I went to see the Francis Bacon exhibition at Tate Britain yesterday. It was quite strange afterwards strolling around the Pre-Raphaelites and their crowd-pleasing, glamorous paintings - after seeing Bacon's images of pain and torment and despair, human bodies reduced to ripped meat. It came to mind: where can art go, after this? It made me think of Adorno professing that there could be no poetry after Auschwitz. It was also a savage depiction of masculinity, particularly the screaming men in suits. And all the bestial twisted teeth and jaws, the rawness of human emotion - a contrast to the day-trippers with their handbags and headphones, wandering around. I thought, what would reduce you, with your iPod and trendy jeans, to a figure from one of these paintings?

Literally one whole person requested to read my Rockabilly Rave feature (thanks Mike!) so if you want to actually have a copy in your hand, and see me in all my pink-haired glory, head to Borders . . . and y'know it would be nice not to just read it on the stand as I -er- never do, of course, as the Nude people produce the magazine without making any profit, and it is such a beautifully produced work of (he)art.

And another thing, what is with all the anti-Madonna rage? Alongside all the gleeful schadenfreude about the Ritchies' divorce, and I doubt she needs my feeble support, the press was vitriolically anti-Madonna. Guy Richie received some flack about his Mockney-twattishness, but most of the commentary was on how her success was too much for him to deal with, with some wags wondering which was "the husband". How is it in this day and age that a woman still can't be more successful than her partner without being called a "ball-breaker" etc etc rant . . .