I read with great interest the discussion in the comments box of my previous entry.
Please note I have a blanket policy of never deleting anyone else's comments on my diary, even if they ask.
Doing so ultimately looks like one can't take the heat, so to speak. Not to mention the height of hypocrisy for someone who admits they love being talked about. It's also vital to know how other people see me. I can usually learn something useful, often about myself, from virtually every comment.
My bottom line, and indeed, the line of my bottom, is as follows.
I accept, and am grateful of, my seemingly innate talent to attract unsolicited ejaculations of all kinds. Some think I'm God's Gift, some think I am the Devil. I can't take either seriously, of course, though if pressed I will always prefer the company of the former because they're simply less draining.
Last night, I was standing at a Kentish Town Road bus stop on the way home from the excellent club "Mole In The Ground". A passing group of about eight boys on bicycles shouted "Get him – he's wearing a nice clean suit!", and threw a full carton of <i>milk</i> at me. This surreal tableau is, I presume, what constitutes a drive-by shooting in the World Of Dickon.
The carton missed me completely. My detractors have always been such rotten shots. Perhaps they should have skimmed it.
Instead, it hit the window of Lloyds Bank behind me and exploded, leaving a big semen-like mess dribbling down the sign of the Black Horse.
Symbolism in action.
