Someone once asked a celebrity what she liked about being drunk. “I don't like being drunk, but I like getting there”. I always liked that answer; being drunk is just a by-product. You're there, you've kinda peaked. It's a sodding climax and awkward pillow talk of either passing out, or just going to get your jeans and ordering a cab. Wasn't it ol' Friedrich who compared it to walking up a mountain? Gotta take in the view yeah? Life's no cycle ride, let alone a walk in the park; how can you call it an adventure if you don't even have a wet arse from the midnight downpour?

(breathes in) The cold air of the morning.

Clocks just went back. Technically it's now summer, though to be honest, who can really tell the difference right now?

Anyway... Good riddance to winter!

(OK. it wasn't ​THAT ​ bad).

The market is a funny place; people thrashing about, yet simultaneously packed together like sardines. 5 for a pound. 5 for a pound. All the while getting a gad of salami or a pound of brussel sprouts waved in your face like some demonstrational dental floss manoeuvre, squeezing between the punters to apparently improve standards of hygiene. But whose? yours? mine? I ​did ​ take a shower this morning, thank you very much.

What do people want here? A quick fix of dopamine? A bunch of bored panelists with not that much of a clue between them agonizing over the next step, rapidly (rabidly?!) refreshing, ad nauseum, whilst one is stuck in the aforementioned human press?

ABSTAND!

What is this place? This used to be the centre of the world. ​I used to be a man of letters. The main thoroughfare made me waltz down the alley, its brisk current pushing me down as if I was in the outdoor spa of Buda, or a spider whirling down the plughole.

A quick stroll, slipped into a side street and tottered over to the bankside. Almost tripped over some berk passed out next to a bin. When are they going to clean up this mess?

I filled my lungs with the smell of salt water and seagull doo-doo. I'd just lost my job, and was down and out at the docks. A bit of rum and sodomy never went amiss. But the ale house is mysteriously closed today, and the Colony Rooms are long gone...No-one is to be seen. Sat on the ol' cliffs of Dover, staring over at the old Norms, half of whom swim around in my blood ancestral. Where's my harmonica? I fancy a little sing song for the owl and the pussycat. Anyone got a cheeky measure?

I set fire to my shoelace and watched my boot slowly drop into the water.

You could call me a misanthrope for all I care. - But the difference is, I do.