I don’t live anywhere near Camden and never go there outside of work; because it’s a shit-hole full of filth, vomit, drunks, freaks and social degenerates. And I mean that in the nicest way possible, of course.

If you ask the average person what they associate Camden with it’s probably one of 3 or 4 things:

Withnail and I/drugs
Amy Winehouse/Drugs
Shitty market stalls/drug dealers
Goths/trying to suppress snorts of derision as they walk past them

What they don’t associate with Camden is working in a healthcare system trying to fix up the above emotional fuckwits after they’ve turned up, expecting glamour, rock and roll, fame and fortune and maybe a nice purple crushed velvet top to go with thier thigh-high patent leather goth boots. But what they actually get, if they’re lucky, is a drug habit or long term condition and a seedy council flat surrounded by Somali and Bangladeshis, so totally isolated that they’ll pitch up at A&E 5 times a day for some company.

And that’s what I’m trying to write a plan to get over. And intially I was dead keen, I felt motivated by their plight. But frankly, why the fuck should I?

They don’t give a toss. They’re quite happy gouging out on the sofa letting Loose Women and Jeremy Kyle wash over them whilst feeding their diabetes by scarfing down another pork pie/frozen pizza from Iceland until they’re compelled to pick up the phone and call an ambulance coz they’re convinced they’re having a heart attack (when in actual fact they’re just so constipated from all the shit food they’re having an Elvis moment).

So no, I’ve had enough of being ‘kind’, ‘lovely’ and ‘compassionate’. I don’t give a stuff. Mainly ’cause it’s a fruitless, pointless exercise that’ll culminate in me becoming even more bitter and twisted than I am now, only difference being I’ll be deluded as well. So on that basis I think I’m better off.

No, they can all fuck off. I’m going to write this plan, do the minimum I can get away with and look for a job where I don’t have to feel compelled to ‘assist’. Maybe a traffic warden or something – baliff maybe. something where I can justifiably inflict my misanthropy on the planet.

That’d be fun.

What kind of cunt nicks someones trousers? Especially soaking wet, mud encrusted ones. Luckily there was nothing in them…except the car keys, LL’s contact lenses and both our belts. I’m gutted about the belt, it was my silver leather one: pretty much irreplaceable.

We’re both really worried about the car keys as the fuckhead will know which car park we’re in and, if they’ve got half a brain, would easily be able to fathom out which car it is. I’m going on the assumption it’s some semi-literate cretin off their nut on class A’s who on the look out for opportunistic wallets so 10 year old Volvos aren’t really of much interest.

So that’s it for me as far as festivals go. Glastonbury and Bestival were a total washout the last time we went, it’s been pissing down here too. The bulk of the people are cocks, and now to top off the shit-cake that we keep trying to convince ourselves is devils food we’re now trouser, and possibly car-less.

Utter, utter wankers.

The bint is coming…