I’ve had enough of the World bloody Cup already. That’s World bloody Cup as in the same way Simon Git Cowell and Jeremy Tosser Clarkson are what they are.
It’s not funny, and the sodding vuvuzelas are irritating beyond belief. It sounds like a swarm of demented wasps are about to attack… but… we’re out of it, so at least the bloody thing has sort of slipped into the background and brought Wimbledon to the foreground… and Andy Pissing Murray, the sour faced Scot is now grimacing his way through the tournament.
Yes can’t you tell… I hate sport, and I’m turning into a whinging old fart.
On a happier note, after doing some seriously bad shit to my neck (damage to nerve C5) I now have news to report that the pain is diminishing somewhat and mobility is returning. All thanks to some good physio and a daily dose of amitryptaline.
Finally, Charlestown – the epic – is all recorded now and is virtually there mix wise and sounding stonkingly good. I can’t wait to see the cover artwork now and start re-skinning the website ready for it’s release.
…oh and we have a pool… but more on that later.
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