What's the fucking point of bluebottles eh? There's one in the lounge right now and it's doing my fuckin swede in with it's irritaing buzzing shit. I mean I know we are supposed to love all God's creatures and all that, and I'm sure that they are supposed to do a very important job in the eco-chain or something. Like James Milner. He has a job to do, he just choses not to do it and runs (or in the case of bluebottles flies) around going nowhere and banging his head against the window. Watch out once the warm weather finally comes, if you leave the back door open for more than thirty seconds you'll end up with James Milner running around your kitchen like a demented I don't know what before he regurgitates his lunch of cow shit, or whatever it is they eat, up onto your bacon sandwich. The dirty get. That's what they do you know, I'm not mucking about. They can eat up to eighty four times there own body weight in regurgitated shit every half hour you know. I read that on the back of me Dad's paper the other week. At least I think that's what it said. To be honest reading isn't my strong suit, but there was definitely a picture of James Milner on the back page, so the article was clearly something to do with shit.
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.