Good Greetings people, I'm back!
I'm not actually, but such proclamations are often of comfort.
So, what tales of bitterness and woe do I have to impart to my brood of random Googlers, online pharmacy spammers and people dropping in from long, long dead blogs who forgot to remove me from their sidebar? Oh, not much.
Still living with a woman who quite inexplicably loves me. Still scratching by in that stoic, yet undignified manner I've managed to make my own. Still drinking like my life depended on it. Still campaigning to make auto-erotic asphyxiation and wheelie bin racing Olympic sports.
It would also seem to be the case that I am about to be a father. I'm not convinced, empirical evidence of a urine stained plastic stick aside.......
This is the part in the movie where I could probably make a bid for national fame. I'd reveal my most intimate feelings, fears and hopes to the world, baring my soul to complete strangers and relating whimsical, heart warming every-day anecdotes about impending fatherhood in a gauchly titled blog. I'd decorate it with a template utilising a warm orange, ochre and deep pink colour scheme with a pre-designed floral motif and middle class yummy mummies all over the world would inexplicably trade in the horrific memories of their own preganancies for my soft focus, third party edited hilights version.
I could, but I won't. I might be a cunt, but I'm not Fucking Arsehole.
If I tell you anything, it'll be the disgusting, distressing, vomit flecked dispatches of a man trapped at the front line. It'll be about the emotional and physical violence of living with a woman whose hormones think Adolf Hitler was a pussy. It'll be piles, flatulence and Eraserhead flashbacks. It'll be be banal, confusing, profane and fist chewingly embarrassing.
I probably won't bother. He will be called Clevon. She will be called Euphemia.