'Seems that I was busy doing something close to nothing
But different than the day before'
'Met a dwarf that was no good, dressed like Little Red Riding Hood'
'Now you're unemployed, all non-void
Walkin' round like you're Pretty Boy Floyd'
Hang on. Just to get this absolutely clear, all you bourgeois, hard-working, civilised types have been pîssed on or had each other's shît in your hair and the like?
Yet I'm the untermensch for living in a truck with my sound system of a summer just cos I drink Special Brew and have a few mates with dogs on bits of string?
I may have gone months without washing - deisel fumes, wood smoke and a stout pair of goretex books to stop your feet minging do wonders - but I've never had to worry about piss in my mouth or shît in my hair.
I never realised I'd lived such a sheltered life.
If this is what being a working, upstanding citizen does to a chap, thank God for squats and giros.
She's practically a homicidal maniac; why on earth would he want to breed with her
No, violent lunatics are all very well, of course. Great bunch of lads, for the most part; hearts of gold and whatnot. But you only get together with them in the first place because there's little or no chance of being stuck with them forever.
And P is a pinko and a cat lover so, deep down, he understands this perfectly well, even if it took over a decade for the thing to play out.
"Plenty of strikers can score goals," he said, gesturing to the famous old stands casting shadows around us.
"But a lot have found it difficult wearing the number 9 shirt for The Arsenal."
So we've lost interest in poor Peter's dreadful predicament I see. I am surprised no-one suggested the obvious solution of him delivering an almighty great kick in the **** to his tormentor. She would at least be somewhat taken aback as I believe she perceives him as some kind of soft touch.
In my experience even the foulest and most vociferous old harpy pipes down as soon as you fire the old Doc Marten into their growler