Had a lovely walk this morning down by the river, it was me Dad's birthday yesterday so he'd gone out on the lash, meaning that we had a 4 mile walk into town to pick up the car. All went well until we got there only to find that there was a bloody stupid scooter rally on. Who are these saddo's? Old gits stuck in a pathetic 60's time warp. They've either got sweatshirts on that say Preston Posse or Whitby Wheelers or something like that, or ex-Army issue overcoats. Like they think that makes them look like they are Steve McQueen in The Great Escape. Except they're not, they are a fat old bloke on a scooter. A scooter with an engine smaller than that of the average Kenwood Chef that barely has enough oomph to support their ample frame. A scooter that is kicking out so many shitty exhaust fumes that it must surely be contravening emission rules. Not to mention the noise. Christ these things make more racket than an epileptic in a bowling alley. They want to round them all up and shove the lot of 'em off Beachy Head, bikes, army overcoats, Union Jack crash helmets and more sodding mirrors than a Miss World contest.
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.