Why would I care to listen to a politician having his previews in a cooking program. I hate cooking programs, I don't have television anyway and I hate to see pictures in the daily paper daisies of any of these preposterous madmen posing in a swimming tool, biking, jogging and encouraging with tons of variation on that imbecile practice the poor eyesight of those who don't care on this or that or anything else to go blind before they even could have thought of getting a new pair of glasses. A stench deserted came from these rotten brains. Half a page in any of those daily paper daisies and I have enough of it. Look at these charming gents and lookalikes. Any other face, even that of Johnny Rotten, to me is a relief. At night I dream of Damien Hirsch halved, bloodhounds, Porsches.
Now, in my favourite restaurant, I must say, people take utmost care for the scribbling on the wall. Some read all of it five times in a row. Heaney's father digging, fresh from a well preserved edition,
adventures in the land of contemporary, anything a newspaper may add to the obscure field marks
on a found paper, toothpaste from memory, brickstones for heavenly quarters and, strange as it may seem, the daily excrements and its lack of volume.