This is strange. I’m at my father’s for the weekend thinking how to turn my next book into objectionable trash no respectable academic publisher would touch. He has no internet and I haven’t paid for it. But here I am, presumably stealing packets from BT. I hope so. Or maybe I’m just paid up from the last time I don’t know. But this ambiguity is conducive to the rigour proper to trash or scum or sizeable rats. I suppose that’s the thought for what it’s worth. Philosophy may have a future, but it’s not very important or very nice. It’s crawling around on hands and knees in back alleys, with third degree burns. “It lives”. It’s the live aborted foetus in this Breeder’s tune. It involves inordinate abuse, if not outright theft, abstruse porno, plenty energised gesturing. This, at least, is a constant.