Adventures of Helena the Brit

Helena Mayfair will absolutely shatter your understanding of authenticity in this dazzling, fever-dream journey through the performative landscapes of modern existence. With razor-sharp wit and devastating insight, she guides us through her encounters with tortured artists, American finance bros, and political figures whose public posturing barely conceals their private contradictions.

At the heart of this episode lies a profound question: Where does performance end and genuine experience begin? When Helena finds herself in "subspace," sinking through layers of carefully constructed personas until she discovers "something that wasn't even wearing Chanel," we're confronted with the possibility that authenticity might exist beneath our social masks—if only we're brave enough to look.

The metamodern breakdown in Berghain perfectly captures our contemporary cultural condition: "To know something is ridiculous and to feel it anyway." Dancing to Aqua's "Barbie Girl" while weeping on ketamine becomes a metaphor for the oscillation between irony and sincerity that characterizes our lives. Helena's adventures—from art heists to ayahuasca retreats, from political liaisons to Los Angeles fever dreams—serve as a funhouse mirror reflecting our own attempts to navigate a world where everything feels simultaneously meaningful and absurd.

What makes this episode truly transformative is how it validates our contradictions. Helena embodies the tension between cynicism and yearning, between knowing performance and desperate authenticity. She reminds us that being "fake" was never the problem—"it was always the loneliness, the echo, the absence, the desperate yearning for someone to see us pretending and believe in us anyway."

Ready to question everything you thought you knew about sincerity, relationships, and self? Let Helena Mayfair be your guide through this labyrinth of glamorous absurdity. Subscribe now and discover why cultivating the "sizzling, sexy confidence that you can only get through relegating it to a persona" might just be the key to navigating our performative world.

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Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
This is K-Tron Stray out of LA and it's Emerson
Dammit's Medicated Minutes today.
Personal development, then.
This is not a lie.
Number one in the city, I willguard till we die.
Liberty saves lives.
That's a deep impact.
Ain't no other good podcast.
That's true fact.
So kick back, let it hit, letthe insight ignite.

(00:23):
Kick back.
Emerson's on K-Tron, losAngeles tonight.

Speaker 2 (00:33):
I've found that closure doesn't really exist,
but human nature does.
You're free to choose your owndestiny, even if you think that
you might not be.
The fact that you're thinkingabout it at all means that you
know that you are.
You are free.
You have no idea how powerfuland sexy you are.

Speaker 4 (01:06):
Thank you.
Is it a production of EmersonDameron's medicated minutes?

Speaker 5 (01:27):
The number one avant-garde Persona villain in
program On K-Chung Los Angeles,but she saves lives.

Speaker 6 (01:53):
I awoke in Astoria with a hangover so profound it
felt like an art installationSomething bleak, pretentious and
vaguely misogynistic displayedin an abandoned warehouse
curated by a man in a turtleneckwho had most certainly fingered
me poorly once and thencritiqued my reading habits the
sort of thing that would bereviewed in Artforum as an

(02:15):
unflinching interrogation offemale suffering, while the
Prosecco-drenched corpse of mydignity lay in the corner.
My last clear memory involved abottle of Prosecco always the
fucking Prosecco and a Ukrainianbartender with war in his eyes,
one of several he'd fought inrecently, most of them just for
fun and an Adam's apple thatjutted out like a monument.

(02:38):
The next thing I knew I was inwhat I presumed to be his
apartment.
The walls were covered in oilpaintings, all depicting the
same woman screaming, her facetwisted in ecstasy or agony.
The distinction, like my ownmoral compass, had long since
dissolved in lie.
A gas heater hissed like asnake whose family you wronged

(03:00):
in a past life.
He sat across from me rolling acigarette with the precision of
a man who had been incarceratedor loved badly or both.
Fifty-something, with cheekbonessharp enough to open mail eyes,
like a wolf that had gleefullydevoured a poet and kept his
soul.
He watched me, not like a manwho wanted to fuck me, like a

(03:22):
man who wanted to carve me intoa series of small statues and
enter them in the VeniceBiennale.
We never spoke of love, webarely spoke at all.
His hands delivered hismanifesto, bruising, insistent,
a dialectic of force andsurrender.
He made me feel like rawmaterial ready to be sculpted,
warm material ready to besculpted.

(03:43):
When he slapped me just onceacross the face, it was so
theatrical, so deliberate, Ihalf expected a gallery opening
to break out around us.
There she is, he whisperedafterward like my face had
finally collapsed into its idealcomposition.
It was exquisite, I felt,chosen, elevated.

(04:08):
The pain was transcendence,something Catholic, something
primal, humiliation that was forlesser women.
I was the patron saint ofaesthetic suffering, and every
last morsel of it was sustainedwith my enthusiastic consent, if
not pleading desperation.
He had a theory.
Of course they always do.
Pain purifies, desire, debasesand thus reveals.

(04:29):
Art emerges from the collisionof shame and pleasure.
He believed men should pushlimits, women should survive
them.
Not because he hated us, oh no,quite the opposite.
He revered us as one reveresnature Beautiful, destructive,
amoral.
The greatest thing a man coulddo, he implied in his cigarette

(04:52):
silences was witness.
A woman survive him.
Then there was Ricky.
Ricky with the chin-strap beard.
Ricky with the self-producedmixtapes Astoria slaps, volume
three.
Ricky who fused throat, singingwith rather slipshod trap beats
, producing a sound that evokedboth a garrotted hippo and a

(05:13):
demonic dial-up modem.
Trying to connect to the spiritof murmur, he wore track suits
in the colours of chemicalspills.
He spoke exclusively in recordscratch aphorisms.
He worshipped Gangster Pat witha fervour that suggested he had
seen the Virgin Mary in aMemphis strip club or at least
found some real ecstasy.

(05:33):
His other touchstone wasArrington D Dioniso, an artist
he'd discovered while high onairbrush propellant, whom he
spoke of with the reverenceothers reserve for Chekhov or
shoot from the hip era.
Sophie Ellis Baxter, youdeadass Helena, you vibe
different, he told me on ourthird date.

Speaker 7 (05:55):
You got that old money energy like down in Abbey,
but you suck dick.
Your accent makes me horror.
On like a spiritual level.
You look like you teach yoga tomilFs.
But low-key, you a freak.
You ever been choked out whilelistening to Gangsta Pat?
It'll change your life.

Speaker 6 (06:16):
Reader, I stayed.
I mean, who else was going toconvince him?
The plural of MILF is MILFs.
Yeah, and so my soul became adiptych.
Ricky by day recording trapthroat fusion in his cousin's
basement.
The artist by night carvingfree verse into my collarbone
with his teeth, as the screamingwomen on the walls besottedly

(06:37):
bore witness.
One dragged me through thesublime while quoting Xenophon,
the other dragged me to theAthens Grill and Sports Bar at
3am.
I oscillated between thesepoles of masculinity Ricky, who
once rhymed Balenciaga withGuantanamo, and the artist who
locked me in his bathroom forthree hours because I had to
learn patience, eventuallyoffering me a so-called swirly,

(07:01):
which I accepted, just to feelsomething cold, in this case, at
any rate.
Then came the performance.
Ricky had a show.
A dive bar in Queens, stickyfloors, a bouncer who looked
like he had been cut from a Bondfilm for being too emotionally
available.
The artist agreed to come withthe air of a man bearing witness

(07:23):
to war crimes.
He wore black.
As always, he wore black.
As always, he barely spoke.
As always, he gave me severalorgasms purely through eye
contact.
As always, ricky took the stage.
His opening track was calledSwallow Pride, throat Goat,
slight Return, combining mumblerap and what I can only describe

(07:44):
as eldritch chanting from apurgatory for disobedient
Intellivision consoles.
It sounded like an exorcismperformed by a demon with a
sound cloud and a deservedlyfailing line of graphic t-shirt
you do.

Speaker 8 (08:01):
Swallow pride, swallow my groove.
Sluts love real men.
Sluts are right.
Open your legs, keep it tight.
Dick is king.
That's the deal.
Take this load.
That's real.

Speaker 6 (08:19):
The crowd turned hostile.
A man near the pool tableshouted turn that shit off.
Ricky ignored him,transitioning into an
interpolation of gin and juice.
I glanced at the artist,expecting disdain.
Instead he was laughing, Realfull-body laughter.
He looked human.

(08:39):
I loved him then, Not for hisviolence, not for his darkness,
but because he could see theabsurdity.
He could see art where otherssaw madness.
After the set, Ricky bound over, drenched in sweat, eyes, wild.
Yo, that was historic right.
The artist leaned in his voicelow grave, you are the future of

(09:03):
sound.
Fifteen minutes later, rickyknew all about the nurse with
Wound List, the continuingrelevance of Mayo Thompson and
Harry Parch, and how the artistplans to rebrand the entire
concept of outsider art,starting with Ricky himself.
As Ricky beamed, I feltsomething inside me crack

(09:24):
Dignity maybe, or the lastfragile link to my baseline
concept of normalcy.
Or perhaps it was just thelogical end point of desire,
trapped between a sadist and asoundcloud shaman in a borough
named for Catherine of Briganda,that I barely tolerated.
Later that night, the artistmade love to me differently.

(09:46):
Tenderly, he traced the bruiseshe'd given me like a
cartographer of my suffering.
You don't have to stay, hemurmured, but of course I did,
because I deserved it all thebitch slaps and the knee slaps,
the poetry and the mumble rap,the bruises for which I so
enthusiastically cruised, andthe mixed tapes I was too

(10:09):
embarrassed to chuck in the bin.
Was it degrading?
Perhaps Deranged?
Almost certainly.
But was it glamorous?
Absolutely.
If I could bring glamour toQueens, I could do anything.
Besides, I had learned things Apower men and Tuvan throat wrap
that would absolutely get mearrested in Europe someday, if

(10:30):
I'm lucky.
Oh, darling, let me tell youabout Bruno, my tragic,
delightful sex idiot.
He's as muscled as a frescoedcherub and precisely as
intelligent.
His every utterance is an ariaof incomprehensible power.

(10:53):
Talk, some bizarre dialect oftestosterone and monosyllables.
Grunts, roars, push through theburn, what burn, darling.
The man communicates like aprotein shake that's just
discovered vowels.
And yet there I was in adimension that felt like an
unfinished painting, somewherebetween Magritte's preposterous

(11:16):
skies and Kandinsky's spasms ofcolour and chaos.
Reality there was a slipperything, a smear of shapes that
couldn't quite decide what theywanted to be.
A staircase spiralled upwardinto the breast of a cloud, a
crescent moon floated,half-submerged in a pool of ink.
Bruno stood at the centre of itall.
His body a glistening monumentof brute force.

(11:38):
His head cocked like an emptyand forgotten piece of crockery.
What's the strategy, eleanor?
He barked, his voicereverberating like a gong struck
in a hall of mirrors.
Strategy, as though I had abattle plan for the likes of him
.
And then he charged at me thisliving marble slab, this erotic

(11:59):
wrecking ball.
He collided like tectonicplates and, oh, the landscape
quaked.
Darling, it was violent, acubist tango of limbs and
impulses.
His hands were all at once,anvils and feathers, dismantling
me piece by trembling piece.
He spun me into shapes I didnot know my body could inhabit.

(12:21):
At one point I was certain Ihad become a trapezoid.
He painted bruises on me withbroad, brutish strokes, as
though I were his canvas.
And agony his art.
And when he spoke, oh his words, pure nonsense.
Dominate the quadrant, activatethe core, activate the core,

(12:42):
stack games, games.
I've no earthly idea what hemeant, but I nodded, moaned and
begged for more.
At one point he lifted me like Iwas weightless, an origami
crane folded into submission.
I flailed beautifully, ofcourse, a damsel undone by his

(13:03):
geometric cruelty.
A flee, of course, a damselundone by his geometric cruelty.
He slammed me against a wallthat wasn't there, and yet I
felt it, the texture of itsimpossibility against my skin.
I dissolved into angles,reduced to some surreal
assemblage of passion and pain,all at the mercy of this
absurdly sculpted man.
And yet there were moments,brief, flickering moments, when

(13:27):
I saw something in his eyes.
Not intelligence, mind you,that would be asking far too
much, but sincerity, yes, that'sit.
A pure, almost childlike joy.
As he shattered me like glass,his grin was that of a boy
pulling wings off a butterfly,but somehow endearing, do you

(13:48):
know?
Once he even called mebrilliant.
Well, his word was,quote-unquote, tight.
Tight meaning brilliant.
And oh the aftermath, darling.
We lay there, entangled in amess of broken geometry and
perspiration, the air thick,with the smell of paint.
Thinner, I think, or perhapsregret.
Bruno looked at me withsomething approaching admiration

(14:11):
, his chest heaving like anunfinished symphony.
You're tight, he said, which Itook as a compliment, though I'm
certain it was meant as apost-workout assessment, certain
it was meant as a post-workoutassessment.
And I well, I told him he wassublime, because really, what
else could he be?
A sublime idiot, my idiot, mysex idiot.

(14:34):
But you know what's funny,darling?
Just before I left, as Islipped back into my dress,
smoothing its fabric over theconstellation of bruises he'd
left behind, I caught himlooking at me with an expression
I couldn't quite play.
Was it pity?
No, amusement perhaps.
And then it struck me In hiseyes I was the idiot, the fool

(15:01):
in this surrealist farce, hissex idiot.
Me, can you imagine.
But of course he's wrong, isn'the?
Surely I'm the clever one here.
After all, I'm the one tellingthe story, darling, you simply

(15:30):
must hear about my latestspiritual awakening, Not the
kind I had at that dreadfullyauthentic ayahuasca retreat in
Notting Hill, but that wasabsolutely transformative too,
even if I did ruin my favouriteLBD.
No, this was something far morehow do the French say it?
Profound.
I've discovered subspace, andno, I don't mean that

(15:53):
frightfully pedestrian sci-fishow everyone's watching.
I mean something actuallytranscendent.
Of course, I'd read about it inthose terribly earnest BDSM
handbooks that are always lyingaround at Jasper's Sex Positive
Book Club, most of them writtenby people who shop at Tesco.
If you know what I mean.
I'd assumed it was all ratherplebeian fantasy, like believing

(16:13):
Prosecco is real champagne.
I'd gone into the whole thingperfectly prepared.
Naturally I always am.
One doesn't graduate from StCatharines without learning how
to maintain an air ofaristocratic control in any
situation.
I plan to do what I always doappear to submit, while actually
orchestrating the entireexperience, rather like Marina

(16:36):
Abramovic.
Actually, have you heard of her?
She's this absolutely vitalperformance artist who, oh,
never mind.
Vital performance artist who,oh, never mind.
But then he happened, andsuddenly all my carefully
curated poses, which I'dpracticed for hours in my
vintage vanity mirror, justdissolved.
It wasn't just the publicspanking, though.
That was exquisitelyorchestrated, or the way he

(16:59):
called me a vapid littleprincess in front of everyone at
Soho House.
It was something deeper, likeVirginia Woolf diving into the
river, except sexy and withbetter hair.
One moment I was Helena Mayfair, you know the one everyone at
Art Basel called refreshinglyauthentic.
And the next I was gone,sinking through layers of myself

(17:20):
, like one of those Russiandolls I once saw at Harrods Past
the me that only drinks smallbatch gin Past.
The me that quotes Baudelairein terrible French Past.
The me that pretends tounderstand crypto because that
DJ I dated would not shut upabout it.
And at the very bottom, beneathall my carefully curated

(17:40):
personas, I found something real, something genuine, something
that wasn't even wearing Chanel,horrifying right, but also
magnificent, like finding outyour great-grandmother was
actually a kitchen maid, but ina sexy way.
The experience was simplycosmic.

(18:00):
I saw colours that haven't evenbeen gentrified yet.
I heard music that made TimHecker sound like Fred.
Again, my consciousness expandedbeyond my corporeal form,
rather like that time Iaccidentally took too much to
Phoebe at Creamfields.
Except this felt meaningful,important, like I was finally

(18:20):
starring in my own French NewWave film, the truly
revolutionary part.
I didn't even care how I looked.
Can you imagine Me the girl whoonce refused epidural during a
root canal because I was afraidit would make my smile
asymmetrical.
There I was completelysurrendered, probably making

(18:41):
faces that would horrify myBotox specialist, and I was free
.
When I finally surfaced, likeOphelia, but with better
lighting, I felt rebornNaturally.
I immediately checked my makeup, reapplied my Charlotte Tilbury
and pretended nothingtranscendent had happened.
One must maintain standards.
But, darling, let me tell youhad happened.

(19:02):
One must maintain standards.
But, darling, let me tell youI've been changed, transformed,
elevated.
I suppose you could say it washumbling, though I don't really
do humble.
It clashes with my bonestructure.
Was it enlightening?
Like reading Roland Barthes forthe first time, but with nipple
clamp.
Was it embarrassing?

(19:23):
Oh sweetie, nothing isembarrassing when you're as
genuinely complex andmisunderstood as I am.
As it happens, I'm neverembarrassed, just utterly
gloriously ruined.
Now, if you'll excuse me, Isimply must call my Dom.
He's this absolutelyfascinating investment banker

(19:45):
who really gets me.
He says I'm not like othergirls at all, and you know what
he's right.
I'm literally the only person Iknow who's experienced
something this profound.
Well, except for Arabella, butshe's clearly just copying me
Again.

(20:20):
So there's these four Americanchaps I keep company with, let's
say, wouldn't call them friendsexactly.
Certainly not by friends, mindyou.
That's far too conventional,isn't it?
Er more like pieces of a littlepuzzle, my own four-piece
Yankee set, if you will.
Each one's got his little charm.
Don't ask me what they see inme, but honestly, who's
complaining?
No, there's Brad.

(20:40):
Brad, the leader.
You know he's always givingorders, terribly bossy, but oh,
I quite like that, my littleBrit.
He calls me with thatpatronising grin.
He's forever setting rules,making decisions and expecting
me to follow Seven sharp hella,he'll say.

(21:00):
Not a touch of humour in hisvoice and the thrill of it just
makes me melt.
Like he's some American king orwhatever.
And I'm his.
I don't know.
His Dassel, is that the word Imean?
Really, who am I to deny a manhis little rituals?

(21:20):
It's like he knows exactly whatI want before I even think it
and I get to just float alongEffortless, really.
Then there's Jax.
Action, jax, no chit chat, justpure raw energy.
Gets right down to business.
Barely a kind word in him.
But who needs gentle?

(21:41):
Oh, no, not me.
He calls me his little Englishrose, and I think that's sweet
as far as it goes, but the wayhe throws me about like I'm just
some outlet.
He says Outlet.
I thought it was adorable whenhe said it.
It's almost like he imagineshe's found the core of me, this
mysterious little English thing.

(22:03):
He's unravelling bit by bit andhe's going to plug right in
like he's rogering the cosmos Me.
I just let him get on with it.
Less talking, more you know whatcan I say?
Strong and silent has nothingon strong and straightforward in
my book.
And Trey Trey, the dark, dirtyriddler Now he's clever bit of

(22:30):
an oddball.
He's into all this mind controltalk, saying things like I can
see your core motivation, helena, my core motivation, can you
imagine.
But he says it with thispiercing gaze like he's
imparting some great, profoundrevelation.
And I think, sure, trey,whatever you say, it's quite a

(22:52):
show.
Really.
I barely need to be there.
He calls me his fascinatingspecimen and there's something
so sweetly deranged about it,don't you think?
All I have to do is nod alongand he's positively enthralled.
He might think he's got meunder his spell, but oh, I do
know a thing or two about charm.
At the end of the day, I'm justfloating along quite above it

(23:17):
all With legs like these.
He wants to work hard.
And then Eugene, dreamy geniusEugene oh, poet, that one,
you're my English muse.
He tells me, like he's Goddardand I'm his Brigette Bardot or
some such.
He's got that soft, idealisticside, always whispering about
how I'm the only one for him, Iam the only one I know full well

(23:43):
.
He's got a whole harem he'ssaying that to, but he's ever so
convincing, he's practicallyhypnotised himself with all
those flowery words.
And alright, I admit I sort ofmelt when he says them, don't I?
Because really, what girldoesn't love a bit of romance?
The moment he gazes at me withthat doe-eyed look, I feel just

(24:03):
as special.
As he says I am Silly, maybe,but I know the game.
It's all just a bit of funwrapped round his finger with
that charm of his.
Such an excellent fantasyplayer he is, and he doesn't
fancy a bit of that once in ablue moon.
But you see, that's themarvellous part of it all, each

(24:24):
one of them with his own funnyAmerican way of seeing me.
I suppose one could say I've gotthe best of all worlds, don't
you think?
Or at least four of them, likeI'm a wayfaring queen with four
loyal Well, I wouldn't saysubjects or loyal, but it's
close enough to rock and roll.
Yeah, oh, darling, let me tellyou, los Angeles is a fever

(25:13):
dream, wrapped in a piece ofcauliflower flatbread, sprinkled
with bee pollen and served witha side of unsolicited advice.
It's a place where every cornerhides a guru with a didgeridoo
advice.
It's a place where every cornerhides a guru with a didgeridoo
whispering the secrets of theuniverse while selling you an
overpriced jade egg for yourinner peace, or wherever you're
meant to put it.

(25:33):
Now picture this I'm wanderingthrough Venice Beach Well, not
wandering, striding with purpose, of course, as one does.
And there he is, this beardedAdonis, draped in organic linen,
sitting cross-legged on aHimalayan salt block.

(25:54):
He beckons me with a fingerthat Michelangelo himself could
have sculpted and he says getthis.
Baby, your aura is starving thisBaby, your aura is starving,
starving as if my aura has beennibbling on pita crisps and
inhaling kombucha fumes insteadof a hearty, existential stew.

(26:14):
I was riveted.
Naturally, he tells me I needto realign my energetic
vibrations.
And the way he said it withsuch conviction, I almost felt
guilty for not knowing.
My vibrations were misalignedto begin with.
So naturally, I handed over asmall fortune for a handcrafted

(26:35):
chakra harmonizer.
Yes, it's just a rock, but hecalled it cosmic quartz.
Cosmic quartz?
Doesn't that just sound divine?
But then, oh the twist.
As I clutch my cosmic quartz andgaze deep into my starving aura
, I'm struck by the mostmarvellous realisation.

(26:55):
Isn't the whole charade a bitof a lark?
I mean really.
The salt block guru, the jadeeggs, the cosmic quartz, it's
all one big performance, aself-help pantomime, if you will
, where everyone is pretendingto be both the damsel in
distress and the dashing savior.
Los angeles, darling, isn't acity, it's an installation piece

(27:20):
about the commodification ofenlightenment.
And we're all extras, millingabout the set in our lululong
costumes, awaiting direction.
Genius, no.
At this point I think, helena,you're onto something.
Could the very act of seekingself-improvement be the most

(27:40):
gloriously self-defeating thingof all?
Like trying to mop up a puddlewith a sponge that's already
sopping wet.
So, naturally, I decide tobecome a commentator on this
whole absurdity, a meta-guru ifyou will, the guru who knows
she's a guru, which makes herbetter than the other gurus, or

(28:01):
maybe worse, or perhaps just abit more self-aware, which is
really the same thing in the end.
But here's the kicker love.
As I sit there cradling mycosmic quartz, waxing poetic on
the futility of seeking meaning,I realize I've come full circle
, because isn't pointing out theabsurdity of it all just
another way of saying look at me, figured it out.

(28:23):
And isn't that the most LosAngeles thing of all?
A hall of mirrors where everyreflection thinks it's the
original?
At any rate, I left my cosmiccourts on the salt block and
walked away, head held high,vibrating with a sort of smug
nihilism.
But of course I still booked asoundbar for later, because one

(28:43):
must keep one's options open,right, right.
Was it deliciously ironic?
Perhaps Was it simply delicious, absolutely.
Did I learn any lessons?
Did I experience an epiphany ora personal growth spurt, or
even a nice surreptitious orgasm?
Was any of this quote unquote,real in the traditional sense?

(29:05):
Honestly, I can't tell anymore.

Speaker 9 (29:31):
Oh politics.

Speaker 6 (29:33):
How tiresome.
And yet, my love, one must keepabreast of the scene if one
wishes to be terriblywell-connected.
Now, britain, my dear, is anomniscienz Shocking.
I know I shan't bore you withmanifestos, I'll tell you what
matters, which is, of course,who is fun at parties.

(29:53):
The Tories, ah, theConservative Party, old boys
club ghastly sorts, alwayswaffling on about tradition and
fiscal responsibility, when intruth they're just very keen on
ensuring they'll live foreverfree from any momentary
discomfort.
But, my god, some of theirministers are quite the

(30:14):
enthusiasts in private.
Once I found myself entangledwith a rather high-ranking
cabinet member no names, ofcourse who spent the afternoon
decrying the decline of the Westand the moral decay of society.
And who spent the afternoondecrying the decline of the West
and the moral decay of societyand then spent the evening
locked in a vintage Victorianpunishment box, weeping and
blowing his nose into a UnionJack handkerchief, while I

(30:36):
dressed as the ghost of Britainfuture, complete with
LED-studded dominatrix crown andscepter, read anti-Oedipus
aloud through a megaphone andmethodically stubbed out goals
on a map of his constituency.
Marked proposed tax haven,character building.
He called it, said it helpedhim focus on more salient

(30:58):
matters, such as cuttingbenefits for orphans.
Labour, oh the working man'sparty.
Social justice, economicequality, hand-wringing about
the people Sweet, really Bitearnest for my taste, but I do
so admire their passion.
I had a rather intense affairwith a young MP once Completely

(31:19):
devoted to workers' rights,always on about solidarity.
And yet, after a few Negronis,this proud mastiff of the
proletariat was on all fourswith a red rose clenched between
his teeth, pulling a miniaturecoal cart filled with my
designer shoes across hissustainably sourced bamboo
floors, begging to be called alittle Tory grass.

(31:42):
Who's betrayed the collectivehad a safe word and everything
privatisation claimed it wasdialectical role play therapy.
I dare say Marx would notapprove, but Engels might have
dipped a toe in.
Yeah, the Lib Dems, oh darlings.
I do love the Lib Dems.
So idealistic, so full of ideasno one will ever take seriously

(32:05):
.
They want compromise and nuanceand a strong centrist vision,
which is to say they want to beinvited to think.
I once had a brief tryst with avery serious Lib Dems
spokesperson who insisted wecould only proceed after
drafting a 27-page agreementwith colour-coded appendices and

(32:26):
a dispute resolution framework.
The sex was fine, I suppose,but the negotiations were
exquisite.
We made flowcharts and Venndiagrams of erogenous zones, for
God's sake.
In the bedroom he insisted onwearing yellow surgical gloves
and stopping every seven minutesto conduct a proportional

(32:46):
representation vote between myleft and right butted, and yet
in the end he simply couldn'tcommit, tied up in a polyamorous
entanglement with principle andpragmatism, ending up in bed
with neither the Greens Nowlisten.
I adore the Greens, notpolitically, no, but because

(33:07):
their men have the longest hairand the most adorably sized
carbon footprints.
I had a lover who was terriblyinto sustainability, always
cycling everywhere and lamentingdeforestation, very devoted to
natural living, until, of course, I caught him on my luxe core
sheets, fully encased insingle-use plastic wrap, like a

(33:28):
human leftover sandwich, beggingme to drizzle him with palm oil
while he clutched a stuffedblue butterfly and moaned about
rising sea level.
He wept after muttering abouteco-hypocrisy, but I consoled
him.
We all make sacrifices forpleasure, darling.
Some of us simply don't makethem.
At Bretton Manger, reform UK,ah, please, you want me to

(33:52):
seriously discuss the nutters,the farragists, the
bring-back-the-empire-brigaderight-wing bravado,
anti-immigration,pro-sovereignty, all of that,
but really just a collection ofbald men who wear flags like
capes and think the NHS shouldbe run like a pub quiz.
I'm Morrithy, although I'm notready for that conversation.
I did let one of them handcuffme once, purely for research,

(34:20):
attempting to stank me with ablue passport and penetrate my
left nostril with a tinyChurchill bust.
He must have got from somehorrible Brit Nat Gumball
machine, all while his UnionJackboxes were bunched
pathetically round his ankle.
I thought this is quite enough.
Albion for one evening.
The SNP, scottish Nationalists Ilove the Scots so passionate

(34:44):
about independence.
I had a wonderful night with achap who told me Scotland must
be free of Westminster's tyrannyand I said, darling, I
understand.
I hate it when rookie domscan't tell their crops from
their floggers.
Yeah, magnificent stamina,those Scots.
He tied me up in authentic clantartan rope, insisted I call
him Rob Roy, while heinterpreted Robert Burns through

(35:07):
a bagpipe mouthpiece and thendemanded I sign a mock
independence referendum beforehe allowed me to climax every
time for three centuries ofEnglish oppression, and the rope
burns on my priceless legssymbolised the Battle of
Culloden.

(35:28):
I swoon, oh, but truly, whatdoes it all matter?
It's all just posturing untilthe lights go down and the true
nature of a man is revealed.
And that, my dear, is where Ithrive, darling.

(35:58):
If there's one thing I detest,it's a combination of vulgarity
and ignorance, like imagineactually paying for your vices,
that's, for hedge fund managers,neglected middle children,
tourists in Ibiza.
Real sophistication lies inaccepting the absurd abundance
of life and the mundane miraclesit throws your way.

(36:20):
Yeah, so it was that.
I found myself at a galleryopening in Shoreditch.
You know the sort Halfperformance art, half excuse for
trust fund muppets to wearthings they don't understand.
One installation was literallya pile of rubble with a placard
reading entropy.
A pile of rubble with a placardreading entropy.

(36:43):
Very Proustian, I'm sure.
The real piece de resistance,though, wasn't the act.
It was Calvin Klein, not theman darling, nor his knickers,
though I do have a few where Ikeep those sorts of souvenirs.
No, this was something even moreintoxicating.
A delightful concoction ofcocaine and ketamine whispered
about in certain circles.
Alternatively, I suppose youcould call it Louis CK, although

(37:03):
that would be a bit grim forsome tastes, including mine.
At any rate, when someonesidled up to me with a
silver-tipped vial and murmuredCalvin Klein, I naturally
assumed it was an invitation toa private after-party at the
groucho.
But no, this was far moreexclusive.
I leaned in, letting thesuggestion hang in the air in

(37:24):
all its lushness, then simplysaid naturally, you see, I'm not
some party girl snorting linesoff a nightclub toilet.
I've been to Berlin, darling.
I've read Walter Benjamin.
I understand that a trulysublime experience requires the
right setting.
And this flat was divine,mid-century modern with just a

(37:47):
whisper of bohaus.
And the host, some ludicrouslyyoung financier, had impeccable
taste in wine, if notnecessarily in companionship.
Now, the Calvin Klein, itselfan experience.
The initial rush was like anoverture by list Sweeping,
grandiose, utterlytransformative and ever so

(38:10):
romantic.
My thoughts were electric,crystalline, like I'd been
plugged into the cosmos.
I turned to the man beside me,an intense, brooding sort with
cheekbones that could slice upyour soul like a ham, and
declared you, my dear, are theraison d'etre of this soiree.
He blinked at me, clearlyoverwhelmed, and then, oh then,

(38:34):
the ketamine arrived.
Everything slowed to adreamlike waltz.
It felt like stepping into aMagritte painting Surreal,
seductive, with a faint air ofmenace.
At one point I'm certain I helda Socratic debate with a
rhododendron.
Its arguments were surprisinglycompelling.
At any rate, I found myself inthe host's private library, and

(38:58):
I used the terms found myselfand library quite loosely.
There, amidst the literarydetritus, was Stefan Tall, wiry,
wearing black turtleneck chic.
He looked like he'd beenplucked straight out of a
Goddard film, one of the lesserone, you, he said, with this

(39:19):
delightfully absurd gravitas.

Speaker 2 (39:22):
You, exquisite indigo child sent from the land beyond
good and evil, you, my dear,are precisely as prophesied.

Speaker 6 (39:34):
Now, I don't usually humour that sort of hyperbolic
folderol, but I thought why notindulge him?
It's what Cleopatra would do,so allowed myself to be adorned
in a leather collar.
He read poetry, something aboutconstellations and submission.
It might have been something hewrote himself.
Stefan had the air of someonewho's deeply proud of his

(39:56):
unpublished manuscripts andconvinced the world doesn't
deserve them, except for me,course.
And then, darling, it happened.
Stefan, with his broodingcheekbones and new volvag
intensity, transformed thisoutlandish chamber into a set
piece worthy of bunion.
The room was bathed in violetlight, the walls adorned with
shimmering tapestries depictingconstellations and celestial

(40:20):
body.
It was all too strange to betacky, helena.
He intoned, as though invokingan ancient spell.
The great circle can now becompleted.
With that, he affixed a leash tothe leather collar around my
neck and gave it a slight pull,which I found both grounding and

(40:41):
exhilarating.
Tonight, you surrender yourlight to me, he said, as he
tried to tie my wrists togetherwith a silk scarf that smelled
faintly of sandalwood and ego.
It was also absurdly theatricalthat I half expected a Greek
chorus to materialise and scoldus for our hubris.
But let me tell you, darling,for those fleeting moments, I

(41:05):
was lost in it, trulyecstatically lost.
The Calvin Klein swirling in myveins, the light spinning like
Van Gogh's stars, stefanwhispering what I can only
describe as metaphysicalnonsense about my energy.

Speaker 2 (41:19):
Fuelling the cosmic balance.

Speaker 6 (41:22):
It's a horribly thoughtless thing to mix
metaphors around someone withsynesthesia who is also on
ketamine, which perhaps shouldhave been a red flag At any rate
.
Ensconced as I was in thatmoment, I let go completely.
I surrendered body and mind tothe sheer decadence of it.
I was no longer Helena, theicon, the muse, the intellectual

(41:45):
, the woman who never pays forher drugs.
I was a celestial body orbitingStefan's gravitational pull, I
thought.
Finally, someone who gets it,someone who understands how to
truly dominate the sun and moonof my ego and bring it all
together at last.
Oh, I can feel it now, so close, just about to happen.

(42:07):
But then, like all greattragedies, it fell apart.
Stefan paused mid-ritual handon my collar eyes, wild and
whispered.

Speaker 2 (42:19):
Do you feel it?
Eternity is rejecting us?

Speaker 6 (42:24):
Rejecting us, darling .
He said this as though we werephysicists conducting a doomed
experiment and not having a shagin the back alleys of his
neighborhood of make-believe.
I blinked, trying to decipherif this was part of his dom act
or an actual psychotic break.
Sometimes it's hard to knowwhere the line is.
Yeah, not in this case.
It was the latter.

(42:44):
He collapsed onto the floorclutching his chest, like some
melodramatic protagonist in aChekhov play.

Speaker 2 (42:51):
I can't contain it.
The orgone energy it's too muchthe orgone energy.

Speaker 6 (43:01):
It's too much.
And just like that, stefan, thegreat new age goth dom of
Shoreditch, had an emotionalbreakdown at my feet, muttering
solipsistic nonsense aboutcosmic imbalance and the
futility of human connection.
He looked up at me, tearsstreaming down his face, and
whimpered.

Speaker 2 (43:18):
I failed you.

Speaker 6 (43:20):
I peered down at him utterly dumbfounded.
My ecstasy evaporated, replacedby the crushing disappointment
of a performance cut short.
Stefan, I said suddenly, cooland dry as a martini If you're
going to claim to be a vectorfor a cosmic prophecy, the least
you can do is keep it togetherfor five minutes.

(43:41):
He babbled some excuse,disguised as an explanation, but
I was already undoing the silkscarf.
The collar was harder to figureout, but he readily handed me
the other end of the leash.
The violet light suddenly feltgarish, the constellations on
the walls more juvenile thansurreal.
My only solace was that no oneelse had witnessed this debacle.

(44:02):
I left him there, crumpled inhis cosmic celestial despair,
and returned to the party likenothing had happened.
The DJ had switched tostation-to-station era Bowie and
someone was passing aroundglasses of champagne so we could
toast to something or other.
So was it transcendent Almost?
Was it disappointing?

(44:23):
Absolutely, but embarrassing?
Oh no, darling, I'm neverembarrassed.
Stefan, on the other hand, isprobably still weeping into his
velvet drapes, expecting someother bright young thing to
reassemble him.
I suppose some people justcan't handle the seductive pull
of my presence.
What a burden it must be torequire that much attention.

(44:44):
But isn't it marvellous, thethings that gravitate to us when
we're willing to take the oddinterpersonal risk now and again
.
Oh darling, you simply must.
Let me tell you about poor James.
Well, that's what he went bywhen I knew him, though he later
insisted everyone call him Jay.

(45:05):
Apparently, james wasn't edgyenough for his artistic vision.
He was this absolutelyfascinating creature I sort of
adopted last summer you know howI have such a weakness for
helping lost souls findthemselves.
I found him spinning at thisfrightfully underground
warehouse party in Hackney, thekind of place where the bar

(45:25):
doesn't even serve propercocktails, just warm gin in
plastic cups.
But there was something so rawabout him, unpolished like a
diamond, that just needed theright person to shape him.
He was wearing this absolutelytragic faux vintage leather
jacket that was clearly fromTopshop, but I saw potential.

(45:49):
I let him take me home thatnight to show him what real
culture feels like.
You understand, his flat wasthis dreary little space above a
kebab shop, but I found it sortof anthropologically
fascinating.
He had all these vinyl recordsdisplayed on his walls and I

(46:09):
didn't have the heart to tellhim that half of them were
rather obvious choices.
I mean, who doesn't own unknownpleasures?
Just in the last week in CamdenTown alone I've seen the
T-shirt in at least fivedifferent languages.
But I did manage to ease him ina bit, started bringing him to
all the right parties,introducing him to actually

(46:30):
important people, even convincedDaddy's friend Sebastian to let
him DJ at Annabelle's, thoughthat was a bit of a disaster.
Apparently, experimental noiseartists don't understand the
concept of reading the room.
He did have this charming way ofmaking everything seem terribly
urgent and passionate, alwayscalling at 3am about some

(46:53):
absolutely vital party we simplyhad to attend or some
mind-expanding substance we hadto try immediately.
And, yes, fine, I may havehelped him out with rent once or
twice, but only because he wason the verge of this enormous
breakthrough.
He had all these connections inBerlin, you see, very
underground, very next wave.

(47:14):
The sex was well, it was ratherlike performance art Lots of
brilliant ideas, somewhatslipshod execution.
He had this thing about filmingeverything for his video
collage about loneliness orwhatever.
I'm sure it will be terriblyavant-garde when it comes out,
if it comes out.
He took his laptop with all thefootage when he left for Berlin

(47:36):
or was it Barthelona?
His note was confusing.
I assume pump and dump refersto one of his crypto-scans,
right.
Oh, and he borrowed mygrandmother's vintage Cartier
watch For good luck, apparently.
I'm sure he'll return it oncehe's established himself.
I did make it here.

(47:56):
I needed it back.
I do hope he figures himselfout.
Poor thing, he had suchpotential, even if he didn't
quite know what to do with it.
I mean, yes, he might haveborrowed quite a bit of money
and, yes, perhaps he did sleepwith Arabella the very night
after I introduced them at mygallery opening, and fine, maybe
he did use my contacts to bookseveral gigs he never actually

(48:18):
showed up for.
But that's just how theseartistic types are, isn't it?
They need someone sophisticatedto guide them, even if they
don't always appreciate it.
I should probably unblock himon Instagram, actually, just to
check if he's posted anythingabout the watch or about me.
Not that I care, obviously.

(48:38):
I just think it's important tomaintain connections in the
industry.
One never knows when someonemight become relevant, though he
could have at least tagged mein those photos with Sophie
Dale's niece.
I mean, that party wasliterally at my flat Right.

(49:00):
So there was this bloke.
Let's call him Sebastian, shallwe?
He was oh, how do I put it?
Intensely magnetic, like he hadthat look.
You know that posh, torturedartist slumming at vibe, always
in leather jackets, broodingaround with his tousled hair and
mysterious stubble Absolutegodsend.

(49:22):
I thought we met in this artgallery.
Naturally he was holding acigarette even though they're
totally verboten indoors nowJust standing there all suave
with his smoke, smirking at asculpture, like he knew some
deep secret about it that therest of us couldn't possibly
understand.
So I'm thinking that's the manI need to be with.

(49:43):
I should have known then that hewas well a bit different, but I
thought it was just all part ofhis allure.
So when he invited me back tohis place that night, obviously
I said yes, this flat was one ofthose dimly lit, moody little
setups with no proper lightingand only like black curtains.
Everything was dark, wood andleather.

(50:05):
He was into aestheticminimalism or whatever he called
it.
I was in awe, you know the way.
He just didn't care aboutbrightness or joy or anything
remotely uplifting.
He was like beyond all that.
Anyway, things progressed.
Obviously, we got close Well,physically close, if you catch

(50:28):
my drift, but I mean the wayhe'd speak to me.
He had this way of makingeverything feel so intense, like
he'd grab my chin and saythings like You're mine now,
aren't you, Helena?
And it was thrilling, I'll admit.
Nobody'd ever looked at me likeI was something they owned,
something precious they couldjust, you know, hold on to and

(50:52):
use.
I thought, oh, isn't thatromantic, like who doesn't want
a bit of possession.
But he had these little quirksright.
He liked to push me not justemotionally but physically.
I remember one night he had mepinned against the wall and he
stage whispered If you everleave me, you will regret it.

(51:15):
And I'm standing there totallystarry--eyed thinking he's just
being passionate.
I mean, in the moment it was sointense, like something out of
a Bronte novel.
But thinking back it wassuppose you'd call it unsettling
.
He'd always go a bit too farwith his words, his touch.
There were moments he'd havethis gleam in his eye like he

(51:36):
could just snap, and I'd justlaugh it off, thought it was all
part of his charm.
Of course, if I left I wouldregret it.
He's a dream come true.
Oh, and so territorial the wayhe'd isolate me.

Speaker 7 (51:50):
He'd say things like no one understands you, helena,
not the way I do.

Speaker 6 (51:56):
And he'd make it sound so romantic.
He had this way of making mefeel like I was some lost soul
and he was the only one whocould find me.
He even insisted I stop seeingmy friends, said they didn't get
us, didn't appreciate ourconnection, told me they were
all just jealous.
And I believed him, thoughtyeah, they're probably just

(52:20):
envious of our passion.
How see, right, girlish.
And then there were the darkerthings.
Like he had these littlerituals, he'd bring out this red
scarf, sometimes tie it roundmy wrists, saying it symbolised
our unity or some other poeticnonsense.
But I remember one night hejust kept pulling it tighter and

(52:41):
tighter and I was sitting therethinking this is all so deep,
so intense, like some sort ofperformance art, right here in
my living area.
But at some point I couldbarely feel my hands and he just
looked at me with that smirk ofhis and said You'll do anything
for me, won't you baby?
It felt like more of a statementthan a question and oh, I just

(53:05):
nodded, because what else doesone do in that sort of situation
?
I probably would have doneanything for him, wouldn't have
even thought about it, had henot been so tragically tactless
as to rub my face in it likethat.
One time I even sat outside hisdoor for what an hour just
waiting for him to let me in inthe cold, because he said he

(53:26):
needed to see my devotion.
I thought it was a test of love, thought it was all very grand,
very tragic heroine.
Anyway, when it was over we gotit on like feral rodents.
Looking back, I suppose it wasum well strange, maybe even a
bit much.
My friends would try to tell mehe was controlling or

(53:47):
manipulative.
They'd say things like Helena,he's so clearly dangerous.
But I just thought they didn'tunderstand.
I mean, what did they knowabout romance?
They weren't out there in therain proving their devotion,
were they?
He ended things abruptly.
One day he said he was done andthat I'd served my purpose.

(54:08):
Said it so calmly too, like hewas finishing a cup of tea.
I was devastated.
But he told me One day baby.
You will thank me.
He told me One day baby you willthank me and just walked out of
my life and I cried for weeksthinking I've lost the love of
my life, but I never reallystopped to think about what sort

(54:30):
of love it was, did I?
Anyway, sometimes I still thinkabout him late at night.
I wonder if I was just toonaive, too gullible maybe.
But then I tell myself it wasall terribly romantic, a dark
and twisted sort of romance, andbesides, isn't so.
There I was darling in this ohso decadent american city.

(55:07):
Well, they call it a city, butreally it's all just bright
lights and endless nonsense.
But I suppose if one's going toexperience the culture, one
must dive straight in here.
Not that I wasn't the absoluteepicentre of sophistication all
night, though, if I'm honest, Ido think some of these locals
find my European elegance atouch intimidating.

(55:31):
Is that the word I'm lookingfor?
At any rate, it all began atthis club.
Now, they'd have you believeit's a super exclusive lounge
sort of affair, but if I'mhonest, it was all just neon
lights, flashing shapes andabsolutely no charm.
I was surrounded by what I canonly describe as American blokes

(55:54):
in ill-fitting suits, eachtrying to updo the other in
sheer bravado.
Really a pity.
I mean, none of them even knewhow to wear their cologne
properly.
Smelled like they'd bathed init.
Poor dears, if someone lit acigarette we'd all have been
incinerated, which is fine ifyou're into that sort of thing.
Of course I attracted the mostdelicious attention.

(56:17):
Naturally, this one chap, tall,dark, terribly American jawline
, comes over, tries to tell mehe's an investor.
Now, I didn't exactly catchwhat he was invested in, but he
did keep buying me drinks.
I imagine he thought it wassome kind of seduction ritual.
Fascinating really how they tryto impress you over here.

(56:40):
It's all a bit primitive, don'tyou think?
Tarzan chic, I call it Anyway,as he's prattling on about his
boats or was it his motorbikesmy mind does wander, if I'm
honest.
I see this little kiffuffle, afracas over in one corner, two
women, absolutely feral,scratching and shrieking over

(57:00):
some ridiculous man who barelyseemed aware of his surroundings
.
I simply stood there watching,thinking what a commentary on
the sad state of modernrelationships.
Quite absurdist, really.
Then, out of nowhere, someone'schampagne glass flies through
the air.
I don't remember who threw itPrecisely hard to keep track

(57:24):
given the calibre of peoplearound, but, darling, it landed
right in my vicinity.
I was mortified.
Truly, it could have ruined myhandbag, at least theoretically,
so I moved a few feet back, asone does had to make room for
these people to sort out theirdrama.
One should never get involvedin American altercations.
I think At this point the blokefrom before did I mention his

(57:48):
jawline?
He leans in, probably expectingI'd be swept off my feet by his
presence.
He was all.

Speaker 2 (57:57):
I could protect you from that, you know and I
thought from what precisely?

Speaker 6 (58:03):
flying champagne, other errant projectiles.
But, bless his heart, he seemedvery pleased with himself.
So I leaned into, gave him acoy little smile and said oh, I
bet you could.
Because well, I bet you could,because well, I find it best to
let these men think they'repowerful.
They need it.
Poor things, oh, but this partyou'll love.

(58:26):
After that delightful bit ofmale gallantry, we left the club
to find well, I suppose youcould call it a street brawl
absolute chaos, grown menflinging their fists, yelling,
sweating.
I mean, I thought for a secondI'd wandered onto the set of
some absurd American action film.
My gentleman friend, the onewith the jawline, says Baby stay

(58:52):
back.
I'll handle this, which isreally quite darling of him but
also a bit confusing, since heimmediately starts hiding behind
me as if I, with my delicatebritish sensibilities, could
somehow hold back theencroaching barbarian tie.
Really, I just stood there likea bewildered duchess at a rodeo

(59:15):
.
Quite surreal by then, wouldn'tyou know it, a police car
pulled up, a truly heavy handedapproach.
I thought I remember trying toreason with one of the officers
explaining how terriblyuncivilized it was really
beneath a city with so muchpotential, but he seemed to
think I was, shall we say, partof the problem.

(59:36):
At one point he said Go home.
Which was so quintessentiallyAmerican of him, wasn't it?
I mean, who tells a woman likeme to go home?
But back to the eveningsescalations.
The investor bloke with thejawline, such a dear, truly,
after his own ham-fisted fashion, suggests.

(01:00:00):
We go back to his place to, inhis words avoid the riffraff.
So I agree, thinking it'll bethe ideal place to observe more
of the culture up close.
Of course we head back to hisplace, which was well grand in
theory but in reality a bittasteless.
Base, which was well grand intheory but in reality a bit

(01:00:20):
tasteless.
All grey and minimalist, nocharacter, no warmth.
I couldn't help but think doesthis man even own a single
painting?
At this point he tries toimpress me with his collection
of bourbons, which he explainedin excruciating detail.
Couldn't quite follow.

(01:00:41):
It was all something to do withaging and barrels, and you'll
laugh.
But I actually dozed off just atouch, just for a second.
He didn't notice, of course, ashe was too busy showing off his
prized whiskey.
I must have conked outmomentarily to spare myself the
convulsive giggle fits.

(01:01:01):
Yeah, not unpleasant, thatfleeting hypnagogic sleep state.
I woke up to him practicallydroning on about it, I don't
even know.
So, in the spirit of politeness, I divided to, shall we say,
change the energy and he lookedutterly shocked, like he'd never
encountered a woman who takescharge.

(01:01:22):
But here's the kicker I didn'tactually do anything at all, I
just sat there with that look,you know the one.
And suddenly he was very muchat my service, if you will.
They're so eager, aren't theyVery sweet, actually, in a
misguided way, then, would youbelieve, his roommate walks in

(01:01:47):
looking quite flustered likehe'd walked in on something
scandalous which, darling, hehadn't, because, again, I was
doing Absolutely nothing.
Absolutely nothing, justexisting.
But the tension, oh it waspalpable.
You could see his poor littleAmerican brain trying to process

(01:02:08):
the situation.
Bless him, bless him.
They just can't bear it, canthey?
So I simply got up, left theboys to discuss things amongst
themselves and as I left Ithought to myself ah, what an
evening I have truly experiencedthe American nightlife.

(01:02:28):
It's all quite tragic, really,how easily they fall to pieces
over here, but I suppose that'swhat one gets, being me
absolutely adored by the massesand yet simultaneously quite
above it all.
Oh darling, my gloriouswhirlwind, descent into high
stakes, passion deep in the mawof madness, began, as many such

(01:02:53):
things do, with a man whoexisted in the rarefied air of
the truly untouchable.
With a man who existed in therarefied air of the truly
untouchable.
He was cruel, cold and oh sodevastatingly chic, a sort of
metamodern Heathcliff withexpensive tastes and excellent
sartorial instincts to match thepain blurred into pleasure.
His disinterest onlyintensified his mystique.

(01:03:15):
For the first time, I visitedoh, what's it called?
Darling Subspace.
I promptly purchased atimeshare.
I became insatiable, a woman ofomnivorous appetites, a
connoisseur of exquisitesuffering, always demanding more
.
I want to feel everything.
I want life-alteringhumiliation to understand all

(01:03:38):
this shame business.
Finally, once and for all, atany rate, I wanted to impress
him and to that end, I inventednew sex acts, ingenious,
avant-garde expressions ofdesire.
These were feats of creativity,atrocity exhibitions, veritable

(01:03:59):
performance art spectacles ofthe flesh.
One night I executed a move Idubbed the Devil's Spiral, a
balletic contortion of eleganceand daring.
He shoved me off with a sneer.
An artistic critique surelygripped me by the throat and
elevated our rendezvous intosomething truly magnificent.

(01:04:19):
I gasped in exhilaration.
He was my muse, my cruelPygmalion sculpting me in the
language of the sublime.
Next time I get such a sterlingidea, I resolved, I'll make him
think it was his.
But one man could never beenough for a woman.
With my expansive eroticportfolio of peak experiences.

(01:04:42):
My hunger was a thing of legend, of stage, song and screen.
My thirst of tale whispered inlate-night salons over opium and
wormwood, and so, in want of anoutlet, I graciously accepted a
proposition for the mostcultured and intellectually

(01:05:02):
daring arrangement a threesomewith my dear companions ben and
dimon, devoted admirers whoseardor gave me a certain sense of
security.
If you follow, we secured anatmospheric hotel suite, so
decadently disheveled it itcould only be deliberate.
Smuggled in an excellent whiskeyall the way from Kentucky and

(01:05:23):
engaged in the most deliciouslycharged railing, represented in
microcosm by my left areola,retreated to a chair, murmuring
something about wanting toobserve how utterly French of

(01:05:43):
him Dylan, overwhelmed by thegravity of the moment, indulged
too heartily in the whiskey anddrifted into a catatonic slumber
.
Ah, the tragedy of excess,practiced in excess, flaming out
too soon to bear any trulytranscendent narrative fruit.
Undeterred, I found myselfalone amidst the wreckage of our

(01:06:04):
grand design, a creature ofdesire still yearning for
completion.
My lover's phantom touchlingered on my skin.
The brutal poetry of his impactplay still fresh in my mind,
although the bruises werebeginning to heal.
Thankfully, this was not failure.
It was narrative tension, theunpredictable plot twist that
turns a good story into legend,a Jezebel's journey worthy of

(01:06:29):
the finest union pornographers.
And so, undaunted, I made onefinal inspired move.
I made one final inspired move,shocking even myself, with a
bid for ecstasy that wouldsurely go down in the annals of
my glamorous misadventures.
The night, the city and theuniverse itself had other plans,

(01:06:49):
but I walked out onto theneon-lit boulevard, draped in
starlight and mystery, my hungerunbent, the world pulsed
beneath my heels and I was,splendid and insatiable, walked
on.
Thank you well darling.

(01:07:47):
I suppose everyone has a momentin their life when they're
utterly swept away by theintoxicating thrust of passion.
No, that's too.
Common Adventure, a bitpedestrian, let's say artistry.
Yes, that's the one, and in mycase it came in the form of a
man, a thief to be precise, aproper rogue, with eyes like

(01:08:10):
smudged charcoal and voice likeaged velvet.
He told me his name was Raphael.
Of course, I didn't believe him.
Two on the nose, don't youthink?
But oh how I adored theaudacity of it all.
Art isn't so much what you'recapable of as what you can get
away with.
Raphael said that he had thesemarvellous aphorisms, but I'm

(01:08:32):
getting off point.
It began at a soiree, naturallythe kind of gathering where
everyone's pretending to admirethe host's ghastly modernist
sculptures but really justpilfering the canapes.
I, of course, was holding courtby the champagne fountain when
Raphael appeared, all smirk andmystery.
He told me he was planning aheist yes, a heist to liberate,

(01:08:55):
as he put it, a scandalousmasterpiece from the oppressive
confines of bureaucracy.
Now, I've always had a deepappreciation for subversion.
Subversion is art, and viceversa, wouldn't you agree?
So when he invited me to joinhis team which turned out to be
just him and well, now me Ithought why not, helena?

(01:09:19):
You've been waiting your wholelife to be part of an iconic duo
, the muse and the mastermind.
The target was an erotic artexhibit, a rather controversial
one at that, brimming with allthe delicate filth that makes
the bourgeoisie clutch theirpearls.
One piece in particular hadstirred such opprobrium Venus,

(01:09:40):
uncloaked a disturbinglycaptivating sculpture of a
goddess in its striptease.
Raphael insisted it was amisunderstood masterpiece.
A symbol of liberation, hecalled it.
I simply had to see it.
The plan, my loves, was to slipin after hours dressed as
inconspicuously as possible.

(01:10:02):
I opted for a sleek blacknumber, which turned out to be
slightly draftier than Ianticipated.
But what is art without alittle sacrifice, without the
glamour, it's hard to see theallure of international art
thievery, at least from myperspective.

(01:10:22):
Well, admittedly, it is quiteerotic, isn't it?
I certainly felt it.
Raphael was all business atfirst, muttering about security
cameras and laser grids, but Icouldn't help but marvel at our
raudacity.
There I was, helena, harbingerof the avant-garde, about to
commit an actual crime.

(01:10:43):
By now we were running farenough ahead of schedule to
allow for a proper shag amongthe exhibits.
But then, oh the tragedy, withfarcical elements certainly.
The alarms went off.
Apparently, raphael's so-calledingenious bypass device was
nothing more than a glorifieduniversal remote control like

(01:11:05):
Nano.
He dashed off, promising tocircle back, and left me, me
Alone, clutching Venus,uncloaked in nothing but my
heels and a trembling sense ofindignation.
And so I did what anyself-respecting woman of my
intellect and poise would do Iimprovised.
I wedged myself behind thenearest installation a ghastly

(01:11:29):
assemblage of phantom limbs andglitter, if you must know and
waited.
Security guards swarmed theplace, shouting things like
Identify yourself and drop thestatue.
Drop the statue.
Imagine suggesting suchbarbarity, I'll have you know.
I protected Venus uncloakedwith my very life.

(01:11:51):
There I was, half draped over ametal sculpture titled Consumer
Apocalypse, attempting to lookboth invisible and profoundly
artistic.
It's no small feat, let meassure you this hiding in plain
sight business.
Eventually, I realised Raphaelwas not coming back.

(01:12:11):
The guards grew tired ofsearching dreadfully
unimaginative lot and I made myescape barefoot and clutching
Venus like a lover.
I left her in the garden of alocal monastery poetic, don't
you think the monks deserve alittle spice?
A half dozen terroristorganisations claimed
responsibility, which put memostly in the care, I believe.

(01:12:33):
As for Raphael, I never saw himagain, probably fled to Paris
or prison.
But you know what I have?
No regrets.
Art isn't meant to be safe orpredictable.
It's chaos, darlings, it'spassion.
It's hiding behind a sculpturein your knickers while an
American goomba named Barryshouts who's there?

(01:12:56):
As if it's any of his business.
So, yes, I helped liberateVenus.
Was it foolish?
Perhaps Was it illegal,absolutely, but was it artistic,
without question.
And isn't that the wholeessence of the thing?
Really?
Los Angeles is a mirage, a cityconstructed from the slurred

(01:13:25):
speech of studio execs who'veconvinced themselves they
understand myth because they'vecut deals over four-quadrant
reboots.
It's an Ouroboros of sun-kissedself-erasure, a fever dream, so
hot it softens your bones untilyou forget what it was like to
stand upright.
I arrived on a Tuesday, met aman named Clive, who wasn't

(01:13:48):
named Clive at all, but whosereal name was some
unpronounceable jawbreaker ofletters, consonants thrown
together like a script option,then stranded in turnaround.
He said he had a house in thehills, which turned out to be a
minimalist compound in CahuengaPass, filled with furniture that
makes you wonder whethersitting is even allowed.

(01:14:08):
He offered me cocaine so pure Ithought I'd transcended linear
time.
Then came the ketamine, achemical wrecking ball that left
my body behind and let my souldo fractal ballet across a
holographic soundstage whereevery scene was shot with soft
lighting and the laughter trackhad been Beckmasked.
By Thursday I'd been cast inthree different music videos for

(01:14:33):
bands I'd never heard of.
All named something aggressively, one word sheath or grief, or
something that sounds like afragrance by Tom Ford.
The directors all woresunglasses indoors, all spoke as
if narrating their own biopics.
I want it raw but polished,think 70s porn, but make it

(01:14:53):
existential.
I nodded and swayed like a girlwho'd been mainlining glamour
and had just realised it was cutwith formaldehyde, and not very
good formaldehyde.
Then there was the party in ahigh-rise downtown, a penthouse
with floor-to-ceiling windowsthat made the city look like the
burning ant farm it sodesperately wanted to become the

(01:15:15):
host.
Some libertine capital Ccreative with the handshake of a
strangler, fed me oysters,slipped his hand around my waist
and murmured You're trouble,aren't you?
I laughed, which in this townmeans yes.
The girl beside me, a model whosaid I identify as light,

(01:15:37):
giggled and whispered You're sototally his type, girl.
Polyamory.
While I performed fellatiocareful to suck it well enough

(01:16:00):
that he'd finish quickly, butnot so well that he would
embarrass me on Instagram.
I woke up somewhere in Malibunot in a house, but in a guest
house behind a house, a placethat felt less like a home and
more like a purgatory designedfor a specific stand-up comedian
.
The furniture was too white,the air too curated.

(01:16:20):
There was a note on thenightstand that just said keep
it big babe.
X.
I had no idea what it meant,but I felt I had already
complied Somewhere along the way.
I lost a beautiful pair ofshoes, gained a leather jacket
that wasn't mine but is now, andcollected three different life
stories from each of two menwith stubborn, chemically

(01:16:43):
induced erections who swore theycould make me famous.
They spoke in a hypnotic patoisof self-importance, as if their
souls had been smuggled out oftheir bodies and replaced with a
podcast about peak performancemindset or some such nonsense,
which sadly does little toalleviate performance anxiety,
or so I'm told.

(01:17:03):
By the time I left, I felt LosAngeles had done something to me
bent me over, rearranged myinsides down to the molecules,
taken me in the way men in thiscity take women, not with hunger
, but with a bored sense ofinevitability.
I had been used, degraded.
A bored sense of inevitability.
I had been used, degraded, spunout and spat back, but none of

(01:17:24):
it stuck, none of it could.
The trick of LA, darling, isthat nothing feels real enough
to wound you, not properly, notdeeply.
It just glances off the surfacelike a skipping stone, leaving
ripples never sinking.
On the flight home, I marveledat the desert below a sprawling

(01:17:45):
wasteland that looked morehonest than the city built on
top of it.
I thought about the man whowhispered in my ear as he
pressed my face into somethingexpensive, telling me I was
beautiful, so beautiful, sobeautiful, and the way I had
smiled, not because I believedhim but because I knew he
believed himself.
Los Angeles is a mirage, aplace where nothing happens and

(01:18:09):
yet everything doessimultaneously.
A city of hungry ghosts whodon't know they're dead and
haven't really read ErnestBecker and I'll be back, of

(01:18:53):
course, because I always amDarling.
Have you ever cried, berghain,to be continued in much the same
manner as our fathers did?
No, I mean, really cried.
Cried in the main room, on thedance floor, in full PVC, bathed
in strobes and a swirl ofpsychosexual spiritual confusion
.

Speaker 4 (01:19:11):
I have.

Speaker 6 (01:19:12):
I do, it's basically my cardio now.
But I must explain, or rather Imust perform an explanation
that both reveals and conceals,like a see-through Vivienne
Westwood Blouse.
We're here to talk aboutmetamodernism.
Everyone knows that, darling,at least everyone who's ever
climaxed during a Keir Kegardquote and then posted about it

(01:19:34):
on close friends.
You see, once upon a time wehad modernism earnest,
architectural, furrowed browsand manly despair.
Then came post-modernism irony,pastiche sequins over trauma,
everything in quotation marks,including the quotation marks
themselves.
Unwilling or unable to even tryto feign sincerity, vain

(01:20:04):
sincerity.
That was my childhood,incidentally raised by
emotionally constipatedacademics who called love a
problematic narrative ofdependency and refused to hug me
without footnotes, therebyleaving me with a raging oral
fixation and a permanent crushon David Foster Wallace, who's
not around to let me down gentlyafter shellacking me in singles
tennis.
But metamodernism, oh darling,that's where the party is,

(01:20:28):
unless it isn't.
It's the oscillation, the fluidstate, neither monism nor
nihilism the movement betweenknowing and feeling, between
mocking and mourning.
It's when you dance to Aqua'sBarbie Girl at 4am in Berlin and
somewhere between Life inPlastic and Kiss Me here, you

(01:20:49):
find yourself believing Not inAqua, in everything.
Let me set the scene, darling.
It was a Tuesday.
Already a bad idea.
I was in Berlin with an Americanfilm studies dropout named Nico
, who claimed to be building adecentralised cinema experience

(01:21:10):
for the emotionally neglected.
He had cheekbones that couldcut a wedding cake before moving
on to your attachment toself-pity.
He called me Aesthetic Praxis,a name he suggested I use for
something he called Roller Derby.
Naturally, I fell in love.
We queued for Berghain inmatching coats, like a couple of

(01:21:31):
anarchist operatives.
I whispered something aboutBaudrillard to the bouncer and
he rolled his eyes, which is theBerlin equivalent of rolling
out a red carpet decorated withorange and yellow interobanks.
Inside it was the usualkaleidoscopic nihilism
half-naked ravers grinding totechno that sounded like Zeno

(01:21:51):
having a migraine.
Sweat smoke, the heavy scent ofconceptual failure.
I felt alive, or at leastrelevant.
And then the ketamine kicked inand things got so deliciously
melty.
Time folded, the lights becamelanguage.
Nico vanished into a writhingpile of limbs that may or may

(01:22:13):
not have been performing asite-specific reimagining of
Beckett's quad.
I was alone, and that's when ithappened.
The DJ, some sallow genius fromHelsinki or Newark who looked
like he'd been raised on a dietof absinthe and ennui, delivered
intravenously, cut the beat,silence.
Then the crowd paused, confused, and then again the ironic

(01:22:43):
dancing Arms flailed indeliberate awkwardness, hip
thrusts performed withperformative disdain, people
mocking joy.
And there I was, smack in themiddle of it, ready to mime
along with appropriateScandinavian detachment.
But then something cracked.
I thought of my mother, drunk onsherry in the breakfast nook,

(01:23:04):
lip-syncing to the earlyformative work of Girls Aloud or
Atomic Kitten, calling it herlittle moment of agency.
I thought of Nico's furrowedbrow when I asked if he believed
in love and he said only hisresistance, preferably with a
side of solidarity, whileraising his very skinny,
clenched fist.
A thought of being eleven anddesperately wanting to be pretty

(01:23:26):
, not smart, not clever, notsubversive, just pretty like the
girls in the adverts, the oneswith no backstories.
And I cried, I sobbed.
There I was having it both ways, like a good little postmodern
theory slut.
And yet the tears poured, as ifthe spectre of romantic

(01:23:48):
sincerity had stormed thebarricades of my aesthetic
sensibilities and declared a war.
It immediately won.
I meant it and I didn't.
And I was on ketamine, which isfrankly both illustrative and
definitive of the gestalt of thecontemporary zeitgeist.

(01:24:10):
No, I will not use the wordvibes.
This was a real human moment ofa sort At any rate, that
darling, is metamodernism.
To know something is ridiculousand to feel it anyway.
To mock love while writingtragically self-revelatory

(01:24:31):
sonnets on the backs of symphonyprograms.
To scream capitalism is killingus while rolling on 30 euros
worth of artisanal ecstasy froma man named Lars, who once had a
solo show called the ExplodingSpleen of Influence, dedicated
to Edward Bernays and JasonRussell.
Metamodernism is beefysincerity wrapped in a farcical

(01:24:56):
tortilla of satire, served witha twist of collapse and a
garnish of practicalself-delusion.
It's the girl who wears catears and knows they're
ridiculous and still wants to beheld and kissed on the top of
her head.
It's me sobbing to Aqua, becausebeing plastic, being
quote-unquote, fake, was neverthe problem.

(01:25:19):
It was always the loneliness,the echo, the absence, the
desperate yearning for someoneto see us pretending and believe
in us anyway.
So, yes, I wept to Barbie Girlat Bergen and I expect I will
again, because, my darling,nothing says authenticity, quite

(01:25:41):
like knowing precisely why theFrench call it the little death
and still choosing to dance likeyou're trying to frighten off
the big one.
Now, if you'll allow me topowder my nose and refresh my
glass love, I've got bigadolescent feelings and I've not
yet begun to take the piss.

Speaker 9 (01:25:58):
Yeah, Darling, you simply must hear about my latest
spiritual awakening.
Not the kind I had at thatdreadfully authentic ayahuasca
retreat in Notting Hill, thoughthat was absolutely

(01:26:22):
transformative too, even if Idid ruin my favorite LBD.
No, this was something far morehow do the French say it?
Profound I've discoveredsubspace.
No, I don't mean thatfrightfully pedestrian sci-fi
show everyone's watching.
I mean something actuallytranscendent.
Of course I'd read about it inthose terribly earnest BDSM

(01:26:47):
handbooks that are always lyingaround at Jasper's sex-positive
book club, most of them writtenby people who shop at Tesco, if
you know what I mean.
I'd assumed it was all ratherplebeian fantasy, like believing
Prosecco is real champagne.
I'd gone into the whole thingperfectly prepared, naturally I

(01:27:07):
always am.
One doesn't graduate from StCatharines Without learning how
to maintain In an air ofaristocratic control In any
situation.
I plan to do what I always doAppear to submit, while actually
orchestrating the entireexperience, rather like Marina

(01:27:28):
Abramovic.
Actually, have you heard of her?
She's this absolutely vitalperformance artist who, oh,
never mind, but then it happened.
A performance artist who, oh,never mind, but then it happened
.
And suddenly all my carefullycurated poses, which I'd
practiced for hours in myvintage vanity mirror, just

(01:27:52):
dissolved.
It wasn't just a publicspanking, though that was
exquisitely orchestrated.
Or the way he called me a vapidlittle princess in front of
everyone at Soho House.
It was something deeper, likeVirginia Woolf diving into the
river, except sexy and withbetter hair.

(01:28:15):
One moment I was Helena Mayfair, you know the one everyone at
Art Battle called refreshinglyauthentic.
And the next I was gone,sinking through layers of myself
, like one of those Russiandolls I once saw at Harrods.
Passed the me that only drinkssmall batch gin.

(01:28:36):
Passed the me that quotesBaudelaire in terrible French.
Passed the me that quotesBaudelaire in terrible French.
Past the me that pretends tounderstand crypto, because that
DJ I dated would not shut upabout it.
And at the very bottom, beneathall my carefully curated
personas, I found something real, something genuine, something
that wasn't even wearing Chanel,horrifying right, but also

(01:29:03):
magnificent, like finding outyour great-grandmother was
actually a kitchen maid, but ina sexy way.
The experience was simplycosmic.
I saw colors that haven't evenbeen gentrified yet.
I had music that made TimHecker sound like Fred A Ken.

(01:29:27):
My consciousness expandedbeyond my corporeal form.
Rather like that time Iaccidentally took too much To
see me at Creamfields, exceptthis felt meaningful, important,
like I was finally starring inmy own French new wave film.

(01:29:48):
The truly revolutionary part.
I didn't even care how I looked.
Can you imagine Me, the girlwho once refused Origo during a
root canal because I was afraidit would make my smile
asymmetrical?
There I was completelysurrendered, probably making

(01:30:09):
faces that would horrify myBotox specialist, and I was free
.
When I finally surfaced, likeOphelia, but with better
lightning, I felt rebornNaturally.
I immediately checked my makeup, reapplied my Charlotte Tilbury
and pretended nothing.

(01:30:30):
Try and tell you, I've beenchanged, transformed, elevated.
I suppose you could say it washumbling, though I don't really
do humble it clashes with mybone structure.
Was it enlightening?
Like reading Roland Barthes forthe first time, but with nipple
clamps?
Was it embarrassing?

(01:30:52):
Oh sweetie, nothing isembarrassing when you're as
genuinely complex andmisunderstood as I am.
As it happens, I am neverembarrassed, just utterly
gloriously ruined.
Now, if you'll excuse me, Isimply must call my dom.

(01:31:14):
He's this absolutelyfascinating investment banker
who really gets me.
He says I'm not like othergirls at all, and you know what?
He's right.
I'm literally the only person Iknow who's experienced
something this profound Well,except for Arabella, but she's

(01:31:43):
clearly just copying me.
We'll be right back.

(01:32:19):
I'm going to go ahead and dothat.

Speaker 3 (01:32:51):
Thank you, oh, the lights are twinkling the years

(01:33:58):
winding down.

Speaker 5 (01:33:59):
I'm strutting through the city in my sequined gown.
The gifts are forgotten, thefamily's away.
It's my time to glitter, tosway and to play.
It's the week of sparkles andsin, where the champagne flows
and the parties begin, frommistletoe kisses to midnight

(01:34:23):
cheers.
It's the most glamorous time ofthe year.
The tree in the corner is farpast its prime, but who cares
when the press echoes as endlessas time.
I'm making resolutions.
I'll never keep While flirtingwith strangers who think I'm

(01:34:48):
deep.
Oh, the clock's ticking closerto a fresh new start.
But I'm here for the chaos, notthe matters of the heart.
Tinsel in my hair, glitter onmy face, darling this week's a
fantasy.
My perfect space betweenChristmas and New Year's is that

(01:35:10):
special time.
My dears, don't let a blueChristmas keep you depressed.
Of all weeks for partying, thisone's the best.
It's the week of sparkles andsin, where the champagne flows
and the parties begin, frommistletoe kisses to midnight

(01:35:32):
cheers.
It's the most glamorous time ofthe year.
So raise a glass to the lost,the loud and the bold.
This week's for the reckless,the daring, the sold.
Forget the carols, the calm,the quiet tears.

Speaker 4 (01:36:12):
Let's toast to the best week of the year, to be
continued Fun and reminiscingthreads of joy and tears,
bittersweet things, searchingfor a glimpse of wonder, holiday
, she and she.
Each step in the snow echoeslong past and near.

(01:36:36):
It's the magic of the night.
Stars are twinkling, oh sobright In this England winter's
home.
Dreams are drifting talesretold, skiing on the ice.
Laughter fills the square,chasing sources relifting dreams

(01:36:57):
in the air.
Under this alto ice, we now onthick lines In this wonderland,
perfect, wrapped up so tight.
With a sigh, I hold my wishingheart In hoping for the simple
choice.

(01:37:17):
No worries, no fear, it's themagic of the night.
The simple choice, no worries,no fear, it's the magic of the
night.
Stars are twinkling, oh sobright In this England winter's
home.
Dreams are drifting tales, wetold.

(01:37:37):
In these cathedrals of light,whispers hold the promised right
.
Memories dance in the snow.
Through these streets of dreamswe go.
It's the magic of the night.
Stars are twinkling, oh sobright In this England winter's

(01:38:01):
hall.
Dreams are drifting talesretold.

Speaker 2 (01:38:11):
Proof.
What you need is theintelligence of someone smart
enough to be here and smartenough to take my advice, and
the confidence of an absolutemoron that interferes with radio
signals and brings planes outof the sky, completely
self-destructive, sizzling, sexyconfidence that you can only
get through cultivating it overtime and relegating it to a

(01:38:34):
persona which you want to keepseparate.
Do not let this persona run forpresident, absolutely do not
let it run for treasurer.
Keep an eye on it, becauseeverything else is just going to
happen as soon as you stopcaring.
What you want to remember aboutthis confidence is that it is
first, last and always fake.
It is based on butt kiss andthe reason for that is that

(01:38:55):
nobody can take that away fromyou.
Talk some nonsense intoyourself.
It has been making too muchsense.
Stop doing that.