You can tell when I'm carrying a secret, I've got that square television under my jumper shape going on and I'm stepping like my shoes are tied together so I'll frame it like this. My friend did not come over with two new as yet unreleased albums. I'll slip on one them and say he rhymes with Mex Terkins because mentioning the other album would lead to certain death, my certain death for a start with a domino back through journalism.
My friend sipped at his tea then pointed his pointy finger at me saying "You better not write about this on that blog of yours Slamma". He put his cup down then crossed his legs, I turned up the volume, just a little, while I wondered about how to get away with writing about it.
I'm sitting here with the cat looking at me disapprovingly, I'm counting out the wasted hours of my life while the calculator goes mad and I'm adding up to nothing. Its lucky I'm no fucking accountant, I'm not quite ready to take my place in the crowd.