My chum Mike has started collecting his hungover ramblings on a new site:
Mike Woods is unwell, and he’s going to tell you how he brought this about, because he has absolutely nothing better to do. If you read it, then neither have you, and judging by the paralysis of culture, service and industry in this benighted island of ours, there’s a lot of you out there. There is not supposed to be any decoration, there are no polls, prizes, pictures or puzzles. You are not only discourgared from adding your two-penny’th, you are all but prevented from doing so. Queries will almost never be read, let alone answered, and in spite of everything this interweb you like stands for, no links to anything but the most pointless articles posted by my incestuous little band of drinking partners will be offered. You will never, ever need a sophisticated browser to find out how ill I am each morning, and you will not be invited to download RealFlash or Arseplayer or any such whizzy begubbins. Without warning, I may post material that you find offensive, including but not limited to blue language, bilious misanthropy and photographic studies of my decrepit and repulsive body as pinkly nude as the day it was spawned. And so, without further ado, on with the daily diagnosis of the diseases and distresses that are my drinker’s dues.