"Hey, hang on! Where the fucks the end of my nose?!"
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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