Houston, we have a problem....

It has emerged in a newly published book that Osama Bin Laden was, as a young man, obsessed with American diva Whitney Houston, to the point of, apparently, even fantasising about marrying her.

Now I've heard of guys going to extreme lengths to get a girl's attention, but I can't help feeling that frankly Osama has gone a wee bit too far.

If they catch Osama, will it be like that scene in "The Bodyguard", where the slightly "special" janitor with the shrine to Whitney in his locker is captured by the cops?

"So, I'll ask you again, did you destroy the World Trade Centre?"

"Noooooooo, noooooooo".

Whatever happens, we've got to act quickly. It must only be matter of time before somebody flies a plane into Bobby Brown.

Peace. X

A part of me hates visting others...

... for the simple reason that it brings into sharp focus what an utter shithole I live in.

Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the hospitality I am shown, the opportunity to legitimately drink other's tea and eat their biscuits. It's just that I can't help but become ever so slightly (and obviously) envious of how tidy, well-kept and generally salubrious other people's pads invariably are.

My digs are cheap, don't get me wrong, but that's the solitary virtue of them. I see the clean lines and smart decor of other's pads and quail at the thought of the damp walls, peeling wallpaper and ill-fitted, delapidated fixtures of my own. I don't think there's a single door in my flat that isn't either hanging off its hinges or doesn't quite fit the frame.

I'm perpetually flat broke aswell. I bought some chicken from the butcher's the other day to make a curry. This seemingly simple task became a momentous occasion in my head as I realised that tonight I would dine for the first time in some days on something that hadn't come out of a tin. My hand was practically quivering as I handed over my £2.50.

I think to myself sometimes that I surely deserve better. I lie awake at night, my pillow inches fom the damp patch on my bedroom wall, pondering my quandry. I should be living in comfort, wallowing in my palatial dwelling and feasting on the fat of the land. Then I remember I am a struggling artist, enduring my inevitable period of penury until sweet recognition emancipates me from all this squalor. Then my pretentiousness crumbles like spent charcoal as it dawns on me that I am just a four letter gag merchant who is on the very bottom rung of the professional ladder, and I am living like this because (in my eternal wisdom) I decided that I would accept a compromised lifestyle to accomodate the fact that I don't really work for a living.

Then I get up and have tea and (if I'm flush that week) biscuits, and count my meagre blessings.

All things considered, I don't think things are going too bad.

Peace. X