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.

Kissing with her thighs open.

But facetiously folks.

Today I participated in a phonetics experiment in which I was asked to listen to strange, robotically garbled sounds, and type out what I thought was being said. About three quarters of the sounds were completely undecipherable, but my instructions were to 'just guess' where this was the case. My errors afforded an unpleasant glimpse into my psyche. I wouldn't say it has an 18 rating as such. It's more like an incredibly unsettling PG without anything explicitly violent or sexy for the certification board to get censorious about, but will still fuck up certain kinds of sensitive kids for life - like, say, The Never Ending Story or The Wizard of Oz

After each attempt, the correct answer flashed up. Invariably I blushed and lowered my eyes away from the experimenter's thoughtful, occasionally pained frown. In my defence, the noises produced from the machine I was plugged into had a kind of plaintive, Satanic-bot quality to them that suggested the following dark aural interpretations.

'The broom is in the corner' I heard as 'Daddy put me in the corner'

'The pretty lady pours the milk' I heard as 'I'm so sad, she tore up all the silk'

'The silly girls shout' sounded to me like 'I'm a wretched maggot mouth'

'The kitchen's through that door' sounded like 'Now you can't hurt me no more'

Ladies?

Aren't you a pert little thing?

The title of this post is my new pick up line. One of my lady-wise friends advises me that, though not perfect, it's better than 'Dear Customer', followed by a frank appearance appraisal. Hey, say what you like about the ol' Dear Customer strategy, it gets them bug-eyed with fear. Which is something. A friend of mine likes to knock the females back with 'I'm not paying you to talk', which has a Wall Street slash-and-burn ruthlessness about it I quite like. He won't let me borrow it, because I've already borrowed and failed to return his favourite VHS, 'The Rape of Richard Beck'. No more borrowing privileges. A real ball breaker.

The thickness of bars.

Why do I destroy everything I touch? Because everything I touch, I touch really hard, over and over again, until it is broken. Fundamentally we are alone. How was your day, honey? There are no moral standards, everything is permitted. Did you buy bin liners? All I care for is banal, rinky-dink chart indie. It's the only thing that makes me feel alive. Some truths: I couldn't love a woman without back dimples. Eaters of meat are out too, unless they're prodigious gum chewers, or it's a one-off, 'we're stranded in the Andes' type thing. Tonight I watched people loudly assert the merits of their own home town in contrast to the demerits of their opponents', and I fucking loved it.

Adventures in self pity.

When my friends kiss girls I like, I deface their books in creative ways. Binomial nomenclature is useful here. Robert Nozick's 'Philosophical Explanations' becomes 'Philosophical Explanations, OR, how David tore my heart out'. His copy of 'Paradise Lost' is now the story of 'Paradise Lost, OR, how David failed in his obligations of friendship accrued through shared experiences, loving acts and assurances of the Broz before Hoz principle'. Taking the time to read through a whole novel crossing out the villain's name and replacing it with my betrayer's was a little more laborious, but the payoff should be magnificent. I just wish I could be there the next time he flips through his copy of David Copperfield and sees himself for what he is - no better than the loathsome, conniving, treacherous HEEP. I didn't want to be too predictable, so I've done the same with some of his non-fiction too. Currently I'm working on Ian Kershaw's biography of Hitler, first published under the title 'HITLER', now available in limited edition as 'DAVID'. I intend to slip it back onto his bookshelf at a prearranged 'let's talk this out' session at his place tomorrow - it's going to be a long night!

I've had a lot of fun with plays. It's been a challenge trying to integrate insults about this rodent into the dialogue artfully, without messing too heavily with the characters' natural cadences and lexicons, but I think I've done okay. Here are some samples - see if you can spot my alterations!

Beckett, 'Krapp's Last Tape'

ADA: You laughed so charmingly once, I think that's what first attracted me to you. That and your smile (Pause.) David is a lousy turd.

Shakespeare, 'Hamlet

O that this too too sullied flesh would melt,
Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew.
David is a fucking douchebag.

Stoppard, 'Travesties'

Carr (decisively) :No, it is perfectly clear in my mind. He must be stopped. (Removes shirt to reveal white undershirt with laser-printed portrait of David's face, contained within a red circle, a thick red line running through it). The Russians have got a government of patriotic and moderate men. Prince Lvov is moderately conservative, Kerensky is moderately socialist, and Guchkov is a businessman. All in all a promising foundation for a liberal democracy on the Western model, and for a vigorous prosecution of the war on the Eastern front, followed by a rapid expansion of trade. (A straw effigy of David is wheeled in, doused with gasoline, and set alight). I shall telegraph the Minister in Berne.