They'd like it, wouldn't they? All the hacks, with their jealous rants gabbling from the anaemic newsprint, queuing to take me down a peg, they can't wait to pronounce me finished, ficted out, my fictile member no longer potent. Hubricity is the media's ultimate crime- they try to push me from enfant terrible to evil uncle.
Things have changed, of course. Since the 70s, I have felt we were snatching the last few drags from the fag-end of history, puffing frantically before it is finally stubbed out. But, politicians, environmental disasters, wars, and greed notwithstanding, the End of the World has been postponed. My apocalyptic apothegms, my Millenium Buggery, seem quaint and dated. Life will, it seems, go on.
My interest in the wider world has shrunk, and I find myself drawn to that simulacrum of desire fulfilled, the pornography industry, and I study its ins and outs, ups and downs, its trades, its unions, its congresses. I am the mathematician of skin, a reckoner of the deviant algebra of addition, mutliplication, subtraction and division.
Maybe that's not very interesting to you: but would you really rather hear about my dental treatments?