Don

Carlo Schillacci. Proud Venetian and leader of the Waterboys Mob. It was dark, but I saw the whole of the moon light his masked face. Rats stood behind me like a proud puppy, eager to please like a 13 year old kissing a girl for the first time, but shaking like an arachibutyrophobic opening a jar of peanut butter and so lost in the action like a rather stretched metaphor. The Don spoke.

"MMmmmMmmMmmmMMmMmmmmM"

In a dispute with the Pringle Gang he'd had two golf balls forcibly placed in his mouth. He gave up on the possibility of getting them removed after doctors proved either too scared to carry out the procedure, or were whacked for suggesting they could get him an appointment for four.

It was then that I noticed the dame. She had legs that went on forever, if by forever you meant they went as far as her butt. Legs going on forever would be ridiculous. They were long. There were two of them. My eyes travelled up the slinky red dress, my mind screaming at me, "Take your time in case of BOBFOC." I could feel something move in my pants. It was my pet mouse Frankie. I couldn't afford a wheel.

"Janice?" My mind raced. What was she doing here? Why had I never noticed that body before? Had I left the iron on? How had she got here before me when we left before her?

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Seriously, I have no idea where I'm going... Saved from more potential chicken blips.

Tis Friday. All is well in the world for there has been pizza and beer. Though it would have been good if Ghana had scored the last minute penalty.

Tomorrow, from 6pm, the Edinburgh Nocturne in the Grassmarket. Last year I rode in the folding bike race, this year I am indulging in no such folly and shall merely enjoy the racing (arriving in time for that race, and then the elite criterium after that, having partaken of dinner somewhere yet to be decided).