Ha! I'm Not Really Dead!

Phew. I've been 'away' for the past six weeks or so but not in a 'I was Tommy Sheridan's cellmate and he stuck a finger up my bum' type of way. It's this fucking Festival thing in Scotchville. It's just so fucking knackering trying to get from A to B, wading through the massive crowds of tourists or having to continually go to the bank to take out a couple of hundred quid just so I could buy a pint as every cunt puts their prices up by about a billion percent during the Festival that I've just been too fucked to be bothered to write this shite.
Anyway, since my legendary run-in with some skinhead Cockney gimp, what's happened?
I got into a skuffle with a skinhead Geordie cunt.
There's still nae trams in Scotchville.
Dave Dasterdly's still a useless twat.
The fireworks were shite.
I've got a hole in my sannies through all the walking about (you couldn't get on a bus because of all the fat tourists, and there's still NAE trams).
The Killer Nurse didn't do it. Apparently.
It's rained a lot. Nothing unusual in that. Summertime in Scotville=monsoon weather with the ever-present threat of snow.
Lots of other stuff I haven't noticed... Oh aye. The riots. The poetry. The getting gubbed in slams. Getting gubbed. Marathons. Sweaty evenings in hostelries. Closures. Blah. Blah. Stuff. Welcome back? And fucking Gogglooog being a useless pile of fetid shite....