...and what I am...
In the excitment of staying out late last night, I forgot to crow over the glorious victory of
Antony and the Johnsons over the tedious whatever-a-likes that are the Kaiser Chiefs. Go Antony.
I have also been distracted by the rash of Reebok ads across the city - showing the beautiful and talented Mike Skinner in a 'thoughtful' pose.
Yeah. Whatever. It's a sales pitch for sportswear. A chav's charter, if you like. And I do.
Minutes away from the human sized version, you can find Mr Skinner on the side of the Granada building. Best thing on Granada for years, darling.
Last summer belonged to The Streets and A Grand Don't Come For Free - so here's to Mike Skinner and his big ol' face.
The evening was spent at the opening of an exhibition at Apartment Manchester with a friend who knows more about fiction than a fiction-machine or somesuch. A very good night, during which we agreed that Ian McEwan is slowly turning into Iris Murdoch. That's that sorted out then.