Here I Go Again, On The Moan (1/3) By Silver Fox

(1/3), (2/3), (3/3)

Crikey, www.catsandkittens ; been a while, hasn't it? How things seem to have changed since last we got together. I love what some of you have done with your hair, I must say, and how long has that been there? No, no - it's nice, it really is ... you just don't see many of them these days, that's all. Kudos to you on a bold decision. I mean - I personally wouldn't have chosen one that colour, but there you go; chacun a son gout.

Truth be told, I feel a touch awkward, returning to my Information Superlayby after such a lengthy absence ... there's more than a touch of the school reunion about it, no? All that catching up; picking up threads you were (if you're honest) glad to have dropped years ago ... it's not easy.

I'm haunted by the fear that I'm going to have to gush with simulated enthusiasm over the news that some spavined fuck-knuckle whom I had profoundly hoped was dead has found a fascinating and challenging career in warehouse supervision. It's happened before, you know, and I regret to say that I didn't handle it all that adroitly then either. I suppose though, that I'm worrying over nothing. After all, the biggest boon of the InterWeb (excepting, of course, the nudity) is the anonymity.

There's no real contact, so I can explain my lapse in output for the past month or so any way I see fit, can't I? I rather fancy I'll go for something that is scant on personal details and yet will promote an image of mystical, ditty-bop cool. It's not that I'm frightfully private or anything; it's more that a columner is always on the brink of an abyss of self-indulgence as it is, and going into details of the what I did on my hols nature would be to plunge headlong into nauseating depths of complacent introspection.

Besides that, the life of the Silver Fox is not all that replete of interest, and I'm not at all sanguine about my chances of enthralling you with a full and frank account of time spent watching The Phil Silvers Show in a manky dressing gown. Allied to that, of course, is the question of personal safety. The last thing I want is to foster any sense of genuine communion between myself and the sort of time-glutted sociopath that's got nothing better to do than piss about on the internet.

The idea of being stalked .. I don't know; it just worries me. I can scarcely describe my fear of my home on Marlborough Avenue being deluged with flowers and expensive gifts.

Nor can I adequately express the soul-shriveling terror I experience when I consider the prospect of being accosted outside the Beverley Road branch of Netto by someone offering me a bizarre panoply of unnamable carnal diversions when I'm trying to do my grocery shopping (which I do most Friday afternoons). All in all then, I think it's best just to say this:

Doncaster, illness, CrackTown-related-tomfoolery, and an aggrieved phone-call from the thisisUll.com uberwebfuhrers telling me to cease my unseemly malingering and get the fuck back to work, you worthless cunt. Ah, yes - it's good to be back.

Anything Us Can Do, Them Can Do Better

A few years ago, I was horrified to discover a fairly large quantity of blood amongst my body's waste solids. It wasn't a raging cataract of haemoglobin by any means, but these things are relative, and to be honest with you, even a couple of rusty droplets struck me as being a little more than I cared to be parted from - at least from that particular aperture. Needless to say, I was rattled, so once I'd stopped my (frankly, rather unmanly) screaming fit, I went to the doctor. It wasn't an entirely reassuring experience. I'm not criticising the conduct of the physician in question here, you understand - it's just that even with the best will in the world, however tactfully or cautiously expressed, it's nigh-on impossible for someone to say the words bowel cancer without engendering a certain nerviness in the listener.

I'll spare you the gorier details of the subsequent hospital visit (this isn't that sort of website, after all - its impressive diversity notwithstanding), all you need to know is that my relief at discovering that all I had was some rather reticent Emma Freuds was intense. To those of you who are (probably quite rightly) squeamish about this sort of thing - and to those of you who are merely baffled as to why I've chosen to share this with you at this time, I can only apologise and offer the following explanation.

Continued on www.thisisUll.com...... Here I Go Again, On The Moan continued..

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