I'm Too Conceited For Therapy.

Bliss Defies Description, Obviously, Since It Annihilates You, Since You're Not There To Experience It. You Get The Lead-up And The Come-down, Never The Zenith.

There’s A Reason Humans Peg-out Around Eighty: Prose Fatigue. It Looks Like Organ Failure Or Cancer Or Stroke But It’s Really Just The Inability To Carry On Clambering Through The Assault Course Of Mundane Cause And Effect. If We Ask Sheila Then We Can’t Ask Ron. If I Have The Kippers Now Then It’s Quiche For Tea. Four Score Years Is About All The Ifs And Thens You Can Take. Dementia’s The Sane Realisation You Just Can’t Be Doing With All That Anymore.

What Interests Me Is Love, Sex, Death, Cruelty, Compassion And The Desire For Meaning In An Apparently Godless Universe. In Other Words The Human Condition.

With Adolescent Egotism And A Lot Of Money One Can Pretty Much Rule The World.

Any Seasoned Deal Maker Will Tell You That Spontaneous Negotiation's A Bad Strategy; The Ad Hoc Approach Will Leave You Ripped-off, Busted, Conned, Stiffed, Outsmarted And Generally Holding The Shitty End Of The Stick.