Tony is safely back in London, and as we prepare for our first trip to the pub together since he left, he says that it's great to be back home.
Apparently, he spent a good few days with his son, Ray, but apart from that, he reckons his trip to the coast left him feeling depressed and isolated.
I reckon he's right when he says life in a big city is much better than spending one's days walking along a promenade whilst breathing in the sea air, which everybody kept telling him is good for one's health. Well, of course, Tony has never been much of a fitness freak, so walking miles and miles every day for the sake of his health seems such a waste of time. He prefers to walk just a few hundred yards to the pub, sit on his favourite stool, and down excessive amounts of strong lager. Now, THAT may be bad for his health, but as he rightly says, he's been drinking heavily and smoking excessively for god only knows how many years, and he's never felt fitter.
Okay, he admits that he's obese, and has got a terrible cough, but apart from that, he reckons that his diet of lager and cigarettes hasn't done him any harm up to now.
I'm just glad that the fat bastard has made it back in one piece, and now to quench his thirst, and indeed mine, we're off to the pub for at least ten pints, and then off for the finest pizzas our money can buy.