Yesterday was my birthday, but there was to be no "did I really sleep with a six month old Labrador?" morning hangover for me, oh no. My hopes of a night on the lash with me Dad were cruelly dashed on the rocks of despair when he took me Mum out for a bloody Chinese instead. On MY birthday. Can you believe it, because I surely can't. The dirty rotten tight bastards didn't even bring me a doggie bag back, not a spring roll nor kiss my canine arse. Zilch. Two hours in the dark. Just me and a pig's ear, that's all I got for my chuffin' birthday "present" - I use the word in it's loosest form. Well now we all know where we stand, I'll be making sure that they take the hint by leaving them lots of little presents of my own. Starting with the chocolate sausage I secreted round the back of the telly this morning. She NEVER cleans behind there the slovenly cow, so let's see how long it takes them to spot that rascal. I can't wait for me Dad to take his slippers off tonight neither, the fat bastard.
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.