Brenda and me still reeling from John Bishop's monologue in last night's Fearless, which was not unlike getting the Winker's song interrupting Mansfield 102.3 unbidden (see today's Today). Putting him next to McCrory is like watching Nureyev partnered in a Tchaikovsky ballet with a SMEG fridge. All the directorial tricks and vaseline (a smear of Keith) and editing sleights of hand could not make it any less of a car crash. I'm sorry, I speak as I find. His legions of fans will think I am speaking out of turn, but the idea that you can do anything you want unchallenged if you only click your ruby heels together and make a wish, does occasionally have to be challenged. My Abenaazer up at the club was rightly pilloried, so I feel I know what I'm talking about.
Meanwhile my lumbar region is giving me a bit of gip, gyp, jip, (?) but I'm sure the restorative powers of bacon and sausage will soon set me right.