As my old mate Kurt said, all apologies for being absent so long. No, I haven't been away for that emergency penile reduction surgery MYTW has been nagging me for, nor have I been off saving endangered Tarsiers from being exploited and used to make the tongues of the latest Nike runners or helping the honest, hard-working, indigenous peoples of...wherever.

In short, I've been comfortable. So comfortable I've bugger all to write about. Even now I sit here post-beefgasm (that exquisite sensation felt after ingesting 400+ grams of marinated char-grilled scotch fillet), quaffing a glass of Mr Riggs Shiraz and tapping away at the keyboard over my ever-growing paunch.

Am I becoming middle-class and mediocre? I don't care. Perhaps that's the sign of a true bourgeois pig. Either way, let me tell you my dear readers, I am happy. Happy like I haven't been since as an 11-year-old I learned how not to smash my tockley against the gears of my Malvern Star 3-speed.

You know the one, the bike with the useless gear stick that protruded from the top cross-bar and threatened to scalp your scrotum every time you jammed on the brakes. If I didn't know better, I'd have thought my parents didn't actually want me to have children when they bought me that bike. What the fuck were they thinking! And they wouldn't let me have a bmx because they thought those were dangerous!

But I digress. Everything is good on the ground, and I promise to post more regularly for you loyal fans. All three of you. And so now from one comfortable thirty-something freak to another, I'll leave you with a classic interview with none other than Hunter S Thompson. May he Rest In Single Malt.