From the man that brought you Jayne's Baps...

To York for a stroll and a browse. The post-England hangover ensured the streets were relatively quiet, which is a rare treat in this walled city. There was a large gang of tiny children dressed as Vikings - all Bacofoil helmets and cardboard shields - wandering around the streets close to Clifford's Tower. There were lots of geese next to the river, where we stopped to eat pastries and wave at the few fools who had paid for boat trips. There was a girl having a screaming fit in Rowntree Park, laid on the tarmac path and kicking her feet, as her mother stood waiting for it all to end. Then there was the sight of PMS, a wonderful addition to my slowly growing collection of comedy business photographs. I bless you PMS and all you stand for, whatever it may be. Eyed the new Murakami book in Borders - we'd slipped in to use their toilets - but, even with £4 off the cover price didn't have the necessary funds. The scene in the Borders toilet: a man with a rucksack, urinating sans hands on his, I'm assuming, enormous no support necessary penis. It was a good few hours. Nostalgic visit to our old stomping ground near the Knavesmire racecourse before we dodged back down the A1079; wise, by then, to the ridiculous amount of Gatso speed cameras East Riding Council have put in place on their side of the Yorkshire border.