Bone Ache

A picture of me in the pub every single day of my life, brought to you by the magic of Flickr and the awesomely shitty camera in my Treo 600. Bone tired after being woken up by a flower delivery. I imagine the delivery girl was expecting a mourning family, rather than a naked 37-year-old man with most of his hair missing and a beard pointing in three different directions at once showing no more command of language than a mongoloid Neanderthal with an itchy arse and unexplained liver pains. You could see in her eyes the sudden stark fear of being clubbed, dragged in by her hair and impregnated with my gene-deficient and leg-waving primitive seed before being dismembered with a flint tool of some kind and lightly cooked over a makeshift campfire out back.

I am not a morning person.

Thanks to Marvel and DC for the flowers. I will eat them later with some charred dinosaur meat.

I’m in a pub in south-east England. You think I’m not surrounded by fucking dinosaurs every day of my life?

— W

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