Blog, blog, blog.

It is an odd position to be finding yourself in, when your back’s no longer to the wall, and yet the day job is still meant to be in a state of panic. That said I’m utterly exhausted now, and yet its bonfire night. I should be wandering around in undknown muddy darkness with people I don’t know watching bits of cordite produce light in the sky above. It’s the bonfires that get me – fuck the twinkly fairy lights they chuck up – I want to be in wellies, knee deep in a field, eating some diseased bowel product of a long-dead animal (sausages) watching a fire the size of a house, and probably containing enough wildlife to maintain a petting zoo, incinerate the faces of the prats who press too close.

That’s the meaning of bonfire night to me – warm, broad, fiery alienation.

Argue with me