Margaret Snipe, a.k.a. Snippy, watched Elmer Grant pick up the staple gun and run a row of staples into the frame. He put his arms around the naked woman and pulled the gauze tight. It looked almost ritualistic, like someone binding feet or some obscure fetish.

His left foot dragged slightly when he walked, giving him a slightly loping look. In fact, there was something vaguely wolverine about him altogether, like some human caught mid change on a moonlit night, some Jekyll and Hyde eternally frozen in the sweep between good and evil.

DANNY now officially has celebrity fans: one film director and one actor. Unfortunately I can’t tell you who they are, but we’ve finally hooked a couple, and they are ‘proper famous’, none of your B movie types here.

My first impression of him was one of goldness. He had that strange skin that only wealthy people have. But it didn’t exactly look like tan. It was obviously a skin tone, a touch of foreignness that hadn’t come out a bottle. It was Jewishness.

The day he arrived was strange. I had not exactly forgotten about him, as he had rented the entire castle. But he was kind of at the back of my mind, just another faceless ‘them’ expecting caviar at four in the morning and their newspapers ironed.

There were a lot of rumours about the beautiful Jew: that he wasn’t really Jewish, that he had diamonds sewn into his penis like tribal scarification, that he had been smuggled out of a concentration camp as a foetus.

If I have to look at one more pansy in mascara attempting to be ‘threatening’ while wearing more flounces, zips and hair lacquer than a female impersonator, I will do serious damage to any cunt who writes another paranormal romance. Seriously. Stop it.

Oh, these zany outsider artists. Who cares why he didn’t just go to art school, or what made him waste his whole life in solitary confinement. Not me, I’m watching his penis sway in slow motion as he beats up pigs in full riot gear. Awesome.

They don’t want hidden meaning. Not unless it’s only hidden for the forty minutes of each episode. They want Smallville, Buffy, anything where Monster of the Week shows up and then they find a note/mystic medallion/special power so that it is no longer a mystery. Hooray!

I have that greatest of female gifts: the ability to eradicate myself entirely, to turn myself into a collection of suitable polite responses, to never do anything unseemly or ugly, or self-revealing. Like this.