Tony has spent the morning looking out of the kitchen window, wondering what life has in store for him over the coming years.
I told him that wasting hours looking at a block of flats, and a 24/7 mini-market, would be enough to drive even the sanest of men crazy, and that all the while he's in one of his reflective moods, time is passing him by.
As usual, he agreed with what I said, but reckons that London holds nothing for a man of his abilities, and that if he's ever going to fulfill his potential, then he needs to pack his suitcase, and get the fuck out of here.
Of course, I've heard this sort of rubbish a thousand times before, and although my fat friend has restless feet, his choice of final destination is limited, purely because (a) he doesn't have a passport, (b) he doesn't have any money to go anywhere and (c) it's too hot outside to be trudging the streets, looking for somewhere to call home.
I blame this latest bout of depression on the fact that Tony has recently heard from his son, Ray, who told Tony that he's happy with his mother, and after the last time he saw his father, he suffered violent nightmares and panic attacks.
Tony said that the boy is welcome to spend the rest of his life with his mother, if that's what he wants, and as far as he's concerned, fatherhood is right up there with alcohol-free lager and anorexia, and that he has no interest in trying to convince his boy that Daddy is not all bad, and that underneath all of the blubber, he does in fact have a heart of gold.
So, with his parental responsibilities well and truly behind him, the fat bastard in now deciding whether or not to start his new life in Scotland, or in the depressing depths of Wales.
Either way, I don't really care, and as I write, and tying my shoelaces, because I'm off to the pub, to cool down and get happily drunk!