Taking in everything he can get his mucky kleptomaniac mitts on Michael Aitken’s Art work veers manically from a cursed self-loathing to an ego fuelled ‘oh-look-at-me’ fuck-fest. Contemporary Art History especially takes quite a beating. As does any notion of his own artistic or intellectual superiority. Pop music is ravaged from every angle possible. A smutty, teenage sense of humour presides. One pot cooking is the method. Screeching noise is the medium. Mopey internalised self-pity is constantly fingered through semi-cryptic bullshit. Actually, who knows what he makes? He will lie to your face. Do not trust him!