Christ, I thought I was hard done by until Johnny Colman sent me this link to a series of images in the Daily Bellylaugh of a poor creature that they bill as "Jack the Balancing Dog" who "loves to balance household items on his head," they gleefully tell us. "And the Australian cattle dog is happy to impress by balancing items including a football, books, a kettle, and an egg - all in return for the cheers and praise of his San Franciscan owners," they go on. I fucking knew it, Septics. Look at the pictures. Does Jack look like he's having fun to you? He looks fucking well pissed off to me, and I don't blame him, "come on Jackie boy, lets put a kettle on your head." The tight Septic bastards. The only image where Jack does look like he's having fun is the one at the end where they've finally run out of household objects and bits of fruit to balance on the poor fucker's head. The heartless twats. I might have to rethink my plans on where I'm heading once I've dug me way out of here. I might scrap the bright lights of Las Vegas and head for Brigg. The streets of Brigg, near Scunthorpe are paved with pigs ears I've heard, and it's also the home town of the only people in the world that have ever shown me any kindness, Thomas Bell & Sons, the country's leading fertiliser importers. They wouldn't humiliate a dog like this: Tight Gets
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.