Today is a strange day.
Yesterday was better.
Minge went to Portsmouth
Minge went on the train
Minge went to see Kapitano
Then came back again
I'm a poet and I wasn't aware of that.
More about my trip to Hampshire when I can upload photographic evidence. I promise. I'm not very clever, you see, dear reader, and rely heavily on imagery because of my meagre vocabulary.
Today is strange because the bus bringing me into Bournemouth town centre (where I now am) was involved in a wee crash. A woman pulled out onto a main road in front of the on-coming bus. Oops. And the silly cow had a baby on board sign in the back window. Perhaps she should have had an idiotic twat sign instead.
Now, this in itself isn't strange, but when I tell you that on changing buses, two young lads did weird 80s robotic dancing in celebration of no-one being hurt, you too, dear reader, will think that this is strange. And you'd be right.
I'm off back to the shops, now, hen. I have to buy eye of newt and toe of frog, wool of bat and tongue of dog. It is Christmas, after all.