Just to let you know a few things:
A: I am still alive.
B: I'm aware the pictures on all my older posts have vanished, this is because the site that was hosting them exploded (for reasons too pathetic to go into here). Anyway, they should be back when I have the time and inclination to heft them all over to my new image hosting site. For now, you will have to use your imagination.
C: George Best died, and I fully intend to mark his passing by doing a celebratory Rumba on his grave. The media have wheeled out the usual dead-sportsman line on his death, proclaiming him a "hero," "genius," and other such superlatives incompatible with a washed up ex-footballer who killed himself with his own lack of impulse control, despite being given a second chance at life in the form of a liver transplant that really should have gone to someone who was actually ill instead a boozy cunt who happened to be famous. Conversely, we have seen almost nothing about the death of Alfred Anderson, one of only four remaining World War I veterans, right after Remembrance Sunday.
Still, while I watch actual news sidelined to make way for football pundits' ten-minute-long tearful farewells to the stupid dead old dogfucker, I am comforted by the fact that now he's corpsemeat, he'll no longer be a drain on the health system. George best was A National Treasure, and I've always thought the best way to keep treasure is to bury it.
This month also sees the sad passing of William Hootkins, the actor who bought to life the unforgettable character of Porkins in the first Star Wars film. Y'know, the big fat bloke who explodes by accident during the Death Star battle. I urge you all to light a candle for ol` Porky.