Flying back to London I re-read Kalle Lasn's 'Culture Jam- How To reverse America's Suicidal Consumer Binge, And Why We Must' (with the cover turned back at all times because a. it's six years old and I don't want to look like a laggard, b. I never liked the phrase 'Culture Jam' because it sounds like a local authority-funded inner city Rap workshop and c. I don't want passengers to think I'm about to bring the plane down.)

Regardless of all that nonsense, Kalle Lasn pretty much has my number…

Do I 'sleep, eat, sit in a car, work, shop, watch TV, sleep again'?

Do I 'spend time in some ethereal place created from fantasy and want'?

Do I 'laugh at sitcom jokes more than my friends' jokes'?

Do I 'spend more evenings enjoying video sex than making love myself'?

The answer to all the above is yes, except the last one, which is nobody's business but my own, and since you ask, no I do not. Anyhow, I am bristling with empowerment as I read the manifesto. I need to disconnect the TV, I need to think carefully every time I am driven to make a purchase, I need to ignore the adverts… there's more but this would be a start. All through the interconnecting flights to the train and the cab home, I read on and I feel stronger than ever about the task ahead. I get home, drop the bags and pace around a bit. Open some mail. Look out the window. Do the laundry. What next? Ah well, a bit of telly won't hurt.. I'll have a doze in front of the box. Sitting on the end of the bed, staring blankly at the ads, it is exhausting. Pringles World Cup. Mars World Cup. Nike World Cup. Visa World Cup. Pah, what a load of rubbish. I'm better off going for a walk to shake off the jetlag.



For three weeks in Virginia I've been wearing the same smelly shorts and t-shirts, not caring about my appearance bar the odd shower and shave, after all, the cows don't cross to the other field if you wearing the wrong Wellington boots. But now I'm walking through Soho, in YSL, New Balance, Polo, American Apparel and Cazal. And I feel… fantastic… like the famous scene from Saturday Night Fever when L Ron Hubbard, sorry, John Travolta struts down the street to 'Stayin' Alive'. I am transformed back to my former self.



One guy glimpses at my sneakers (you can't get these over here mate, they're Virginia-only). In a store, the assistant notices the YSL buttons on my jacket (that's right darling I can lay down serious money when I want to) and a friend I bump into asks me where I got my sunglasses (these old things? original Run DMC glasses, I was given them when editing Sleazenation). I personally make what seems like a thousand mental observations of people and their brands in the space of an hour's walk around town. Feels good to be back.