2002-05-23 - 4:47 p.m.

Many thanks to those of you that congratulated me on my Morrissey tribute, but funnily enough, those answers were straight from the horse�s mouth, or at least, straight from the angst-ily bequiffed crooner�s mouth. What can I say? The man satires himself, innit?

So we watch the careening canoe of Pablo�s career hit effluence rapids, and as we dart headlong towards shit creek, his paddle balances precariously on the side as he tries vainly to bail out. And it�s at this point that our intrepid hero ditches any pretence at jobular discrimination and plunges headlong into the grimy oxbow lakes marked �Contract Publishing�.

For the uninitiated amongst you, contract publishing is much like contract killing. Well, apart from being way less skilful, exhilarating, prestigious and lucrative. Oh, and there�s not as much focus on producing a bloody corpse at the end of it. In fact, the only bloody corpse to be seen is that of the last vestiges of your artistic and professional integrity. It�s a noticeably small corpse, too.

If I�m lucky, I�ll be filing copy for such luminaries of the literary firmament as �Supermarket Bargains Weekly�, �Nervous Budget Airline Passenger Monthly�, or maybe even �The Senile Geriatric Traveller Gazette�. Just think of the headspinning range of exciting features I could be working on within months. �Tinfoil Vs Saran Wrap � the Debate Rages On�, �Thermos Flasks for the Terminally Bewildered Traveller�, �Thirteen Ways to Prepare That Mango�. Ah, there�s nothing like the thrill of spiritually fulfilling prose. And THAT would be nothing like�etc, etc�wah, wah, waaaaaaaaah.

That was supposed to be comedy trumpet comical d�nouement, by the way, not me dissolving into uncontrollable, feral screaming. That will come next week when I fail to get a single contract.

Still. At least napping is still free.