>>>>>Killing Time<<<<<

Extraordinary sight as I drove down one of Hull's busiest avenues today. The milkman in said avenue was called Shayne Ward (his name was emblazoned above the driver's cab, in case you're wondering). He never mentioned that on the programme, did he? Two pints of semi-skimmed and a quick rendition of That's My Goal please, read the note tucked inside the mouldy empty bottle or, if you prefer, empty mouldy bottle. The song will be number one, of course, but why do people have to be so complicit in making it a record-breaking hit? Why don't they buy something that doesn't smack of Simon Cowell's undergarments quite so much? Although just what that would be in a week overrun with Nizlopi, Westlife & Diana Ross, and James Blunt doesn't bear thinking about. Come on The Pogues old Christmas song, says I, it deserves to be number one before Shane MacGowan falls over for the final time. All together now..."I could've been someone, well so could anyone..."
I'm walking in front of a bloke and his pit bull terrier in a busy city centre when I have to stop to let a geezer in a wheelchair moving in the other direction get past. The bloke with the pit bull terrier doesn't stop and, instead, lets the dog run up the back of my left leg. Naturally, I turn round and pull my best agressive face suggesting that I want both the bloke and his pit bull terrier to fuck right off and/or pay any dry cleaning bill that might result from my left trouser leg being coated in dog saliva. Then we all move along on our merry way. As they draw parallel with me the bloke says to his filthy, salivating pit bull terrier: "Good boy, you're a good, good boy. Come on, let's get past the miserable bastard." Merry Christmas.