Today is our very good friend John Freeman’s birthday. He is 33. Suffer.

I‘ve known John since he was… 16! Jesus, that’s a long time… I feel a bit sick.
When I first met him he was a gangly, turtle-esque character with Mr’ Bean’s eyebrows, a loping gait, and a backpack containing the bare necessities. He said he was a ‘run-away’ but I later discovered that he was actually a ‘please go-away’ which is a little less distinguished to say the least. An inevitable blow-up with his father (a feisty redhead) deposited him on the street with a size 8 boot print in his arse and not much else. He crashed with me and my folks for a few weeks before moving to the city to pursue his dream of doing what ever the fuck he wanted without having to worry about his Pearl Jam tapes being confiscated by the stout, melanin deficient brute that had reared him (his dad… the Cheeto).
A few weeks later I too relocated to the big smoke, and began my own strenuous time-wasting campaign that involved a great deal of ‘carousing’. I still like to carouse, and I maintain that it’s a noble undertaking. Back off.
After a short stint in a house full of people that gave me shits I moved in with John and, like Larry and Balki before us, we began to chronicle a sometimes rocky, but always action-packed coexistence, that came to an abrupt halt when we were evicted… because we didn’t pay the rent… because there were far too many bongs in the world that needed to be smoked.

Times have changed, however, and John is an upstanding member of the community, who gets along really well with his parents and, thankfully, no longer practices the glorious art of carousing.

Happy Birthday, maaate!