Home time

The man opposite me is silent. Pensive.

The man opposite me wears clothes chosen by his wife. He is not image-conscious, nor do I think he is persecuting me; not this man opposite me.

The man opposite me is no international hit man, no man of mystery. His socks are standard-issue black, far from mundane blue. There is no suspicious bulge at his ankle nor in his jeans; I have no reason to suspect he is concealing a massive Glock.

Cocoon III

Day three of the Olympics and the magic has truly begun: all of the
commuters have morphed into geriatrics and tourists. Geriatric
tourists, too. My carriage has attained Mothball Odour Factor 7 which,
even when seasonally adjusted, is unseasonally high. An expected MOF
at this time of summer would be 2-3.

The man opposite me is clearly a spy.

The Highs and Lows of Being a Brit

The best we can hope for is a huge piece of ribbon suspended across the stadium with the Queen and Philly taking one scissor, Boris Johnson and Seb Coe taking the other and a quick snip snip, "I declare the games open, now start running, I've got to get to the bingo at nine."

That was truly what I believed would be the best riposte to Beijing's incredible display in 2008. No point competing when you're not going to win. That's the Olympic way. In fact, I don't think I actually saw the CGI fireworks over Beijing, the pretty girl who didn't sing nor the amazing drumming. Not live, anyway. I did eventually see each of these events but only through HerTube as the missus would have encouraged me to have a butchers as she was reviewing them. Not 'reviewing'; 'reviewing'. Seeing them again, not analysing.

I have actively avoided opening and closing ceremonies in all sports since 1992.

Pah

---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: MG.C
Date: Fri, 18 May 2012 09:26:27 +0000
Subject: Pah
To: careers@thefa.com, david.bernstein@thefa.com

Dear Dave,

That's it. We're over. There is no 'us' anymore. There's a 'me'. And that's it. There is no 'you'. You mean nothing to me. We are no more.


Hodgson. HODGSON?! What's he got that I haven't? Well I'll tell you what I've got that YOU haven't, David so-called Bernstein.

George Formby

So there I am cleaning windows with a washing up sponge. Greg Davies looks less than impressed and asks me why I'm smearing 18 months' worth of DIY filth from one part of the window to another. And why am I adding remnants of last night's tea to the exceedingly more opaque glass?

He's right. This is futile. I need some malt vinegar to bring these beauties up to scratch and in the kitchen