I have been heavily demonised by friends and associates for my “killjoy” attack on Simon Cretin and the X Factor. I am told that I am a killjoy and the Xfactor is fun and escapism, and that there is nothing wrong with bullying and persucuting kids with Acne/Ginger Hair/Thick glasses/stutters. Well read this article http://uk.news.yahoo.com/1/20081103/ten-cowell-eyes-political-move-c60bd6d.html regarding Britains number one tosspot and tell me what good he has to offer. He makes Sting and bono look like decent blokes.

Anyway the rest of the weekend……………Friday it was boys with me night, George was knackered as he had a sleepover on Thursday and had gone to bed at 6.00 am, so Harry and I left him in peace and meandered up the Fox for a beer. Saturday was a miserable, sodden, dull, depressing affair, and my mood wasn’t lightened by someone claiming to be called Stacy Winger claiming to know me, tapping up my friend Jo on Facebook. That f*cking site will be the death of me. It is either a harmless prankster, or someone prying in to my private life, which is not pleasant to say least, and it annoyed me immensely. Still at least Reading drubbed Bristol City 4-1.

On Saturday night I helped out behind the bar at a 60th in Broughton village hall. It was a strange evening, as one minute minute I was happily having a quiet drink then the next I was absolutely bladdered, it was almost as if some 60 year old had popped a date rape pill in my drink so they could seduce me, but I suppose it must have been the real ale on an empty stomach that did the trick. I always know when I am that badly pissed, as I do three things.

1. I search for a wet patch on the dance floor and slide about convincing myself, but no one else, that I can dance.
2. I talk to mirrors in toilets, saying things like “Ha ha, look at ya, ya friggin’ fuckah your fugging pissed again!”
3. I repeatedly tell everyone I love them.

Sunday was spent letting out strange noises every now and then as I had flashbacks of the night before, then a Sunday roast in Dunbridge near Mottisfont calmed my stomach, if not my state of being. I suppose it could have been worse, the last time I went to a 60th birthday, it was my Uncle Paul’s back in 1992. I had a fight with my brother over the merits of a song by The Jam. My Dad was so proud to see his 25 and 30 year old sons rolling about on the dance floor as a group of bemused of Civil Servants attempted to dance the Okey Kokey around us. Funnily enough we weren’t invited to his 70th!!!! No pics today the weather has been grey and miserable.