Teachers. The big kid, I can never remember her name, the one that mumbles and slams doors. She's off today 'cos the bloody teachers are on strike, the workshy penpushing bohemian bastards. I mean I can see that the run-up to the six week summer holidays is probably a stressful time for them, with all those kids playing Monopoly and Kerplunk, but surely they could have dragged their sorry arses into school for the day. I gather that she's back in tomorrow and then off again on Monday for yet another teacher training day! The irony is that if me Mum and Dad suddenly decided to take her away for a long weekend (hypothetically, she's a right surly cow so it's unlikely to happen) then they'd no doubt get into bother for taking her out of school for a day "as she's at a critical time working towards her GCSE's and every day counts you know". They may not be able to edge Richard Branson off top slot this week, but I may go up tho school later and piss through the letterbox. Pooh count: three, one of which reminded me of Emile Heskey for some reason.
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.