Goodballoon's paunch

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.