Sometimes I get so angry I hit my fist into walls. I am angry.  I am angry that there is no soundtrack to my life. My life isn’t a movie, not even a gritty realistic ashtray sodden movie like Withnail and I. Well fuck you Paul McGann. Damn you to fucking hell. Don’t hate him as much as that paperclip, but he is not high up on my list of favourites.

But still something makes us bare ourselves, put ourselves out there and with a big bloody smile plastered on our faces ask ‘So how was that? Did it make you smile’? And when we are left alone because other people’s arses are so much more interesting than anything we have to offer, we still have that stupid bloody smile plastered on our face.

It is always the untalented wankers in life who get ahead. Hard work they say. Hard work has nothing to do with it. Otherwise that bloke who worked forty years in the factory would be a millionaire and Donald Trump would be holding out his cup and begging for a dime. I am sure Donald would dispute this and would like to get up me for slagging him off, but he isn’t here, so he and his stupid haircut can take a running jump.

What is there to do? There is only so much a human being can do isn’t there. We can fall in love. We can die, nobly, horribly or stupidly, or, if we are cowards, we can continue to exist in a hollow void of nothingness.