I need a good fucking slap

The Brewski of old is no more. A life-changing, momentous loss that suspends reality, the world slowed and you drifting through a haze of disbelief, terrified. A chasm opened. I am a small boy again. She was taken by fire, and in these early days I find myself sometimes flinching when I light my cigarette lighter, and I double-check gas ovens.

She used to call me her 'wandering star'. In her more worried moments, she would call me 'a ship without an anchor'. In the latter she was of course mistaken. She, and her wonderful house, was my anchor.

So anyway I thought torturing you with shite would be therapeutic, so on with the wellies you cunts.

I am back in England, where I haven't been longer than two months in the last ten years. Am I freaked out you say? What are you, some sort of cunt? Of course I am! It is colder than a witches teat, and this morning in Tescos people thought my mate was leading a spastic around, such was my beatific, serene smile engendered by the splendour of the foodstuffs on display. I am in cuisine-fucking-heaven my friend. Who knew Tescos could do that to a man?

Here's a bullet point, hit it with a hammer: England is fat as fuck. Fat fat fat fat fat. Fuck. Unbelievable. Of course I've been reading the obesity stats rocketing up in most developed countries, but to come back and see that shit is fucked in the head. Get a grip you .....aaargh there's no other word for it fat fuck!

There's a lot to be said for denying oneself what one considers to be wicked for an extended period of time, since coming back to it rules the world. It also shows you how to be a person of simple pleasures. Give us a kiss.

Honestly you wouldn't believe how abstract everything is. I keep speaking Chinese to shopkeepers. Being shocked when a geezer in the pub holds the door open and says, "yooaalright mate?" I consider the air in the middle of London to be fresh and clean. Noone stares at me. I look feverishly in every direction before crossing a quiet road, expecting a random dopey scooter to come from anywhere. I keep slapping myself thinking I felt a mosquito. And the water goes down the plug-hole the wrong way.

I just wrote a whole two paragraphs with no profanity. Told you I needed a slap.

I have satisified most of my immediate longings upon return, just earlier I had roast lamb, roast spuds, gravy etc., after a wait of four years. I have fucking lived my friend. I have discovered 'surf and turf', something of which I had never heard. I'm sure my pleasure is unholy. I am punishing the one they call 'Guinness', Christ Almighty is there nothing better than a pint of the black and a Jameson's. No there isn't, you doubting fuck. Sitting in a familiar 600-year-old pub of an afternoon getting right langered, in my humble opinion, should polish everyone's peanut.

However, notwithstanding, and that's as maybe, no comment, and how's yer father. God give me strength.

Love life my friend, and all the strange turns she takes. If you do not, I will track you down and duff you the fuck up. And it's your round, cocksucker.

Sirrah!

"Oh Jesus. Oh fuck me. No. Fuck. No." Me, every 30 seconds. Fuck.