There's been more weight added to the argument for the worldwide abandonment of the phrase “chill out”. A friend of mine had the misfortune to spend the weekend in the company of a hippy trustafarian, who insisted on showing an abysmal film that he'd made to the assembled throng. He warned everyone that it was going to be “pretty weird” and “very in-your-face”. Of course, it was a predictably disappointing collection of hackneyed visual effects and droning digeridoos. “Man, that was so deep” was the general consensus afterwards. My friend didn't agree. But from experience he knew that he had to keep his mouth shut. Trustafarianism shares many aspects of proper religions, in that anyone doubting its fundamental tenets (producing dreadful art, smoking oneself into oblivion, using other people's stuff without permission as they laughably believe that property is theft) is inevitably met with a sad shake of the head as its followers tell you that “you just don't understand”, or that “your mind isn't in the right zone”, or that you should “just get with it”. If you dare to explode in anger at their self-righteous stupidity, well, that's the point at which they'll tell you to “chill out” in a contemptuous fashion. And once “chill out” has been uttered, there's nothing you can say. It's the most effective debate-closer ever devised. I hope MPs don't cotton on; people like who work for Hansard will end up out of a job as Prime Minister's questions is reduced to about 2 minutes per week.

To commemorate the above, last night's Resonance show featured the first ever “Don't Get Your Knickers In A Twist Zone”, featuring a lullaby by Meredith Monk. We hope that Chill Out Zones worldwide will be abandoned in favour of DGYKIAT Zones as a result. The show also featured a guest, wonderful sound poet Rogan Whitenails, who revealed a) a love for Stephen 'Tin Tin' Duffy, b) that he has an occasional job as boom operator on The Bill, and c) that writing poetry is “all in the neck”. After a short masterclass Tim and I had to write our own poems. Mine rhymed “habitable” with “amicable” and received murmurs of approval.

Jenny and I had one of those journeys to work where, overcome by boredom and tiredness, we pretend to be a dysfunctional couple. “Jenny?” “What.” “I thought that maybe, you know, now that we've nearly been going out for 2 years, I might tell a couple of my friends about, you know, us.” “No. I won't allow that.” “Not even my best friend? I'd love it if you could meet him.” “No. Absolutely not.” Etc etc. This kind of thing provides relief from the boredom, but is actually quite depressing and leaves something of a bad taste in the mouth, as clearly these conversations do take place between some people. (See yesterday's entry: “No, I decide when I dump you.”) The book I continued reading when Jenny got off the train, Hangover Square by Patrick Hamilton, didn't help my mood because of the incredible feebleness of the main character. For god's sake, George Bone, buck your ideas up, because I'm only on page 64 and you're depressing me horribly. And don't tell me to chill out.