Following John Self's bumpity reference (which is as joyous as receiving a Christmas card from Santa, or having your crude, stream-of-consciousness nursery scrawl shown on ArtAttack), I thought an update might be in order.
Unfortunately, there has been no reply. This may mean he's too embarrassed to broach the subject now he's suffering from the hazy, empty hangover after excessive cliquey complicity, or he now realises that I don't subscribe to baroque bloke banter, even in it's most frivolous, alliterative form and no longer knows what to say.
A shame really, because this could have evolved into something sinister and special.
