'Yeah mate, so drunk...Apocalypto.'

Having fallen off the wagon then my bike last night, my self-loathing and sore jaw is mitigated somewhat by the illustrious company I keep.

You're drunk. Step away from the vehicle. That includes bikes, you gash-chinned lush. It's unseemly.

Rain on the way, at last. London swelters, the parks are like scrubby deserts with trees and little oases of flowers, which it is permitted to water. No wonder there's wild-eyed crazed with thirst bunches of hydrophobes lurching about the streets. Times are tense. There's no need to amplify.