Finished the tunnel, and made my bold bid for freedom and the bright lights of Brigg around 10.45 this morning whilst me Dad's back was turned - making himself a bacon butty - the fat bastard. Through the fence, across the pond round the back and down Knox Way, heading for the main road where I could hopefully catch the bus to Brigg. The land of pig's ears. Waited ten minutes, ten fucking minutes, no sign of bastard bus to Brigg. Town Centre, yes. Brigg, no. The fucking council are fucking bastard useless round here. If I paid any council tax I cancel the fucking standing order forthwith. I'd have thought that there should be a bus to Brigg every five minutes, at the very least. Ten fucking minutes I stood there, in this bastard heat. Panting like fuck. So by this time I was starving, obviously, having already eaten my contingency food supply the minute I got out of the tunnel. So, nipped back to Knox Way to see if there was any decent foraging to be had, a couple of sausag

What do you call a Russian vet? Kutsacatz Kokov. Woof. I fucking hate cats me, the lazy twats. All they do is lie around all day. Not like me, tunnels to dig, pig's ears to eat, bollocks to lick. I'm a non stop bastard whirlwind me. They just sit there looking at you don't they? Like the world owes them a fucking living, on the shed roof out the back, the dirty lazy twats. If there was a social security office for pets, us dogs would never get a look in for those lazy fuckers. Licking their arses, their own fucking dirty arses they lick, I kid you not. Fuck knows why they do that. I mean it must taste like shit for a kick off mustn't it? And then when they have a shit, what do they do? They bury the fucker! Why do that? Me Dad picks mine up, it makes me gip it does, but he seems to strangely like it. But no, they bury theirs, like they're gonna save it and come back and lick it later. The dirty fucking shit licking lazy bastards.

So, a Jock beats a Djok. I don't see what all the fuss is about, it's not like he's English is it? He might have a couple of Border Terriers and a fit girlfriend and several million pounds in the bank, but what else has he got going for him? The pasty-skinned Pict. That's his quota of sunshine for the next 50 years I reckon. The British and Irish Lions beat the ex cons Down Under. So what. I refuse to get excited about it all. They're not pure English either are they? I'm looking forward to the Ashes, proper Englishmen in an all English, proper non-Jock sport taking on the Aussies. I think we'll do them now that Piertersen is back...