We must go on, even though I haven't a clue how to work this damn FrontPage. We can't stop now, just weeks from the Solstice, days from Scott returning, weeks after starting our new toil, and days after our first famous contact. This site has become a life sentence.

The shop is no more. IRC is no more. Stimulants are no more. And of course sex is no more. All that's left is to sail as slowly as possible into the sunset, hoping each day will have a soft-focus, gold-tinted glow of some sort about it. No more can we ask. No more should we expect. Have mercy upon us, miserable offenders.

"So is Bob Rennie gonna be your role-model?" Sam asked me yesterday. (Much-loved Bob was the "Father of the Pub", a position now held - somewhat reluctantly - by myself. I am the longest-surviving regular.) Awesome, dudes. Just so fucking Baywatch you can't imagine.

I'm back at the Bingo now. One brain cell is all you need, plus a facility for being nice to old ladies. It's easy, that. I'm ALL those old ladies. Except the ones who are my mother. Her or me. Take your pick. Double your money, and give what's left to Mecca. But not the real Mecca - not at all...we're talking shareholders here, not Islam.

That's it. All for now. Can't be bothered. Too much for a white lady. Oh fuuuuuuuuuuuuck.