Welcome back, O my brothers. I bet you've missed me, your dearest friend and humble narrator. Bet you've been wondering what I've got up to all these years, me being such a badiwad malchickiwick. Just thinking about them times O not so long ago, brings back all the terrible memories, my brothers. Me going under horrible tortures of perverts, vonny bastards, and bezoomy techniques that were meant to turn me from bad little Alex to real horrorshow. It still brings tears to my glazzies, remembering how good old Ludwig van was violated and made from choodessny to all grazzy in my gulliver. I still wake at night and I creech real gromky, just dreaming about those terrible times of my childhood. My wife, she thinks that I'll try and snuff it. If only I could my brothers. But I said I'd reform, and reform I shall.

So I got out of hospital, all them years ago, and promised to be the son I never was for my pee and em. I got up early in the mornings and made them cups of the old chai, went out to work to line my pockets with pretty polly- I worked until my rookers were sore and all ready to drop off. My good starry mum soon snuffed it, my friends, and went under the ground. I wish I could say I was sorry, but after she'd gone I felt real horrorshow. She was starry like, and she was a reminder of the past. My dad, he was razdraz for ages, boohooing at church and at home, and I had to make him feel all better. I wiped the tears from his litso, spent all my pretty polly on special platties for him at the height of starry fashion. He was very grateful: "Thank you lad," but I heard him cry out his guttiwuts at night.

I got my job at that old music shop MELODIA. It didn't pay much, my friends, but I was grateful for the cutter as I could no longer crast what I wanted. The Millicents were watching me lads, and would be for the rest of my humble life. I've lead a miserable existence, but any existence is better than none I've been told, and all that cal. So there I was, selling records of beautiful, beautiful music, and then I saw her. A youngish devotchka, sucking on a cancer, and looking at a record of the ninth symphony- Ludwig van. She was good looking too, with horrorshow groodies, big glazzies and a big, wide rot. I remembered the old life and the in-out-in-out. I thought of my new life and how I could lubbilubb to her, and get married and have lots of children. I am at marrying age. So I decided to speak to this devotchka, and see if she was as lovely as she viddied.

"Good morning, could I help you?" I made sure I spoke the Queen's English, my friends, as nothing gives a ptitsa greater pleasure.

"No thank you," the devotchka barely looked at me, though her galoss was real warm and silky. I tried again, my brothers, but my heart was already heavy.

"I'm partial myself to a bit of Ludwig van, is he a favourite of yours?" I realised I sounded gloopy, talking to this ptitsa who was perfect stranger. But she answered, friends, and it was music to my ears.

"He was the greatest man that ever lived."

As soon as she said those slovos I began to feel that old feeling of real horrorshow and happy. It was like good old Bog in heaven was looking after me at last, watching over like, and giving me a reward for all my hard work. I felt like falling to my knees and creeching to the sky, that I, little Alex, had found a horrorshow devotchka, and a potential soul mate.

Oh yes, your humble narrator had fallen in love. And if I could manage it, this ptitsa would soon be putty in my humble rookers.