(diaryland) February 17, 2002 - 10:58 p.m.

Breakfast of Champions gig on Thursday was nice. My sister and Rosie and Raz came. They all clapped a lot, which was nice. They are what I like to call 'good fans'.

I went to an exhibition opening last night. There were photos. They were taken by four or five different people.

The only problem was, I could have taken better photos with my buttcheeks, even if they had just been in a train accident.

I think the problem with people my age taking photos is that they haven't really been anywhere or experienced anything and so end up taking photos of their friends trying to look arty in a tree at the local park and thinking it's fucking hot.

The good thing about my buttcheeks is that if I gave them a camera, they would see things from a slightly different perspective and they would think about things a little differently to the way my tiny suburban brain might.

I think I'd get a blurry, badly framed set of pictures of people hurrying off and that's something that hasn't been done much yet.

I mean, at least the pictures would be better than one set which consisted of very uninspired photos of chicks wearing fairy wings and sitting on swings with fake flowers sticky-taped to them. The photos didn't even have composition going for them. The worst photo of the lot was a chick dressed up as some kind of gypsy with pointy ears looking into a crystal ball that had pictures of dancing naked kids superimposed on it. It was all sepia. And everyone seemed to bloody love it. That's not art. It's so bad, it's not even wank.

At least my butt pictures would make it as far as the 'wank' category.

I wonder how that guy who blasts paint out of his arse onto canvases is going. Surely the novelty has worn off the art world by now.