20^th July 2017

The small stegosaurus perched on top of my television won’t stop staring at me and I’m not gonna lie, after a few months it’s starting to freak me out. Still, I’ll be damned if I’m gonna lend him my spirit level.

16th July 2017
So I was walking through the park today, on my way to the hot pastry parade, when a flock – or, if you want to get technical, a “bastard” – of kestrels swooped down from the trees and pummelled me with their meaty fists. I tried to point out the physiological inaccuracy of what was happening but they wouldn’t have any of it, insisting that this was payback for what I did to their bouncy castle.
        “Oh, my feathered assailants,” I said as they tenderised my sweet, sweet flesh, “your bouncy castle did not suffer at my cheeky hands but those of my malevolent doppelganger, Dark Poncho.”
        I saw the truth of my words blossom in their eyes like a drop of vegetable soup plopping into a glass of vodka, and in their shame they all ritually disembowelled themselves. Once again Dark Poncho’s fiendish actions had not only led to the unnecessary suicide of vengeful wildlife but also landed me right in the shit.
        There will come a reckoning, Dark Poncho.

8th July 2017
My heart awoke an hour before I did, bursting as it was with so much love to share on yet another Valentine’s Day, that day of the year when people turned into slavering dogs gnawing on the gristle-bedecked bones of either inevitably terminal or deluded, long-faded affection.
    By the time I got out of bed and went downstairs, my heart had already prepared a slap-up breakfast for me, consisting of liquor and wrists. Oh my heart, you know me so well.
    But then, my collector’s-edition ‘Allo ‘Allo! calendar leapt off the wall and kicked the shit out of me and pointed out the date.
    For ‘twas not Saint Valentine’s Day, aroused reader, oh no. ‘Twas Saint Duplocheek’s Day, that terrible holiday allowing people to be a bit of a twat for a day.
    Damn you, heart! Damn you.