Happy Talk

Back home. Finally.

The week ended as it began. With an interview.

Instead of a medical specialist discussing progressive illnesses, it’s an actress reminiscing about the television series that made her famous.

Instead of a cramped hospital examination room with no AC, and light boxes illuminating films showing MRI scans adding to the heat, it’s in an airy front room.

Instead of operating the first camera while the specialist is quizzed first by the wet-behind-the-ears agency woman and then a useless sack of skin from the pharmaceutical company (who ultimately gets the specialist steamed by getting him to re-explain the points Mr Drug completely fails to grasp), once the camera is rolling I ask the questions.

Or rather I suggest topics, she embellishes, and we get on so well that the tape eventually runs out.

After that we took a sledgehammer to a PC to round off the working day.

The suburb here turns into a veritable ghost town as England play. True to form they spectacularly bollox it and go out on their feckin’ arse.

Aaaah-Haaah! Losers!

Will the St. George flags flapping from the cars fly at half-mast? Will these bloody flags get torn off in disgust? Will the frustrated owners take a sledgehammer to their cars?

A bubbly young shop assistant tried to sell me some flags a couple of weeks back. When I told her to stuff them she looked like I had slapped her in the face with my cock and then stuffed it in her mouth.

Didn’t I like football? she asked incredulously - obviously still not getting it. Hell, no! I played croquet. Suddenly everyone in the shop is glaring at me.