We love Masterchef in our house and were watching Wednesday night's episode on catch-up last night. Did you see it? There was this overtly gay Indian guy on there who looked like George Michael after he's fallen asleep on a sunbed for a few days. Exactly why the idea of a gay Indian bloke should be of interest I have no idea. For some reason you just don't expect Indians to be gay do you? And I'm not talking about the guy out of village people, he was a Red Indian, well he probably wasn't actually a Red Indian he was just dressed up as one. In reality he was probably from the Bronx, but I digress. This gay Indian feller seemed to tickle me Dad for some reason. You know what I mean, he didn't actually start tickling him, with me Dad rolling round on the carpet giggling like a schoolgirl. I mean what sort of TV do you think we've got? "What do you call a gay Indian. A Gindian." Exactly why he thinks that's funny I don't know, but he does. Followed by "I bet he takes it up the Ganges." That's what passes for humour in our house. That and me pissing in the kitchen. Pooh count: three. One of which looked exactly like Ed Milliband.
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.