"I sit in the flat staring at the home made derp and derpina masks I made out of cardboard and matt white paint for a night out"

A fellow South Cliff resident of dubious morals has stole the coffee table I left in the parking bay downstairs. I suspected it might be the unseen Samaritan who puts our bins out tirelessly and never complains about the empty 0% beer cases in his recycling but then I remembered that would be taking the piss.

So. Someone’s nicked my coffee table, which I’m quite pleased about because I can’t afford to take it tip and left it lying around outside secure in the knowledge some scrote would spirit it it away in the night.

 I’m in the flat mainlining cups of fruit flavour infusion style drinks (“fucked up tea”, in the words of my mother) because The Male Person is awaiting a highly important delivery of a) Skyrim and b) another binder.

 This binder is for the purpose of flattening Archie’s chest area so he trip merrily out into the world without having to explain to 50 confused customers per day that:

a)    Yes, those are breasts, you have probably seen some before.

b)   I am not a “love”, “duck”, “sweetheart”, “darling” or “sugar tits”, I am a young man and I leave boxer shorts and unwashed socks trailing around my flat with the best of them. Male. Maaaaaale.

c)    I am not ‘basically a lesbian’, as my formerly lesbian girlfriend can tell you. (Don’t ask actually her though, she will probably rip your cock off.)

d)   That’s £5.99 for your bastard sack of sodding concrete, please.

 The binder that he currently has is probably now so marinated with sweat that one day he will leave it on the living room floor and return to find it has evolved into its true form, a bottle of malt vinegar.

 Binders are tricky because obviously it is important for Archie that he passes as his true gender and understandably he’s not going to feel comfortable if there’s something so obvious stopping him from doing it, so if it’s being washed he has to stay inside.

On the other hand, if you do put them into the washing machine they wilt like a delicate petal into a baggy grey mess that Steven Hawking would beat hands down in a titty holding contest, so that’s out.

 Why doesn’t he have spares? Because that would mean one of us being organised.

 So yes. Looking forward to the post today.