So today’s the day. Canadian Delivery Day. Young Justin Trudeau, pinup boy for the French speaking prime ministers of the world, is being delivered to Brussels. To finalise the ‘trade deal’ between the fine nations of Canada and… er… and Europe, that’s been about 27 years in the making. So in jets Justin, pen in hand, and…

…and they’re not quite ready for him. Some far flung corner of Belgium has decided its not happy with the terms. And because its Belgium and therefore really boring, they have a rule that Euro delegates can’t make decisions for the country, each region gets a vote. Like there aren’t enough fucking votes already in the fiasco that is Europe Central. And the Belges, because there is simply nothing else to do in that country, have found fault with the plan. More deliberation needed. How easy is Brexit gonna be?? 7 years for Canada, and they don’t absolutely hate Canada, like they do Britain.

We are having Canadians delivered too. Its an epidemic. Our lovely friends (for Candians) are in the country, free-loading off our British (and thus almost-non-European) hospitality. We haven’t seen them in years. Which is the way God intended it. But they’re only here for 2 days and quite frankly ITS NOT ENOUGH.

So we missed the bake-off final DON’T TELL ME, DON’T TELL ME, DON’T TELL ME!!! Its recorded and will be the ‘surprise’ that we all need.

Meanwhile, Carlos Alberto died. He too was delivered, unto the Lord. The scorer of the best goal ever scored, ever, anywhere, EVERRRRRR, died of a heart attack. The captain of the best football team ever to play the game, the 1970 Brazil World Cup winning side, and scorer of ‘that goal’ is no more. Such a great and lovely guy. I think I’ll just watch the goal 600 times in mourning for him.

Happy brief Thursday

A xxx