I Still Miss That Part Of 2020 When It Was Illegal For Anyone To Come Near Me. Don't You?

Not that I'm complaining, or anything, you understand. Just those people who have a tendency to breathe either on, or around me. Why are they still here?

I joke, of course. As regulars to this bullshit you're now reading will attest.

So, let's talk about death. You'll recall the forerunner to 'The Almighty Gob' being called 'Death's Door Diaries' due to my believed, and somewhat now protracted demise.

So, here I still am still, like a loiterer, filling in whatever time is left tapping away at this keyboard and using whatever perceived dry humour remains within while awaiting the big day.

To be clear, despite having had mental health issues previously, I absolutely, and categorically do not in any way feel depressed, and neither am I about to do anything stupid, such as jump off Bristol's Clifton Suspension Bridge.

No. Aside from the fact that even in early June the water is far too bloody cold, has the water even been tested recently for potential pollutants? I mean, who, in their right mind would want to end their life in such a way without first having the water sampled and tested?

You see, short of being murdered (and this is not an invitation to enact such a thing, by the way, should anyone out there be seeking someone for a bit of skills experience to practise on) I'm actually looking forward to closing my eyes for the final time, and of natural causes, in total peace with myself, and the world. Although, the second part of that may prove something of a struggle, admittedly.

To be honest, I'm not even sure now as to how this subject came about exactly. As far as I can recall I was in bed quite early yesterday evening, and then woke from blissful slumber at around two o'clock this morning, and was awake until just after four. At some point, either in full sleep or in REM, I was back in the not-so-glory days of my London gangland period, when Soho and the West End, in general, were run by the Maltese, in arms-length cahoots with Met police Flying Squad officers and others in positions of influence.

It was a time when nine-bob notes were standard currency around that manor in particular. You name it, it went on, and many a blind eye was turned because corruption at all levels was as rife as the violence. If you stood on the wrong toes at the wrong time you soon knew. Not that I ever did because I was smart enough to remain at arm’s length myself. Hence, I somehow became called the 'FOX', who only appeared from the darkness at certain times. Otherwise, I was invisible, and that's exactly how I liked it.

I suppose you could say it was more coincidence than planning that brought me close to one of, if not the arguably biggest crime lord in London at that time aside from the Kray brothers, 'Big Frank' Mifsud. He was quick to recognise my razor-sharp mind at that time, and we became arms-length friends of a sort. However, I wouldn't even go as far as saying friends really, even though his world held a kind of fascination to this renegade Roman Catholic, as I was back then. I had my own plans, and both contacts and knowledge were useful to me, even if they were the London mafia.

Besides this, I didn't ever want to be in anyone's pocket. As stated in my book 'The Sexual Philanthropist' https://amzn.to/3TzI5AQ, I had to be a fast learner from quite a young age, as life then was all about survival. While Frank had his foot soldiers, who, like most of that cohort even today, were never going to be contestants on Mastermind, and what they lacked in brains they made up for in brawn and would have struggled to read the Sun newspaper without it having so many pictures for them to be able to understand the words.

My talent was as a thinker and planner. A 'fixer' is, I guess, what described me at that time because my brain processed faster than an Olympic runner and I became good at moving money around, among other things in the dark, so to speak. Hence, my invisibility to everyone except those who needed to know - and they were few. So, I was somewhat taken aback when I moved from London to Brighton and word somehow escaped of my new presence in the area that was enough for competing businesses to suddenly close down before I even had the opportunity to drop by and say hello.

Apparently, it was considered 'dangerous' just by knowing me. In hindsight, I suppose I was at that time without even considering it. I was never one for the thuggishness of 'Big Frank's' minions, and I tended to put more thought into how someone's behaviour could be modified that would cause as much pain without applying visible physical assault in order to encourage a change of thinking.

I guess, where I'm going with this is that applying violence (although, this again is used as a catch-all, generic nowadays, that's become so dissolved it's easily lost in translation) does not solve any situation, and I've faced death on so many occasions it's become an inevitability that we humans have become far too wrapped up in emotions by means of learned helplessness in this emotionally incontinent, 'millennial' age.

It's not just 'emotionally incontinent' either, as people are also emotionally crippled, it seems. Whatever happens, somehow, part of this less-than-great state will be there to bail them out. These are dangerous times for this very reason. While people are becoming more reliant on the state than themselves to sort out their issues and problems, and fear just about everything on the verge of causing a society of emotional hostages, death should be the least of anyone's problems.

If anything, it's becoming more of a plausible way to gracefully back out of it all and leave the idiots to it.