10 November 2003
I want to live forever. I really do want to learn how to fly. [Think of the clothes! Amazing flowing capes (in warm toasty fleecy material) that you could soar through the sky in; the goggles and gloves.]
These are things that I do not hold to be directly associated with being famous or a world-class Wife Swap, Stars in Their Eyes, held in a perspex box celebrity. I do not hold my immortality to come from or be defined by my own personal skincare tips in Heat magazine. If I'm known today for dating someone who sang something who dated someone who danced somewhere who was fathered by someone exceptionally beautiful who was whipped frequently by the then home secretary - what use is that? Tomorrow there'll be other people dancing and being beautiful, and I'll have to be locked in a different house with new camaras and constant video surveillance.
Moreover paper and silcone won't last; not until the new self-replicating periodicals and programmes come into play. A video of me whipping up my famous 7-cheese omelette before a delighted daytime audience will disintegrate into dust and, quite honestly, none of my features are distinctive enough to make a lifetime impression when described non-visually. [Except for maybe my tiny tiny nose.]
I'm lumping creative achievements into the fame category too. For one, I refer you to my previous point about the fragility of the raw material; nothing gold can stay. On the other leg, there's simply too much noise out there to make a bang, to create a lasting impression on the retina (on the palms of the hands), and isn't winning hearts and minds what this is all about? Even the most amazing things are chewed up and spat out the next week. I could blow up the world, but who would be around afterwards to remember it?
So fame and glory is out. I would like to draw the attention of the audience to my next point: blood. Ladies and gentlemen, I present vampires and all of their crushed-velvet pointiness. Who would protest about being wedged between Kiefer "Lost Boys" Sutherland and James "Cheese-slicer cheekbones" Marsters (with David "Pork chop" Boreanez looking wistfully on) as they fought it out over who would sire you? Slashlust aside, vampirism makes a strong and pointy case for the life eternal, with fun and games and proper Bloody Marys along the way. Sleep all day, party all night and avoid aging UV rays.
My main draw to this is the pointy pointy teeth and the carnivorism, both of which are good and right things. I cannot calculate how much raw steak would need to be ingested daily to fill up the daily blood levels, but it wouldn't be enough. [Sushi could probably be used for top-up levels though.]
The low side? I'm concerned about the clothing; the general moodiness; the seemingly obligatory red shirts. I have one red shirt - it's rather festive and I usually only wear it around Christmas. The red t-shirts that I own are covered in space-invaders, golden ducks and Cardcaptor Sakura, and would probably be sneered at by Kiefer and his boys.
And ginger wampires? The flaws are becoming more apparent.
More pressingly though, vampires aren't actually true immortals. They'll live forever providing you don't push them out from under their palm tree into the sun. They'll survive to the end of time if you don't wave a pointy bit of wood at them. They are the one true race of the night when they're not being shoved face-down into a plate of garlic risotto. It's all a bit shit really. By this logic, every one of us here in this dusty lecture theatre is a certified immortal, with our fatal flaws being speeding cars, dodgy fishcakes and heart disease.
Blood is out then. [Although the raw steak continues.] I come now to my master-stroke, my genius plan to be around until entropy reverses and fire fills the skies. Through slowly lowering my core body temperature I plan to slow my metabolism down, and coax my heart-beat into a leisurely one beat per day. The cold will push my body into a state of protected stasis and calm that will survive the rising of the oceans and the crumbling of the mountains.
Thus I'm freezing my tits off in this icy computer room (where the damn windows are jammed open), waiting for last bus home.