I’m pleased and quite frankly relieved to see that the Bank of England have decided to go ‘on message’ in the post-woke workplace. Rather than wasting their time sorting out interest rates which are at a pre-2008 high, worrying about inflation which doesn’t seem to be coming down as quickly as predicted/expected, or generally, doing what the Bank of Fucking England should be doing, they’ve sorted out their inclusivity policy. And although offering ‘leave to a birthing parent’ will not directly stop poor mortgage payers being made homeless, and the fact that gender reassignment is now part of their private health package is unlikely to reduce the average and punitive gas bill, I’m sure that people queuing at food banks will be greatly comforted to know that ‘all the toilets on the 7th floor are unisex’. Its not exactly ‘playing the fiddle whilst Rome burns’ but its kind’a along those lines. Kowtowing to the collective insanity whilst England goes bankrupt. And you’re the ‘bank’.

Wimbledon starts today. I just love Wimbledon. Even though Djokovic has returned and Emma Raducanu hasn’t. In honour of the world’s only proper tennis tournament, I didn’t play myself yesterday. Ok, I didn’t play because playing Saturday gave me bother of a hip, rather than hipster, nature. It fucking hurt. Trochanteric Bursitis. Nothing to do with age. Its something that all elite sportspeople should get to prove their eliteness.

Which is why none of the England cricket team suffer from it. Although to be honest, they were brilliant against the Aussies. Well, Ben Stokes was. Johnny Bairstow would have been but the Aussies proved, once again, what a bunch of cheating scion-of-convict low-lifes they are. I won’t bore with details, you either know or you won’t understand, but the spirit of the game of cricket, itself a metaphor for ‘doing the right thing’, was simply trashed in one blow of a metaphorical digeridoo. 200 years of gentleman-ness blown.

Happy Monday

A xxxx