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Well, that was fun

What a jolly pleasant few days that was. I always forget how energising just a short change of scenery is. Plus there's the added smug factor of knowing that you've made in effort with family (I'm only half-joking, it is by no means a chore to see my relations, quite the opposite, but my odd days off make it difficult for me to do so, so when I am able to I feel quite the dutiful chap). Lords was enjoyable, even if the cricket was the worst sort of mismatch, and I even found time to get into a ruck with a short fat bearded bloke who felt it necessary to shout racial abuse (as well as a bizarre sequence of non sequiturs) at the action. So that was entertaining.

It was also good to be able to put some faces to names vis a vis ILX (and what a strange coincidence that the very next night Jim, Porl and Cel should have their very own close encounter of the FAP kind) and hopefully I shall do so again, as in my sun-dazed state I'm not sure the poor chaps got a great deal of sense out of me.

But the two best things I took from my break, two things which went some way towards restoreing my faith in existence were the discovery that one can now eat at train stations without just buying a burger or sandwich (thankyou Marks and Spencers, and thankyou the Japanese for inventing sushi) and a moment that occurred half way through extra time during "the miracle of Istanbul" (TM). There I was, stood in a pub in Stevenage (not renowned as a hotbed of Liverpool support) when up on the screen came a notice informing us that Celebrity Mercy Fuck (or whatever it's called, you know the one) would follow the football. As one, the pub voiced an imaginative suggestion as to what that programme could do to itself.

And I thought the Great British Public liked that sort of shit, there may be hope after all.

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