Damn it. It's not fair.
Every year at this time we're given the chance to close our eyes, cross our fingers, (or as the curious locals here say, hold thumbs), and admire the tenacity of Britains' national treasure as he wades through to the semi finals at Wimbledon.
I speak of his greatness Mr Henman, of course.
There's nothing like the thrill of watching Timbo stick it to an assortment of wops, spiks, krauts, frogs and especially, Yanks.
But this year, this fucking year, his failureness crashes out in round 2 to frigging Russian... tsk.

and the Australians have finally started bowling straight, damned unsporting if you ask me.

Last night I had the strangest dream... God I think that's a song by Toto, an odd group who are strangely revered here in idiotsville. Probably because they once wrote some drivel called "Africa" then again they still think Smokey and Credence Clearwater Revival are worthy of appreciation...go figure.

Anyway, there was an sms from Frankfurt on my cell, it said that the sender could join the Foreign Legion and...choose his own name.
Now, is it just me? Or couldn't he fuck off the Kraut equivelant of deed pole and change it? Negating the need to spend several years sleeping among a bunch of loser frogs and assorted supposedly dangerous guys who joined up because they couldn't get a date?
And... it's hard work, physical... and stuff. Not something our young Frankfurt correspondant is given to.

The badgers had a Bloater fight last night. What a mess, chunks of fish everywhere covered in badger snot... not a pretty sight, enough to put you off your raw eggs and brine drink.

Well, I'm off to watch the re-runs of Timbo's last stand... new balls please.