ABSTRACT
The first thing needful, in such unpromising circumstances, was theory. What better than to follow the fashions of respectable radicals, to borrow the cast-offs of cinema and literary theorists, especially as the labels were all in French, so who knows what part of the body they were actually designed for? This was fun. After a while all the theorists were dressed up (they even went through a strutting-in-front-of-the-mirror phase), putting on New French Accents and asking ‘Does it suture?’ Tm doing Lacan-can!’ chortled one. ‘Look at my Lyotard!’ retorted another. ‘Après moi, le Deleuze!’ moaned a third. ‘Rhizomes, simulacra, what’s the différance?’ agonized one more. ‘Cherchez la femme!’ warned the only woman present. Then everyone joined in the chorus: ‘Hey-down, ho-down, derry-Derrida! Among the LeaviStrauss-O!’1
