The Brown Planet

Leaving the horrors of Christopher Crinkle-Cock in Danforth Avenue far behind (I never knew hate till I met you) I think it's time I told you about my new hood. I'm forever grateful to Libby who valiantly rescued me from the evil clutches of the vile gangster, Affas The Hutt, and I don't think I've had a more relaxing place to live since I've been in Toronto. The sun has finally come out from behind its fat, sweaty (and ugly - so ugly) cloud for me, but there are some issues about the surrounding area I feel I should address. Libby's home sits comfortably between the haves and the have-nots and as such I am privy to some pretty outstanding examples of both poverty and affluence. Walking home from work now I pass directly through the richer end of Yonge Street, with its giant mall-based shopping and skyscrapers, but continuing the walk I find myself in the middle of the ghetto.

This ghetto is fairly far removed from what I was used to in Gerrard Street. There I could feel a modicum of safety - in the lap of the university buildings I surely had as much chance as the next student to be picked off by the skunk pussies and saw myself as statistically favourable to make it to the next excursion. Walking the length of Queen Street, the road which I live off these days, things take a turn to the darker and the safety in numbers theory dwindles with every footstep. Gone are the buxom prostitutes we discussed a few weeks ago and in their place are some much more desperate looking saucer-eyed nut-bags. One, in particular - there's always one - is catching my attention at the moment. She's a youngish girl, at least I think she's young under all that muck, who sits on the grass of Moss Park with a car sideview mirror in her hand pointed outward towards us pedestrians. Being a literal sort of chap, this got me thinking as to the purpose of this gesture. Could it be that she's saying, 'look not upon me with eyes that judge. Before me, you must judge yourself'? Or maybe, 'within my pulverised body beats the heart of an everyman. I, my brother, am you.'? Fortunately, one day, walking a little too close and staring a little too much, I got my answer. 'Suck my clit!' Of course, that was it after all. Delightful.

Recently I was passing through the Moss Park area and I got the finest example of human wildlife I think I've ever seen. Picture the scene: It's late afternoon in early autumn and although the weather has lost its biting edge, it's still warm enough in the slight breeze. The locals of Moss Park are milling around as normal - some are dozing in the shade beneath a tree while others are crouching down, pulling their filthy pee-pees out of the sides of their shorts and pissing like a racehorse. It's a lazy day and all is well in the soiled trousers of Trampland. Then the tide abruptly changes. It's as though the park has been tilted up at one end and the staggering inhabitants begin to slowly, but then with more focus, make their way across to the far right corner where a big station wagon is pulling up. Those previously dozing are now dragging themselves to their feet and the pace is picking up for the others until a growing throb of unwashed begin to gather around the car. A bright white couple eventually emerge and while they beam happily at the crew huddling around them, they push past and pull out a couple of picnic tables from the boot. The mass is now writhing in feverish anticipation and you can hear the occasional figure cry out as the inevitable casualties of greed start to mount up. Then, finally, to those who've weathered the storm, the spoils. Hotdog buns and weiners along with t-shirts and trousers are piled onto the tables and, amazingly, are left untouched - although the smellies are beginning to slaver and moan achingly at the very sight of them. Gingerly the white couple step back away from the tables, their smiles have faded now - they know the bums are coming, and hell is coming with them. Stay… Stay… Go-get-it! Utter chaos. The tables are bowing under the relentless pressure, but the sturdy bastards are holding fast. What looks like nothing other than a ball of teeth and dirty fingernails are laying siege to the goods - buns are being worn and t-shirts eaten in frantic desperation and around it all, a halo of flying weiners. Eventually the frenetic melee subsides and as quickly as they arrived, the rasin cakes disperse back to whence they came wearing back-to-front Halo 3 t-shirts and belching. They'll sleep now for several weeks.

And now a moan. Working here is doing my fucking head in. These people actually think I give a shit about them or their laughable Ministry of Education. That has to be the biggest irony I've experienced since I've been here - Ministry of Education?! These are without doubt the most incompetent group of inept morons I've ever worked with. Literally the slimy dregs from the bottom of the barrel seem to be scraped up and shaped into civil servants out here. I've lost count of the amount of times I've heard this, 'I sent you an e-mail about…' No you didn't. You didn't send me anything. Are these people actually retarded? Can they not remember what they did five minutes ago? Fuck me, they're stupid. I then have to trawl through all my e-mails to get proof that they didn't do what they said they did for them to look defiantly back and say, 'do it anyway - right away' Right away? Just so I'm sure, that was, right away? If there's any phrase in the world to make me drop any kind of urgency with which I was carrying out a task I think it may be this one. Just to prove it, this is actually what I'm doing 'right away'. I'm writing about what a group of bottom-feeding charlatans you idiots are instead. Then I think I might take a two hour shit and a little walk, or I may even start up the old masturbatorium again, instead this time in full view and aiming a viscous arc of righteous man mucus right in their faces - now that would be a mighty orgasm. I'm so turned on right now. All I can say is, God help the youth of Canada - if I was you I'd turn to Moss Park for an education. I hear they do an excellent course on clit sucking. And breathe.

It's happened, the record for comments has been broken. A staggering six of the best fell at the feet of last week's posting and although I'm pretty sure some of them were from the same people (Glen and Nabila, I'm talking to you here) I think, yes, I'm getting the nod from Norris McWhirter, that's a new record! Dedication, that's what you need. Anyway, to those anonymous, Michael, Damon and you Rob (who I'm better at pool than) many thanks for making dreams come true. Come on now the rest of you, I know you're out there, I can hear you breathing.

7

Is it possible? I'm so sure and all the conditions and circumstances would point to it being credible, but surely not? It was downtown, the film festival is still on while I write this, so could it actually be that I saw Steven Spielberg cycle past me on the way into work? I suppose I'll never be sure unless I run it past the great auteur himself, but I'd like to think it is true. Therefore that's what I'll do. No one can ever question the validity of the declaration (were you there? No) and Al saw Daniel Craig outside his office in Covent Garden the other week, so why not? Yep, you'll never guess who I saw biking past me as I walked into work - only Steven bloody Spielberg! And he was wearing a Amistad cycle helmet adorned with boats and slaves from the film of the same name. Or was he? That could be merely embellishment strapped onto the end of an already outlandish statement, but the only person who'll ever know the truth is me - or anyone with half a brain. As if Amistad had helmety merchandise?! It was actually Schindler's List. Or was it? (It wasn't)

Anyway, onto today and to continue the theme of was it/wasn't it, I think I'm sitting next to Colin from Edith and Colin on Radio One at the moment, but I can't be sure so I've decided against asking. Plus, what would I say? 'You're that Colin, aren't you?' And he'd say, 'yes', if he was. But then what? Actually, what am I talking about? We would talk about the Beeb, how we both worked there and before you know it we'd be great, great friends laughing and joking and then he'd get me on the radio and into celebrity parties (finally) where I'd get drunk and end up having a photo taken of my shaved vagina as I got out of a car. Hang on. I hate Colin from Edith and Colin. He's a twat. Maybe that's what we'd chat about - about how he's a talentless self-satisfied twat who acts all dangerous and interesting, but that I've experienced more danger and interest last time I got out of the lift on the wrong floor. (Another one came along shortly afterwards, don't worry) So sorry, Colin, I don't think it's gonna happen - I ain't shaving my vagina for no man.

So how come I'm (possibly) sat next to Colin? Well, I'm sat next to lots of people right now cos I'm on a Greyhound bus headed for Buffalo, New York, where I'm getting a flight to Manhattan to see Rob (who I'm better at pool than) for his surprise 30th birthday party (surprise!) I've often heard about Greyhound buses - when I was in the States a few years ago I used to pick people up from the Greyhound station in Las Vegas for the hostel I worked in, but until now I've never been on one. God, he really does look like Colin. Anyway, they have a bad reputation and being the cheapest form of long distance transportation they attract a more pungent clientele, being the company of choice for convicts, murderers and sexual deviants of all… Wait a second, some Amish people just got on. We've stopped at Niagara Falls and a young Amish couple just got on the bus. Now I'm no expert, but I have seen Witness, which I think, I'm not sure, but I think qualifies me to make some wildly inaccurate and judgemental conjectures on the lifestyles of these natural odour embracing folk. I didn't think they were allowed to use the bus? I thought all the trappings of modern life were to be ignored and even scorned? Don't they have pig-drawn carts for all their transporting needs? Still, I wonder if he'll let me wear his hat. Personally I can't see it.

Now, back to the drivel. This is a real-time description as I'm travelling by Greyhound down to New York, kind of like 24, but over far less time (only seven hours) with a far lower body count and almost no threat of a nuclear attack. At least it gives me an idea for the title of this posting. So I'm heading into the US very shortly where I expect to be judged and eye-balled by rent-a-cop at customs, who'll no doubt make a huge issue of the fact I went on a day-trip into Detroit three months ago and conclude the proceedings by violating my prostate with his huge sausage fingers. Again. I'll let you know. Very shortly, in fact - we've just arrived at customs. Don't go away… (Beep, beep, beep, beep...)

Beep, beep, beep, beep...

A more self-important, brash, low-rent bunch of Neanderthals you could not hope to meet. US customs - probably the most deplorable group of people on the planet. These imbeciles carry guns! They give guns (which fire actual bullets, you understand - at great speed, I'm led to believe) to these knuckle-scraping dullards who would happily pump two into Grandma's face if she couldn't show the right documents at the dullard annual family barbecue. Talk about a power trip. Probably my favourite part of the process is when they summon you over with just a beckoning finger. No words, just a finger - ironically enough that would have been my response of choice if I had the minerals. But I have no minerals, just a vagina, as discussed. So now that all my bags, papers and cavities have been roughly poked about in I finally find myself Stateside in good ol' Buffalo. Apparently this place is a dump and I can quite believe it. Border towns have this bad reputation for a reason and this one looks to have all the charm and allure of a Jim Davidson dinner party. Fortunately I'm only stopping here long enough to get a bus to the airport and as we're pulling up to the bus station now it's time to make with the beep, beep.

Beep, etc...

Oh my God, I'm so bored. At the bus station I still had 2.5 hours to get to the airport and even though this would appear to be plenty of time to you and me, one of the porters looked at his watch and shrugged that it 'might be enough time' to get there. Thinking the airport must be miles away and I'd wildly miscalculated in my carefully planned itinery (it seemed unlikely with the wealth of spreadsheet-based data I'd prepared, but you never know) I legged it Christie-style to the nearest taxi rank and shouted, 'airport and step on it!'. Of course I didn't, but I felt the 24 analogy was becoming obsolete and I like it, so there needs to be some shouting and high speed driving. So with the mushroom cloud that was once downtown Buffalo disappearing into the distance and the dead terrorist slumped in the seat next to me I ripped the computer chip out of my fake finger, reprogrammed the co-ordinates and tore down the freeway towards the airport. Ahem. Of course I got here with plenty of time to spare and now I'm sitting down contemplating another two hours of sitting down. They say only boring people get bored - I'm not sure they have had the pleasure of clock-watching in Buffalo airport with a broken iPod. If it wasn't for the human conveyor belt which makes you feel like you're walking at an incredible speed I think the suicide rates in airports would be through the roof. Gotta love that moving walkway. What would be the most disruptive and chaos-inducing declaration you could make in an airport? Shout, 'bomb!'?, shout, 'I've got a bomb'? Open your bag at check-in and ask, 'does my bomb look big in this?' Terrible. Sorry, so very, very bored. I'm off to try and beat my land-speed record on the walkway. Beep, beep, beep, beep...

Beep, beep, beep, beep...

So it's just dawned on me, I think this is gonna be quite tight. I've got to get to the bar where the surprise party (surprise!) is being held in just under three hours and it all relies on public transport running on time. My history with this kind of thing is not good and I'm starting to get a bit nervous I'm gonna end up getting there late and miss the 'surprise!' element - really the whole point of the covert planning and bare-faced lying we've all been participating in for the last few months. If I get there late can I still shout, 'surprise!'? I'd feel robbed if I couldn't and I think I've earned the right - but there is a danger of me looking like a bit of a cock if I do. Is it me, or is it getting hot in here? I don't mind flying, in fact I quite enjoy it once we're up, up and away, but there's always one point in the journey where I'm utterly convinced this is gonna be the way I die. It only lasts for mere fractions of a second, but it's an inevitable part of the experience for me and would almost be quite liberating if it wasn't accompanied by a raw, blind, more than happy to stamp on women and children's heads to get past panic. Fortunately that's been and gone now that we've just landed, but the captain just announced we're currently at the mercy of an available place to disembark - the wait begins. 10 minutes and still waiting. 25 minutes, leg twitching and still waiting. 40 minutes, eyes watering, leg now in overtime and still waiting. 55 minutes! Now we've been on the tarmac longer than we were in the air! Body at full injustice-induced spasm and still waiting! Beep, beep, beep, beep…

Beep, beep, beep, beep....

Right, so I was at the very front of the plane, the perfect spot for a quick exit, but after asking the stewardess to make a quick announcement asking if anyone wanted to split a cab to downtown New York I waited for the two people who raised their hands at the back. Come on, I know you're back there, come on.... No! As the last people filed out I looked up pleadingly, but it was obvious then - the lying bastards had thought better of it. Godammit! I just waited 10 minutes for the plane to empty for no good reason and now I have to wait for all the shuffling coffin-dodgers left at the back to make it up the stairs plus I can't afford a taxi on my own. Why, Lord, why?! I haven't been this frustrated since I found out Terry Nutkins didn't call his son Squirrel. Beep. Time is of the essence - I'm entering the last 30 minutes of the seven hours on a train heading for Penn Station. There I'll take a taxi to the bar for the all-important, 'surprise!'. Beep. Train's arrived. Making calls to Rob's fiancé and mate - nearly there. Beep. Taxi went wrong way. Spat venom at him and got in another. Beep. There's Pete and Roddy - we're on our way by foot now. Beep. Need deodorant. Beep. Urgently. Beep. Seven hours is up. Is that Rob....?

Beep, beep, beep, beep....

No Popcorn Please, I'm British

Who loves films? I do! In fact, I can't think of a single genre I've not had a thoroughly jolly time watching. Be it high octane action, shit-your-pants torture porn or even experimental German skin flicks, I just can't get enough of movies and don't remember a time when I didn't feel this way. One of my earliest memories is going to see ET with the old man and I was so blown away by, not just the film, but the reaction from all the rest of the blubbing audience I rewarded the little brown poo-monster by immortalising my feelings for him in felt tip on my bedroom wall, earning myself a justified clip round the ear. In later years I went on to scribble the lyrics to Ray Parker Junior's seminal theme tune on my door - but being so painfully middle class it read, 'who are you going to call…?', something that still makes me cringe today - and buy a skateboard just because McFly made it look so effortlessly cool - that's Marty rather than the ugly Northern boy band. These days I pay through the ring-piece for lobby cards and memorabilia for my most beloved features, fork out a small fortune for DVDs and magazines and spend most of my 'downtime' at work looking up nerdy info on the internet to arm myself for the inevitable geeky fact-off battles with other losers. You know who you are. Yep, I sure do love films. Cinemas, on the other hand, I don't care for much - something I clearly forgot when ordering a 10 ticket booklet for this year's Toronto International Film Festival.

If you hadn't guessed by now, I'm intolerant. Ask anyone and they'll tell you the same - a trip to the cinema with me is not usually a pleasant experience. There are certain rules you need to adhere to, which go as follows:

1) No food (it's two hours - no rations required, Porky)

2) No explanation of plot (keep up, Thicky)

3) No getting up for the toilet (cross your legs, Pissy)

4) Absolutely no talking (button it, Speaky)

Unfortunately these rules can only be strictly enforced with members of my own party and it would seem others don't have a similar system. There has to be a system, people, or it ends up in chaos. This chaos manifests itself in several ways - all of which raise my blood pressure and I would estimate that every trip I've made to the pictures has probably taken about six months off my life expectancy. Every film is not only remembered for clever plot twists or fine acting, but also for the selfish antics of the bastards (and they are all bastards) sat around me. For instance, since I've been in Canada here are some of the films I've seen at the cinema and how I best remember them:

Hostel 2: Teenager actually chatting openly on his phone. I told him to stop - he didn't comply. Six months.

Rescue Dawn: Chair kicked so regularly it felt as though I was on Space bastard Mountain. Turning to stare sporadically didn't help the cause either. Six months.

Die Hard 4: New level of selfishness reached by father bringing baby (baby?!) into film. Whole cinema turns on him and calls of 'asshole' and 'selfish prick' (mine) are spat as said baby screams throughout. Unforeseen kinship with fellow cinema-goers soon dissipates upon realisation Fatty next to me has brought his own nine-course meal in a plastic bag which is scooped at greedily throughout the film. Plus he stank of feet. Six months.

Transformers: Actual tramps come and sit down next to us for a discussion (or rant) They get kicked out though and faint arousal occurs. Stress + arousal + shittest film of all time = ten months.

That is merely a potted history of my cinema-going life in Canada. There have been far more films and therefore many more years lost, but I should get on with this posting. All I can conclude from the evidence is that I must be a glutton for punishment.

So far I've been to three films. The first was an unmitigated disaster. I thought I was going to a horror, but it turned out to be a kid's film - which is actually like a personal hell for me, but not the kind of horror I was expecting. There were kids everywhere - crying, shouting and all making a beeline for my perimeter - and even though I tried moving several times I couldn't get away from them. The film was from Sweden, so if the slurping, kicking and laughing (I ask you, is there anything worse than the sound of a child laughing?) wasn't bad enough, the subtitles were being read out by Mary bleedin' Poppins who had taken it upon herself to ascribe each character their own voice. Plus the film was all about love. Appalling. Since then, however, my experience has much improved. I went to see the world premiere (oh, yes) of George A Romero's new zombie flick, Diary of the Dead on Saturday night and even asked the old maestro a question at the Q&A session afterwards. I had to think quickly, you understand, so it wasn't exactly earth shattering. I asked, 'what would be your personal weapon of choice to dispatch the undead with?' and he said, 'I guess it'd have to be the shotgun.' Classic. Needless to say I got all girly after that and laughed too loudly - but this was George A Romero, people! Before the film some nerds dressed up as zombies made me laugh with a little routine they'd worked out. Someone shouted, 'what do we want?!' and the creatures moaned, 'Brains!', then the same someone shouted, 'when do we want them?!' and they moaned, 'Brains!' again. Pretty funny, don't you think? I did. Brains. The film was good, but I preferred the blood-fest that was French horror film, Frontieres, which I saw next. Man, that was just messed up. A veritable orgy of gore. A gorgy, if you like. I was meant to see Simon Pegg's new film, Run, Fat Boy, Run yesterday, but Rob came down from New York and we got pissed instead. And I won $20 off him at pool. Brains.

So that brings us up to date and what have we learned? I'd say practically nothing, except that I'm irascible beyond even my own imaginings, enjoy horror films and the word gorgy and am better at pool than Rob. That is all.

Thanks to Glen again, becoming quite a regular on the comments front now. Keep it up, even if they are all mostly insulting. Also thanks to Matt for his glowing praise - is that you, Parratt? As you were.

The News

Good evening.

As a kid I remember we used to do this thing where we'd hook our fingers into our cheeks, pull them apart and then try to say the phrase, 'I'm a banker'. Hilariously 'banker' would always come out as 'wanker', no matter how hard you tried to pronounce it properly and this, I think, is the main difference between being a grown up and being a kid. As a grown up you don't need any physical manipulation of the face to grant people in the banking industry this title. In fact, if wanker is all they get referred to as during their day they should consider themselves lucky.

I'm angry, people. I'm stressed and angry and wound up and a little constipated and it's all down to those colossal money-making machines - or more specifically, to my own bank, HSBC. These crooks have had a sleeper hold on me since I was a student, and before - and what do I get for 15 years of loyal custom? Words you may well recognise: procedure, policy and due process - all said by prodigious penises pissing people off, when they should be presenting us prizes for the planetary profits paid into the pilfering pricks' pockets! What was that? I have no idea. Rage? Possibly.

I haven't felt this stressed since I came to Canada and truth is, it's because I haven't had to deal with the banker-wankers. Some of you may know this about my travels already, but my plan is now to ditch the west of Canada and spend a couple of months avoiding big cigar-shaped insects, dysentery and kidnapping down in South America. The organisation for all of this was going just swimmingly until I realised that my credit card runs out at the beginning of October. Thank goodness I'm with the 'World's Bank', I thought to myself, this should be a doddle. One quick call to England and they'll have a new card sent to one of the local branches round here before you can say, 15.7% APR. Unfortunately this was not to be the case and as the blood pumped furiously through my temple veins I was given the news that it's up to my branch as to whether they send it or not. What? 'But you’re the World's Bank', I repeated to mouse brain. 'Last time I looked, Canada was part of the world - why can't you send it to part of the world, World's Bank?' That's when all the 'P' words began to spill forth like a sliced jugular - made up of P. Do you see? (it’s urine) Mouse brain was reading her script and nothing was gonna get in the way of that - not even loyalty, courtesy or compassion. HSBC you are the chunky shit-flakes that stick to Satan's own boiling bum-hole and I hope you get what the crazy guy from my posting a couple of weeks back says awaits you. Stabby - it's gonna be a long week. Is it me or has every posting for the last few weeks involved the Devil and bottoms? What the hell does that say about me?

In other news...

Tell me if you think this is a odd thing to say to a stranger. I was working in the lunch room earlier today and an old girl came in to get something out of the fridge. I've never met this woman - I've seen her about, but I don't know her name, where she works or anything about her. So this is the first thing she says to me. 'I'm trying to teach myself to eat cottage cheese.' Not for the first time, I was genuinely at a loss to think of an appropriate response. She continued. 'I got the other stuff (what other stuff?) but now I'm adding my own jam because it's cheaper'. That's great news, isn't it? Is it? I really don't know anymore. 'I don't eat cheese', is all I could manage in return, but she didn't care. She'd actually started to dry heave at the sight of the cottage cheese she'd poured into a bowl and was making 'urgh!' noises. Since when did I start working at a day care centre? But in truth, working for the Government in Canada you see people like this all the time. I don't think I've done a list for a little while, so let's do one now. Bizarre behaviour and things I have seen since while working at the Ministry:

Old women cupping and squeezing their breasts in front of me (x2)

Woman breaking down in uncontrollable sobs in front of me for no apparent reason

Statue of a man either wrestling or having sex with a dolphin outside the building (see above)

Somebody putting fresh sage outside the director's office in a plastic bag, labelled 'fresh sage'

Going to a free lunch, which ended up costing me $15

I didn't even bring my wallet to the 'free' lunch, so much was the emphasis on 'free' before we left, so I ended up meekly having to borrow money from someone I barely knew to cover the costs. Red faces abound.

So anyway, back in the lunch room Mrs Havisham had finally made her way out of the kitchen, balking as she went, when another crumbly quickly appeared to take her place. Tentatively she approached me and put her hand on my shoulder. After what looked like a wince of pain she said, 'I saw the service this morning and thought it was very fitting'. What service? 'Of course, I firmly believe in the conspiracy theories'. What theories? Oh God - she's talking about that blonde who used to hang out at Harrods, isn't she? 'I'm not a Royalist', I told her, 'I actually didn't know anything about a service today'. The hand was quickly snatched back from its comforting position on my shoulder. 'Oh', was about all she could muster up after that revelation. My favourite part of that whole exchange was that because I'm English she thought I was probably having a tough time at the moment, what with the anniversary of whatshername's death and everything. I'm not sure she could've got it more wrong though. In respect to Blondie, I felt more sentiments of loss last time I flushed the bog after a particularly satisfying dump. Remind me again why I should care about a vacuous stranger who died 10 years ago? And don't even get me started on conspiracy theories. All you ever need to know about these absurd paranoid notions can be summed up beautifully in the South Park episode entitled: Mystery of The Urinal Deuce. Cartman sums it up nicely when he says, 'I can't base my logic on proof'. Enough said.

Now more on our regular feature…

Unlike England's Rose, it turns out that there is light at the end of my tunnel. Those eager to know about the continuing adventures of me in the company of Penis Features (you're all sick) will no doubt be disappointed to hear that my voluntary imprisonment at His Majesty's Pleasure is soon to come to an end. Last week the insufferable knob-rash informed me that the girl whose room I've been sub-letting is coming home early and I have to get out of the flat by this Friday. The sensations of first bewilderment and then great elation can surely only be comparable to when England and Germany laid down their arms and tentatively crawled out of their respective bunkers to enjoy a quick game of Christmas footy. Life with Affas had begun to become literally unbearable and I was questioning how I would survive a further month, at least, without suffering a full breakdown and embarking on a blood-soaked murdering spree - but at his announcement that the shackles were to be broken early and that my prayers had been answered, I found it hard to keep a straight face. Inside my head the theme music to Superman began to play, followed swiftly by 'Let's Go Fly A Kite', from Mary Poppins. I was delirious, I was jubilant, but most importantly I was free! A little melodramatic, but I must say, it did feel enormously good. He continued on about how he was really sorry and that he still wanted us to remain friends cos we obviously got on so well (eh?) but I was too distracted to listen, flying high in the atmosphere, up where the air is clear - away from the cheesy fug that had descended upon my world little more than a fortnight ago. It's true, moving is a chore, it's a pain certainly, but leaving behind this malignant tumour of a man is to be the most exhilarating experience I've had in Canada yet. And I've been to the Shoe Museum.

This is for you, Affas: Goodbye, Cock Features. Your life will be much like your many, many (many) anecdotes. Long, boring and essentially pointless. You will die alone and unmourned and people will say only this of you, 'who?'.

(PS I used your special moisturizing face soap to clean my cock and bum with every morning and chuckled to myself as I removed the pubic evidence. Hoorah for puerile and juvenile revenge, I say! Hoorah! Plus I flicked a bogey on your precious cat which sat on it for days. Hoorah!)

And finally…

What can I say? A bounty of messages this week - a quite astounding five (count them) comments for last week's posting. Careful now, this'll start going to my head. Thanks to Amanda for making me nervous, Glen for making me laugh (and stealing my thunder with his funnier story - bastard) Mum for actually managing to put a comment on - God bless you, Marge. Anonymous (you know who you are) for backing me up - he really is a twat, eh? And Rob for putting annually instead of analy. Good lad thee. Our next bulletin with subtitles will be during Breakfast tomorrow at 6am. Good night.