It's A Treat Being A Runner, Out

I'm Me And Nobody Else; And Whatever People Think I Am Or Say I Am, That's What I'm Not, Because They Don't Know A Bloody Thing About Me.

Whatever People Think I Am Or Say I Am, That's What I Am Not.

Government Wars Aren't My Wars; They've Got Nowt To Do With Me, Because My Own War's All That I'll Ever Be Bothered About.

You Should Think About Nobody And Go Your Own Way, Not On A Course Marked Out For You By People Holding Mugs Of Water And Bottles Of Iodine In Case You Fall And Cut Yourself So That They Can Pick You Up - Even If You Want To Stay Where You Are - And Get You Moving Again.

For It Was Saturday Night, The Best And Bingiest Glad-time Of The Week, One Of The Fifty-two Holidays In The Slow-turning Big Wheel Of The Year, A Violent Preamble To A Prostrate Sabbath. Piled Up Passions Were Exploded On Saturday Night, And The Effect Of A Week's Monotonous Graft In The Factory Was Swilled Out Of Your System In A Burst Of Goodwill. You Followed The Motto Of 'be Drunk And Be Happy,' Kept Your Crafty Arms Around Female Waists, And Felt The Beer Going Beneficially Down Into The Elastic Capacity Of Your Guts.