My poor mother divested herself of this particular fleshburden on this day, far too many years ago, in the sleepy Bailiwick of Jersey. I gradually expanded from being a good meal for one to being a veritable feast, free range, for a whole happy Christmas family. But in my adulthood I contaminated myself with all sorts of vicious chemicals and seditious opinions so now you wouldn’t like the taste of me at all. So, useless for the table, I have existed, tolerated by society, ever since – harmlessly perpetrating sedition through a blog that merely shouts to an echo chamber. And today is that special day when Facebook prompts everyone to wish a happy clickday, and it’s a Monday for once. Monday is the actor’s day off. We play when you work and we work when you play. So I’ve been rolling into lovely food and already having too much alcohol despite the sun being very present in the sky.
So I thought I’d make words now. Because words later will be largely unconnected from meaning. Not that I’m particularly connected already.
So. Hello. You mad fool. You’ve got this far. What were you expecting? Keep reading to the end. You’ll never believe what happens in the last sentence. And so on.
What happened today then? I was picked up by Tristan and Tanya and they took me to Maze Grill and fed me a tomahawk steak and lots of wine before 3pm. Now I’m back at home with a bag full of prosecco and reasonable red wines and God knows what else. l suspect that some of the people who work normal hours will start to appear in my flat soon but in the interests of sanity I’m only mentioning to people if I hear from them that I’m having friends round. I’d just as soon play computer games in my pants.
People have started giving me presents though. This is great. It’s like being a fatter less self absorbed version of teenage me. But rather than cake I’m getting socks, maps of Portugal, blister plasters and sunscreen. Apparently a conglomerate of people have offered to improve my boots, which is amazing because I was going to go with my £30 internet boots, which leave my feet soaking wet after 8 hours of normal use in London. I would’ve just pushed on past dissolving feet, as is my habit. But to have feet that work in boots I don’t hate – that’s going to be a luxury that means my walk will be about more than managing discomfort. Until my teeth fall apart or something equally shit but unexpected.
I’m giving the last fifty words of my blog to a random guest because I’m already too drunk to be any help to you. This is the bit you had to read till the end for: Hello, the aforementioned Tristan here. Now. The Barclay. Hasn’t he done well. 29 again and looking ever better. Full set of gnashers, spanking three piece, (I like to think I inspired in him the love of that all weather armour), admirable hair considering he keeps on selling strands of it to gullible farmer’s sons as “magic threads” , (you can’t move for illicitly procured cattle in his flat). He’s yomping across the Pyrenees soon into Spain and possibly Portugal as he does have a map. I’m exceptionally pleased for him and I want to take this opportunity to say that I love him and I know you do too. Let’s all wish him the happiest of birthdays and send him fulsome fervent well wishes for his pilgrimage.