I'm supposed to be this drunk - it was written in my genes.

[hirez]

I think I sort-of wish I was surprised by the way that casual disfunctionality has crept up on me. This time we discover the mysterious Canadian branch of the 'family' lived/s in Regina, called itself 'Reed' and wanted nothing to do with the H-R bits. Unsurprising, bit of a shame, shouldn't care but do. Blast.

Meanwhile, mater wants a computer of her own. A laptop, please. This will mean networking the parental abode. Ho hum. So, cheap laptops? Dare I hand her a box with weenix on it? Ye gods...

Oh and, in full 'ravens leaving the tower' horror, Humblebee's up and sold to developers for £400k. Price is back living with his parents and it's the end of the world. I know you can't ever go back, but would whichever set of fuckers who're at it this week kindly stop ripping out the fabric of my past and selling the bits off to the highest bidder? It's like the bastards have been rolling up the carpet behind me as I stride forward, but now they've caught right up and are prodding me with sticks because the bit I'm standing on right now has been bought by some corporate pension fund.

(He said, listening to the complete 1982 Festive Fifty - Wild Swans, Josef K, The Farmer's Boys, (Shambeko say) Wah and New Order (Of course). I've got my eighties right here and they'll have to pry it from my teeth.)

I should be used to it; Parallel Cheltenham theory explains this sort of thing. However, I think I preferred the polite fiction of a random and messy universe unravelling in a cloud of entropy when the power of my own memory failed to hold it together, rather than discovering that there are Operatives from some odd kind of cosmological Pickfords standing about going 'Are you finished with that, pal? It's got to go in this box bound for Kowloon before close of play is all...'

(Bloody hell 'In shreds' is good. Why haven't I listened to this properly before?)

Continuing the eighties theme, I now have a Hameg HM-203. Mad bloody business.

There's a lot of other stuff, but I'm not even prepared to start thinking about it yet. I think I need to shoot things, blow something up or write off another car. The teenage JH-R welcomes careless drivers and mind-buggering substances. Yowsa.

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