Just come out of a meeting at Head Office where yet again I was made to feel like Charlton Heston on the Planet of the Apes. Granted, the fact that I chose to attend said meeting in a loincloth made out of torn spacesuit didn't help much, but still, why is it that a fantastically sculptured man like me has to endure such petty complaints from whoever? Over a photo-shoot no less! Apparently I offended the Federations leading snapper who has vowed never to handle any of our stills campaigns anymore. I say good, They say apologise. Once again, the man in the polo neck is asking how high of the men in suits. My axe? Take a quick glance at one of the many pictures on my gallery here. Don't thumbnail, do yourself the favour of a doubleclick to get the full-on, on-screen delight. Now take a look in my eyes. Don't get lost in them, I appreciate I am what many a teenage girl would label a 'dreamboat'. Just look, blink, minimise and then answer this simple question. Do I or do I not look like the type of bloke that knows what the f*** he is doing? Uh? I do don't I? Board room, bed room, locker room or lock-up, I personally feel that all a man or woman would ever need from a partner is trapped in those deep, piercing, uncompromising retinas. Of course, your answer may well depend on which picture you have chosen to enlarge. To be perfectly honest there's only a few I would choose to print out and frame for the flat. The one with my arms folded, (my idea) or the one where I've just kicked that door a new keyhole. (Again, my idea but not my door) I have to admit, the shoot wasn't a harmonious one. The set was unhappy. Aside from my apparent 'unprofessionalism' and 'scant appreciation of the fundamentals involved in stills photography', the real thorn in the lion's paw was the photographer herself. She was what we in the surveillance trade call a Four Eleven. Couple of guys on my shift have just read that over my shoulder and are nodding sagely to themselves as they throw me a 'we know, we know' style nod. I'll meet you in the Pitcher and Piano boys! (Obviously I'll say that to them as well as type it, else they may leave without going two-seys on the quiz machine.) Members of the general public would probably translate our Four Eleven into 'bitch'. Good call members of the general public. First off, she didn't wear a tie, something I found highly insulting given the portentous occasion we were gathered there to document_ Second, she had her MP3 player on shuffle all through the day meaning I couldn't get a straight answer to my 'how's my relaxed neck muscle looking?' question that I and many others believe led directly to that shot where it does appear like I have a double-chin. F*** me, you stupid bloody Four Eleven! Third and probably most upsetting, was that not once did she ever even attempt to get inside the mind of Victor Legit. Why? How was she supposed to trap the myriadic multi-dimensional conundrum called me in a glossy two-dimensional print? She was like an Elder of Krypton lowering that circle that became a square onto General Zod. He'll bust out, just like I will, intergalactic shock wave or no. Whilst on the subject of Zod, those that know me will know that I gave up referrring to myself in the third person about eight months ago. I won't go into details, suffice to say it involved a Korean, a child and a slightly mottled golden retriever. Sufficer to say, it was tangled enough for me to say Vic, no more. From now won you are an 'I', not a 'He'. Anyway, this crazy f***ing Four Eleven had Kodak gold on her hands and instead of trying to shake it out of the pan from amongst the mud, rock and sand, she just pointed and press-ed. Result? No Treasure of the Sierra Madre, but beaucoup Treasure of the Sierra Badre! She unearthed a glimpse at the brio lodged deep in the mind of one of this countries premier adult males, but not a studied one. End result? A wasted opportunity. Ok poster designs and publicity shots for the Edinburgh offensive instead of water coooler images burned directly into the festival-goers souls. Let's hope my contacts at Dart, a leading Merseyside design company specialising in making fit guys look fitter, can pull my pout out of the bag. Why would I pull such a face if you aren't going to investigate it and parade it? Mother f***ing Four Eleven! To you, the ones out there waiting for such a window, I apologise. Come see me in person, on stage, perhaps there I will sate your curiosity. To her, the lady with the Boots disc camera, 'Go back to shooting gowned graduates holding a scroll you hack! Leave the true capturing of danger to the professionals. Me and my boys holed up in the Pitcher coining it up at Millionaire. Hit Tarrant for me one time boys, my pound coin is on the side!