I've been dispatched off to the health farm today for a "haircut 100" as I call it, the tight bastards. Just as I'd got myself smelling just right as well it's a short, back and all off for me. The Sweeney Todd that does it doesn't even give you a choice or of styles nor kiss my arse. Then I get a bath and they rub some talc all over me. It stinks like the stuff you used to buy your gran off the market for Christmas when you didn't have much cash. You know the sort of thing I mean. Devon Violets, by Yardley: 50p a kilo, that's the stuff. Pooh count: only 1, I think I may have a medical condition.
You couldn't make it up could you. I spent much of the weekend dozing on the sofa watching telly. Glastonbury was on, although sad to say there was no Snoop Dog, Bone Jovi or any other canine related artists. The big news seemed to be the lack of female headliners and now we know why as one scored a spectacular own goal. She missed her slot cos she was doing her hair. It takes ages she said. Why NOT start doing your hair well before your show time. Aaagh no where's my handbag I've left it in the car, I've got to back to fetch it.