Few things to reflect on, now that Sunday is behind us and we plough on into the final week before the clocks change and we all have to accept that it's glove time. And yes, this is your early warning on that one. No excuses, paperboys/girls, I'm telling you now that BST ends in six days and I don't want next week's Observer arriving any later than my courgette fritter hitting the oil. It's all there in black and white and orange and don't you dare distrust the government.
The only place you'll find sympathy is in the dictionary, right between shit and syphilis. When the mighty red men were felled (unjustly, obviously) to nine, a four goal thumping on away-day-pastures pushes my patience. So, to gloat. Shipping six in front of an audience that is heavily weighted towards friends (rather than foes) is a bit of an embarrassment. Monday mornings can prompt people to cower from contact for various reasons, but believe me, the daft amongst you will want to avoid my path for a week or two, 'cos uze are getting it.
Serious thanks to Digby and Alex for their hospitality over the last couple of days. A weekend spent on and around the veranda of a shed studio deep in Farnham Woods is a good one, and that's what those kind brothers have provided us with. I'd put us at six furlongs from home, so the whip can now be unreservedly wielded with no fear of retribution form the Horse Authority. Tolerate my attempts at topicality, and your reward will be tinned tropicality. The more LA Noire amongst you will be on to my allusions: fresh beats imminent. Yeaaah, buddy.
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