Old Men

There is not much to say really, is there? I mean; we come here each day, sit in these same chairs and say the same things - more or less - to each other each day. So what are we going to say to each other today, and tomorrow, and what are we going to say to each other the next day… and the day after that? Eventually, it seems your life ends up like the telly, just endless repeats of the same thing that wasn’t much good the first time around.

It is knackering to think that this is how we are going to spend our remaining days. Two old men sitting in chairs on opposite sides of this small table, a conversation - moves passed back and forth. It is like a game, a parody of conversation. We could be actors in a play; Vladimir and..., what's the other one...? The one that sounds like a hormone..., Oestrogen or something.... You know who I mean, you always know what I mean. We are too alike, after all these years, we never argue, there’s fuck all to argue about really. It’s not as if two old tossers bickering with each other will ever change anything.

Maybe it would be better if we found other people, people not like us, people who do not see things the way we see them - through old, tired eyes that no longer know how to be surprised. Perhaps it would bring back some life to us, and them. Perhaps we could even discover some new things, even at this late stage.

But, when you get old you get tired and you don't want to bother that much, not any more… so, bollocks to it all. Get another bottle out and we’ll get pissed and shout abuse at random passing strangers instead.