Biro's Inspiratos

A strategic report by Kinder Kooks

Some people have stated, quite seriously on occasion, that the secret to knowing how to bedazzle the surroundings lies not in what one does but in what one cunningly removes.

Now where does that leave us with things? If we want to bedazzle surely this means we have to leave things behind- remove ourselves so to speak. But how does one go about removing oneself? In fact how does one indeed identitfy the self that one must remove?

Let me give you an example: think a of man. Not just any man, but the kind of man you would whisper about quite loudly on street corners. Not just any old street corner, but the kind of street corner designed to make one's profile appear in its most shining light. Now see before you this man and this street corner, find yourself there. Add to it someone to whisper to, or with, I will not impede on the intimate nature of your relationship. Imagine the time, it is nine forty five in the evening, a purple wash drains the scene of energy. Now be in all amazement as our man strolls, with delicate stomps, clean past you. His chin has remained at ninety degrees. The cut of his cloth has the teeth marks of greyhounds. The colour of his cheeks has been added through sheer willpower. In his hands he clutches a lavender pamphlet detailing his next public appearances. His eyes control the flow of the stride, all glacial grace. His elongation has disturbed both you and your friend. Can you cope with such a vision?

No, so you whisper.

Now where has this man sprung from? What weighty tome did he be carried in on? In such a hush it is usually difficult to see the heavy plans for this human building. Well let us go back in time, a mere number of hours...

At breakfast he has been a beast. Yes, a beast. Crawling out of the tomb of sleep he has clawed at his escape, scraping his way with peeling fingernails, as the previous night's polish falls in powdered form all around. The musky ooze of dawn has delivered back his entire being to him and now he is left fighting its savage grip on his sensibilites. He must win, he must win. Things that need removing are paradoxically stripped by painting on- the varnish must get reapplied. But first less serious tasks! And so he goes to work....

Food, that killer lust in the body must be murdered! He takes a small but substantial serving of organic museli. His greedy gut welcomes the mop and bucket of putrid nutrients, the splash of soya milk aids the duty. A tea is choosen from a selection of several. Today it is ceylon- its light colour is less offensive than the sickly sweet smell that terrorises his nostrils.

He attempts to relax (always best performed after a sigh, so I've been told). The traffic of images from his daemonic dreams hurl their way into a noisy early morning jam- their nasty noises burn his ears- he flees to his piano and strikes a major chord...."Ah, harmony at last...". This is his first major success of the day. But no! Those fingernails! Something must be done. He dashes back into the boudoir, avoids eye contact with his foggy bed and runs over to his dressing table. There, in a bottle marked 'Lethal Application' lies his solid solution- with a glide of the brush the sheen returns- a vermillion vision clings like burns.

It can now be said that the boudoir is nothing more than a boxing ring- the fellow pugilist we oppose is Nature Herself- we must punch our way through to victory. We must leave the ring with our choosen personality stained onto the dying carcass that is our ultimate future. And so, our man gazes into the mirror- the shock before him is too much- never gaze into the looking glass until at least one act of beautification has been performed- it is better to start the day slightly deluded before the deluge of rugged reality stares deeply into our fragility and punches us on the nose. If this punch occurs then powder must be puffed on at once! Never allowing the pain of the punch to delay what has now become a reflex action, the dandy shows how artifice predates sensation.

Yet sensation will always come crashing back. Our man has returned from the boudoir and is now attempting