A little bit of Bass

Today we are feeling very sorry for oneself. Having weighed up the possibility of going home and not doing all of the much work that needed to be done against dry wretching in the work toilets for the next 3 hours – I decided that coughing up bile would win every time.

But I have found something that made it all go away. Rainbows appear in the sky and a choir of kittens sign halleluiah in perfect 9 part harmony. Chuck Bass will be in London tomorrow.

Yes – I know that he is a fictional character.
No - I don’t know that actor’s real name.

But I just don’t care.

Such is his perfection that angels weep as he passes by. He is an utter bastard, emotionally repressed, has issues with his father, is utterly sublimely beautiful and has loads of money. Could there be a more perfect man?

All i have left to say is Chuck Bass... I'm Louise Nathanson.

A Right Royal...

So Prince Philip has managed to make it to the slightly spurious honor of being the longest reigning ‘consort’ this week. I say spurious, as what I think that this technically makes him ‘biggest sponger’ in the history of our royal family. While the wife goes out and does all the important work, he has pioneered the way for house husbands everywhere.

On the plus side I am glad to see that Prince Philip appears to be rubbing off on the Queen (not like that you sick minded people). The other day at the G20 Phil managed to get in there with a cheeky racist jibe about how impressive it was the Mr. Obama could tell the difference between all the world leaders. This was a fairly classic racist comment by the Prince there and one that is characteristic of the style of his inappropriate comments throughout his reign.

However the Queen, in her more subtle and infinitely regal manner, swiftly delivered the biting phrase ‘why is he so loud?’ about Burlusconi. Something we have all wondered ma’am. Something we have all wondered – camping holiday indeed.

Son of a Mon

How exciting was the Grand National the other day – horses everywhere running very fast as then being shot and turned into glue at the end of it. Short men in brightly coloured vest, so that you can see then clearly and don’t accidently step on them. Women with no class being paraded around the paddock, trotting around in their high heels and showing off their dresses which demonstrated ever so well that money doesn’t buy you a sense of taste or decency.

And then the winner turned out to be a wild card – the real 100: 1 deal. I have decided that this means that I must immediately start betting on things that have a hundred to one shot. Like it not raining the one day in April that I have left my umbrella at home. (man I think I just made a weather joke – I must be ill) It just goes to show that the universe likes a good round number as much as anyone else – none of this unpoetic 7:2 each way shit.

Perhaps I should now therefore be more sympathetic to things that had seemed like the ‘long shot’ beforehand. For example the chance of me not eating all 6 crème eggs on my desk in the next hour and a half and then vomiting heartily in the toilets at work.