Here we go again with Samson Posey, a 'meek' criminal who is 'sentenced to death by hanging for the accidental killing of a G.I. in a bar room brawl' (I love that. What an excellent crime). Clint was best known for his role in Cheyenne during the 1950s, one of those strange phenomena, the cowboy weekly series - like Bonanza and High Chapparal - which were all the rage once upon a time.
Today was just running around and running around. Contradictions and challenges, not a moment to myself. You know the kind of thing: struggling through the fuckers at Victoria; receiving a phone call when you finally get there telling you that the meeting's delayed by twenty minutes; sitting in a meeting, tense as a piece of cheese wire, which goes on and on and on; getting back to the office and eating a cardboard egg sandwich; traipsing back through the fuckers at Victoria; sitting in a meeting where people point their faces at you; and back through the fuckers; and then again to play pool and darts in false bonhomie. Victoria Line delayed and the phone rings when you're getting your keys out. And Payroll fucks up and doesn't release your HR fucking record so you don't get your (first) pay cheque with a week till fucking Xhristmas.
Merry Clint-mas fuckers.