So, goddamn it, I have had to move out of the beachside residence. Summer is coming which means the Emmetts are coming down to Kernow to populate our beaches and foul our waters with their putrid urban body-slime. They bring their swollen red bellies and obscure Northern accents and a dress sense that makes even me vomit and let’s face it, I don’t have a dress sense at all, and they rent our old bungalow for exorbitant sums and enjoy that loveliest of locations whilst the sun is beaming and the house is warm and not frigidly cold and I’ve moved into a flat in Plymouth which is alright and it’s free but I’m going to miss evening games of golf at Ivyleaf when the sun is drooping behind the Atlantic and we drink beer and smoke spliff and smack fuck out of our golf balls and enjoy the time. Goddamn it. I sneer in the general direction of all this that displeases me so this thundery afternoon. Look at me sneer. Is that not a sneer to be proud of? Eh?
The passage of each day is bringing me closer to forming a terrorist group of my own.
When I was but a wee young stripling of a lad I remember continually arguing with my parents after one occasion when I made the fatal mistake of being honest with them. I had just smoked my first few spliffs down the bottom of the garden and foolishly, and perhaps because I was freshly stoned, I presumed that Mum and Dad would understand my curiosity and would leave me to it. I mean, the authors I was so enamoured with at that time were all prescribing healthy doses of all sorts of pharmaceuticals; Huxley liked his mescaline, Kesey his LSD-25 and Burroughs his smack, to name but a few; and I thought that the rents would take my mild investigations into these matters with a nurturing pat on the back. This was not the case.
Hence followed two years of them shouting at me that I needed counselling and me replying in shrieks that it was them who needed help to deal with the reality that,"everyb...
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