Half a percent

The revelations from Campbell's diaries continue. The Guardian's diary column notes:

In April 2000, we find Robin Cook reporting to cabinet from an EU-Africa summit in Cairo. Colonel Gadafy wore painted nails, and Robert Mugabe had announced that Peter Hain was the gay lover of Peter Tatchell. "Hain is taking it calmly," the ginger-haired rebel noted cheerily. "Tatchell is furious."

A more disturbing (but fairly unsurprising) article covers the case of an Australian woman whose Scientologist parents pressured her not to take her psychiatric medication. The apparent result is that she's stabbed them both and her sister - her mum's in hospital and the other two are dead. More details here. Someone punch Tom Cruise for me, please?

Thanks to technotom for pointing out that this man could perhaps be the brother of yesterday's sleepwalking airline smoker.

And, passed on from a different source (kixie - thanks), a little article about, including a short chat with, Bill Drummond. Aren't we good to you?

Clive Stafford Smith's a top bloke. Michael Winner's an arse. See their contrasting views on the death penalty here. I mean, having directed Death Wish does actually make you an expert on criminology . . . doesn't it?

The Beeb reckons we'll have heavy snow showers on Friday. The sleet forecast for Saturday will probably get rid of it all, though.

I've spent most of this morning staring at Epson's screen colour-matching software. Now, I'm told that there are fairly severe limits on how much you can do with LCD panels . . . still, nobody can blame me for the purchasing policy, as I wasn't here at the time.

The BBC reports that there's a rumour Bowie's being considered for a part (Nikolai Tesla) in the film version of Chris Priest's "The Prestige".

Finally, I must share with you - well, those of you I haven't already droned on about this to - the Sleeve Pic I Must Have. I saw this in the window of a secondhand shop one evening lots of years ago and thought "I need that on my wall." I've not seen it since at a reasonable price (ie, fuck-all - it's a pitiable record, I'm sure). I speak, of course, of no other album than everyone's least favourite God-bothering poodlerockers STRYPER's album To hell with the devil.

The original, withdrawn sleeve (for being controversial, apparently - I can only imagine that people couldn't decide on a word emphatic enough to describe its breathtaking awfulness) shows the members of the band, depicted as implausibly-muscled angels with eighties-metal big hair, their modesty "tastefully" preserved by wisps of cloud, casting the chained devil into hell. And if you look closely . . . you can see . . . as he falls . . . they have broken his guitar!

Priceless. And yet, simultaneously, worthless.

( Piccy )