My favourite Christ: Jim Rockford knew me, but I did not know him

Stretch here. Soggy, mental and very, very blah.

Piers Morgan just popped over for a chat. I’ve been crying ever since. Like a peeled onion, he tore strips off me, making me confess all. From my childhood fixation on Doro Pesch to my teenage fixation on Hope Sandoval to my adult fixation on my little rum bottle, which gets prettier everyday. He explained to me that Larry King could kiss his ass. I said, Larry King, what the fuck?

...all ovah da place. get me some citrus....all ovah the place. get me some scotch...all ovah the place...yeah...that'same...all ovah the place

He said, I is taken ees chair. I said, badness, no! He said, eess it. I fleeped and ran around the cage kicking up bits of nut and twix and just stared at him. He smiled. Yes, he said, no one can stop me now. I must say I spat this day. As he slithered from my nest, I called after him.


“Yo Morgana”

“What brother?”

“Don’t call me brother?”

“Why brother?”

“I aint yo brother”

“It’s an expression”

“It’s a stupid expression”

“It’s like saying, ‘Man’ or ‘Dude,’ brother”

“They’re pretty stupid too.”

“Anyway, what do you want my brother?”

I freaked out and smashed my cage onto his head. He looked startled as bits of macadamia nut, spittle and a cloth damp with rum and dirt slowly crawled down his face.

“You can’t kill me you know?” he sneered

So, I killed him.

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