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2005-07-18 - 4:27 p.m.

So my big summer plans for earning huge great wodges of dosh by writing the easiest London area guide since Moses have gone up in all sorts of smoke, like so many twenty pound notes used to light overpriced cigars by flashy industrialists. Never EVER trust estate agents.

Estate Agents one day: Pablo, here�s an unfeasibly large amount of money for doing something a trained chimp could probably knock up in about a fortnight.

(Pablo goes to bed that night spending unfeasibly large amounts of cash in his sleep and bragging to all his friends about how wealthy he would be for not doing much)

Estate agents the following week: Oh, by the way, we�re not doing that project any more but thanks for wasting time doing that sample chapter sorryaboutthatbye�

It�s such a fine line between unfeasible wealth leading to the summer of your dreams and complete dogshit, don�t you find?

If you�ve never spent the best part of a day in mixed company dressed as an 80s golfer, I can truly recommend it. Me and Bruce got fully golf-pimped up for a fancy dress party on Saturday. Something about those pastel shades feels so seedy but so right. Also, since you�re carrying a club, you can make filthy jokes about shafts all night that aren�t funny after a bit, but you plough on regardless, oblivious to the hateful stares and pitying glances you�re suddenly attracting. I�m just saying that�s something that COULD happen, natch.

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