Goodballoon's paunch

I read quote today from the "divine" Bette Midler. She said "When it's three O'Clock in New York, it's 1938 in London". Well here's a twist on it: "When it's three O'Clock in New York, Bette Midler's a flap-fannied, saddled-bag titted gob-shite of the most unimaginable proportions". Catchy, eh? I remember when she first tried to sell me heroin back in 1973; she was working the hotels of Sunset Boulevard in those days and had just finished a shift on top of Warren Beatty's dalmation, Skipper. I, of course, turned the little trick-pony down but she insisted until I took her product. She showed me her cock too.

I've always been a big fan of apartied. Yes, yes... I know what you're thinking: "Who isn't?". Exactly. Society should, I feel, be split into two; the haves and the have-nots, rich and poor, Jeeves and Wooster, Hue & Cry... you can see where I am going with this? Of course, I am talking about my book again. Chapters five through to twelve deal almost exclusively with my battle with alcohol, a battle that ended in a draw and my liver dripping out of my arse. Great days. Here's a brief glimpse:

"How many times would I wake like this? David was firmly asleep on the pillow next to mine, his wrinkled forehead holding back all of those countless posh characters he'd play in films. My mouth was dry and ill-defined. Short of breath and penis I made my way down my tastefully furnished hallway and into my almost entirely awful kitchen. After a quick slug of gin and a gold watch or two I was ready to work-out why cinematographer Laszlo Kovacs was fast asleep in my Belfast sink. I tried to remember the night before... a wheelchair... Henry Fonda trying to raffle off his daughter Jane... John Lennon teaching me how to make pure heroin out of grout... it was no good, I would never know why Laszlo was there. But whilst he was asleep I pushed myself deep..."

I'm afraid that's all you get for free, my dears, for the time being anyway.