If you haven't already visited the website for this book, go there now.
The London boozer fully explained. Now smoke free. The funniest fucking book you will read all year. So funny in fact, that Steven Hunt is not allowed to carry a copy on public transport. Buy here
Drawn and lithographed by R Carrick.
In the foreground is the principle fountain, whose central jet rose to over 100 feet; it was below the central steps on the lower terrace and is now buried beneath a car park.
Now available from your local bookseller as a greetings card.
Blimey. Rough night, eh?
That's three nice days in a row.
I'm in trouble at home with Justine. Actually you can take that as the default position for most days. This particular trouble though, has to do with my CD collection taking over the kitchen again.
The other evening I was enthusiastically selling Tighten Up Volume 2 to the eldest, telling her how it was the music I listened to at her age, and that even now it reminded me of going to the fun fair in Melton Mowbray park and riding the Cyclone with my friends.
In fact, I said, possibly getting a little carried away and thinking of this post by Justine, because I'm usually rubbish at this kind of thing; this is the song I want played at my funeral, and then I remembered it was Long Shot Kick De Bucket, by The Pioneers.
Bit grey this morning. Bit like my head actually. You see, among the many bewilderment's of the week - including the guy on Wednesday afternoon who said; it must be great to work here, it's so quiet - is this one:
A chap came to see me yesterday to show me his range of *Harry Potter Collectibles* with a view to us stocking them come the 21st July. He assured me that people will pay 30+ quid for a plastic stick in a cardboard presentation box and 50 quid for a painted plate and they will pretty much re-mortgage their house for a fancy silver-topped walking stick.
You're smirking.
I don't blame you; because you know, and I know, that the book will be sold for buttons.
Lovely morning. Sorry, I came by yesterday but I couldn't stay and chat; I was late and still jet-lagged from the 119 mile drive to Nottingham and back.
Anyhow, having left the women in charge we seem to have got away with. Okay, so they broke the credit card machine, the pricing gun and a tin of Mr Sheen, managed to extract £54.39 from one of their own debit cards(?) and couldn't find a couple of meticulously alphabetised customer orders, but apart from that everything went swimmingly and they easily managed the best weekends trade since Christmas.
Which can only lead to one conclusion don't you think?
Now where did Fred leave that fixture list.
