  You are about to pay The Penalty for Harbouring Partisans. Wed like you to read the following three sentences out aloud please. " I dont believe in the media " " I dont believe in the media " " I dont believe in the media " There yer go. Somewhere on the planet, a TV programme just died. Maybe a satellite crashed if you were concentrating hard enough; maybe an advertising agency went bust; a Hollywood studio burnt down. Maybe, just maybe, a style magazine folded.
We believe in the power of positive thinking. We guess opinion pieces are supposed to make narrative sense. Sorry. But we dont believe in that, either. Narrative, like..er..fame...is a prison from which there is no escape, and, in capitals WE , AND OUR ILK, OPERATE WITHIN THE IDEOLOGY OF FREEDOM. So dont expect any fucking stories out of us, right?
Right. So the human race is finished, Freud and fascism got replaced by behaviourism and ethics, four to the floor is over, AIDS is cool, Pete Waterman invented violence, incest is the worlds religion and there is no escape, ever, ever, ever, from becoming DavidBeckham. Backwards reverb sound, flash to the year 2003, remember? That year when every human whod ever seen, thought, watched, orgasmed DavidBeckham mutated from human into forty million from human DavidBeckhams, footballing and breeding babyBeckhams into existence all around the globe. This fucking breeding thing has got to stop. Fame is the most pernicious and extreme form of breeding thing known to mankind.
Fame is the most pernicious and extreme form of virus known to mankind. Its an external concretisation of identity; an end to the concept of change. The human race has been colonised by fame, and computers laugh like demons. Gunshot. Welcome to 1994. Slingshotted into the inescapable fame paradigm, Kurt Cobain opiate dreamed a novel pop-exit, transforming fame into legend, man into nothing.
Hell never play music again. Well Done Kurt. Richey Edwards, learning quickly and usurped by his peer, trumped back eloquently in disappearance. If Cobains intention had been to place a full stop by violence upon the ideology of fame, Edwards parry immediately reinvested the form with the potential for reromantisation of the dead  a wry comment and unfathomable oxymoronic vortex upon which his persona had been based from his entrance into replication. By disappearing, Edwards formed an inexorable vortex through which Cobains desire became inverted. The two are inextricably linked  simultaneous Greatest Hits.
Through this vortex  instead of creating a full stop - Cobains derive became profligate, and the logical conclusion of the spectacle was formed  mass submission to the will of self-murder. From a disgust with the fame virus, the two have become legion as Forever Delayed Nirvana, the unattainabilty only death can level. Its what pornography beomes when it takes form; when the invasion, the colonisation, by the gaze becomes complete. The vortex opened, the gaze became itself, we all became DavidBeckham and the human race has been colonised by murder. Fame is Murder. " What are you doing here?
" said some guy, at some art opening this week. " Were very well, thank you," we replied. We hope he wasnt being snide, but it irked us anyway. We guess we were there because we got a right, like the man says. But actually we dont. We dont got a right.
We dont have any at all. They dont exist. Its an opinion piece, and as such is the voice of the author. This is a comment upon it, and an attempt to fold it back upon itself, to push Cobain and Edwards back through the wormhole they created  TV PRESENTER OUTS SECOND TV PRESENTER FOR ALLEGED RAPE OF THIRD TV PRESENTER  and then permanently close it. Closure. Baby, we're Luther Vandross in the shower.
Help us. Give us your money. We are God. Welcome to the death of after-thought. James B.L. Hollands October 31st 2002. 
