I have - and I'm not saying this is anything new, but actually it is, just in the last, well, between the last few days and a year or so - mislaid my merriment. Oh, hang on - I'm, going to say more now - ha! You crazy people out there!

Well, now, anyway, it goes right next to my, I can even say melancholic vapours, do you know, that when I pull the curtain and have a look out at the back of them houses, about four most mornings, when I often wake up and my mouth is not so fresh, I have a look, like, and this healthy teenager's body - the world, I mean, like - don't appear bugger all to me, except if it might be a castrate infertile of a pointy cliff top. Y'know, all barren, like.

And these bloody high and fairly like lovely skies I see too, looking up like, when Mrs Grisham starts her terrible sounds, horrible, through the walls, like moaning but fast, so I look up, straight up, no messing with old Tom, at them skies, to not to think about Mrs G's racket, oh brother! Yeah, so this bloody sky, you know what I mean, well, I'm not the one to say it, because after all, as the English heritage, oh, I don't shitting know, whoever they are, they all say British Isles sky is a honourable tradition unlike in stinking foreign. I'm not the one to tell them, but when there's me, right, in the house, in the night, hearing the woman, and I've got to be looking through my little window frame, that sky of theirs just looks to me, and I'm sorry, like nothing but a bloody rotten, infective rabble of smuts.

To be fair, mind, take an average bloke�Ken, say. Nothing good about Ken. Nothing bad neither. Nothing at all. Nice darts throw, they say. Me, I'm not interested in darts. So, just a bloke. But when you transparent Ken's flesh, like X-Ray Spex - oh, how complicated is he, totally, like in a machine! All the miles of tubes and that!

Not just his tubes, mind - in Ken's way of walking, like when he comes in the Canton Caf� for his eggs, and his Express is rolled up in his back jeans pocket but you can't see it because his bomber jacket is over it, except you can see the bulge, in the way he comes in, takes the paper out and has a sit down to wait for his eggs, old Ken's about the same as your average cherub.

Not just Ken neither - like old Martha in the charity shop and that, not working there, mind. Looking at the annuals. Hell of a girl. Partially deaf, I reckon. But when old Martha is after getting across to Tesco Metro for snouts, she unbelievably gets all her self together to not get run down by cars, fair play. To me, that's better than all the historical achievements and important thinking revelations done by all the Einsteins and that. What the old bitch Martha does when she doesn't get killed on the road is more like what some old Allah or Hare's Krishna might do, or even a terrible stupid daft man with an elephant on his head, no, an elephant's head I mean.

Ganesh!

Gesundheit.

The nicest looking thing in our cosmos, really, old Martha and Ken and all them, everybody, like. Much better than being a hog or a duck. Miles better. Or perhaps I should be saying like the best example of a certain type of thing, like the horror film Top Trumps were the best than all the others.

Mind you, do you reckon I should give two fucks for this totality of pencil shavings?

No, I can't get no joy out of blokes.

I quite like girls though.