I like Fridays. The boys primary school has an open assembly on a Friday which parents can attend which sets me up for the day, as it usually has the odd moment of utter hilarity, invariably around the hymn, which today was 'I wish I was a wiggly worm'. The words were rib crackingly funny and the school 'orchestra' were so out of time with the whole thing I was pissing myself all the way through. They've made the mistake of giving one of C's hyperactive chums the cymbals which he bashes together with gay abandon at wholly innappropriate moments.

The kids are allowed to talk about their out of school activities, and today one girl got up to show her grade 4 ballet certificate. Cue major dumbass moment from the head teacher. 'Thats very good M, now what grades did you do before grade four ? ' The look on the little girls face was priceless, a nine year old doing an excellent 'go figure you pillock' face.

Talking of pillocks, Ruth Kelly on Question Time last night. Aaaaaaaaargh, I can't bear the woman, she speaks like she's permanently got a gobful of man batter, and she is so badly informed it defies belief. She wasn't exactly up against strong opposition (that irritating little twunt Alan Duncan being one), but she got totally caned. Very worrying that one of such limited abilities holds such a powerful postition.

We've badly screwed up this weekends' social planning. We've invited friends around for dinner on Saturday. There's rugby on all day, which means muggins will be banned from watching in the pub as I'll be a gibbering mess by the time the guests arrive. Doh ! And the France/England game is an evening kick off so I guess I'll be told off every time I slope off to check the score.

To further compound my problems my wife is currently on a train heading for Selfridges in Brum on a day out with her mum and sister, so I anticipate being considerably poorer come this afternoon.

Still, just listened to Colin Hay doing an acoustic 'Overkill' which is spankingly fine.

More woe

I could really do without being at work today, but I have a site meeting for a major project this afternoon, and as I run my own business, needs must.

I had a fucking awful cluster attack last night. 1.30 am, and finally went back to bed at 3. I feel totally shattered, and for some reason I'd reacted by scratching at my chest and stomach, and have big red weals over both, but have no recollection of doing it. This episode has been ongoing since mid January, and it's starting to get me down. I missed a meeting in Southampton on Monday, as I had an attack at 6 in the morning, but luckily I was able to get down there yesterday.

There is light at the end of the tunnel. I've managed to get an appointment at the London Migraine Clinic to see the country's leading authority on Cluster Headaches. The first thing they'll do is to make sure that my GP prescribes me oxygen for home use, so I can finally get some pain relief. my GP has been pretty good in fairness, and recognises oxygen as a solution, but wants me to go to the surgery to use it. Not much good in the middle of the night. The clinic explained that the average GP will probably only see one or two cluster cases in their whole career, so I suppose it's reasonable to cut them some slack.

We had a huge walk along the mid section of the Wye Valley near Builth Wells at the weekend.
It's rather pretty, don't you think ? I never mind what the temperature is as long as there's a clear blue sky, it was glorious, but bloody cold, the diesel froze in my car on Saturday night, we had to push it into the sunshine to thaw out ! Parts of the shallows had frozen, which our friends' dogs found very odd, but all the kids had great fun breaking up the ice. We also found a near perfect spot for skimming stones, with a rocky beach chock full of wonderfully flat, round skimmers.
Needless to say, part of the weekend involved the usual session of liver abuse, which made the crisp cold air all the more welcoming.

We had planned a couple of quiet days at the start of the week, as the boys had gone to my Mums for a few days as it was half term. (Praise be for the gift of grandmothers).

It didn't quite end up as that. We'd just had the dining room decorated, and A wanted 'finishing touches'. Thats woman speak for curtains and cushions. It took all sodding day, Worcester, Malvern, and finally Cheltenham. Still, it was great to have the day to ourselves, we had lunch in Worcester, when we finally acquired the curtains, we had a few beers and then caught the early evening showing of 'No Country for Old Men', which was good in the first half, but faded away somewhat after that, finally followed by a quick bite at Nandos. Went home, got the fire going, a few glasses of wine and then A spanked me at scrabble. Zebra did the damage, triple letter on the Z, and a double word score. How thoroughly middle aged.

As the boys were away, it seemed like a good idea to sort out the playroom. They've got loads of stuff that they never use, and without them being there to bitch about what was going, it was a golden opportunity to do a charity shop run. At the same time I was faffing about with various curtain poles. We finally sat down to eat at 8.30, after working flat out all day. They are messy little buggers, and the sorting out was a nightmare. They arrived home to be greeted by the news of a new regime. A maximum of half an hour computer time each day, which has to be 'earned' in five minute chunks, and can also be taken away in five minute chunks, and a maximum of half an hour of tv per day. You should have seen their faces, you'd have thought we were sending them up chimneys.

As always, it was great to have some time to ourselves, it always goes too quickly. The house is very quiet without the hooligans around, but it's always great when they get back. You can't beat the gentle sound of a five year old and an eight year old battering each other. Soothing.

Betterer and betterer

The trip to the match just got better.

Had a phone call late last night and got offered an extra ticket. So I took boy 1. What a great day, he was all togged up in his Welsh shirt and scarf, face dragon painted. His first 6 nations game, and we won.

Look at that view, virtually smack on the halfway line.

Happy days.

Mentalist

What the flying fuck has Rowan Williams been smoking ? I thought he was meant to be first in line on the batphone to the Big G, but it would appear that he spends most of his day sat in a squat chowing down on a crack pipe.

So, certain aspects of Sharia law should be adopted in this country then. Oh do fuck off. Muslims make up around 2% of the population of this country, so why the hell is the political and religious agenda constantly occupied with Muslim appeasment ? Fuck 'em, and while your at it fuck Jews, Anglicans, Catholics, Hindus, Sikhs, in fact every single one of the backward insane divoids who think that 'their' higher being is the 'right' higher being come what may. Religion gets on my fucking tits and it seems to be making a bit of a comeback. Look at that fucktard Huckabee, he wants to be the leader of the worlds largest superpower, and he's a full on religious nutjob, and, people are actually voting for him. I don't know whether to laugh or shit my pants. And our own previous glorious leader kept his own faith somewhat under wraps just in case the great British public thought him a bit odd. No shit hombre.

That bearded arsewipe Williams should keep his moronic opinions to himself, and whilst he's at it, he should get a fucking eyebrow trim, it's not a good look on a man who's trying to come across all serious and if he leaves it much longer he'll need a sodding weedwhacker.

Anyway, the sun is shining, tonight I shall be rustling up a rather juicy bit of cow with a red wine sauce and some pureed parsnip, and tomorrow I shall be hot footing it down the M50 to watch us batter the Jocks. Not all bad then.

It just gets better

Just found out that I have a ticket for Wales v Italy. Off to check the train timetables.

One happy Welshman.

That's all really.

Bread of Heaven

I shall mostly be watching rugby for the next few weekends as the 6 nations is once again upon us.

If the weeks past indiscretions can be overlooked I plan to be in the pub for most of the afternoon.

I've got 20 quid on Wales to win by 11-15 at 25/1.

Show me the money !

A fool and his money, etc, etc.

Ahem.......

I'm in the dog house.

It was a friend's 40th yesterday. We both took the day off work and played golf. And then went to the pub. All day.

We fell through the door at his house at around 6 ish, all idiot grins and apologies. His wife took one look at us, went to the fridge, took out the lobster she was going to prepare for the romantic dinner a deux, opened the back door and lobbed it into next door's back garden.

After a few glasses of wine she was fine. My beloved was livid, slight over reaction in my opinion. I ended up in boy 1's lower bunk for the night, no great suprise.

Woke up this morning totally free of any hangover! Result.

I've been a busy little chap.

I've had a shocking run of cluster headaches, look 'em up, they're no fun. Over my years of inglorious activities on the rugby pitch I have fractured; sternum ( bloody painful), ankle, collar bone, four ribs and three fingers, along with various stiches and two punched out teeth and I would happily swap the lot added together for the pain of one hour of the cluster beast. I'm rattling with an interesting concotion of narcotics and generally feel quite shitty.

But, when you employ yourself, needs must, and through controlled pain relief, I've managed a busy and productive week.

Boy one's birthday. Four for a sleepover. Never again. 7 year olds cannot piss directly into a toilet, they need a trough. They gossip like fishwives until 11, and then get up and five. Mental note to self. No.

Diss. Installation and site survey for future project. Flat. Arse end of nowhere. Despite potential financial rewards, hope never to go again. The A14 sucks the clingons off a fat bird's arse hair.

Upside, I'm hyper, must be the drugs. Have rediscovered cooking once more. I like to cook. It relaxes me. I get home from work, read to the boys, A bathes, I whack on 5 live and cook. Last night, duck breasts on a bed of sugar snaps, mange tout and asparagus with chilli and ginger. Tonight, steak with a mash of butter beans, sweated leeks with white wine and creme fraiche.

If I was a woman I'd shag me senseless. Really.

Enough of my self glorification, All Blacks v Scotland is on ESPN, there's only enough femine side......

This is boy 2 at the top of the lane leading to the river during the last flood. It's back up as far as this at the moment. The boat's not there. Last time the lock keeper used it to get to and from his house, but the builders haven't finished, and they'll be starting over again and they've yet to move back in. You can see where the river should be by the line of boats in the distance.
Madness

One lazy blogger

Not been around in blogland for a while. I've only been checking out a few of my regular reads every now and then, but commenting very little. Must get back in the saddle.

The Christmas break was all a bit rushed, but all in we had a great time. The boys enjoyed it, and received some great gifts. A and I over indulged to the extend that we are both off the booze in the week ! I'm off completely owing to being off my tits on steroids and beta blockers, which also means I can't play squash which is a bummer. I'd only just got my leg back to normal after shagging the top front quad a few months ago, so I'm not best pleased.

Our little corner of Worcestershire is a bit of a nightmare at the moment, the floods have returned, and access in and out of the village is a bit hit and miss at the moment. Although we're slap next to the river, the village itself is elevated so we're not having the problems that the poor folk of Tewkesbury and Upton are bracing themselves for. This is the first day this week that I've made it to the office, it's simply been to much hassle, and as I type its started pissing down again, so its probably time to plan a route home.

Work has kicked in with a vengeance and this month sees me on a delightful tour of Blighty including Diss, Southampton and Northampton. This month I shall mostly be spending my cash on fuel.

To make me feel even peachier, my bloody sister is getting on a plane tomorrow to go and visit Dad in Oz. Jammy cow.

'Tis the season and all that jazz

Couple more days and work gets put to one side for a bit.


A bit of running around this weekend doing the family thing, got to see Dad as he's clearing off back to oz for a few months on boxing day, then Christmas day at home with both of our mum's, which will be groovy for us and the boys. Boxing day, clear off with friends halfway up a mountain in the arse end of nowhere in Wales. Really looking forward to it. We're going to take the bikes and cycle around the Elan Valley, and generally have an outdoorsy few days. We've decided that nothing but champagne will be drunk for those days, life on the edge eh ?

This week at school has mainly been Christmas entertainment and we have a star in the family ! After years of shepherds, boy number 2 made it to the dizzy heights of Joseph in the carol service, I'm beating off Hollywood agents with a shitty stick. They also had a school play which ran for two nights, loosely based around the nativity. I say loosely as boy number one was an Arabian dancer and despite my limited religious knowledge, I can't quite place an troop of Iraqi dancers doing the mashed potato around the crib. Boy number one was a star, and I must confess a rather large lump in the throat as he and the rest of the reception class got up to murder 'twinkle twinkle'.

So, close to the end of another year, they go bloody quickly these days. It wasn't too bad, no-one close to us croaked, I made a few quid, we had a wonderful holiday together on Samui, and I have started to go rather elegantly and subtley grey at the temples, rather than balding on top. Only major downside, Wales' performance in the world cup, but hey, it's only a game . Grrrrrrr.

A long time between posts, but I've been busy, and also, not arsed.

Just how much data can the civil service lose ? We blame the government, and I truly loath this bunch of not even pseudo socialists, but it is the vastly inert, overweight civil service that is responsible for these crass ineptitudes. Government may make policy, but if the civil service that administers those policies is totally fucking useless, then at some point, we are all destined to be shafted.

The heads of these departments are making private sector salaries, because 'this is what it costs for the right people'. If operating within the private sector they would get canned for the recent calamitous errors. We simply cannot trust these imbeciles with data, and we must start to withold said data.

Really fun post, but sometimes you find yourself in a shitty place, and life generally becomes less fun.

Tomorrow will be full of slapstick and casual innuendo

Boy No1 was tucking into his cornflakes this morning as the news was on the radio. He normally wolfs everything in front of him like a hungry labrador, but this morning was a little slower as I could see he was listening to the bulletin.

'Dad'

'Yep'

'What are lashes ?'

'Eh?'

'What are lashes ? They just said something about a lady and a teddy and she might have got lashes'

Just how you go about explaining the weirdness of Sharia law to a seven year old over breakfast at 7.45 I don't really know, but I think I made a reasonable fist of things.

I am not remotely religious and have no 'faith' whatsoever, my wife is a Roman Catholic, and both of the boys have been baptised as such. It was important to her, and they can make up their own minds when they're old enough. I had to go to chapel three times a week for seven years and that just about did it for me, but it's important to A, so I ran with it.

I think the boy and I decided that if your God is a loving thing, then that can't be all bad, but if your god and worship of that god is based on fear and retribution, then perhaps that is not so good. I'm not sure if that's right or not, but some times being a father throws you a bit of a curve ball, which you can't duck, you just have to play it the best way you can, and whilst I didn't hit it out of the field, I at least connected.

Bogged down in the mindless boredom that is doing your vat return I decided to bugger off home for a few hours. A, being a lady of leisure walks a friends dog whilst they're at work, so we grabbed the pooch and set off on a yomp down to the river. It's the first bit of exercise that I've managed since buggering my leg and very pleasant it was too. No kids, and as it was a vile blustery grey day, we didn't come across another soul. We just strolled and chatted, alone, something that don't have that much time to do.
I see that bunch of loons the Muslims are doing their best to endear themselves to the planet as a whole, and listening to various radio shows you have the usual 'moderates' saying that of course it's not right, but that we have to see why. Sorry, I don't see a problem naming a teddy bear, its not as though it was called 'spank arse hanging out of the back of the prophet whilst munching on a bacon sandwich'. And she didn't name the sodding thing, the kids did. Is there such a thing as a moderate muslim ? They are so fucking precious about their religion it makes me shit jaffa cakes, get out more for fucks sake.
Aaaanyway, vats done and in on time, lets just hope the government can fuck up my vat as well as they fuck up everything alse at the moment.

Fool prices

Over in blah, Vi has had a dig a fuel prices.

With all that dominates the media at the moment, fuel seems to have taken a back seat. Back in 2000, when protesters blockaded terminals, diesel was around the mid eighties per litre. Today, my nearest garage is selling diesel at £1.08 per litre, and that ultimate diesel shite at £1.16. This is becoming lunacy. Yes, our roads are a clogged up mess, but until public transport can deliver, for most, the car is the only option. I think that as a family we are fairly sensible with the use of our cars. We've got two, one big diesel estate, and a zippy little hatchback. Could we make do with one? Probably not. Mine is mainly a work tool, and A's is the family runaround. We walk the boys to school every day, and although A doesn't work, she needs her car for her independence. We live right on the edge of the Glos/Worcs border, and public transport only runs towards Worcester, which means A couldn't get to her mother's which is the other way.

There is no way I could use public transport for work, not unless they invent a bus or train that picks me up at my house and drops me off at my clients' premises. Plus, I can make allowances for the shiteness of the roads, if stuck I can find an alternative route, but if public transport fucks up, I too am fucked. Plus, I am none to keen on sharing buses or carriages with the constant background sound of MP3 players and mobile phone conversations. A minor point perhaps, but it would irritate the tits off me.

But, driving is now a chore. My last three cars have been autos, I just don't see the point of a manual car any more. The current one, whilst hugely practical is sooooo dull to drive. I got it because my previous car, which was great fun to drive only did 23-27 to the gallon. So now I've got a diesel tank doing 45ish to the gallon, but diesel continues to go through the roof, and I an bored rigid driving the sodding thing.

The government is in such a constant spiral of gargantuan fuck ups that I guess that stupid fuel prices are less important than having millions of items of personal data falling into the wrong hands, or of the steady stream of body bags arriving at Brize Norton.

Christ, I've depressed myself with this.

Boy 1 did indeed do the business on Sunday whilst I froze my nads off on the touchline with the other Dads. It was pissing down and bloody freezing, and at the same time A was sat in a nice warm theatre with boy 2.

I see our useless leaders have committed a further act of total embuggerance by losing data containing 15 million individuals bank details. Fucking clowns. And as they're happily dishing out squillions of quids to bail out ailing banks I wonder if I could trouble them for twenty grand or so as my cashflow is a bit tight this month. I've got my mortgage with Northern Cock, if they go tits up will I become mortgage free I wonder ?

I can't be arsed to carp on about Gordon and his bunch of tools for much longer. It's all too easy and really doesn't present much of a challenge. Part of Ruth Kelly's portfolio encompasses Equality, you couldn't make it up.

Happier than a Frenchman who's just invented self removing trousers. Almost

Today I am perkier.

Today is the kind of winter day I like. There was a heavy frost this morning but the sun was shining brightly in a clear blue sky. The boys and I bounced up the lane to school, all snuggled up in hats, gloves and scarves. Simple pleasures, following each others footsteps in the grass.

My beautiful boy two is five on monday. He's having a party with all of his class on Saturday and then on Sunday, A is taking him and a chum to see the stage show of The Gruffalo's Child, which they'll love.

I will be watching boy one in gladitorial combat on the rugby pitch. Still makes my heart burst with pride when I watch him charging along, ball in hand, floppy hair billowing out as he goes.

I'm going soft.

Ho hum

I have just thrown a tantrum of vast proportions.

I was just about to email two drawings, which have taken three days to design, and the wanky programme has decided that today is cock day and refuses to open them. Great. They had to be there by today, so it looks like I'm in for a late night. It won't recognise the back up copy either.
I hate computers.

On top of that, my sodding leg still hurts like hell, and as my GP is as much use as a fanny in a gay bar I'm having private physio at thirty quid a pop twice a week.

Fun time Frankie I am not

We will.....

Been catching up on some You Tube.

There is only one Rock God.

His name is Robert Plant.

Earth calling Gumpher

I am distinctly lacking inspiration this afternoon.

I am trying ever so hard to design something wonderful for a client (as wonderful as a very posh office can be) but I'm not quite there.

I blame my wife. She dropped in and we went to lunch. She looked damn fine, we had a groovy lunch and she's left me thinking of things other than commercial interiors.

I must crack on, it's getting close to beer o'clock, it is Friday after all.

Ow

I am a dog's cock, and I am in rather a lot of pain.

When I played squash last week, I pulled what I thought was my groin. Having tweaked it the week before, apologised to my opponent ( Bokke from the French trip, any excuse to get in the bar early) and showered off. Two days later I was due to play golf. Feck this, sez I, there's no way I can walk it, so, booked an old man's buggy. All going fine until the 9th. Unusually, I cracked one down the middle, whilst another member of our group pulled his drive horribly. We all went to have a look, and after deciding it was a goner, rather than walk twenty yards to the bridge to get back to the buggy, I decided to jump the stream. I over extended an already pulled muscle and it bloody hurt. I played the rest of the round with a nine iron and a putter as I couldn't swing anything longer. Hindsight says, 'walk off the course twatto', but foolish pride took over and I still got 28 points, which has got to be acceptable with two cubs for 9 holes.

Saturday. Mum had the boys, we went to a party, got splundered, boogied until 5, and came home. Sunday morning, fuck me backwards with a llama, I could hardly move. On Monday I called my osteopath, who could see me on Wednesday. Everything hurt. I had lost feeling in my left shin, my thigh was grossly swollen and I had fluid on the knee. When I eventually got there, she turned my into the mirror and said with some disbelief, 'I can't believe you haven't seen this. A massive haematoma running from my arse down to my knee. I hadn't noticed, nor had A, bloody odd. The upshot, torn front quad, groin side with the ensuing haematoma at the rear as the blood pissed out with nowhere to go. Nerve damage causing the loss of feeling below the knee, and worse of all, a possible ruptured tendon on the kneecap, which they can't diagnose until the fluid's subsided.

Great, minimum four, possibly six months with no exercise other than walking in a swimming pool. I'll be a right fucking porker, and porky does not suit someone as damn fine looking as me. Its enough to make you want a fag

'Puter sez no

I've not got a great deal of time for civil servants. There are an awful lot of them and its not exactly a challenging way to make your way through life. I used to do a lot of business with the DWP, and as you went through the offices, it was a struggle to see anyone doing anything which I would describe as work. If you happen to be a civil servant and take offence, tough shit. I have a particular loathing of HM's Customs & Excise. I have been unfortunate enough to deal with these fucking tools for the past fifteen years or so, and I have yet to speak to anyone in this department who isn't a total unmitigated class one grade A cunt.

The fucking bitch I spoke to this morning totally rewrote the book on condescending rudeness. I paid my corporation tax on time. I pay an accountant to ensure that I do, its not complicated. So why have I been fined for late payment?( which incidentally accrues interest daily, nice little earner).

I then receive an amended penalty determination with a payslip attached for me to pay the newly calculated fine of, £0.00p, but the evil cow I spoke to still insists that a fine is due, the interest will continue to increase, and I will eventually be taken to court if I don't pay it. She's got two fucking hopes of me paying a tax fine, Bob and fuck all. Like everyone, I pay tax on what I pay myself, I also pay tax on the profits I make. I'm a nice chap, I contribute to the economy, not take from it. Which is why I get so angry when some fucktard doing a job my 4 year old could do gets all chippy down the phone line, virtually accusing me of not paying what is owed and not paying it on time.

They're a bunch of fucking cunts and I will not be bullied by cunts. Absolutely no apologies for the tone or the language. A cunt is a cunt and civil servants are cunts.

Little darlings

Emmak, who pretends to have headaches, has just blogged about the joys of parenthood. She did not go far enough. For anyone considering sprogging, answer the questions below, and consider once more

FOLLOW THESE 14 SIMPLE TESTS BEFORE YOU DECIDE TO HAVE CHILDREN:

Test 1
Women: to prepare for maternity, put on a dressing gown and stick a beanbag down the front.
Leave it there for 9 months.
After 9 months remove 5% of the beans.

Men: to prepare for paternity, go to a local chemist,
tip the contents of your wallet onto the counter and tell the pharmacist to help himself.
Then go to the supermarket. Arrange to have your salary paid directly to their head office.
Go home. Pick up the newspaper and read it for the last time.

Test 2
Find a couple who are already parents and berate them about their methods of discipline,
lack of patience, appallingly low tolerance levels and how they have allowed their children to run wild.
Suggest ways in which they might improve their child's sleeping habits, toilet training, table manners and over all behaviour.
Enjoy it.
It will be the last time in your life that you will have all the answers.

Test 3
To discover how the nights will feel:
1. Walk around the living room from 5pm to 10pm carrying a wet bag
weighing approximately 4 - 6kg, with a radio turned to static
(or some other obnoxious sound) playing loudly.
2. At 10pm, put the bag down, set the alarm for midnight and go to sleep.
3. Get up at 12pm and walk the bag around the living room until 1am.
4.Set the alarm for 3am.
5. As you can't get back to sleep, get up at 2am and make a cup of tea.
6.Go to bed at 2.45am.
7. Get up again at 3am when the alarm goes off.
8. Sing songs in the dark until 4am.
9. Put the alarm on for 5am. Get up when it goes off.
10. Make breakfast. Keep this up for 5 years.
LOOK CHEERFUL.

Test 4
Dressing small children is not as easy as it seems:
1. Buy a live octopus and a string bag.
2. Attempt to put the octopus into the string bag so that no arms hang out.
3. Time allowed for this: 5 minutes.

Test 5
Forget the BMW and buy a practical 5 door wagon.
And don't think that you can leave it out on the driveway spotless and shining.
Family cars don't look like that.
1. Buy a chocolate ice cream cone and put it in the glove compartment.
2. Leave it there.
3. Get a coin. Insert it into the cd player.
4. Take a box of chocolate biscuits; mash them into the back seat.
5. Run a garden rake along both sides of the car.

Test 6
Get ready to go out
1. Wait
2. Go out the front door
3. Come back in again
4. Go out
5. Come back in again
6. Go out again
7. Walk down the front path
8. Walk back up it
9. Walk down it again
10. Walk very slowly down the road for five minutes.
11. Stop, inspect minutely and ask at least 6 questions about every
piece of used chewing gum, dirty tissue and dead insect along the way.
12. Retrace your ste ps
13. Scream that you have had as much as you can stand until the neighbours come out and stare at you.
14. Give up and go back into the house.
15. You are now just about ready to try taking a small child for a walk.

Test 7
Repeat everything you say at least 5 times.

Test 8
Go to the local supermarket.
Take with you the nearest thing you can find to a pre-school child.
A full-grown goat is excellent.
If you intend to have more than one child, take more than one goat.
Buy your weeks groceries without letting the goat(s) out of your sight.
Pay for everything the goat eats or destroys.
Until you can easily accomplish this, do not even contemplate having children.

Test 9
1. Hollow out a melon
2. Make a small hole in the side
3. Suspend the melon from the ceiling and swing it side to side
4. Now get a bowl of soggy cornflakes and attempt to spoon
them into the swaying melon while pretending to be an aeroplane.
5. Continue until half the cornflakes are gone.
6. Tip the rest into your lap, making sure that a lot of it falls on the floor.
7. You are now ready to feed a 12-month old child.

Test 10
Learn the names of every character from the Wiggles, Barney, Teletubbies and Disney.
Watch nothing else on television for at least 5 years.

Test 11
Can you stand the mess children make? To find out:
1. Smear peanut butter onto the sofa and jam onto the curtains
2. Hide a fish behind the stereo and leave it there all summer.
3. Stick your fingers in the flower beds and then rub them on clean walls.
4. Cover the stains with crayon.
5. How does that look?

Test 12
Make a recording of someone shouting "Mummy" repeatedly.
Important: no more than a 4 second delay between each Mummy -
occasional crescendo to the level of a supersonic jet if required.
Play this tape in your car, everywhere you go for the next 4 years.
You are now ready to take a long trip with a toddler.

Test 13
Start talking to an adult of your choice.
Have someone else continually tug on your shirt hem or shirt
sleeve while playing the Mummy tape listed above.
You are now ready to have a conversation with an adult while there's a child in the room.

Test 14
Put on your finest work attire.
Pick a day on which you have an important meeting. Now:
1. Take a cup of cream and put 1 cup of lemon juice in it
2. Stir
3. Dump half of it on your nice silk shirt
4. Saturate a towel with the other half of the mixture
5. Attempt to clean your shirt with the same saturated towel
6. Do not change, you have no time.
7. Go directly to work.

You are now ready to have kids.

I woke up this morning knowing that I had a days work of working on my accounts to look forward to, which made getting out of bed hard work. Until I opened the curtain. A slight frost was on the car windscreen, but the sky was clear and blue. I'm now crunching numbers, and thankfully I am making money, whilst looking enviously at the people on the golf course outside my office window.

Crazy things on e bay. World cup final tickets, 10 grand each. There must be some very rich and very stupid people out there. 10 grand to watch a game of rugby ? I love the game, but that's plain daft.

The return of rugby & oyster

We both collapsed onto the roundabout somehow managing to avoid the prickles. Laughing our nads off at our truly fubared position. After some time lurching around the road we found the keys, and out of the darkness car lights approached. A proper taxi ! The driver wasn't Algerian ! He had a map !
10 minutes later we wandering to our pad after being dropped at the bottom of the road. As we approached a vomit covered apparition rose from the steps. 'Four hours I've been here, four fucking hours you pair of cunts'. So BIL had his homing instincts switched on. Turns out he'd watched the game and then grabbed a cab, assuming we'd do likewise. When it was clear we hadn't he wandered down to the bar at the bottom of the street, the one we swore blind that no matter how bladdered we were, we wouldn't venture in. Turns out they took pity on him, they all had a few beers and they even gave him a couple of fat biftas, hence the spew. Weed and beer are not happy bedfellows.
By now it was 5.30, which seemed a good time to crash as we had to do it all over again later in the day. we rose at 10 , all looking very special, a quick shower, a few gallons of water and OJ and off to catch the bus. We followed the main docks road into the edge of the centre, and then got the metro to the old port. As I said earlier, dog rough in parts.
The walk from the station to the port is pretty. The station sits on top of a hill and we strolled down tree line boulevards taking in the views. We found an amazing confectioners staffed by the most stunning women, bloody well made me want to buy biscuits. I got the boys some rather jazzy lollipops and we continued our stroll munching on themostfuckingincrdiblefreshlymadethatmorningmeltin yourmouthbutterbiscuits, yum.
We opted for brunch. BIL went for pasta, he was doing the Cardiff half marathon the following weekend and last nights debauchery had totally fecked his training schedule, and as more was planned for this day, pasta was a his token effort. Bokke and I had bloody gorgeous steaks with a heavily reduced red wine and red onion sauce swilled down with a few bottles of rather refreshing rose. Breakfast of champions. more strolling aided digestion before we decided to join French cafe society and watch the Boks play Fiji sat comfortably outside a bar with a big screen. I think this was where I went a bit wrong with my drinks choice. More wine, a few beers, and a few pastis. The game was wonderful. Played at a hell of a pace with the score going one way then the next, before the filthy Saffas pulled away at the end. Bokke was happy, but mighty relieved. He'd taken loads with very good humour all through the game as he was the only Boer in the bar, and everyone was backing Fiji. It was from this point that my memories become hazy. It was only around 7pm, and the next game was 9. We meandered some more and found ourselves in the bar we had finished up in the previous night. Mine host was pleased to see us, and greeted us with a free shot of Tequila. ( We most have blown a few quid in there the previous evening ) it then got messy. More tequila, sambuca, oysters, whatever that orange licker is, more oysters, lobster, and finally, kick off and the sensibilty of a cold pint. Somewhere during the second half is the point at which my weekend ended in disgrace. I pulled a massive hurl, damn near turning myself inside out in the process and rather sensibly informed my companions that I wished to be collected from my sleeping position on the church steps opposite when it was time to go. Iwas told later that Argentina won. I may be daft enough to do it, but I'm now wise enough to know when I've had enough.
The journey back was relaxing. I've always hated air travel after a weekend on the lash, but the train was great. We had time for a spot of lunch in Paris. Bokke had more steak. Boers and meat. My body being totally protein overloaded cried out for, and got a green salad with a few litres of diet coke. The drive from London back to the shire was the only harsh part of the journey as I had to drive. Bokke and BIL both drive stupid trucks, Bokke as he hankers after the veld, and BIL as he lives halfway up a mountain in the arse end of nowhere. We went back to Gumphers as Mrs G was looking after Bokkes kids for a few hours. We were delighted to be told that we all looked and smelt like tramps, a proper badge of honour. She was pleased to see me really. The boys liked their funky shirts and lollipops, and A professed to be chuffed with the Foie Gras.
All in all a fucking splendid weekend. I hadn't had a rugby trip for a few years. As the boys are getting older the weekends get fuller and fuller, but it was the world cup dammit. Good company, fine wine, beer, and food, and thrilling rugby. I cancelled two games of squash that week and eventually came right on the Friday. I am old and I smell of wee.

Rugby & Oysters

Forget planes, trains are the way to travel. Particularly if they're French, don't stink of old lady's wee and go at 200mph. Leave London 0534, arrive Marseilles 1329. Genius. No shitty airports, no queues and a big comfy seat.
Sometimes I'm like Paddington Bear, as in , things happen to me. All we wanted was a cab from station to apartment, a quick change into shorts, dump bags and leggit back to the Vieux Port for the first game. Thanks to that twat Remy, we were now staying at the very north of the city in a crappy flat in a very dodgy area near the docks, but hey, we didn't plan to be there much, it was just a bed. Anyway, we grab a cab, we're nearly at our pad, and another car dings the back of our cab in the narrow street and drives off. Our driver turns into a full on mentalist and gives chase. Its only when we're doing 95 on the wrong side of the road that we realise there are no seatbelts in the car. Enough,not wishing to be a French motoring statistic, we demand he stops. He does and invites us to piss off out of his cab. There's three of us and one of him so we tell him to take us to our fucking pad and then he can piss off. Fair enough, but then we have no drive back to town. Our French is woeful, so a neighbour kindly calls us a cab, and we make it back just as the anthems are being sung.

My companions for this trip are my English brother in law (BIL) and my South African chum (Bokke). So I'm the only one along for the jolly, Wales being shite and all that. The big screens were slap in the middle of the old port, which is very impressive, a large fort guarding the entrance, and a stunningly pretty church perched on a hilltop looking down on the cluster of boats and eager rugby fans. The rest of Marseilles, much like many port cities was a fucking shit hole. We watch England beat the convicts in the sweltering sunshine helped by many cooling pressions. BIL is chuffed to arseholes and is one of many dazed Englishmen around us. Bokke and I are amazed. How can a team that dull and shite be in a world cup semi final (little were we to know that it would get worse the following week) We had a mooch around the old port, sampling various French lagers and the odd Pastis on the way whilst choosing a restaurant for an early evening meal .KT Tunstall was playing later on by the harbour, and we wanted to watch a bit of that before baggsin our spots for the next game. We opted for a fabbo fruits de mer washed down with a couple of bottles of Chablis. I say fabbo, everything bar the sea snails, which were fucking minging, but it was a matter of manly pride to finish the lot.
This is the bit where the evening went slightly tits up. We lost BIL. his phone kept going ansaphone, which was more than irritating. (later we found out he dropped it and it was fucked). Realising that we would never find him in such a massive crowd, Bokke and I decided that we would enjoy the rest of the night, and find him when the crowd dispersed. So, we had a few more beers. One, in a bar which we thought was paricularly friendly and only had men in it, stepped outside and noticed the multicoloured flag, oh yes, the poofs like their rugby too. Caught a bit of KT and then watched the French do the Kiwis up the wrong 'un. What a night, we sang, we danced, we hugged smelly Frenchmen. It was bloody 'triffic. We found a cool little bar on the front for more Pastis and singing and did the odd recce for the BIL with no avail. At 2 ish, we thought we should make a move. Slight problem, we had no idea of the address of where we were stayin, BIL had written it down, but he was nowhere to be seen. We knew roughly where it was, but our French was so appalling and we were so drunk, there was no way we could communicate the info. There was an upside, although not so good for BIL, Bokke had the keys in his pocket. A word of advice, never ever try to get a cab in Marseille after midnight as they don't exist. A dodgy looking geezer in a shagged out Renault accosted us, and by a mixture of sign language and yelling we figured out that he wasn't a taxi, but if we bunged him a few euros, he would take us home. It started well on the main road north, but after twenty minutes of aimless meandering around some of Marseilles less salubrious suburbs, and for the second time in fifteen hours, we were once again hoyed out of a French car. We wandered around the roundabout where we had been ejected. We both noted some interesting cactii, and we both concurred that we were a little bit fucked. Bokke wanted to take the high road, I disagreed, we were by the sea, we should take the low road. I was accused of being a prick and some house keys were flung in my general direction along with some mutterred Afrikaner insults, and then some Afrikaner horror when Bokke realised that he had just had a fissy fit, he had just thrown the keys at me, and they were nowhere to be fucking seen. Like I said, just like Paddington Bear. tbc..............................

Ruined

I must get around to writing about our truly memorable weekend in Marseille. It was the trip of legends, but I broke myself, badly, and I have shit loads of work to do. Soon.

Cheese eating surrender monkey

After a pleasant evening alone watching reruns of various rugby matches the phone rang at 10.30. I thought it would be A saying she would be late home as she was out with the girlies. Nope it was Remy, the dodgy French bloke whose apartment I had booked some two weeks previously. Now, my French is cack, as was his English, but the general gist was 'I ave a probleem, is no possible you 'ave my place' . Vast tantrum, to no effect, ees still no possible. Once again the word cunt became a tad overused, and nicogum is furiously chewed.
We leave at half 5 on Saturday morning to go to a city with no room at any inn. Today I have accomplished sweet fa workwise. My presence was requested by both boys at church for the harvest festival. They both had lines ! A big leap forward from their no speaking roles in every nativity thus far. Number one had a good stab at explaining the foot and mouth restrictions and number two simply had to announce 'cauliflower' and stick it on the altar which he did with great aplomb. Not with the gusto of one his little chums who screamed COURGETTE ! whilst waving a rather impressive specimin around his head like Zorro on drugs. I'm a weddings and funerals chap where god bothering's concerned, but I thoroughly enjoyed the service, banging out a few tunes in my monotone yowl.
Anyway, after about twenty odd phone calls to various bemused Frenchies (tomorrow, are you zeerius ?) I finally managed to secure a pad. Not central, but beggars etc. So, off we jolly well go. Its going to get messy, hurrah.

Red wine and snails

I'm off to Marseille to watch rugby at the weekend. South Africa, Fiji, Australia and England. Spot the deliberate mistake ? Distinct lack of Wales. Useless fucking cunts the lot of them. Thats all I have to say.

Smoke free zone

So, tomorrow, a month off the weed. For some reason I feel very little sense of achievement, not sure why. No weight gain, but then, I exercise and I don't eat shite, so no great suprise. Apparently my skin looks better, whoopee. Lung capacity definitely up, I can now scream abuse at myself for the full forty minutes on the squash court whereas before I would be a wheezy mess in the corner after twenty five.
I've been on will power for a week. Patches didn't really agree with me. I found them irritating on my skin, and I don't know if it was coincidence, but my mood swings were shocking, not so now I've stopped wearing them, I'm a miserable shit all of the time.
I could still quite happily have a Marlboro moment, but I'm not going to. See kids, just say no, even if all the cool kids still smoke

An Englishman, a South African and a Welshman walked into a bar............

So, I got my hands on that coveted ticket, triffic it was too, bang on the halfway line, best ticket I've ever had in Cardiff. And then those filthy dirty convicts gave us a rugby lesson. Ah well, we gave 'em the runaround in the second half. The bois need to learn to turn up for the first half. At least I'm not English. Needed a colostomy all through that Saffa game, pissing myself I was.

Anyway, high on the drug of live rugby, Gumpher and two battle hardened companions are going to Marseille for the two quarter finals. Road trip baby ! No women, no kids. Ha ! We'll be quaffing industrial quantites of red wine, there will be the usual compulsory eating of snails and two world cup quarter finals on consecutive days. Yabba dabba doo.

Arse biscuits

Today I have been using the word cunt, a lot. I wish people would let me use my sub contractors who are reliable and deliver on time, rather than a certain not named organisation and their subs. The project schedule they wrote was the greatest work of fiction since one C.Dickens pondered over his pen. Three weeks overdue, three fucking weeks. Puts my cashflow up shit creek and costs me a packet in additional transport and labour, I'll get it back, in fucking November. Cunts.Oh, and when did they decide to share this information ? Three fucking days before completion. To add to my woes it looks like we've found a house. It's just around the corner from us, ticks all the boxes and means that I end up with a mortgage the size of Malawi's national debt. All of this whilst Marlboro free.
On the bright side, I may have a ticket for Wales v Australia. Please please please make it come my way.

Next week is going to seem a bit odd, as, on Wednesday, number 2 boy will be joining number 1 at primary school. I wonder how A will be after the initial few weeks of having more time for herself without constantly having a small boy zooming around the place. I'm only guessing, but I suspect that she'll miss him for a bit. It's a big change in both their lives. She will have some choices to make. A's not worked for years. She quit work in her mid twenties to do a degree, and then when we started a family, we both agreed that she would be at home with them at least until they were both at school, we have been fortunate that we have been able to afford that luxury, many can't. I wonder what she'll do. Initially probably more gym, running and pilates, but she does sometimes talk of employment and wanting to use her degree. J will slot into school with no problems. He's a very confident and gregarious boy, much more so than his brother. I suspect the person who will facing the biggest difference will be A, interesting times.

I am not a bundle of fun at the moment. Still not smoked since Thursday, but finding it very difficult. Very short tempered and tetchy, hyperactive and edgy. I almost feel sorry for the bloke I'm playing squash against tonight as I think I may be ever so slightly mental when I get on the court. I really am a complete boring stereotype of someone giving up smoking. its not much fun, but you just need to keep thinking of the positives.

I feel a tad odd today. I had my last cigarette last night. Today had been my target day for some time. I thought I'd be crawling up the walls, but I'm not, well not yet anyway. Half a day without a fag may not seem like a big deal to a non smoker, but I'm really rather chuffed with myself. This is it, there can be no going back. A and I sat in the garden chatting about it last night. I drew up a list of all of the reasons I wanted to stop, and a list of why I wanted to smoke. The list of reasons to stop was huge, and the list to carry on very small. Two things, in fact. 1. I like it. But then I had to cross that off, because I wanted entirely sure that I did like it. 2. I'm addicted. And that's it in a nutshell, I don't want to be addicted to anything ( apart from blowjobs) . I'm going to be interested to see how it affects my sport over the next few weeks. I play a lot of squash, and from about half an hour in I'm wheezing like an old wheezy thing, and if that stops, that makes it a result in itself.

Yo ho ho

I like parties. I like getting together with groups of friends and having a good old time. I also like drinking, and I'm very good at at, which is fairly handy amongst the circle of lushes we move around in.
I don't however particularly like the concept of fancy dress parties. Which is exactly what we're going to tonight. A 40th birthday on a boat with a 'nautical' theme'. Not possessing any adult dressing up paraphernalia, we hit the web, and consequently I will be attending as a pirate with Mrs Gumpher as a pirates wench. Said costumes turned up yesterday. Now, I don't need to dress up to look like a twat, I usually make a fair stab at it anyway, but tonight I will plum to new depths of twatishness. The bloody thing is ridiculous. Its all in one, which it didn't appear to be in the picture, so quite how I'm going to have a piss I really don't know. I'm going to have to roll up the leg as far as it will go an then yank my gentlemen down as far as possible which will no doubt provide hours of entertainment to whoever is slashing in the pissoir next to me, unless they found the same website. There is an upside to this. Mrs Gumpher's costume is considerably shorter and more low cut than she thought when ordering ,and as captain of the ship I shall be instructing her to walk my plank at the latter stages of the evening, which will probably met met with howls of laughter and a probably justified comment that no way on earth is she going to let such a twatty looking pirate clamber on no matter how hard his yardstick.

Religion's a funny old thing (peculiar, not ha ha). One lot in Iraq stone to death a women suspected of wanting to join the other lot, so the other lot blow up a few tankers next to the one lot killing two hundred, death toll rising. Just how on earth we think we can bring democracy to somewhere that still carries out stonings is beyond me. Has democracy ever happened at any point in time in the middle east ? Just because it works as a process in the west, are we right to assume that it should be forced on the middle east ? I'm not sure it's totally understood as a theory of government because religion would appear to come before anything, even the law of the land, and in some places that's a religious law.
In my eyes, any religion that seems to revolve around fear and death is a flawed religion. actually in my eyes all religion is flawed. If people want to believe in a higher being that's fine, but unfortunately it seems to make most of them a tad on the fundamental, and even the peaceful ones I find barking. Jehovahs for instance. How could you refuse a blood transfusion for your dying child because your interpretation of a book says its the right thing to do. Barking. So I'm off to hell with Satan and all his little weevils, but I won't be, I'll be in a box getting munched by little weevils, just like the rest of them.
I wish to buggery we werent in Iraq or Afghanistan any more, its just so bloody futile. If they want to blow each up, let them get on with it. There didn't seem to be much point getting rid of Saddam or the Taliban as whatever wants to replace tem seems to be as big a collective bunch of loons. So we've fucked an already fucked situation.

Next Saturday I will be taking boy number one for his first trip to the home of rugby, The Millenium Stadium, to watch our beloved Wales play Argentina. Its a big day, I can still remember the first time my Dad took me and we got beaten by the French. In fairness I have probably seen more losses there than victories, but again and again I return , hoping against hope that the good times will come back , as they all too briefly did in 2006. If that twat Gyppo puts out the same side that saw us humbled by England last week, I will personally seek him out after the game, bend him over and ram a giant inflatable daffodil straight up his retarded arse. I will not have my special day with my boy ruined because Jenkins is a cunt of unquantifiable proportions, although I fear I should prepare.

The water has finally gone and it's left some folk in a godawful mess. We were dogsitting at the weekend, a big soppy chocco lab which number two boy adores. Both he and A constantly go on about getting a pooch. I like dogs, but I prefer them to belong to other people. The one we sit for is a lovely chap, but he stinks and he shits great big turds, which have to be picked up. There's few things as vile as scooping up a freshly steaming lab log, especially when the last bit is a bit dribbly. Still I've held out so far with a few unanswerable arguments, the main one being that I am the fucker who will be doing the morning walk despite what the rest of the mob promise. Fine in July, not quite as peachy come January. Plus, we've got three cats, and none of them are particular fans of the canine breed. J's four year old logic has decided that when the cats are all dead he can get a dog. Hmmm.
Anyway, number two and I got up at 7 on saturday and took the mutt down to the riverbank. What a fucking mess. What had been summer meadows full of colour were now dull brown fields of flattened grass. Each hedgerow was full of all sorts of rubbish. Caravans, yep caravans were hanging out of the lock, and boats were randomly scattered or half submerged. And the whole lot stank, really quite unpleasantly. I found it fairly depressing.

Where's that sodding Ark ?

There are times when living in a cute village next to the Avon is not all its cracked up to be. This is the road out of the village, there's a bridge in there somewhere, honest. The top pic is the end result of trying to get to our nearest petrol station. We were fortunate, I managed to get home on Friday, although today is the first day that I've been able to get to the office. We dealt with it it in typically British fashion on Friday night, had a load of people round for the night and got slaughtered, whilst amusing ourselves by phoning other friends who were bedding down for the night in their cars . Most had the sense to head for the pub in the next village across, which was as close to home as they could get. Around 200 people kipped down for the night, and quite a knees up was had. It gets worse. The trout in law is in one of the areas without water supplies. She could be up for a fortnight. I can feel a strongly worded letter to Severn Trent coming along

After a fantastic couple of weeks on a beautiful sun drenched island it's just peachy to be back in good old blighty with more mad muslims, pissing rain, an interest rate rise and a miserable Scottish twat in power. Welcome back. Still, a corking time was had by all members of family Gumpher. A stunning room on the beach, wonderful people, superb food. A downside was the cheapness of beer and fags, which due to the price I felt obliged to consume in industrial quantities and as a consequence am now both porky and wheezy.

If the weather stays like this I'm go to knuckle down for a few weeks and then take the tribe down to Portugal for a bit. I'm bollocksed if I'm spending a whole summer in this dampness.

Tally ho !

Off to Koh Samui for two weeks.

Lick me.

We're all pissheads

A strange thing for a government to do, tackle middle class drinking. Can't stand class partitioning, but by earnings, house car, education etc, I suppose that I'm middle class, and I like a drink. In fact, everyone I know likes a drink. And the problem is ? All of my friends enjoy a few beers or a bottle of wine virtually every evening, which puts all of us over the government guidelines. And yet we have all helped the kids with homework, read them stories, put them to bed, got up when they're having nighmares, had the usual morning chaos and gone to work as normal. We have not smashed shop windows, got into a fight with a total stranger for no reason or whatever other vileness seems perpetrated in town centres up and down the country most days. There seems to me to be a slight problem with the area of focus. Booze and its effects seem to be increasingly problematical, but a bunch of thirty somethings having abottle of Merlot most nights of the week, do me a favour.

14 days and counting

Not that I'm excited or anything, but two weeks today, this will be home for a fortnight. The one major downside is twelve hours on a plane with boy number two. I'll have to top up on gin at Heathrow, pass out on the plane and leave A to deal with him. Or top him up on gin and strap him into a seat for the duration. The theory is that by taking a night flight they should spark out after the initial excitement, but theory and practice could be way apart.

On a different note, old cuntybollocks Blair is awfully quiet considering he leaves us shortly, last seen in Middle Burundi solving the African famine problem inside of a week to add to his already stunning legacy. And where on earth is the his able sidekick the portly drinks steward ? Probably lurking around the corridors of Westminster seeing if there are any desperate secretaries worth hanging out the back of. Big Brother seems to be getting more press attention than the labour party deputy leadership contest. They should wang them all in the house, that might rekindle the nations interest in politics. But then there's the awful thought that we might see Hazel blears in a bikini, and I reallly don't want to be barfing up a decent Chablis on a Friday night.

Bank holiday blues

Typical British bank holiday. Saturday wasn't too bad, managed to get out for a big bike ride and go swimming. Sunday was vile. It pissed down from sun up to sun down and we gradually drove each other stark raving mad in the house. J is a classic case of the devil making, idle hands etc, and somehow, unoticed and very quietly, managed to sneak into the kitchen and redecorate walls, worksurfaces, and appliances with a mixture of strawberry and rasberry yoghurts, cream and crushed ryvita. Denying all knowledge was no option as he's the only one who needs a chair to get into the fridge, and the evidence had been dragged across to the fridge for all to see.
It was then decided that whatever weather was chucked at us on Sunday, we were off out, all day, no arguments. So, the picnic was made, the brats were tied into the car, and a route march was had around the sculpture trail in the Royal Forest of Dean. The forest is a place of real contrasts. The towns are grey, souless hovels, chock full of cousins who have shagged each other for generations. I've played rugby up there for years, and most sides are fifteen identical blokes all called Smith, all of whom seem to think that an afternoon on the pitch is a good excuse for a godalmighty punch up. But once you're out of the towns, the forest itself is beautiful, through all the different seasons of the year. The sculpture trail is wonderful, a series of paths through the forest with hidden works of art. The boys had great fun tearing around trying to be the first to spot them. This one, although not a great picture is a wonderful piece of stained glass hanging at the end of a corridor of huge trees, giving the impression that you're looking out of a church. I rather liked it. And we didn't get that wet, bonus.

Eeerm

Why do scousers always start a sentence with eeerm ? I can't stand scousers, they've got the most revolting accents and all they do is nick hubcaps. I'm not the biggest football fan, but had it been any other British club, I'd have wanted them to win, but I am so fucking pleased that Milan beat the scouse gobshites. And once again these amusing scallies nearly cause yet another football disaster and guess what, its someone else's fault again, suprise.