Dearest ______,

On the morrow, I shall be turning seven and 20.  In some parts of the world, I guess I already have.

I’m writing this in a corner table at the Famous Three Kings along West Cromwell in West Kensington.  You may know this “famous” joint from that cult- favourite movie, Trainspotting.  Now I can say that I’ve actually boozed with Ewan McGregor by three degrees of separation; by way of this soddy old leather couch we’ve both sat on.  Wicked.

In this momentuous occasion that is my birthday, I’d only like to thank God for bringing me this far, both literally or otherwise.  It’s been a lot of bloody fun all these years and now I’m in bloody England having some 7 degrees outside! Really wicked.

Of course I’d also like to thank me mum and me dad for everything else… and me older brother who is quite the lovable wanker.  I’d like to thank me friends all over the world for being equally lovable wankers and forgiving me for being just that.

And lastly I’d like to thank Jawo Bolivar for taking focking amazing photos of me, aye.  And being the coolest bloody wank out there besides.  Cheers, mate!


And thank you for reading this far and tolerating me focking hideous Cockney accent.  I bloody love you wherever you are, like.

Seriously though, thank you for reading these letters to you.  I wish I could write more often, but obviously everything is just sinking in.

We’re leaving for Scotland really early tomorrow morning.  Dear Lord stop me from doing these embarassing accents already!


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