Silly man that i am, i've always hid an inner aesthete (sometimes less inner than bleedin obvious), maybe it's because i fancy myself as a dandy, like our friend on the left. which i'm not, because i'm not confident enough. but i do believe the presentation of a style is important, the presentation of a taste is important, and not merely because its fashionable, but because we are the only creation we ever truly have creative control over. But it isn't about Aestheticism alone, its about tying aestheticism to an ethos too. the personality is a creation as much as a look is. some people, mainly in fashion, have the former and not the latter(yet some still aspire, often with truly hideous results; anyone who's sampled the so-called "dandy" prose of Sebastian Horsley's recent memoir will know what i mean).

Due to the impending refurbishment of my dwellhole, somewhat forced, i've been nudged into a slightly more "Colour!Shape!Form!" state of mind than usual. It is truly amazing the effect a quick scan of a Dulux colour chart, and a flick through a furniture brochure will have. Misty Buff! amethyst! China Blue! Toffee Crunch! Lemon Sorbet! Mandarin Segment! (alright, i made the last one up); suddenly i'm seeing colours in my sleep and some weird synaesthesia when i play a Cocteau Twins album. more bizarrely, my inner William Morris seems to have appeared from nowhere, and is angling me at some very Victorian-looking colours, and some unnaturally Baroque looking tables.

i intend to keep my sensible hat on (not black top hat) though; redecoration is fine, new curtains fine, i may even be pushed into a new carpet, but no furniture. i live in this bloody space, and i can't be arsed to upturn my carefully acquired routine so i have some swankier drawers. i want it to be as brief and painless as possible. The thought of moving the 600-odd CDs and two bookcases worth of books out into the garage has got me semi-teary as it is. the things, the precious things! but i'm getting rather enthusiastic about a new colour scheme after 12 years with this one. i want nice deep intense colours, and a lot of cream or white to make sure it isn't too dark and depressing when slitty-wrist season kicks in. And it's an excuse to get some new posters in; the Ratpack and the Smiths will stay, the rest goes. I quite fancy some art posters: Rothko, Velazquez, Whistler, Hopper, who knows! The fact i'm reading a book about twentieth-century British Art is only contributing to all this frippery. fun though.

Which was what last night was. kind of. Happy drinking in a quiet mood, and then the Three Boozes came in, ripped to the gills, and being generally filthy and loud. The Nag had not seen such wassailing in a while i think; i myself had a gentle knock on the face by a friend getting overly friendly, and a story involving another drunken friend's snapped frenulum (look it up, my dears, and say a loud "ow!"), which may have been told in rebuke for knocking his ghastly shirt. Then to top it all off, when said story is getting bogged down in sketchy medical detail, and certain shouty pissed folk are unsure what is being referred to, OUT CAME THE PENISES. IN THE PUB. IN FRONT OF A LAYDEE!!

i should like to make perfectly clearly i kept my own sword very much in its scabbard. i'm not yet prone to public duels. and the two gentlemen involved should really be more than slightly embarrassed. i laughed so hard (sorry, wrong word) i still look like distant cousin of Cherie Blair this morning. thoroughly disturbing, and neither big nor clever(them, not me)

i was going to do loads of stuff about the Huxley i've been reading, but frankly it'll keep. i'm too busy worrying about my frenulum to bother (apparently, its quite a common injury).

think on this, children, and keep 'Yourself' to yourself.

cheerioh!