Joey's Birthday, Sunday night

You can't really see it, but you're looking at the interior of the glorious Baldy Man nightclub, Tramore. Wow, you say: are those lights? Yes, my friends, disco lights. We have all the greatest stuff in the Baldy: lights, music, tables, pints in ACTUAL glasses, er,walls. Also pictured, Dave's leg. Sex.

Mags et moi, in Joeys house. Mags took this on my phone, and also four pictures of an ashtray and Sarah's leg to warm herself up to the camera. You want to see those four? Tough. You don't get to call the shots here. I also think Mags photo-shopped that horrendous snout onto the front of my face. It does not look like that, like Santa's fucking nose, all the time. I think. Not that I know, a full-on picture of my face has blinded everyone else up to now. From the glare of my wonderous beauty, I like to think. But check your corneas, just in case.

Mags and Mark. Mark has left us and got himself a REAL job. I know, tragedy. I thought he was going to be a tragic idler like me forever but twas not to be. I must idle alone.

The view from Joeys house as we left it. I'd show you his ACTUAL house but it doesn't exist anymore. We razed it to the ground through three hours of competitive singing along to all his records: Rod Stewart, Westlife, Elton, Rod Stewart, Chris Doran. Yeah. I know, okay? Joey's ancient, like forty, and you can't mock the aged. Not until the battery on their hearing aid gives out anyway.

What? You want an explanation, an actual story, a link between these intruiging yet unresolved photos? I don't think so. It's late and I am really tired. I have two jobs you know. Or have I mentioned that already?