What you are surely about to purchase is a quirky, oddball, nerve-jangling account of a lifetime of unsettling events, which, they tell me, were brought about because I'm supposedly not quite sane, and they may very well be right. There’s no fine literature in these pages; if that’s your thing, it’s probably best you wander off and check out stuff by scribblers such as the dead-fab-and-groovy Quentin Crisp, Stephen Fry or John Updike.
If you do decide to take me on, be warned that I use naughty words, a lot, and my printed thoughts might make you squirm a bit. If you are one of those delicate types, it’s probably best you fuck off over to the Enid Blyton section. Don't say I didn't warn you.
If you are still here, sit your arse down, get a good grip, and prepare for a madcap sixty-year journey to nowhere in particular.