My guts are rotten today; I only had a croque monsieur with some cucumber and tomato late last night, it landed on top of a few pints of fizzy fucking lager following a hilarious trip out with my bro to the hostility in Clapham what I bangs on about on occasion.
Anyway, the upshot, or the outshit, of this is brown fire, I feel dreadful and, as I write this, the experience is quid’s on for repetition. This would be bad enough as it is but in an hours time I’ve got to go into the city with my boss for lunch with a client to negotiate a fucking contract. If one were to put elements as far away from my true self as possible, religion, dance music, teetotalism, ITV, then ‘negotiate a contract’ would be the furthest away. It’s not me, I don’t like it, I don’t want to go, I feel ill, are we nearly there yet.
I’m sat at my desk wearing my smart clothes, black shirt, brown pinstripe trousers and posh boots, my stomach boiling as I perspire gently wondering when I’m going to be dragged by my nipsy into the small room.
Short one today as I have to do work things before I fuck off out of it until the afternoon, console yourselves with more from The League and a WWM, link over there ————>