A publisher who maintains a blog which features work-in-progress was going to post this brief extract from the novel I'm working on. Then she changed her mind, on the grounds that it was "too disturbing for a general blog"?

I'm sure that it's not, but I'll post it here so people can see for themselves. The book's called Glimpses of a Floating World, and tells how the escape of a teenage heroin addict in 1960s London brings about a chain of events that ends in murder and mayhem

"They ran Reggie backwards along the dark corridor, a screw holding each arm, and reversed him into the padded cell. That way he couldn't wedge his feet against the doorjamb, or put up any meaningful resistance.

They made him wear a grey woollen dressing gown, but had taken away the cord, so that he wouldn't be able to hang himself. The gown fell open as they rushed him along, and he looked down at his own emaciated body. Each rib could be seen, as clearly as a chicken's when you ripped the meat off the bone. His long blond hair hung down in rats' tails. His cock and balls looked small, shrunken in the cold. Embarrassed, he wanted to cover himself up, but couldn't, and he realised how defenceless he was. That was the first thing the screws had told him: 'You're in prison now, lad, and we can do anything we like to you!'

Reggie was pinned face down on the padded floor, one screw kneeling on his back. His breath came in ragged gasps as he shouted at them to get off. Then, changing tack, he tried pleading with them.

'I just need my fix! Please!'

This seemed to provoke the man restraining him. The knee pressed harder into his back. He felt the warmth of the man's breath, first on the nape his neck, and then in his ear.

'We'll give you an injection, lad: a ruddy meat injection!'

'Right up your fucking arse,' added the second screw.

A third screw, who wore a white jacket, entered the cell, carrying a syringe in one of those kidney-shaped bowls, the kind made of white enamel, with a blue line painted around the rim.

'400 milligrams of Largactil,' White Jacket announced, 'equals one quiet night, for Yours Truly.' He said it with satisfaction, as though he'd just won an argument.

Reggie fought to throw off his persecutors.

'He's getting his dander up now!' laughed the first screw.

'Oh dearie, dearie me!' said White Jacket. 'Should I be worried?'

Reggie smelt an alcohol swab, and felt a large needle stab into his buttocks, the muscle slowly forced apart by the injection. Above him in the ceiling was a red light, behind a steel mesh. It would stay on night and day, so that he would soon lose all sense of time. It was 4 p.m. on the sixth of June, 1963.

His jailors paused to look at him as they departed, swinging the heavy padded door closed. Reggie heard the jangle of a key turning in the lock. He'd not had a fix for over fourteen hours. His feet felt as if they were immersed in icy water, and the chill was seeping up his legs, poised to invade the core of his body. His strength was ebbing away. Every limb felt flimsy, too weak to support his weight. He forced himself to stand. It was hard to walk on the padded floor; it bounced like a mattress and pitched him sideways, so that he swayed around like a gale-struck sapling, and lurched from one wall to another. "

Is it me, or is there a change in the kind of girls getting new sets onto SG? It's a long time since I felt I just had to download a pic, or even comment on a set. (I always comment, unless I feel indifferent or negative. I figure there are enough negative comments without adding mine.)

The new SGs seem a lot less risky, a lot more mainstream. Like Playboy with tats. Where are all the punky, alternative, fuck-off-if-you-don't-like-it SGs gone? Are we heading into a smoother, more sanitised future - no more sets in back alleys or vacant lots? No more getting stoned in the back of cars or drunk in the railway sidings? Sigh.

I haven't changed a light bulb for over 5 years, because like most British people I've gone over to long-life flourescent ones. From the recent debate on this web site it's clear that, like many ecological measures, this is still far from the norm in the States, where many people still use power-hungry incandescent lights. It's really weird how far Americans are behind other developed countries when it comes to ecology - presumably because the world's most powerful country is the target for the oil industry lobby, and they have succeeded in keeping these issues off the agenda. Again and again, you find issues that are big news in Europe don't receive much coverage in the US media. Friends in Iowa, for example, were surprised that we avoided buying GM products - just not an issue back home.

The Bush administration has fought a long campaign, not just against Kyoto but to water down any UN proposals on climate change. It is almost inconceivable that a country with such a first class university system, responsible for training more scientists than any other nation, should have a President who not only refuses to take action over global warming, but prevents the rest of the world from doing so. This is probably the greatest crime of which posterity will find him guilty - which is saying something. The scientific consensus is that greenhouse gas emissions are behind global warming, and the precaustionary principle means that along with all other measures those gases must be reduced. But that simple truth hasn't reached the White House, which operates in a parallel reality, in which there is no civil war in Iraq, and the battle of Armageddon is going to resolve the Middle East situation.

I always sneer at reality TV, but lately I find I've been watching it (while pretending not to). I've been watching the X Factor - a talent contest for singers here in Britain. (I watch purely for research purposes of course.)

Although I don't usually like singers like Whitney Houston or Mariah Carey, I've been blown away by Leona Lewis, a 21 year old Black Londoner who can belt out songs in their kind of style.

The sad truth is that women don't usually win these contests (Alex Parks was an exception, and I loved her too), and nor do Black people, so Leona may not win, despite being better than many more famous performers. Apart from racism, I suspect that this is because people who vote on these shows are not the record buying public. A Black singer called Lemar lost out to some indifferent White performers; they all disappeared without trace, while he has gone on to win 2 MOBO awards.

You also come up against the regional factor. The British like to support local boys and girls. How else can you explain the McDonald brothers surviving so far into the competition? They hit on the winning formula of wearing kilts and singing old favourites from the karaoke circuit, and are an outside bet to win the competition, once all the Scottish mums and dads reach for their phones. I hear that they are planning to sing an old Scottish favourite in the finals, 'Donald Where's Your Trousers?' They will march up and down with a piper in the McDonald tartan, and mime the wind blowing up their kilts.

The X Factor is crap TV, full of fake disputes between the judges, tears from contestants and other ploys to get people voting and spending their money, but it is irresistible as long as Leona is on screen. Although she has only sung big ballads in the show, she has recorded more contemporary stuff which can be heard on the theschizofreniks web site. I hope she wins because she deserves to. Ben has a great rock'n'roll voice, and can do a good cover of Joe Cocker, but Leona is a potential superstar.

I'm writing a novel about junky life, but I know it will never get published - however good it is - because of recent changes in the publishing business. Apparently the sales and marketing directors now make the decisions, not the editors, and they won't agree to anything that doesn't look as though it will fly off the shelves in WH Smiths and Tescos (a bit like Walmart in the US). So if you're a celebrity - say you've been on Big Brother recently, or you're married to a politician - you get to publish, even if it's a pile of crap. A lot of great work would never see the light of day now - like Naked Lunch for example.

I guess I shouldn't be surprised, as the music business is a bit like this too. But at least you have indie labels - and there are no real equivalents to indie labels in British publishing. Maybe the future lies in publishing your own books for free on the internet?

I'm a sucker for a certain kind of charm. When SGs acknowledge their comments it always blows me away. When someone like Scout says 'thank you for understanding me' I just melt. She is so charming. You feel yourself getting ready to move heaven and earth for her! I guess it's down to ego - you puff yourself up and say 'Think nothing of it - that's just the kind of person I am.' Then all the base motives you might have had for looking up her set in the first place get re-labeled. 'Why I'm only interested in these sets as an art form'.

Having said that, there's plenty of art in the best sets. I'm getting into commenting on sets because it makes me look at them more carefully, get more out of them. You start to ask why some sets are over-poweringly sexy, and others aren't.

What distinguishes super-star SGs from others, some of whom might be considered more conventionally good looking? It's not anything crass like body measurements - the kind of thing that qualifies girls for Page Three. Women who strip off for the Murdoch press usually look as boring as hell. On the other hand, women can have big tits, small tits, thin legs, big bums - whatever - and look stunning, It might be erotic imagination - though here I'm not sure how much the visual image is due to the model, and how much to the photographer, and how much it's a collaboration between the two? Certainly some photographers, like Cherry, produce work that's consistently more erotic. (Can you search by photographer on SG so you can look at all their work?) But the model makes such a difference. They have to have that sexual confidence, to be at home with their sexuality and their fantasies, before they can explore them for the camera. It's their vision that is tapped into. The best - Debra Jean, Charlie, Astra - take the whole art to another level. You get that frisson of surprise when you look at their sets. These are images that just stop you in your tracks. They are redefining beauty.

Maybe they are high-energy individuals with abundant Chi, which is why they seem larger than life? When they walk in a room, heads turn.

Had to come back in the end because there is no other site in the world with women like this - unique, powerful, creative and wild. They are the first wave of a big revolution ... there are so many really wonderful women here.

Can't be doing with all this pro-war shit on this site. Don't expect SGers to be brain-dead. Still, looks like I'm ot of step with everyone else, so time to go.

When I was a kid, cool was the antithesis of enthusiasm. Mezz Mezzrow used the term cool in Really the Blues, describing these guys who are getting stoned in a basement while the house burns down around them. Cool people didn't get excited, even if they were on speed. They wouldn't run around shouting 'fire'. To get belligerent or rowdy was definately uncool. Getting drunk in an exuberent way was uncool, so was being incoherent.

Coke heads often became uncool because of toxic psychosis. After a couple of days of heavy use they'd freak out, thinking they were under surveillance from cops sat in trees outside their house.

A lot of crap is talked about coke being harmless. When you mainline coke the buzz is very close to the OD level, so you're always chasing an OD. I remember these guys who used to fix up in pairs. The first guy would shoot up and OD. His buddy would bring him round, wrapping wet towels round his head and walking him round the room. Then there'd be 10 minutes of animated conversation while the buddy made up his fix. He'd then OD and be resuscitated. They'd go on like this through the night until the coke was gone, unless one of them didn't make it. Bit like Russian roulette. All 100% pharmaceutically pure NHS cocaine in those days of course.

Very few people can afford such big habits today. The jazz drummer Phil Seaman used 9.5 grams of heroin a day in the early 60s. That would kill not just one elephant but a whole herd.