Hull's most famous sufferer of Tourette's Syndrome was in the Halifax building society at lunch, writing out his Christmas cards and stuffing them in envelopes. Quite which member of staff thought this was a good idea is the financial ombudsman's guess, but it was very funny watching everyone's eyes darting in all directions, trying to work out where the repetitive and slightly repressed chant of "fuck...fuck...fuck" was coming from. "Who's let that fucker in?" someone standing in the queue said, thus oversimplifying the movement disorder in the name of a cheap laugh, the insensitive bastard.
Shurely shome mishtake indeed. A closer inspection of the bleedin' Busted tickets has revealed that they are for the wrong night. Thus, waving at daughter from my premium hacks' position on high would be difficult unless she's perfected the art of interrupting the space time continuum. Having suffered the ignominy of requesting Busted tickets in the first place, I have now had to repeat my embarrassing request in full earshot of my colleagues and now feel that reverting to Plan A - sitting in a Sheffield pub for two hours - is a distinct possibility and, indeed, would be preferable when I consider the merits of It's What I Go To School For and watching, Epstein-like, young men in tight Dickies clothing. Touting the Saturday tix looks to be out the question too, as I've just had to reveal my seat numbers in what is possibly the most complex arrangement to acquire tickets I have ever been involved in. It's easier to get into Zimbabwe to cover the cricket.
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