Dear Dobson,
All my well intentioned ideas of a run this morning have again fallen by the wayside and I am now in bed drinking the miracle that is tea. I swear it has magical properties as the mild hangover I woke with has, at last, started to abate.
I also have Jeremy Kyle on for background noise. It raises my spirits and makes me feel like I'm a decent enough human being, like I'm doing something right in this God forsaken existence of ours.
I wanted to blog and congratulate you on your stand-up début last night. I felt a huge surge of pride and admiration for you. You funny fucker. I can't wait for the next one.
Life chez Frankie has been a bit of a rollercoaster of late. I think it's symptomatic of the nights drawing in. The chill of winter is waiting just around the corner, like a South-east London mugger, and I'm dreading the prospect. The arrival of the Black Dog at some point feels painfully inevitable.
On top of that we're not even a week into November and all the Christmas shite has started... To quote a good friend of mine, it makes me incandescent with rage. How on earth in this day and age can advertising taglines like this be justified?:
'It doesn't just happen by magic, behind every great Christmas there's mum and behind mum there's Asda'
At which point the camera pans to a smug looking man holding a glass of booze, quietly pleased he's got away with doing feck all... Cunt. The tagline should be 'Behind mum, there's a pissed up dad with his cock in one hand and a fistful of goose fat in the other...'
Hush my cynical mouth.
Frankie
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