Elmo has sullied my good name, not for the first time in her 26 years, and I'd like you all to form an orderly queue and deride her for her unladylike comments.
I'm a 'bollox,' apparently. She gives no reason for this insult, she doesn't back it up, just a sweeping slur designed to shame me in the eyes of our mutual readership. Gah. Anyway, she needs to blog more, maybe this will initiate it.
It's been quiet here of late, employment has coaxed me back to its paying bosom - albeit in a minor capacity - while the last couple of days have been done painting the flat. By 'painting the flat' I mean sitting on the plastic covered couch supping lager beer while watching Fitzbollix applying glorious white to the formerly off-yellow walls of the sitting room, the tiny hall, the bathroom. The bedroom can wait indefinitely.
I'm not the handiest of men, preferring to throw money and beer at the problem while reclining on my rounding arse, shouting 'you missed a bit right there, you cretinous lump, now get it done.'
I'm still picking bits of brush hair from my backside.