As always, if you scroll down you will eventually find the stock!
Davros, the Dark Lord of Skaro has gone, taking Nyder with him, they appear to have returned to the Wastelands from whence they came.
We are left as Mutos. Hang on; I’m NOT a celebrity, get me the %$*! out of here.
Supremo and the Council of Twelve have been left incapacitated; as if that weren’t already the case. Even with the Cybermen gone, they seem to prefer to hide behind the sofa, rather than come out and face the music. I’ll name that tune in…
Wait, let me check the algorithm, I’ll forecast it… ooooh Shazam!
Nero, put your fiddle down, we don’t have time for this, speak to the soothsayer…
A career on ‘Strictly’ or ‘Bake Off’ beckon, if they can’t find the wads of PPE cash, stashed down the back of the sofa. Spin that wheel of fortune… put it all on Amazon… a Supermarket sweep!
The advert, will be clearly enunciated by the ever more cockneyfied Ray ‘Ackneycarriage! Not so much RP, as the missing ‘Limehouse Link’.
Such is life in the fast track!
For 14 days and 14 nights Supremo will wander the wilderness in isolation. Although equally haunted and tempted by ‘Olde Nick Farrago’ at every turn, as luck would have it, many of those bordellos of temptation are shut; closed, never to re-open.
No four and twenty blackbirds, no 24-hour tube, no unlimited buffet at Mr Khan’s, no suckling pig, only the remains of a long unfinished ‘Eton Mess’ for sucker, to break his fast.
The strains of Shostakovich haunting the air, which is so chilled you could cut it, only with the sound of a crying baby. Feed me, father… am I your father; Luke?
Anyway, back to me.
I woke on a Sunday morning a couple of weeks ago and took a long and very hard look in the mirror.
I dabbed at the corner of my eyes with hydroxychlorognt… and then plunged the syringe filled with a ‘serum’ distilled and supplied by Vlad the Lad into my left cheek. Downstairs, not upstairs, I am not yet that mad!
Then I phoned the Police.
A crime had been committed; a major work of art had been stolen from my attic…
Crisis, what crisis? This is a drama!
That will teach me to take all this for granted, where have the years gone?
Not that the painting was of any value to anyone but me, however the Polaroid was starting to show signs of the self-inflicted excess that apparently, I am well known for. I haven’t quite lived the life of Ronnie Wood, neither that of St Paul, but I suppose I stand closer to Stonehenge than the other end of the spectrum, but you’d guessed that.
In my youth, I wrote my hopes and dreams on both sides of a correspondence card, then added to it, as my knowledge of the world grew. I look back at the simple requests, realise how many of them I have fulfilled, and some I know I never will, but hope still springs eternal, and if my dreams start to come true, I really am in some serious trouble.
Long ago I surmised that the Devil would probably be a better bedfellow, and possibly more forgiving than Shakespeare. Will, would no doubt immortalise and eviscerate me in print simultaneously, and in equal measure. Anyway, Moloch and I are good friends, I am at a point in my life where I can replace longstanding with old.
I used to sit to the top of the stairs and stare down into Hades waiting for him to come out and play. These days he has taken to sitting upon my shoulder, whispering strange and odd missives into my ear, laying out our plans, as we watch the ships that pass by in the night. I quickly got used to the whiff of sulphur, you know the old saying, a rose by any other name!
He and I will celebrate our birthdays together another time.
Meanwhile, where did I put my bus pass…
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