But death permits you To arrange your hours While he sucks the honey From your lovely flowers - Harold Pinter

Stanley cannot perceive his only valid justification - which is he is what he is - therefore he certainly can never be articulate about it...

We’ve agreed: the hierarchy, The Establishment, the arbiters, the socio-religious monsters arrive to affect censure and alteration upon a member of the club who has discarded responsibility (that word again) towards himself and others. (What is your opinion, by the way, of the act of suicide?) He does possess, however, for my money, a certain fibre – he fights for his life. It doesn’t last long, this fight. His core being a quagmire of delusion, his mind a tenuous fuse box, he collapses under the weight of their accusation – an accusation compounded of the shit-stained strictures of centuries of ‘tradition’.

GOLDBERG: Somewhere over the rainbow...

MCCANN: Where angels fear to tread.

GOLDBERG: Exactly.

It was all go at that time. Love, football, the arts, the occasional pint. Mind you, I preferred a fruity white wine but you couldn't actually say that in those days.