I recently bought his Spades and Hoes and Plows, a collaboration with countercultural polymath Julian Cope in which 3 traditional rebel songs and one written by Wrench are dragged out to 65 glorious minutes.
However, the above quote comes from his second album, The Atomic World of Tomorrow, a (presumably) ironic LP of synth-pop disco-soul tracks. I can't think of many more frightening things than a cadaverous 6'5" albino shimmying towards me in a lamé posing pouch singing of Paxman's sex-appeal. There's an image I can't shift.
I finished Scarlett Thomas's The End of Mr Y the other day. If you like sex, mice, campus novels, postgraduate poverty, physics, Derrida and Baudrillard, you'll love it. It's creepy, driven and written in a cool, detached tone. I hated the final chapter though - rushed - and the last page is a shocker.
PS. This is Paxman:
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