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Things I'll admit to: 

I have a confession to make.
I’m a liar.
I know – I know. Not really the best thing to say on a first date. And after all, this might be just that for you. Because I don’t know who you are, you reading this – we might have met, electronically at least. Or we might not. And if we haven’t – well, there it is. Or rather, here. Here it is – and now.
Our first time.
Yes, Jones Minor. I can see you there at the back. Stop sniggering, and see me after… Well. After.
But like i said, there it is – the truth. About me, I mean. Because that’s what they say I’m supposed to do here - tell the truth. About me. And since the 'they' doing the telling this time is, um, me, I should probably do as I'm told. Er - as I'm telling me. And the truth is - I’m a liar. Because I say things that never happened, happened. And I say they happened to people – and some not people – who don’t exist.
Well. Who mostly don’t exist. Probably smiley.
Yes – I’m a scribbler blush. A poor one, by any mark, but a scribbler natheless.
So if I’m a scribbler, what else can I tell you? That I’m tall, slim, dark and handsome? Well, if I did, it would only be because, like I’ve already said, I’m a liar (blush). I’m actually short, fat, bald and ugly. When I was born, short, fat, bald and wrinkly (yes, Jones Minor. And ugly too) was ‘ooooh, isn’t he cute?’ Now, at my somewhat advanced age (there’s rocks round here called me granfer when they was mountains), exactly the same thing is less cute and more ‘nurse, the bedpan!’
Well, it would be. If I, like, had a nurse. Or, like, a bedpan.
Hmmmmm… I wonder if there's a story there somewhere devil.
So what else can I tell you? Well, I was born in a country I never knew, grew up in a country I left behind, and live in a country I never grew up in. Mostly because, according to some, I never really grew up. The place I live in, people say ‘eh’ a lot, even when they actually heard what you said. I say it a lot too – mostly because of that whole ‘old’ thing, and mostly because I didn’t hear. But I guess it helps me sound like a local cheeky. I’m not really local anywhere – just a vagabond with delusions of literature. A wandering minstrel who can’t sing or play a note. A thing of rags and, yes, Tatters smiley.
Apparently this is where I tell you about the Kinks I’m into. But I’m betting Ray Davis wouldn’t mean much these days (remember that whole ‘old’ thing?). I could take a cue from Salt N Pepa (though that’s mostly what little is left of the hair I haven’t got) and talk about sex – but I’m not sure I know a lot about it. I could try to talk about my views of eroticism – but there’s a girl or two from my teens would tell you I definitely know bugger all about that. Actually, I think eroticism is a bit like humour (yes, I can still hear those girls laughing) – so intensely personal it’s near impossible to define. As a result, like sex when we’re teens, I just try to wing it, make it up as I go along – and hope nobody laughs.
Well, or hope they do smiley. When you get right down to it (heh - see what I did there?), pretty much everything about sex is fairly ridiculous, no? I remember, this time in Band Camp, and Johnny Parker and Mary Clarke - or was it Mike Clarke? - were found... but anyway. Never mind. That's another story laugh.
I’ve scribbled a word or two here and there – but then, if you get this far, you probably know that already. You probably shouldn’t look - I know at least one person – a friend – who’s said about something I wrote that ‘you’d have to be really sick to be turned on by that’. And she meant it as a compliment (blushblush)!
So this is me. TatterJack. Or Tatter Jack - but that's just for book covers. A poor vagabond dressed in rags of withered words.
And there we are. Our first date - well, unless it wasn't. Hello – good evening – and welcome to the fire devil.

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