Robin Ince doesn't believe.... in me.... CURSES

At the five star apartment complex.

Enjoying tattie eggs... or some such Scottish delight - with Tea.

A beautiful sunny morning in Edinburgh - overlooking Glastonbury Tour's uglier rockier cousin... Lenny the Bruce Rock, Arthurs Needle... i'm not sure of its name - or even if that's what I can see.

Yesterday I got a smack - a big, damp, open handed wallop in the mush.

Robin Ince and his verbal boxer 'Gobby'.

Not only does he NOT believe in Psychics, but as he looked straight through me... I see that he doesn't believe in me!

He has no interest in the Spirits of our ancestors and Robin's anger and ignorance is equally distributed onto the beautiful people of the cloth - ie Miss Orla, ie Me ME MEEEE.

Was I upset? Well.... would a GOD be upset if a Beetle died and smeared it's entrails on the Gods shoes? NO! Dissappointed, regretful of creating such a selfish Beetle... but not UPSET.

Being upset would mean I cared. Would I care for some big brained MAN? Some book reading, friends of Scientist, Communist, break-dancing, fat thumbed, CLARK?!?!?

I'm not stupid, I care for wise and gifted people - all of which care for me FIRSTLY. I'm in their prayers..... can Incy say the same....

Anyway - I had a party in my suite last night. A whole room of Widowers gathered around my burning ring, Candles flickering as the spirits of Pan and Pam, whispered and stroked knowing moments of love to all the old women. Cheekily undressing the ladies of their earthly burdens.

Pearls, Gold, Dignity and Murrgh... a humble exchange for peace and restful sleep.

Miss Orla