A meditation on the nature of fame.

I had a mildly noteworthy experience the other day: it was sunny and I'd stopped off at the Arnolfini for a pint and to sit on the harbour side and read my book (Against Nature by Joris-Karl Huysmans) anyway upon finishing my drink I hopped off to the gents down in the basement, only to be confronted, upon the door of the cubicle, by an image of myself on a poster.

Let me describe it for you: it features me in jeans, red t-shirt and principally, a small, red and white body warmer that belonged to the mother of my (now ex-) girlfriend. I'm standing in a totally black room, with four lights in the ceiling, one of which is illuminating the wild shrub that is my ginger hair. Only you can't see my face because I'm stood with my back to the camera with a stance reminiscent of a cowboy in a duel.

I was thrilled to see my likeness in an unexpected and uncalled for place. There was an element of pride and pleasure in having achieved the of good fortune which had made this possible. This was followed milliseconds later by the sad realisation that this in itself was possibly the most obscure speck of notoriety that it is possible to achieve: Sure I was on a poster, but no one can see my face, and it's an A4 sheet advertising a Live Art weekender inside the gent's toilets of the venue holding the event.

Don't get me wrong, it's great that it's there and i'll be stealing it for the bedroom wall archive as soon as the event is over, but lets just say I'm retaining my sense of perspective, and next year I want A3.