I have a few proper nouns to list. Firstly try these on for size: Elvis, Jim, Jimmy. Now try these: Mick, George, Lou. Everyone is expendable. Everyone knows the first three but struggle for the latter trio. Why? Well, because whilst the expendability is never in doubt, the lasting impression is. I have nothing more to say on the subject, it is obvious and I have better things to do.

So, the Hunter is finally dead. His terrible and awful presence upon this sorry globe has come to an end at last, preceded by the curt cock of hammer and oily squeeze of trigger. I bet he used his magnum .44, with the extended barrel and optional optical sights. He probably would have taken the sights off as even an old and decrepit, foul-minded, drug-using spent invalid would have trouble missing a big ol' bald dome such as his from arm's length. He is gone now, spirit fled from Woody Creek, Colorado, away from his preening peacocks and bike and car and arsenal and information centre. Thank god he killed himself, rather than sink into the mired ignomy of older age and loss of faculties. It could be argued he should have done it sooner. He talked of ridding himself from this earth, to make way for the franchise that would follow and it is a good thing he has done. His suicide is life-affirming. He knew the deal, knew his gig was up and he knew when to move the fuck along. My best wishes to Juan. Let Hunter and Oscar tear the heavens from their brackets.

"I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence or insanity to anyone, but they've always worked for me." Hunter S. Thompson.