What the Butler Saw
Over the past week have been trying to retrace my steps. I need to sort the false memories from the real thing. A whole week has passed and there’s still a nasty taste in my mouth; I mean ‘the taste of unease’ rather than Brenda’s tuna and onion sandwiches.
I know that I am prone to exaggeration and, in the words of Hans Blicks, like to use an exclamation mark instead of question mark, but something wicked this way comes.
‘Aftershock’ always has an unpleasant effect. It tastes like a benevolent Benelin but it’s a liquid of mass destruction and in my head all my nightmares are coming true: Bernard discovering my blog on Fiend's Reunited dot com; me, SMAGELL and Brenda appearing on Spit Roast dot com, or wrestling naked with Ian and Martin, in jam on Willy Wanker's Jelly Factory dot com.
I feel like the Men In Black have erased my memory and I need your help.
Keep your eyes open – I’m the fat, speccy bloke in the middle with a spotty arse.