The Easter projects have begun. All around you, grinning hipsters are breaking out into spontaneous, machine-gun bursts of unbearable egg puns. If you join them you will, quite rightly, think of yourself as an insufferable cunt, but there's no ignoring them either. They really are all around, like the suffering of Christ. You can see your own unsmiling face reflected in their oversized spectacles as they throw back their heads in ironic joy. Your disparagement must be rye and uncompromising. What do you do?

You go to, that's what. You load the page, generate a board and calmly tick the boxes until you get a row of eight contrived psuedo-witticisms, and then you run around the room, hands in the air, pointing and jeering at your colleagues in a frantic victory lap. Perhaps you will have taken the time to print the board, and you can sign and date it before warming up the laminating machine to immortalise your victory. These people have no idea who they're dealing with.

» The abridged diary of Tom Plastic

Summer, 1983. London, a sizeable metropolis in the dead centre of the world, was burning with possibility, and the few of us were fanning its smouldering core. On one uncharacteristically wet day in June, we finally and quite suddenly understood how we had been twisted, tricked and robbed. They had been telling us stories to churn our brains around in our skulls since were babies, and we were suddenly realising that they were fiction -- a thousand million interweaving narratives comprised entirely of babbling madness translated into every language ever spoken.

And worse, the currency of sanity in this constructed world (an economy into which we were required to enter in order to enjoy our so-called freedom) demanded that we outwardly believe every impossibly well-reasoned truth, and that we pass them on at every opportunity. We, by this time, had consumed every chemical that wouldn’t kill us (and a few that very nearly did); we had committed every sin imaginable, and forced our poor, desperately rational parents and siblings through countless court appearances and hospital visits, all in the name of breaking down the exposition that was unfolding in a lank daze around us.

But the truth is that we were wrong, and that really we were doing more harm than good. The drugs, in particular, acted like strong bleach when they washed across our minds, stripping away the years of caked-in experience and indifference. Everything we took dissolved and washed away a layer or two of grime. Ultimately that process put us in the mindset of infants, and again we were innocent, with our eyes unfocused. Safe in the flimsy shelters we had, as a close but unstable group, built around ourselves, we looked to our parents - to the memory of them when we were young and they were younger, anyway - and re-learned the things we had tried so forcefully to forget. In retrospect, we would never have made it to adulthood if we had learned the real truths on the playground or in our bedtime stories, so perhaps it was for the best. Our ancestors were neither evil nor stupid, it just seemed that way because they were so desperate, only wanting us to live, and in doing so to forget some of the things that they could not; deception was their gift to us, and when we were given the chance, we squandered it callously. I understand it now at least, albeit too late: there are certain lies that all children need.

» On Birth

The cut was too big for me to effectively do anything about with only my hands. Even if I had wanted to, there was no chance I could have stopped the bleeding. Oh, I knew how all right -- pressure, the denial of separation, is the end of all wounds.

But I only watched him, there in the red flakes of dust and the crackling corn, sitting stunned amongst the crisp pops and racing embers of scarified napalm trails. And I was disappointed: there was no last rasp of breath and no fatty simmer of eyes whitening and rolling up in the sockets, nor was there any desperation or passionate, broken last polysyllables.

» Just a little bit

The wisdom, bravery and tenacity of Gina G has inspired millions; she will not be soon forgotten. But the path to genius was hardly smooth and tarmacked.

The message of the song Ooh, Ahh / Just a little bit was so powerful that, when it was first revealed to her, Ms G has no idea into which media she would mould it. Presented here for the first time is an early interpretation, intended to be a short, confusing film.