Who fetishist?

Like you, I always hoped that donkey porn only involved consenting donkeys and was there to provide

Squirrel poo coffee, that’s the stuff. Or, to be more respectful, Kopi Luwak. It’s grand – all the buzz of normal coffee but with none of the crashing and sweating, heart-clamping paranoia. This is presumably because the beans have passed through the digestive system of a Luwak before anyone did anything roasty and grindy to them. And let us not consider who first thought, “Hmmm, I bet there’ll be something interesting and saleable in those luwak droppings.” He or she was simply very wise. And a bit odd. And smelly-handed.

Kopi Luwak is also the kind of thing I would suppose you’re meant to mention if you do those lifestyle pieces in the colour supplements – which I sometimes have to, because they are rumoured to encourage sales. As I have no life and am mainly a bug-eyed typing machine with a taste for theatre and a hideous touring and gigging schedule there is rarely anything I can say in these pieces beyond, “I usually try not to get marooned in Crewe for longer than necessary.” Or sometimes, “I often dream a huge spider is sitting on my face.” Or even, “Toast is good. I like toast.” What I think is expected would be more along the lines of “Juan brings me my Kopi Luwak in a monkey skull at noon. I wake gently, slip into my silk typing pyjamas and dictate my mail before chiselling an exquisite paragraph and retiring to my pearl handled bath.” At least now I have the Kopi Luwak. So Happier than expected New Year to me.

I ought to – but won’t - set a packet on display when they come on Monday to film my study. No, I don’t know why they want to film my study – beyond the fact that it looks better than I do, although it still has an air of obession and lunacy which must be adjusted before they arrive. I should also dust.

It’ll help sales. We’re in a recession. Don’t judge me. Or do. Your choice. But if you come round here looking judgemental you won’t get any Kopi Luwak.

And, of course, I need all I can get because there are two more short stories to write, a number of drama thingies and all manner of tax and admin related tasks staring at me, so sleep will be pretty much out of the question until February.

Meanwhile, take my advice and never - should you have considered this - borrow someone else’s computer while you are away in an attempt to catch up on your email and websites of interest – especially if that computer is not, for example, in their living room, but in a large institution of some kind. And then never, in any way, click through on an entirely humdrum-looking link in an otherwise unimpeachable historical site and find yourself staring at donkey porn.

I know, I know – you, like me, always hoped that donkey porn only involved consenting donkeys and was there to provide relaxation for perhaps older donkeys, donkeys who don’t get out much, or donkeys with plain-looking ears. That whole donkey/person interface was one you wished never to be explored. And yet there it was, being very much explored on a, no doubt regularly-surveilled, interweb receiving device.

Naturally my brain froze into an enormous WHAT ? and failed to operate my mouse ( stop thinking that has a double meaning, honestly… ) with any kind of speed or accuracy and far too many moments passed before I could close all the unpleasantly opened windows, turn off, unplug and then contrive to break the monitor before an IT SWAT team could track me down, burst through the door and cart me off with a sign round my neck reading hoof fetishist, while I vainly protested my innocence and claimed I had only been reading the TLS while waiting for a monitor repairman to arrive.

As it happened, no one ever did even knock on the office door, but I was left trying to maintain the interior fantasy that everyone involved in the animal area of the sex industry – or many of its other areas - was there because they found it pleasant and somehow stimulating and weren’t phyically harmed by it.

Not that some folk don’t have peculiar wiring. I know of at least one guy who attends bull fights because he fancies the bulls – there’s no accounting for taste. And my television maintains its steadfast determination that I should succumb to commercially-helpful paraphilia and want to shag everything in the M&S food range, all motor vehicles and a number of household cleaners. Even the advert for STD’s is a kicker-throwing sweatfest. Chatting to persons of my acquaintance who are genuinely in the public eye it’s unsurprising that they’ve found the attention of strangers has both intensified and altered over the last few years. It seems to have moved beyond the admiring and/or sexual into areas which seem rather more about kidnapping, dismemberment, cooking and/or taxidermy. Which, judged against current events in the wider world, is surely a minor matter, but unpleasant nonetheless – although it does bring with it the tiny fringe benefit of making me feel robustly and thrummingly normal.