Burney

right, enough of this cricket shite.

day four nearly finished. mostly hot and cold sweats with the highlight being the pea soup (again) around 2pm.

stitches out the morns morn so may treat myself to a top deck lager-lime and a mans size bag of broken biscuits.

im all for the endless mumbling chat (peter alliss is a personal idol), but i cant think of anything more treacherously dull than all that droning, culminating in some cricket pun. pish.

off to prepare for tomorrow's struggle: curly wurly, tin of tennents blue and this months heat magazine. what is the appropriate cleaning cycle to wash ones pants under, ensuring a thorough yet economical procedure?

sly and reggie eh? are you the boy that belts it out off the back of a morris minor?

day three done. seventeen more to go. minstrels finished.

sitting here on my bruised jacksie with hee-haw to do as off work due to cycling injury picked up on friday and want entertained. at least the palpable capacity i haven't excreted from my being for inquisition and intrigue has not waned and run completely dry.... yet.

never posted here before but thought the lounge appropriate for rambling about unrelated nonsensical, unstructured guff. whats it all about? so far my day has amounted to three-quarters of a cinema pack of minstrels, two bowls of home made pea soup and a few naps involving uncontrollable twitching. not saying im unhappy with that, but at 31 and three-hundred and sixty, three-hundred and sixty-fifths, is this it?

is there still a world of possibility that beckons the unbeckonable? possibly? probably? or is it more realistic to pontificate: whats the point?

im sure a wee gin, purely medicinal, wont fail to satisy these levels of mediocraty.

maudlin anyone?