It would be something of portent for anyone who encounters me to know that time is always in a state of distortion for me. Stretched. Elastic ridiculousness. I feel like I’ve been alive for centuries. Yet I also feel like a 48-year-old baby. Act like it most of the time, too. 

You know, they say Cleese was superb in those early days, easy to see his star appeal standing out above all. I wish, at times, I could harness, manifest that knowledge into something… useful. Well…

It’s only memory I cherish now. Pity it’s the thing that tortures me most. It’s so very hard to know when to announce a new moment to the world. And I always seem to pick the wrong ones. Blessed armies of conviviality march by me as I weaponise distraction to nuclear levels. 

Still, as one love dances into another, clipping the heels of resonance past, at least I can say one thing for sure: all this alcohol is helping a great deal to cure my podcast addiction.

That was really getting out of control.