Woke up this morning full of the joys of Spring. Sunlight gently massaging my fur.  Scent of new born flowers bellowing across the estate. The flag on my old jolly roger rising.  I feel mighty good about the world and every beautiful fucker in it. Feel so good that I’m inspired to start this blog about the sublime joy that can be found sunbathing within these concrete casings of inner London.

Bollocks to that!! Its fucking freezing. Its fucking hailing, Its fucking April. I’m drinking extra strong lager for breakfast to keep the warm in and the hangover out. Spring has been cut by this arsehole tosspot coalition government as another benefit too many for the common man.

Remember the old days? Springs started in Spring. That was official. I remember the rude thump of willow hitting cranium on the estate green. I remember lying on the roof of the Rabbit Tower sniffing glue and hallucinating divine retribution to all that would cross me. Wearing just my Y Fronts. Then down the boozer for a few thirst quenching snakebites and a letch at the ladies sporting their flimsy cotton dresses for the first time since last year. The surest sign that Spring had truly sprung. Rocking.

So drop us out, Lord God Almighty. Its brass monkeys down here. Switch the fucking heating on. Please.