Does thinking about it make you guilty?

I would say no, but God apparently disagrees. Or so I was led to believe by the thunderbolt that crashed down beside me when I thought I might buy an Iron Maiden album the other day.

Fortunately there are ways around buying Iron Maiden albums. These include:

1) Growing up.

Still, they're a bit of craic, aren't they?



I thought that was cool...

Anyway, anyway, anyway... After the cop out of a post the other day, I feel I owe my legion of (one) fan (me) a proper update so, here goes:

Today I was nearly killed by a man in a big white van who drove AT me while I was crossing a road. I was a bit shocked since I hadn't expected anymore attempts on my life for a few days, but there he was. I leapt out of the way in time and the driver just grinned and shouted 'Sorry!' out of his open window.

I wish that wasn't true, but it is.

Lately I have taken to feeling ill all the time. I've decided to go and see a quack — something I probably should have done months ago. I was putting it off cos I was worried I might have something really horrible and I'd prefer not to know. Today, however, I was discussing feeling ill with a friend and it turns out my symptoms point to wheat intolerance or something irritating but not lethal like that. Bouyed up by this thought, is what I am considerably.

And that is the single most exciting thing to happen to me today.

Oh, Liz and I threw a party on Saturday just gone and it was terrible — loads of people turned up at my house and spent the whole evening drinking and chatting and laughing and listening to music in MY house!

Fuck's sake...

It was Monday before we got rid of them all, and even then my li'l sis was hanging about. Fortunately she's gone off to stay in her campus accommodation — which looks like a cross between school and prison to me — and will not bother me anymore. Except that I told her she could borrow some cutlery/crockery and she took all the best stuff. Little fecker.

I promised the world that when I got my laptop and a nice house I'd start working on the novel which would shake the foundations of literature to the very... Um... Foundations. As yet this has not come to pass even slightly, but it's tough y'know.

Getting used to the house, getting accustomed to working and now having tolerate being intolerant. It's all so much to deal with. Not to mention the misery of work. Only forty-odd years and then I can retire!

(Note to self: Must get cracking on bestselling novel so I can retire next week.)

I'm sure there are loads of things left to say... Oh, yeah!

Crikey! Steve Irwin killed by a sting ray! Talk about ironic... The man spends his days wrestling some of the most dangerous animals on the face of the planet and he gets done in by one of the sea's most shy and unconfrontational fish which just happened to be feeling a bit nervous that day. It wouldn't even have killed him had it not hit him in the heart. What are the fucking odds?

Well, Steve, I salute you — you were a mad bastard and the world is now a less interesting place without you.

I wonder if there is an afterlife where Steve is now running up to dinosaurs and other extinct creatures going, 'Crikey! Look at the size of that beauty! Whoah, there T-Rex — Hey, he's getting grumpy...'

Interesting...