Hello, and welcome to a special, festive edition of the TC editorial…except that there is actually nothing festive, or indeed special about this. I’ve little doubt you will soon be, if you aren’t already, heartily sick of everything to do with the season, and it’s going to be tough enough trying to get through it without me adding to your misery. The last traces of any seasonal goodwill were trashed by the computer crash which means I am typing this in for the second time, when there are a million and one things I would rather be doing [full list available on application]. Suffice it to say that decking the halls with boughs of holly is not high up there…

So, therefore, this week you get exactly the same random drivel you’ve had the other 51 weeks of the year (or slightly less, allowing for technical problems, holidays and general inactivity) — in this case, chocolate machines on the London Underground. These have been a source of frustration, profit and (very occasionally) chocolate for as long as I’ve been down in London.

Back in the early days, these were primitive creatures of the drop-down type, like a cigarette machine in a pub, whose main feature was their absolute unpredictability. You put money in, about the only thing guaranteed was that you would not get out what you expected: you might receive no chocolate, two bars of chocolate, or occasionally even more money back than you put in. This delightful variability made waiting for tube trains an entertaining and sometimes rather profitable experience. On the other hand, I very nearly got arrested for criminal damage after an encounter with one particularly recalcitrant vending machine, but that’s all part of life’s rich tapestry, isn’t it?

These were then replaced with something altogether more hi-tech, electronic, digital and tamper-proof. Just far less fun. Your only chance of scoring some free chocolate here is to look out for a particularly STUPID tourist, who has a problem grasping the concept of “put your money in, choose your confectionery, take your item”. They do exist, and occasionally will abandon a loaded-up machine when their train pulls in, allowing you to sweep majestically across and grab the winnings, albeit usually at the cost of missing a train.

It has been mooted, however, that there is a secret code to these machines, a backdoor combination which, when punched in, would allow for the vending mechanism to be “tested” [roughly translated, freebie chocolate for all]. But, despite much drunken pushing of buttons, no such combination has been found, and it was on the verge of being written off as an urban legend. But, while doing my Chr*stm*s sh*pp*ng earlier in the week [brief pause to gloat: I’ve got mine out of the way!], I overheard two kids, one of whom demonstrated what was at least A secret code, if not the Holy Grail for which we seek.

The number is [conspiratorial whisper] 110. Punch that in, and you seem to get some kind of status message, usually “Ok!”, but sometimes referring to “Con Switch 14” and the like. Needless to say, research into this topic is now continuing with increased fervour, and readers are encouraged to try random button pushing of their own next time they’re travelling through London. All further information on the topic would be very welcome…

And with that, I’m off to indulge in the previously mentioned million and one other things. The next time I pick up a mouse, we’ll be in the last year of the Millenium [yes, I know it’s not really; send all pedantic quibbles to Peter Mandelson]. Have a…bearable one, and I’ll see you in 1999.

I seem to have been bumping into sex a lot lately. Not, I hasten to add, in person, but as an industry. A “research” trip to Peter Stringfellow’s ‘Cabaret of Angels’ (paid, too!), plus the recent three-part series on ITV about prostitution, and now Chris informs me of a clampdown in Arizona on “sexually oriented businesses”.

My position on such things is, unsurprisingly, stoically libertarian, and largely parallels my views on drugs. You can’t legislate natural human interests out of existence; the best you can hope to do is control them, but I personally strongly believe that it’s not the role of government to legislate on such things. What people do behind closed doors is entirely up to them — end of story. Just as I support the legalization of *all* pharmaceuticals, even though I’ve never tried any, I am entirely in favour of legal prostitution without actually wanting to visit one [well, not until they develop cloning techniques a bit further, and apply them to certain German actresses…] And, also like drugs, I suspect that what people generally object to about prostitution is less the act itself, more the related nastiness: indeed, even in Britain, actual prostitution isn’t illegal. Virtually everything related to it is – pimping, brothels, soliciting, kerb crawling – but not the selling of sex.

Yet again, most of the nastiness would go away if decriminalization was chosen over legislation. Firstly, prostitutes inevitably spend half their time on the streets trying to earn money to pay off fines imposed on them for soliciting. How effective is a punishment which forces the victim to repeat the crime? Next, the problems of STDs would be a lot easier to control with legal, regulated, inspected brothels. As it is, everything is now left up to the hookers who, with all due respect, may not always be the most conscientious of people, though plenty of them practice far safer sex than your average stoned E-head.

Finally, the prevalent problem of “respectable” women being mistaken for prostitutes would end. This can’t be a very nice thing to happen, but the reason why it happens is obvious: punters can’t distinguish one from the other, because if someone in a red-light district here looks like a prostitute, they get arrested. The only way to survive is adopt a low profile, which inevitably leads to confusion. You go down the Rue St. Denis in Paris, and it is patently bleedin’ obvious who are the hookers and who are the local residents. Each gets on with their live, without interference.

Even closer to home, this can be seen to happen. Westminster try to stamp out the sex shows in Soho, and get over-run with all manner of dodgy gangsters running rip-off joints. Okay, fleecing tourists may not be SUCH a bad thing, but when strip-clubs are outlawed, only outlaws will run strip-clubs. Meanwhile, up in the East End, more enlightened councils have led to a number of respectable, above board strip clubs. They still crack down on those that breach the rules, but on the whole, it’s a lot less of a problem than in Soho, because they take a more sensible attitude.

This would all seem to me patently bleedin’ obvious, but those in power (especially the squeaky-clean Labour government we’ve now got — and don’t blame me, I didn’t vote for the fuckers) can never be seen to do something that goes so against the family, even if it is common sense. And so, AIDS and other diseases will continue to spread, prostitutes will still get beaten up by their pimps, and women will still get stalked by confused kerb-crawlers, to the massive embarrassment of all concerned. How’s that for “family values”…?

I used to think “I’m not a morning person”. However, it’s 09:58, and I’ve just tried to phone Lino. I would have had better luck communicating with the dead, but I have gained a whole new respect for what the phrase “not a morning person” really means. In his case, I reckon even afternoons are a bit dodgy. But from my point of view, now that the clocks have gone back, getting up ceases to be a mild irritation and become a major feat. Never mind single-handed conquests of Everest, me getting into work (vaguely) on time is something much more deserving of applause on the ‘human endeavour’ front. It’s bad enough getting out of bed in the summer, when sunlight falls in dapples through the curtains, and birds are singing on your windowsill. But when it’s pitch black, and any sensible fauna has migrated to warmer climes…

Things are not helped by the steadily escalating round of Christmas parties and outings, which tend to lead to me staggering from one day to the next, desperately trying to cram eight hours of sleep into six hours in bed, and two hours of hungover misery at your desk. Put two or three such nights in quick succession, and I rapidly start looking like a audition candidate for George Romero’s next epic.

Oddly, though, I’ve found a small loophole in biological law, which I hereby pass on, in the hope that it’ll be of use to others: if you aren’t going to get eight hours sleep, it’s a lot better to get four than six. I presume it’s something to do with cycles, but six hours invariably leads to the aforementioned walking dead impression, while on four, I can usually just about function and get through the day. I might crash out in the bogs for half an hour’s kip, mind, but hey, rather that than the feeling that your brain has been replaced by two pounds of treacle.

The other advantage is obvious: you can get so much more done when you don’t have to go to bed till 3 a.m. And there is much less competition for leisure resources at that hour, because your more sensible housemates have already departed for bed. Thus, television, computer, Playstation — all are available for your entertainment. The major problem is when it reaches your revised crash-time, and you start trying to talk yourself into thinking you can survive on no sleep whatsoever. This is very, very bad and should be avoided at all costs, unless you want to start Seeing Things out of the corner of your eye round about tea-time.

Now, I take this approach as an emergency measure, good for one or perhaps two evenings per week to tide you over until you reach less sleep-challenged waters. However, I passed the technique on to Rob Dyer, of ‘Dark Star’ magazine, and he has taken it to the next level, with prolonged periods on four hours sleep per night. [Dunno whether this means we’ll see a new issue inside 18 months… :-)] I am monitoring his mental condition to see if he starts giggling inanely, staring into space, or purchasing B*witched CDs — as yet, there have been no signs of Mr.Psychosis paying him a visit, but I’m not yet going to risk it myself.

I did it last night, however, since I was looking at about six hours sleep by the time I got back from the company Christmas party and pottered around on the Internet. The party was actually rather good, compared to previous nightmares. I’ll spare you the details, but the most noteworthy thing was the decorative theme which dragged in Area 51 and alien autopsies, with vats containing ETs, etc. Interesting how it has become so engrained in public consciousness that it can be used in this fashion without anyone batting an eye-lid. But of course, this is precisely what “they” want to happen…

And on that note, I’m off to bed. I have some catching-up to do.
Zzzzzzzzzzzz…