Tuesday, 31 March 2009


I look around.

"It's only March and we're already sick of Twitter..." Jenson Button getting amorous with his model girlfriend on the massage table in Melbourne. Robinho on the beach banging his bongos. Mum's got trouble with her computer, but she doesn't want the neighbours to find out.

Jacqui Smith and her husband. A dreadfully tenuous London Paper connection to 'have you ever caught your other half watching porn?' and Tony McNulty persistently pictured leaving his house in Hammersmith (or wherever) while GB touts his ludicrous political fantasies around South America.

Pete Doherty's
good again and The Fall are playing Koko. Jade's dead, but we're not allowed to be beastly about that, and James Corden is a really nice guy. Adam Woodyat is posting pictures of his non-Twittering Eastenders cast member friends to TwitPic.

Someone at work had a stroke, but it wasn't a stroke after all. Or was it?

Did you promise something by 5 o'clock today? Holdall thrown to the platform with force and a 'STAY OUT OF MY FUCKING FACE!' Wayne Rooney should be the next United captain. Strauss is making a good fist of England captain.

One daughter committed suicide, the other is autistic. That's why she ran away from Adelaide. Now, aloof and alone, she gnaws away at her soul, ignored by those whose approval she seeks most. Everyone is wearing blinkers and WILL NOT look beyond their narrow horizons.

Should I stay or should I go? Alan McGhee goes swimming and Helen goes to Waterloo. The kids dance, Sunny can't work out her new camera and my dad's B&B in Tunbridge Wells (not Tonbridge) stinks. Bloody 3G card doesn't work. They keep missing Lakis off the lists and he keeps smiling, though really he's scared. "I just want you to know that, though the formal relationship is changing, you can still talk to me..." Dunfermline is next to Gordon Brown and will be allowed to go down. All is quiet at the Large Hadron Collider.

I look around.

1 comment:

Michael said...

Wayne Rooney should be the next England captain.

It jumped out at me like a Paul Scholes tackle. Loved the rest.

It's an accurate snapshot of 21st century Britain: mundane, cynical and celebrity obsessed.

This week I am none of the above.