Greetings from West London
…….[static]……[aerial tuning noise]….[more static]…..[burst of Duran Duran followed by more retuning]….[a voice becomes clear].
Ah bolo, my oldest friend. Welcome back and shake my shame faced head as I regret the stories over the last year that I meant to write down. Lost to time. Who knows? Somewhere in there might have been the spark or nugget of wisdom to turn this whole sorry train around.
But hey, enough of regrets. 2010 beckons loudly and even though I keep writing 2009, it’s here to stay. Quick made aspirations to go to bed earlier are already out of the window. This week an experiment in sleep deprivation sees me wild eyed and crazy, hunkered down in the bunker like a wounded animal brandishing a blazing twig.
Is that possible? Who knows? Seems like these days the natural order is reversed. Salmon swim downstream while gurning fools download iphone apps to help them walk down the icy road. Cameron’s mob sweep the free press, telling me Lord Goldsmith is an affluent visionary rather than a scrot featured tax dodger. Cameron tells me marriage is good, worthy of a given tax break. Boris waves a stick at the emerging London overground. Bankers leave the country like rats off a sinking stomach, dodging 50% tax rates and the PR bonus hating culture of those that need to deflect attention from their duck houses, ceremonial moats and hotel rented porn action.
Expenses are a thing of the past. The free ride is over for MPs and web designers alike. But hey, we rode the good train for a while. All we needed was a receipt and a ready smile. We could buy our goods from John Lewis and that alone for most was privilege enough.
Jesus, I have so much to say, but I’ve just drifted off for ten minutes listening to Mystro, head nodding, hood up and listless. Better wrap this up, but at least this is a start. A poke in the ribs for myself when I wake up confused and with a dry throat and pounding head wondering why my laptop’s still on and I’m lying on the floor.
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