So 5X is abandoning us. And in particular Setanta Central. And more particularly me.
He's taking up a post in Paris in the Wall Street Institute.
Ridiculous it is. Weekends without the back and forth of the funniest damn electronic mails this side of Microsoft, nights spent on own, ON OWN, in the snug in the Long Stone, nobody to drag me to Beckett plays about nothing at all, no cackling at my latest tales of making a complete tossbag of myself, nobody to tell me to grow that beard...
What is a Radge to do?
Get on with it, I suppose, safe in the knowledge that there's a stellar man fulfilling a life's dream. Happier times ahead for 5X, the thorough bastard. Just glad those Ryanair flights are cheap.
Anyhoo, it's not all doom and defections, as today I start two weeks away from the Towers. What to do? What to do? I'll spend the first couple of days in decompression. That's a given. Then come Friday, I dunno, I might just surprise myself by taking my leave of this slovenly cesspit we call a city.
Dingle, and firstly Tralee (a nudge and a wink to those in the know), awaits. Through a chink too wide...
There's the Cup Final on Saturday and all. That could be a drinkin'. Oh the trauma.
And the drama.
Oh yeah, who the fuck is Terry Dixon?