Hey, what about that massive fire in Camden Market? Very suspicious. I suspect foul play. Or fowl play? Could a fire like that be set off my a bunch of geese, ducks and shit messing about with matches?
I'm still struggling to come to terms with the fact that I saw Mimi yesterday. I thought I was over her, but no - the mere thought of her pert breasts over my toast this morning still induced a distinct twitching in my privates...not the thought of her pert breasts hanging over my toast. That would be weird. Just the thought of them, full stop.
So, after breakfast I decided to go down to the basement to find the photo album with all her pictures in it, an album I hid away in the darkest recesses of the basement about a year ago to try and stop myself staring at it for hour upon stoned hour, bringing myself to maudlin tears over the injustice of losing such a wonderful creature to...well, to a yoga freak with a name like a fucking clown.
I thought hiding the album away would cure me of the awful longing I felt for the gorgeous bitch once and for all (and stop me constantly 'whacking the monkey' over the topless shots from our holiday together three years ago).
And let's face it, until yesterday it worked.
Unfortunately though, I hid the album so well, it was nowhere to be seen. Probably because when I hid it I deliberately made sure I was totally out of it, so I wouldn't remember where I hid it.
Does that make any sense?
One good thing though - when I was down in the basement, I clocked a tape measure slung loosely over some boxes in the corner and decided to measure myself right there and then for the suit I need for Tom’s wedding, starting with my chest.
Of course, it’s manly and large, like Vin Diesel’s, only smaller.
My neck, thick, like Mike Tyson's, only not nearly as thick as his.
Arms? Well, just long enough to reach my hands.
Legs. One of them touches the floor and the other one that doesn't when standing on one foot.
And the waist. A couple of wees and a big splatting poo after breakfast.
My mobile rang on the long dejected trudge up the basement stairs.
“You mean spirited child of the cold, dark industrial wasteland," he yelled at me. "Be warned, I say. The devil is among you, the devil is among you...”
And with that, he was gone. Daft fucker.
I fixed a monster bong to try and forget about Mimi and, well...women in general, really.
When I was younger, I didn't have such woes. No, dived head first into the pool of outrageous excess. Playing in a band meant a regular supply of teenage and some not so teenage girls attracted by my interesting haircut and funny accent. They didn’t really care about me as a person, they just wanted to take advantage sexually. And of course I was only too willing to let them.
But now?Now I've become susceptible. Now the little mixes are capable of seriously distrubing my equilibrium.
And as I sat on the sofa, watching Sky News broadcast the same old news 15 every minutes, I decided that from now on I’ll limit my relationships with women strictly to the platonic kind, or more optimistically, to the platonic kind mixed with a soupcon of no-strings-attached sex.
No more will I open my heart and let a woman chew me up and spit me out like Mimi did.
I will remain forever an independent spirit.
A one-man island...like Marlon Brando.
