Today was going to be a Fraser-esque "Bollocks to this, I'm off to London" post, but seeing I'm now back from the Smoke after a series of meetings that never quite happened, it hardly seems worth the while.
So, London, then. Haven't been up there for at least six months now, and the abiding memory is one of being chased out of the place by charity muggers. At least the bloke with the Golf Sale sign is carrying out some useful function for society at large. "Excuse me sir, can I have a few minutes of your time for xxx charity?" Now, I give to charidee as much as the next man (but I don't like to talk about it, mate), but in central London, you can't move for cheerful students in a Save the Children tabbard, clutching a clipboard and tugging at your heartstrings.
The first dozen or so "Excuse me's" I can take with a modicum of civility, but alas, as my headache grew, it was downhill from there.
"NO thank you
"Look - just fooking fook off!"
I gave at the office.
Still, nice to see The Independent publishing in tabloid form so you can have a half-decent broadsheet read on the train without punching your neighbour in the face.
However, my inner Benny Hill waits, breath baited, for the day The Sun gives up its tabloid format and goes broadsheet. Can you imagine what Page Three would be like? Knickers! Knackers! Knockers!
Nothing quite beats laughing at other people's over-loud mobile phone conversations on the train home. "How long? Who was the judge?" got a most excellent guffaw. I must get up to the capital more often.
Friday sees the appearance of a new Scary story. As promised last week, you can choose between Golf (may contain arses), Golf (may contain arses) or Golf (may contain arses). Due to this brazen lack of choice, I will be open to the usual, "fit in a word or phrase" challenge.