Day 2. Fucking knackered I am, and not even got past the utility room wall yet. Then there's the fucking path to excavate under, then the pissing garden wall, then the bastard shed. It was all right for those twats on the telly, there was loads of them. This is just me on me Jack Jones. Me paws are fucking red raw they are. I might just have half an hour in the sun on me bean bag in the lounge, if I can make it that far, I'm feeling quite dizzy actually. Stop laughing and get to fuck, I'm dying here. I can't even be arsed to bark at the ginger kid over the road, that's how cream crackered I am. Where's me Prozac...
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.