Rat Brian Wilson disease!

Brian Wilson was supposed to come and see me on Friday night. I implored him not to and even offered to pay for alternative entertainments for him, but he could not be dissuaded. So we went to about seven bars, mainly on Leith Walk, and he drank himself into insensibility while I had a few coca colas. Continually talking about sexually molesting his workforce, at least he kept his clothes on and only started shouting about the IRA when we were, fortunately, at last in a pub which wasn't full of working class types.

Actually interacting with a flatheided E.T. was enough to shock me into a dose of swamp fever from which I have not yet recovered. I'm off work today. Yesterday was the first day in a long time when I did no meditating at all. Dearie me.

The PFD have not told me to fung off yet. This is a bit disappointing since hassling agents was really good fun. I guess I'll give them another week and go on. Next time I get a chance to send an agent a package, maybe I should send them a really big one. A trunk.

I don't believe in anything, but I'd like to be re-incarnated so I can re-write all these old books. I could plant a trunk in my allotment and then come back. In the dark. With a shovel. What are you doing? Digging up some old books of mine! Hotboy