My face.

I'm spending my time this morning trying to look past Bill Turnbull's Debenham's suit to see Phoria appear on BBC news. My face is going to appear on national television. Think about that. Think about how deep the recession must have hit for the yellowing hole in my face to be allowed to flap around on the BBC.

The interview itself went very smoothly (thanks solely to the professionalism of the team filming us) but was incredibly stressful. So much so that I've only just built up the strength to write about it.

'What's that?'
'Oh that's just a glistening, soulless black mouth that eats time and light. We'll just point it at your face.'

It's a big leap from stalking the streets shouting at parked cars to suddenly being asked to give the country a succinct account of why you moved to Brighton (Trewin), what's the deal with all these projections? (Jeb), and what do you think about the cultural side of the Olympics? (Me). It was difficult, dry-mouthed, but still friendly and fun. The team dealt well with the three stuttering radio faces they'd been lumbered with.

We were told it would be broadcast this morning, hence my early hours being spent with the eerily cheerful BBC breakfast news team. Frankly I don't need this first thing in the morning; I need a reflection of me, not a denial of it. I need to see someone sprawling awkwardly across a grubby sofa, hacking and groaning and shielding their eyes from the horror of it all. The horror.

So now, the morning line already having ran, I'll be glued to News24, waiting to catch a glimpse of the horror of it all. The horror.

(Don't forget- FREE gig at The Green Door Store in Brighton this friday! Get down here!)

Tim.
(As seen on TV)