I got rejected by the barmaid at Willoughby's last night. It was humiliating, but not nearly as humiliating as when her neanderthal boyfriend "Reggie" and his barely sentient mates took me out in the street, thumped me severely, stripped off all my clothes and threw me naked in the middle of the roundabout. I was arrested by a passing constable for indecent exposure and a minor pedestrian traffic violation, but they decided not to charge me when they had all the facts. They just laughed and sent me home. That was quite humiliating as well. The filthy brutes who attacked me have gotten off scot free.

It was so stimulating that I am considering going to Willoughby's again as soon as my arm is out of the sling. This degree of rejection is not found every day, and I savour the next go-round with much anticipation.

My mother, by the way, is still alive. Pity. She did not send flowers or a card or even call. That's typical. When she dies, I am going to hire a brass band to play "Happy Days Are Here Again" over her fresh grave, and I am also going to give her little fluffy terrier, Lord Nelson, to an insane vivisectionist...if I can find one. I'm sure there is one in Soho somewhere. I'll ask around at the Chinese restaurants.