The boy Tony is well and truly back on his feet. The final phase in what he refers to as "his coming back from the brink of death" was this lunch-time's meal of a double cheeseburger, well-salted fries and a few cans of cold, strong lager.
This afternoon he has been staring out of the window, and shouting obscenities at passers-by, who clearly don't appear to be of British origin. He's also been ranting and raving about the government, and says that tonight, he hopes his beloved Arsenal destroy the beast that is Manchester United.
I admire the boy, and reckon he's right when he says that doctors are a waste of f*cking time, and that only a calorie-saturated cheeseburger is what's needed to get one back on their feet, after a serious illness.
He's got that old mindless thug cum foul-mouthed bigot look back again, and as he says, tonight he's going to get well and truly hammered down the pub, and if Arsenal lose, he'll lash out at the first non-English person he comes across.
All in all, it sounds like a pleasant evening is what lies ahead of us, and I praise the Lord that my only mate in the world is well and truly back on form.
It's a REAL Christmas miracle!