I have, since last writing, been accumulating, hoarding like a tired, shivering squirrel, subject matter to include in this epistle. I would like to declare, conclusively and without doubt, that it is going to be profound, but I fear I would be lying. I suppose I could write about the state of modern art, the vacuity of social interactions, or any number of other subjects that have recently been pressing on my mind, but I am not inclined to do so in the depths of this particular night, which is, to me, like a rather pleasant womb of tranquility, when I can reside safe in the knowledge that, all around me, watching, unkind eyes are slumbering with the peacefulness of the thoughtless. What I am inclined to write about, however, is pornography. More specifically, just to assure any blushing virgins who may read that dread word that I am not going to be particularly smutty, I want to write about phone sex ads. I was flicking through a copy of Time Out earlier in the week when I came to the Classified section. Now, I may well be remembering things through the wistful, rose-tinted glasses of nostalgia, but I recall there was time when phone sex ads were really rather brilliant, or at least they were to a young boy such as I once was. They used to contain a girl in startlingly few clothes and a wonderful, unforgettable epithet such as (and here I am partly working from memory, partly from imagination) "I'm moist and waiting for you" or, even more superbly, "I've just wet myself". Imagine the effect this had on a pre-pubescent boy! They were shocking, bewildering, and utterly fantastic. I used to gaze in wonder at these adverts, which could be found in virtually any magazine, hoarding their shameless proclamations in the murkier depths of my mind. Going back to the Time Out Classified section however and, probably thankfully, away from my dubious recollections, things have changed. Girls recline listlessly in hot pants and lycra tops looking like they've just staggered out of a club in Romford, or flash a vacuous smile, and alongside are such boring pieces of text as, "A little bit of what you fancy does you good", and "Pull the hottest girls online now!". What happened? Where are the phone numbers registered to Guyana? I realise that in a world of loss this one is probably very minor but, nevertheless, I mourn for the demise of the truly smutty phone sex lines of which I was once an avowed connoiseur. And, perhaps, in its own way, it is symbolic of something greater. I have thought about how I may go about following up such a paragraph. I would like you all to know that I would dearly love to atone in some way, both for the above and the appaling subject line, but I think it beyond me at the moment. I considered adding in a little poetry at the end, just to elevate the tone, but I don't think that would be particularly fair the poet I chose. The poor, dead wretch would have to endure the shame of his work being placed alongside a meditation on phone sex; it would be profoundly unfair. So I leave things rest, which is something I probably should have done before embarking. Ruvi. +----------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the undead Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister@missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo@missprint.org. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "tech-heads and students" +-+ +-+ "the cardie wearing biscuit nibbling belle & sebastian list" +-+ +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +-+ "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000 +-+ +-+ "peculiarly deranged fanbase" "frighteningly named +-+ +-+ Sinister List organisation" - NME May 2000 +-+ +-+ "Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa" +-+ +----------------------------------------------------------------------+