| Thursday, May 23, 2002 |
 | Scary experiences on the London Underground, number about seven zillion in a continuing series (and I'm not even mentioning the ruination of my shiny new pale trousers on Monday. Curse you, God....):
On the escalators up, this morning, saw an ad for Chicago. Those who don't have the good fortune to occupy this sexy metropolis (pause to hawk up a gob of black filth the size of an apple), be apprised that West End Chicago's adverts tend to be moody B&W shots of the latest star looking sexy and a headline like "Alison Moyet: Top Lass" or "Denise van Outen. She may have Jamiroqunt filthstink on her, but at least she dumped him, and the old girl can give it some with the old lungs".
This time around, however, there was a darker project afoot. Pinned to the wall, sliding past my horrified eyes as the escalator carried my gibbering form toward the upper air, was the monochromatic mug of one Marti Pellow, former chubby-faced rehab hoover of Wet Wet Wet and as such one of the most evil men in history.
This is like casting Adolf Eichmann in Kiss Me Kate, for God's sake. You want something more like a soulful singer than Marti Pellow? Fine. Take a duck. Put it in a microwave. Cook it until its BILL FUCKING WITHERS.
Voila
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