Didn't get much further with the tunnel over the weekend. Me Dad took me on three walks Saturday, yes THREE. The tight fat get, so that kind of put paid to any tunnel digging activity that day. Then Sunday afternoon they were both in the kitchen most of the day. Watching me like fucking hawks they are. Snoozed on me blanket in the lounge, or in front of the fire for the rest of the day. Had a quick look at Match of the Day, what is wrong with that Suarez bloke? He's got more screws loose than a second hand Ikea wardrobe if you ask me. The dirty, cheating, biting, racist, Uruguayan hamster-faced dickhead. Then bed, so not much digging opportunities there either. I think I might have to make it a weekdays only thing. But I'm so knackered after three walks on Saturday that I might have a day off today. Me paws are still a bit sore, and there's a nice sunny spot on the bean bag in the lounge with my name on it. I can keep an eye on the Ginger Ninja over the road from there. They're moving out today by the looks of it. That should improve my beauty sleeping opportunities no end. Every five fucking minutes he's usually knocking on our door. So I have to bark at him obviously: a) he's a kid and b) he's ginger. The soft get. He knocked on our door one day last summer with the usual "is George in?" enquiry. "No he isn't he's gone to the Lake District for the day with his Dad and we don't know when he'll be back." said me Mum. So he sits at the end of the drive, waiting. About half an hour later, I kid you fucking not, half an hour has passed and the kid's back. Knock, knock. "Is George in?" Fuck me. No he's bastard well not in a) he's gone to the Lake District b) it's August Bank Fucking Holiday, have you ever nipped to the Lake District and back in half an hour on August Bank Bastard Holiday? No. His Dad drives a fucking car not a Harrier Jump Fucking Jet. And even if he did perchance have access to a Harrier Jump Fucking Jet the chances are that he wouldn't just fly to the Lake District, say shall we get out? Nah let's not fucking bother, we'll go straight home again. And even if he had decided to come straight home in his Harrier Jump Fucking Jet then how the fuck did George manage to sneak back into the bastard house without you seeing him as you've been sat at the end of the bastard drive all the fucking time, Ginge? If a Harrier Jump Fucking Jet had just landed in our back garden do you think you may have noticed this event, sat at the end of the drive? Fuck me, this is what I have to deal with round here. Mind you, if you stand close to him you can hear the sea.
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.