Hark! The glassy angel sings: glory to the new-born thing! There I was just the other day thinking, hm, oh yes, this year I’ll give up all that boring journal moaning stuff and actually just write about real world things, after enjoying my little diatribes on John Terry and the financial crisis and, ye, Wimbledon too – and what have I done and only done since the bell went “bong (twelve o’clock)”? Just rattled and prattled on as though I done swallow one o’ Chamone’s great grand brazil nut pills again – and maybe that’s me. Bong! I found out I didn’t need to stab the grey goose in his poo-pushing neck. Bong! I looked up inside my head and saw the words, and saw them a thousand times, and on the thousand and oneth time I lo and behold said ‘em and – bong! – they were as ever nought and now I can’t even remember. Bong! Routine: rootine: roo teen: rue tene: ru tiin. Yippee!
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