Proper Blog...

Bit of a cunty Sunday, really. Started off OK - nice veggie brunch sitting at Our Nice New Table. Then I walked up to Waitrose with the sublime Listen With Rock Mother on the iPod. Passing Sanders' Funeral Directors by Twickenham Green I just happened to glance at the advert for their services in the window and noticed that the guy eyeing up the quite-saucy-in-a-Jenny-Agutter-as-she-is-now-sort-of-way Undertaker was the dead spit of Richard Lewis - Larry's stand up comedian mate in Curb Your Enthusiasm. Visions of Larry hopping around at someone's cremation yelling "You cunt" after some improbable confluence of unlikely events. S. can do the voice to a tee. Our poor bloody neighbours. Being a man of means, I was able to reject the 29 p reduced single cream (I mean it was reduced in price - they hadn't done something awfully clever with it by simmering it...) in favour of one in date and things looked pretty well set.

Then the cunty bit began. Eyeing the Observer Music Mag (you see, I am a good liberal with a small l really after last week's dalliance with the Murdoch machine) I was delighted to see Keith Richards on the cover. But then, disaster. Stood next to him? Russell Cunting Brand. I'm sorry, I like a joke with the best of them, but what is *that* all about. He's somehow wangled himself a gig interviewing The Walking Laboratory and he doesn't even *like* music. He'd rather have been meeting Peter Cook, apparently*. I mean - what's going on? Is he Jo Brand's son, or something? He's certainly got the hair...

So that was cunty. And then I spent the rest of the afternoon setting up my hi-fi gear in the spare bedroom/office when I'd hoped to do another podcast. That was OK too, I suppose - it needed to be done - and I managed to get online eventually and leave firm rebuttals to all the prurient gossips on The Spinster's blog trying to fix us up together**. But then I kicked over my virtually full glass of Beck's and ruined the carpet - cleaning it up (in between bouts of shouting *CUNT*, *SHITTY CUNTING FUCKER* etc. Our poor bloody neighbours...) while S. sat at her Nice New Table getting increasingly irate. I ate my cold lasagne while she sat there with an empty plate, glowering. Then I fell asleep during Father Ted. Silly Cunt.

So, all in all, a nice conventional Middle Class Sunday really...

*You'll have to dig him up first, Russ.

**I told them I loved her - but that our love could never be. Well, what with my cockrot and her hairy hands....

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