Hello, Barnaby’s father here..
I’d just like to apologise to you on his behalf for the stream of insufferably arrogant drivel that he writes in this journal. It all comes from his mother’s side of the family, of course.
Real men’s talk of big lorries, friends, rock n roll and women all comes from his imagination. I happen to know for a fact that he has never been more than a mile or two from Hastings where he works as a trainee junior accounts clerk in a furniture store. The people he writes about are just extensions of the imaginary friends he had as child. As for the photographs – he just paint-shops himself into exciting pictures he finds on the internet.
So, Barnaby, switch off that computer now; have a wee-wee, clean your teeth and off to bed. Lights out at 10.30 and let’s have no more nonsense about Leipzig or wherever – otherwise you might get a disappointment on your birthday next Wednesday..
[The cherubic face pictured is indeed me as a small boy – The Editor]