As our fine city prepares to be inundated by thousands of tourists - all keen to catch a glimpse of the Queen, as she celebrates her Diamond Jubilee - my fat friend has decided to join in the fun of the moment, and hold the mother of all parties.
The festivities kick off tonight, and as I write, Tony is in the kitchen, trying to cram as many cans of lager into the fridge, so that they're chilled to perfection for our guests.
We've invited our usual load of cronies, and all were glad to be invited to our cramped apartment, to help us celebrate this marvellous occasion. The only absentee will be Andy, because he's once again behind bars, after a minor scuffle in our local fast-food restaurant.
We haven't invited any of our neighbours, because we hate them with a passion, and which is why the music we'll be playing tonight will be very loud. Tony only hopes that fifteen hours of the Sex Pistols, at full blast, will help to only worsen relations with them upstairs, across the hall, and downstairs.
Of course, some people would say that Tony likes to provoke trouble, but as he rightly says, it's not every day that Her Majesty celebrates sixty years on the throne.
I think he has a point, and if any of our neighbours feel like complaining, they know where to find us - and they're more than welcome to join us, as long as they don't arrive empty-handed!