A league of its own...

Down the pub with The Interiors frontman, who's just written a screenplay called Pygmies On Stilts. The title bears no relation to the script's contents. I pointed out that we were sat in the seats where a man with an uncanny resemblance to Steven Spielberg usually parks his ass. The Interiors frontman shrugged. Then the Spielbergalike turned up. There was no scene. He just sat somewhere else. We talked about the fortunes of Hull City and Hull FC. I had avoided the opportunity to attend the latter's game last night free of charge, feeling that a ticketgiveaway had devalued, even more, if that were even possible, a game that was already totally meaningless. 5,000 freeloaders made the effort and I doubt that my lack of presence made any difference. We chatted about the script. We shared two pitchers of lager. We discussed the paucity of ambition of other people. We went our separate ways. Home, I ate two slices of cold pizza and watched the Big Brother post-eviction show, with absolutely no idea who anyone was talking about. Is that better or worse than 80 minutes of underperforming Super League teams going head-to-head?