Actually there won’t be cake. I’m sorry. I just can’t stop myself.
This is the pub.
As you can see, I’ve deliberately chosen one of the ugliest pubs in London. Or have I? Well, yes, I have. But it does have a huge area out front – basically a concrete pit – where one can carouse and court cancer and eat grilled meat. It’s also the perfect location for pinning someone up against the Crossrail hoarding and running them through with a blade.
And while there may not be cake, there will be sweet sweet booze, and lots of virtual strangers meeting for the first time, which means, almost certainly, there will be tears. So do come along.
I’m aiming to get there at around 7.30.
So. The last few days have been a veritable smorgasbord of emotions. I intend to spend the weekend rummaging through the reactions to the last post and on Monday I’ll attempt to answer various charges, including that of intellectual rape and grand larceny. After which, almost immediately I suspect, it will be on to pastures new. Which for a short while will whiff ever so suspiciously of pastures old. But that’s often the way with pastures.
I hope to see you this evening. Or maybe you’ve got more interesting plans for the weekend. Have you? Aw, go on, tell me what they are. You’d tell Stan. And Stan would only tell me anyway. He told me everything, you know. We were very close.
Oh, suit yourself.
Have fun anyway. See you on Monday, if not tonight.