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Dreadful Nonsense

"I've read your blog. it's really funny. you should write a column." - Jon Ronson

"Tragic"

And with this kind of backward thinking comes a tremendous amount of forward planning. I've talked a lot recently about moving away from Hackney. But why, I hear you all screaming so loudly that you're scraping your throats red raw, why in Jebus's sweet, sweet name would you want to move away from Hackney, your home of the last nearly three, long years? Well, dear lovely people, sometimes you've got to think to yourself that enough is enough. This past weekend, we were visiting He Who Only...'s kind parents who were polite enough to put us up for the Easter weekend even if I do insist on being covered in tattoos and don't even eat meat, I mean, what is all that about anyway? And we spent the time building snowmen and sitting drinking tea and reading newspapers and going for walks in the country side, and there on the news spoiling all of our fun was the story of the man stabbed to death in Hackney simply because some people wanted some of his money, and he was too slow to hand it over.

Hackney is fun sometimes. I mean, look at this -

This is more graffiti that I found in the locality. This one stretches underneath a railway arch and goes all the way from here...


right the way round to here -


And since I took that, it's been embellished even more. Giant graffiti punks. I love them. This kind of anti-social behaviour I can really get behind. I love graffiti. If I stay in London much longer, I'll be the next one to publish one of those twee little books about the walking tours you can take around the rough ends of nowhere just to look at some Banksy piece of shit.

(I say that now, but when my bus went past the latest Banksy, which is the one with the kids pledging allegiance to the Tesco carrier bag, I nearly got off the bus to take a photo and lick the wall in appreciation.)

But it's the stabbing, the spitting, the traffic noise, the lack of social cohesion, the sense that, if I carry on living around here for much longer, my luck's going to run out and I'll be stabbed through the chops by some little tike who wants my iPod (and then this blog will be found, and that last sentence will be reprinted in The Fucking Daily Mail along with my MySpaz photo and the word "Tragic" printed in bold beside my name in the photo caption).

But we can't decide where to move to. We're trapped in London, we really have to stay within an hour of the centre, we need good transport links, and I want a dog more than most women want children, so we need a garden and an understanding landlord, and every time I contemplate leaving my comfortable little mouse-infested Nest'O'Love I get more panic attacks than I know what to do with. But then again, I felt the same way moving from Dublin, and I'm ever so glad I did that too.

Hey ho. Nothing ventured, and all that.

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