Bradley Wiggins (extraordinary cyclist) has become known as Chief Wiggum in our household, hence the title of this post. I think you will see the resemblance.
Today I watched Usain Bolt run very very fast. I have to say there was a pang of guilt when I drove to the supermarket immediately afterwards for tonight’s Graves offering at tonight’s free meal from friends (hurrah), it is only 200m away but wine and chicken makes a heavy load.
Today will hopefully be my last blog offering for a while as I am hoping the Bradbury’s are returning this weekend….I have a lot more respect for Helen’s efforts having written ridiculously little all week. I have been looking at other blogs not only to flagrantly nick stuff but becuase some of them are quite good. I can recommend ‘Chase me, ladies, I’m in the cavalry’ as long as you don’t mind appalling language. I especially like his recent positng regarding the death of Alexander Solzenetc.
Champion bore Alexander Solzhenitsyn has died.
They made us read his Day In The Life Of Ivan Denisovich when I was at school. It’s about some gloomy Russian guy in a labour camp in Siberia, who goes on and on about a spoon he hid in his boot. That’s pretty much all that happens. Our English teacher asked what the spoon represented and the class dunderhead said it symbolised the lack of cutlery under Stalin.
I take the point that the Arctic labour camps of the Soviet Union can’t have been many laughs, but what did he expect? Then he showed up in England and went around with a solemn disapproving face, moaning on about how we had a free press, but all they printed was drivel, and everyone said, yeah, good point, we’d never noticed.
Miserable bloody Russian. Everyone was glad to see the back of him.
Tomorrow sees another day of idleness planned, watching Team GB win yet more medals, interspersed with the occasional portion of roast chicken and perhaps the merest hint of cauliflower cheese. I may do some work but I may not….who knows.
I also think people are worrying too much about the polar bears
and finally….one for Julie
Little Berwyn Dafydd-Anwell was in his junior school class when the teacher asked the children what their fathers did for a living. All the typical answers came up;-
Fireman, policeman, salesman, politician; Berwyn was being uncharacteristically quiet and so the teacher asked him about his father.
“My father’s an exotic dancer in a gay club and takes off all his clothes in front of other men. Sometimes, if the offer’s really good, he’ll go out with a man, rent a cheap room and let them shag him.”
The teacher hurriedly set the other children to work on some colouring and then took little Berwyn aside.
She asked him, “Is that really true about your father?”
“No,” said Berwyn, “My father plays rugby for Wales, but I was just too embarrassed to say”.