I forgot to tell you the other night I met a guy who offered me his socks, out of kindness. On a train. He was drunk, and his fiance was resigned, in that was they are. He sang Robbie Williams and Queen songs, and kept hugging me, and said he deejayed trance and progressive house.
Apparently nobody shot the junky or the queer the other night. I was surprised, and disappointed. One lives in hope. Saying that, we have enough fraudulent martyrs, we needn't another, especially one so doughy and grey and lacking in material.
It would be nice to think Luther and Richard are somewhere, discussing the ladies, or something.
It would also be nice to think that privatising a country's water would emancipate its people, but gerbils don't sprout wings and divebomb Welsh castles in the spring, and neither does Paul Wolfowitz. He just gargles with baby offal.