Hunting The Horny-Backed Toad

Left "home alone" for half the day yesterday whilst me uncaring Mam & Dad pissed off to see some bloke called Elton John in concert in town somewhere. Me Dad says this fella, whoever he is, put on a fantastic performance that was only spoilt by the rain and the usual "Harrogate type" in front of him who he says insisted on singing along very loudly to every single song, accompanied by elaborate hand and arm movements that made her look like "a demented Magnus Pyke having an epileptic fit in a jacket that looked like it was made out of seventeen dead squirrels and other assorted road kill." There's so many of these The Voice, Pop Idol, X Factor shite programmes about that half the population now seem to believe that they could be the next Robbie Williams if only they could get a break. Sad, pathetic bastards. Eighty quid for a ticket that entitles you to a plastic seat in the middle of an open field, in the rain, with queues so long for the bar that you'd have thought they were giving iPads away with every round of drinks is not really my bag. Which is just as well as dogs weren't allowed in, apparently. Which is so typically Harrogate dogist isn't it? They don't want us in the park for fear we'll upset the joggers, and now we can't even sit in a field without a fucking special letter of dispensation from the fucking Mayor. Arses.