London in autumn is not a bad place for a pint and a pie. And if one of each is good, six of each is near bloody perfect while you’re sitting by the Thames perfecting your burping technique.
Air New Zild got the Sumfony here in fairly decent order, although bloody Fossie couldn’t stop twiddling with the bloody video screen. Swiped his dinner and made him watch the 2007 Coupe Mondiale all the way through. That bloody shut him up.
The digs are not too shabby, if you like lots of leather and dead animals, although I had to ask for another set of drawers to lay out my 56 pairs of grundies. Sheila Shag’s first rule for a situation involving foreigners is ‘You can’t have enough worn-in grundies’. Good on ya, darl.
That strange bloke Ned gave me his treasure map of where he stashed the Maketu Potato Tops not too far away, so I reckon I might survive the boarding-house grub. That’ll be my secret smile when the tabloid chooks start asking daft questions to put me off my rhythm. ‘What do I think of Mr Barnes as a conductor? Bloody delicious.’
Just want to get this show on the road now. Too much faffing around with the sponsors’ malarkey. Let’s play.
Yours in underpants