confused, maybe not sure whether to risk your oh-so-precious
hard drive space on the material he's put on his silly little site,
maybe just curious as to the head behind the mouth that says all
those things. But if you want my honest opinion - don't bother.
He's a self-obsessed, eighteen-year-old freak who doesn't have a
girlfriend, gets shouted at by tramps in the street and wears a
berét in public (which probably explains the other two). When
he's not listening to absurdly modern Indie music he's listening
to Rock'n'Roll that'd make his grandad yawn, and from my attic
I can often hear him pumping out something noisily late at
night. The only awards he's ever won are a Basic Amateur
Boxing Certificate (2005), School Sports Day Javelin Silver
Medal (2003) and Little Duckling's Five Metres Swimming
Award (1991). (And he probably held on to the side of the
pool). But it's all right for him - he's got a website, runs a
podcast, has an album by The Who, knows how to cure hiccups
and owns a faily nice pair of shoes. But nobody cares about me,
do they? Nobody realises you can't wear shoes if you have
hooves, can't run a podcast if the only words you can say are
"moo" and "squeak" and can't properly appreciate The Who if
you're two-dimensional, mythical and fictional (and I happen to
be all three. And don't bother pointing out "mythical" and
"fictional" are pretty much the same thing, you smug sod.) So, if
you still want to be a part of the pathetically small circle of
listeners, you're more than welcome to waste your valuable
megabytes on the veriatable audio drivel in the podcasts.
