Eat my dust

I'm gone, outta here, vamoosed.

I'm now here.

This place was born out of anger, bitterness and not a little madness. I've moved on since then. Plus, the design sucks bears. I know I could probably pimp it up a little - and maybe even make the pictures fit on the damn page - but I fancy a clean break.

This is probably raising expectations of the new place; don't go there with bated breath or anything. It's just a remix of some of the pictures which I've humbly chosen to call "Greatest Hits". There should be more stuff to follow, though, as I hope to make a bit more of a go of this blogging thing.

Anyway, tips and criticisms of the new place are welcome, as long as they're along the lines of "I don't know of any earthly way you could make it better."

Thanks to everyone who's ever left a kind word - or any kind of word, really - on these pages. You've helped me enormously through some tough times. I'd like to buy you all some cake. Then ply you with drugs and give you head. My cold sore's cleared up, in case you were worried.

Oh, and don't forget to update any bookmarks, blog feeds, or any other technological doodahs you use to stalk me, you filthy bastards, as I don't want to be left out here with my cock dangling and no one to see it.

Beauty and the Burberry

Hello you! I'm back!

I cannot stress enough just how brilliant a decision it was to go to the Lake District last week. I have trench foot. I reckon that would be much harder to get somewhere sunny. Maybe not. I don't know.

I do know that I didn't manage to get any landscape drawing done. Prior to going, I rather whimsically envisaged myself sat beside a lake, sipping red wine and sketching hosts of golden daffodils. I know they're not in season, but you get the idea. The only time we managed to get out anywhere was for a rather miserable trudge round Windermere. The rest of the time was spent at what was basically an upmarket Butlins with trees.

It didn't strike me as Tilly's sort of place, and it certainly wasn't mine, but she got some sort of deal due to some sort of friend due to some sort of mutual backscratching exercise. Anyway, the place was like a fascist's vision of utopia, with great emphasis placed on physical jerks and bike riding. The car park was full of four-by-fours, and the clientele seemed to consist of professional types who had - to their eternal regret - saddled themselves with children. Typical sight: mid-forties man lagging slightly behind his younger, very pretty wife and their adorable pre-school age daughter, talking work stuff into his mobile.

I am officially in love. I know this because the words uppermost in my mind all week have been, "I told you it would fucking piss down all fucking week, you fucking arse", and I managed not to say them.