Got me first Christmas card, and frankly probably me only one, from the only people in the world who really care about me - Thomas Bell of Brigg, the country's leading fertiliser importers. Me Mum and Dad can't be arsed to send me a card or bugger all, the tight bastards. I'm pinning me hopes on me old mates to replenish my now badly depleted supply of pigs ears in time for 2014 too, as there's not much chance of a Christmas prezzie for yours truly off anybody else in our fucking house. Bastards they are. I've got about as much chance of getting anything of me Mum and Dad as Ronnie Briggs has of winning Strictly I reckon. It occurred to me this mornin that if old Ronnie was still robbin trains in this day and age, him and his mates could simply have scattered a few leaves on the line. Job sorted. Either that or just wait for the wrong type of snow to fall. All the Great Train Robbers are dead now apparently. Apart from Virgin who charge a fiver for a microwaved bacon bap that is. Twats.
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.