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2001-03-21 - 06:25 p.m.

�See how we grasp at the stars? So far away�you can�t even see what�s right in front of you��

I�ve long been resigned to the fact that for some unidentifiable reason, I draw the attention of people on the street. That is, the insane people on the street - the kind of people who�s attention you�d rather have directed somewhere less, shall we say, proximate � at the ape creatures of the Indus, for instance. And not just in London, either. To whit, the fellow passenger on a bus in Boston who screamed �YOU FUCKING FAGGOT� at me for the 20 minute duration of the ride, the New York snow-gangsters who performed the narrowly-unsuccessful drive-by snowballing. Geography just doesn�t matter. So I�m not sure if the cumulative effect of these incidents is finally taking hold, or whether the god of the lunatic fringe has wistfully decided to step it up a gear, but walking around this city is currently getting right on my tit end. Suddenly I can�t go 50 yards without some freak barking, spaniel-like into my ear or ne�er-do-well urchin roughly trying to remove any personal baggage I might be �having trouble� with. Jesus, I�m counting myself a lucky man if I can walk down a street without exciting outright physical aggression. I think the only way forward could be to join their ranks. They never turn on their own, I notice. Now, all I need to do is identify a suitably intimidating antisocial quirk�

�Flesh wounds heal, broken bones mend�you�re not my friend��

Anyway, death. The funereal proceedings were about as much fun as they could have been given the circumstances � the circumstances being that, er, someone had died. It was certainly strange to be in church again � I was all involuntary responses and hand movements, which goes to prove the brainwashing process is a fairly effective one. Also, I was very perturbed to see the introduction of female altar servers, not out of any reverence for the male tradition going back hundreds of years � more a biting regret that there was no skirt around (apart from boys in skirts, natch) during my own decade swinging the incense burner. That would have made those hours at Benediction a hell of a lot easier to endure. After, a brief period of mourning which lasted the car ride to the pub, followed by 8 hours of solid drinking, telling funny stories about the departed, arguing between ourselves about the possibility of an afterlife, and then arguing with the landlord about the possibility of an after-hours drink. The non-existence of one became deeply significant of the other. But like I say, it HAD been 8 hours.

In other news, I�ve fulfilled a lifelong ambition to own a sandwich toaster and my mum bought me an incredibly feminine woolly hat.

�I never wanna see you again, I never wanna see you again��

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