True extracts from my diary during the production of TicKL #2
Well, dear Diary, the life of a lady pornographer is a curious one indeed! I had no idea there would be so many emergencies to deal with. It's all rather urgent and exciting. Last-minute nude photo shoots must be squeezed in between loading the dishwasher and brushing one's teeth. I feel as though I am turning into a manner of super-heroine. By day, mild-mannered Ms S leads a quiet and unassuming life. By night, she is Girl Grumble and flits about saving the sinful and allaying porn emergencies. She doesn't need a costume.
'Help! Quick! I need pictures of an orgy – TOMORROW!' says Editor-in-Chief at 8 pm, 'Help, help, help! They are all letting me down.'
'Okie-doke,' says I, 'Give me one hour.'
Girl Grumble to the rescue!
I transform myself into my alter ego by striping off every scrap of clothing except my high heels – at lightning speed. I zoom into the living room, faster than the human eye – vroooom – my trusty porn camera galloping along behind me on its trusty tripod legs. 'Joey! Porn emergency! Not a moment to lose!'
'I'm a bit tired,' he protests.
I wrench the guitar off him, drag him into the bedroom and exploit his body for filthy purposes – at lightening speed. While I'm at it, I also take some pictures for that accursed art pamphlet. Wham! Zok! Kapow! I also freeze frame myself mid thrust and imagine a lot of nonsense words appearing in zig-zag borders around me. Nfrup! Xnoing! Fshrump!
Yesterday's orgy disaster having been successfully averted, Mme Chief calls me up on The Red Phone, catching me at work in the middle of a full office. I am surrounded by people who know nothing of my other identity. She gabbles urgently – almost tearfully. It seems that unless I can use my super-powers to conjure a filthy story about a picnic within the week, she will be forced to coat her naked body in cheese and photograph herself in it. I am aghast! I must save her from this gruesome fate. Let me explain: it appears that the music-and-sex text originally planned has fallen through and all she can find to replace it is something written by a 'famous' Belgian woman about cheese-and-sex (yes, Diary, you heard me – cheese! Belgians. Low, filthy creatures. Need I say more?). But she has no visuals to go with it. I can't talk openly. Speaking in an ingenious code, indecipherable to my colleagues, I say, 'I shall arrange a PICNIC. There is NO NEED for you to buy CHEESE. Do you read me Pink Falcon – over?' Then off I go, pretending to be translating an accounting handbook, but in reality I am rattling out some naughty fantasy about people being rude with each other in a field.
I am sent visual material. Someone commissioned to take pictures (another evil Belgian) has sent in shots of himself weeing into what appears to be a muffin tray. All horribly sordid and dribbly and the bollocks look podgy and disgracefully unkempt. I choke on my coffee.
'Do you think this is too edgy for the main section?' asks Um Chief.
'No,' I type, still choking 'I do not think it is too edgy for the main section at all. I think it is TOO VILE AND REPELLANT FOR WORDS!'
Diary, even the muffin tray is nasty. He has clearly taken an old crusty one from the back of his gran's cupboard. And I bet his gran still uses it, too. I bet he just swishes it under the tap when he's finished and shoves it right back in. I am disgusted.
Great news, great news! I have been awarded the title 'Editor-in-Mischief' for outstanding services to scud!
Oh, oh, oh, I am so happy! I am living my ideal life!