mountebank father as he preached the merits of his product to skeptical onlookers. Following a brief bout of Downs Syndrome in his early teens - cured, like all diseases, by sex with a virgin - it was decided that the peripatetic life was taking too great a toll on the family's health. Settling down in Niverville, Manitoba, a town remarkable only for its ordinariness and flesh-eating zombies, the family prospered in their new business as Canada's premium supplier of disposal slacks.

After graduating top of his class at the local madrassa, aged only sixteen, CCL entered the cutthroat world of international high finance, landing a CFO position at Mayfield & Wesson. Nauseated by the bleeding-heart liberalism he encountered there, he resigned within months to form his own a cappella quartet. Currently, CCL works as a freelance masseuse and nutritionist to the stars.

He is the author of dozens of books including Congratulations On Your Orthodoxy and Please Make Your Face Seem Smaller. His first foray into stage writing, Animals Laugh At Me, recently premiered at the Globe Theatre in London, where he demanded the traditional programme of Shakespearean and Elizabethan drama be overhauled in perpetuity as a prerequisite for granting the performance rights.

Adjusted for statistical error, CCL has committed suicide three times.

CCL has a chequebook made of wool. Often as not cashiers are unable to bear the pressure of a lengthening queue as he painstakingly knits the business' name, allowing him to walk out not a penny the poorer for his 'purchase'.

CCL is omnisexual. Since 1985 he has been attempting to enjoy sexual intercourse with an instance of every concrete noun in the dictionary. Recently quizzed on the meaning of this venture, he responded by impersonating 1996 Republican presidential candidate Bob Dole and aggressively challenging all present to 'bring the facts' as prelude to a 'truth-rumble'.

He lives with his wife, Ganglia, and their four children, Todd, Mary, Tess and Howard, on Judd Street in Bloomsbury, London.

I CONSIDER EVERYTHING YOU SAY TO BE A LIE OF OMISSION

Let's be clear - I'm here to show off. Yes, I'll have some of your approval, thank you. Could you salt that with a little envy? Thanks.

I regret to inform you that your passion is reducible to something that you'd find difficult to follow or care about.

My mother always told me 'Stop being so predictable.'

Dear diary, solipsism can really get me down, y'know?

I'm out.