I seem to get these odd little unanswered questions popping into my head when I’m supposed to be concentrating on the job in hand.

Why is it that when something is really good you can call it “The Lions Love-Spuds” yet if something is really rubbish you can call it “A Load Of Bollocks”? Shurely that amounts to the same thing?

‹Considers the possibility of holding one’s own counsel without Henry sniggering and decides it’ll never happen›

Well, would you expect any less from an idiot such as myself?

Yes, I got drunk with Bro.
Yes, we had a lock-in last night at A Certain Pub and didn’t leave ’til god-knows-what-o’clock.
Yes, I managed to rescue a traffic cone from somewhere and placed it upon the roof of Bro’s car.
Yes, my Mum woke me from my fully-dressed-and-sofa-bound drunken slumbers this morning to ask me if I remembered where I’d got the traffic-cone from.
Yes, I spent 30 sober minutes this afternoon wandering around Swanmore trying to rehome the traffic cone. Eventually I found a suitable hole in the pavement and applied the cone therein. I think it’s happy where it is.

These things happen. It’s The Law.

Bro wasn’t too impressed, seeing as I’ve now added one or two really tiny scratches to his extremely tatty old motor. The facts that said motor has (a) been on Mum ‘n’ Dad’s driveway for the last 18 months and (b) doesn’t actually go seem to be irrelevant, but never mind. My Granny thought it highly amusing, so that makes it OK.

Speaking of Granny, we had Sunday Lunch down the pub today to celebrate my Aunty’s birthday. My Granny is great at confusing herself, the waiter/ess, anyone within ear-shot. When asked if she wanted her Apple-Pie pudding hot or cold (a question posed no less than 4 times) she replied “Chocolate, please!”. Class.

‹Remembers the old maxim “It’s not a good night if you don’t wake up with a traffic-cone”›

I can’t think of anything better to share with y’all than this little thought-provoking wotsit from SimonG’s chatroom:

Why is it that when yer out of baccy you can roll fags from your dog-ends, yet piss is no compensator for beer?

‹Ponders the futility of shopping for beer when clearly I’m no good at it›