I'm not to be found too often around these parts, this weather, which I find to be both clammy and disagreeable.
"Sure he wouldn't hurt a fly."
He fucking would if he could catch the prick.
My legendary irascibility aside, would I sound too like the internet's Darragh Doyle were I to ask how you're all doing?
I don't really care, I'm fixed more on higher thoughts like the wild effects of chorizo, and fly-fishing, and those of you that happened across this little cubbyhole of mother cyberland in its pomp have largely fucked off to Pinstagram anyway.
Anyway, my laptop's taken poorly and I'll hardly tarry long but to say Bilbao awaits.
There had best be things to note, give out about and come home with.