You may be down the pub rubbing shoulders with the rich and stupid. Just before the clock ticks to the top, I've done it. Achieved my goal for this year:
You may think this blog is the random ramblings of a deranged obsessive. You wouldn't be far wrong. Yet there has been a point to 2010 for me. A goal I've been punting towards all year. And, after kneeing the goalie in the bollocks and stamping on the fingers of the fullbacks, I've scored.
The Whitbread Porter set. 1804 to 1940. Sad, I know. World peace, educating my children, weeding the lawn, hoying the old Metros in the recycling bin. All way more important. Scratching my grillocks probably, too.
A full set. A hundred and thirty six years of Porter.
Sometimes people are bloody unpleasant.
The other weekend I had to deal with a particularly unpleasant complaint.
From time to time Sunday lunchtime seems to bring out the most venomous of