More flotsam, today on a different journey: Plymouth to Swindon, having stayed with the old girl this weekend and taken Monday off. (For those of you who like traffic data: it took 2 hrs 45, no major incidents to report).
I didn't see any Baileys Horse Feeds lorries or indeed Wilkinson lorries, which I will now look out for. I like to spy Norbert Dentressangle too because I think it's just a superb name, like Perkins Lascelles in Plymouth. I thought that this opticians' business was run by a Mr Perkins Lascelles but it turns out to be two gentlemen. I collect great names: I am liking Benedict Cumberbatch too.
Anyway - to the matter in hand - Eurovision. I could not believe it when the foolish, feckless public voted for Wogan's wild card. I have sore misgivings, that's all I can say.
I can't even remember what he's called, but it's some bloke who was in The X Factor and he looks like someone's dad. I was convinced Michelle Gayle would win with her fine rendition of something that looked like The Goodies' Funky Chicken and had lyrics along the lines of "you make me oooh." Perfect Eurovision fodder. Now we've got someone's dad singing a proper song with a decent voice, and we have NO CHANCE WHATSOEVER, unless Eastern Europe decides that it's fed up with novelty numbers, singing turkies and so on, and wants a sensible ballad sung by someone's dad.
The spectre of "Nil Points" beckons.
While I'm here, I thought I would mention our superb Mother's Day lunch at the Corbyn Head Hotel in Torquay. It was top notch: perfect succulent rare beef for me (well done for the old girl), preceded by chicken liver pate and followed by a substantial bread and butter pudding. And Giz got a bunch of flowers on top of a free glass of sparkling white, so she was In Clover.
2 comments
Glad your Mother's Day meal was good - mine was horrid. Lamb like old shoe leather and mint sauce out of a catering jar. Yuk!
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