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Having written this post some years ago I allow myself the imposition to point out to new readers a gem of the heavly-jewelled past. I just haven’t got enough hits this month and can’t think of anything really new to post. You know, and I really want to tell my friends down at the bar, I’m winning something. Just click a few times to help me out here. I’m your friend. You know I’ve been shouting my mouth a bit recently and my stats don’t look that good. I’ll do the same for you when your time comes round. Deal done, eh? Well, start reading below and be ready for all your tiny minds to be blown. But most of all, though I love you very much, just tell your friends about the love (Not about me loving you but about me, even though that is so much about me and a tiny bit about you. Not that I don’t love me). Whatever happens, don’t forget that.
In a moment of wild, youthful dementia, I once dropped acid with a Womble. There, I’ve got it off my chest. It’s so long ago it can’t hurt anyone now.
He didn’t set out to be a Womble, just got lucky. When I first met him he dreamed of becoming a rock star. Didn’t everybody? Oh, it was just me then. And him.
Some years afterwards we literally bumped into each other as he wombled out of a door onto Notting Hill’s Westbourne Park Road straight into my path. Like a tatty, old winter coat emerging from hibernation, he looked a right two and eight, to employ the vernacular of the time. Desperately in need of a fix, he was dirty, dishevelled, and more than pleased to see me again, even though he couldn’t remember who I was. There are episodes of my life I would rather forget. This isn’t one of them. I dropped Acid with a Womble. I think it might be the start of a series.
Hold your verve
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