This is appallingly self-indulgent, I know. It is not funny, incisive, thought provoking or of interest to anyone except me but when you get to 46, and life has left you behind, little things like this ARE important.
Eleven young men have made me very happy today. This sounds like one of George Michael's diary entries, I know, but rest assured I have not decided to lick the other side of the stamp. No, it's purely heterosexual happiness.
My football team won! Hurrah! In the F A Cup! Double hurrah! What's more, my lowly Third Division outfit (or League One as they now call it) beat Premiership opposition, and beat them soundly. Triple hurrah! Thank you God (I am an aetheist but hedge my bets at times like this).
I am cruising at Fizz Factor One. A day of laughter with Dr Mark Foster (see below), no dog shit around the house, no post, hence no bills, a huge lunch at a greasy spoon, a couple of pints, fantastic Forest and their fabulous football and then a thick, juicy, almost raw steak for dinner. Testosterone Central. What more could a man ask for? I know, I know, but who knows? The way my luck is running Dolly Parton WILL call round this evening demanding that I ruin her for other men. I have decided I WILL get up tomorrow morning and I WILL carry on with life.
Henceforth, days such as today shall be for the rest of us and not for THAT town. Hurrah!
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