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.

mm 

"I've been ringing this fucking bastard number on and off for an hour", I shouted into the phone.
Not that anyone replied. In fact for ten minutes I hadn't heard a damned thing, not since Mr Fucking Friendly, presumably in downtown Mumbai, had told me my call would be recorded.
"Is anyone there?" I muttered.
"Well, while you're recording I might as well tell you a funny story I heard at the weekend."
So I did.
And you know, as I was talking I realised it wasn't that funny. I also realised there's a lot of money to made this way, imagine an online therapist that you ramble onto for as long as you want, then later some twat rings you back and does a quick 3 minute analysis of your problems.
Big Tom to be had I tell you.

There's a slice of tomato laying on the floor near my foot, not too near, to get to it I'd have to stretch, or, god forbid, get out of my chair.
I suppose it's left over from the badger's picnic last night. It's my own fault, i always forget they hate tomato on their cheese and sardine sandwiches, it's just a knee-jerk reaction when making sandwiches to stick some tomato in there. Admittedly this has led to a few embarrassing moments when the vicar pops round for his favourite honey and peanut butter Sunday constitutionals, but hey, a habit is a habit... damn, nearly slipped into a nun joke there.

As Sunday approaches and the first of the Luncheon Club meetings I must admit to the odd tremor of apprehension. It's not the people, damned solid chaps all of them, well except Hazel obviously, but she makes up for it in madness, no, it's the choice of Indian food I worry about.
Well, it was mine, so I'm fucked. And the badgers will love the leftovers with their Sunday night halibut.
But what to cook?
For fuck sake, the answer is right in front of my nose.
Sorry, have to dash, there's a guy in Mumbai I need to chat to.

thurt 

Ok, now I'm really fucked off, just wrote lengthy blog and it wouldn't post...fucker.
Tom Cruise, faces down samurai, and aliens, and wives... then some saddo squirts him with a waterpistol and he loses it... what a twat.

And Australia...cricket... hahahaha laugh? I nearly fell off me ladder.

Made an interesting, if large pot of curry yesterday and went to a semi Jerry Springer experience to eat it. (one of the contestants was missing so it wasn't quite as odd as usual).
It was very nice, the day, not the curry which i felt lacked a certain something, probably 14 pints of lager and a few onion bhajis.
Actually it was like being grown ups, sitting around chatting and stuff. Even more so when Young Paul and his wifey turned up being dragged by the boisterous yet ever wonderful God-Daughter. very pleasant.

Before that we went house finding...
In dear old SA this is quite a strange thing and indeed I believe it's a National Sport on Sundays when the Springboks aren't being humiliated by Frogs.
Basically there ae thousands of houses from which the occupants are evicted for 5 hours, you can usually find them at garden centres and dodgy hambuger restaurants appeasing their off-spring with garbage food. Anyway, these empty houses are infested with an estate agent, who is usually a sad house-wife after some serious weekend cash, (and I mean serious these leech-like bastards charge up to 8% of the property cost...)
These people spend the afternoon patronising otherwise intelligent people, lying, misleading, generally taking the piss, stopping only to douse their heads in buckets of cheap perfume, (Rancid Butter by Chanel or the like), and spread huge amounts of make-up over their faces with palatte knives and draw big fake red lips over their tight, shrivelled mouths. And that's just the blokes.

The badgers are in a funny mood today, they seem to sense my fucked-off-ness and are milling about demanding attention and small treats of crow's liver and gooseberry preserve.

Sorry, just saw the Tom Cruise stroy on Sky again.... what a twat... have I mentioned this?

shh