I am the alleged subeditor of this journal. Way back when, I was a key contributor.
I am amazed.
How easily principles can be put out for sale.
I swore I'd never work 9-5. It's stunning how quickly the necessity to pay rent can change that.
I swore I'd never fall in love with the meaningless one-night-stands that keep me animal. It's amazing how fast lust and love can become confused.
I would like to point out that I am a middle-class grammar school dropout with a working-class income and alcoholic tendencies.
I understand now.
When you're cold, and thirsty, and filthy, principles are cheap and acommodation is dear.
So fuck you, Songs of Praise, and Pause for Thought, and Prayer for the Day.
Shove it down our throats all you like, but living on the poverty line leads to a philosophically fickle existence, just to survive. A martyr is nothing but a dead believer. A "convert" still has potential.
I apologise. I'm drunk as a stoat. I sincerely hope Withiel will a) get me a copy of Volpone so I can write him that bleeding article and b) correct my typos.
But my sentiment is true.