I’m a sweaty bastard. Oh, that’s nice. So I take a shower twice a day. Lovely. Morning and night. In case you’re even more interested than you were already. Wait; it gets even more exciting.

After I shower I’d normally hang the towel on the towel-rail radiator thingy that some Scandinavian designed just for pretentious people like me. But its summer, so fuck Sven, we don’t turn it on. Instead I hang my towel over the bannister in the hall to dry for its next use.

That’s 10 showers per working week.

And I reckon I get out of the shower 8 of those times and say ‘FUCK!!!!!’ Because I’ve forgotten to take my towel into the bathroom with me. And have to traipse wet-footed to the hall to get it.

And whether this is senility, insanity, altzheimers or whatever, I just have a mental block about it. Mel gets upset about wet footprints on the upstairs floor. I’m going to instal stepping stones. If I remember.

Yesterday was football day. The pic is younger daughter and yours truly at Spurs before the kick off. Or ‘the good bit’ as we now know to have been. Before the start, when hope springs eternal, where all is possible, when Spurs are potentially the best team in the land, Stoke are just a bunch of northern thugs and the sun was shining on a lovely August afternoon.

Game of two halves, it has been called. And never so true as yesterday. By half time we were 2-0 up, the second scored just on half time, the best time you can ever score a goal, and we looked good, we looked poised, we looked… if not exactly wonderful, then at least pretty decent. Too decent for Stoke.

Then the second half started. And all was different.

The best bit of the half was not in fact Stoke’s two goals, they were horrible and depressing. The best bit was the violence that erupted where the away scu- sorry, the away fans meet the Spurs faithful in the Park Lane Stand. The Stoke fans rushed into the separating gangway and were throwing punches across the massed ranks of hi-viz stewards who’d gone in to keep them apart.

It was wonderful. Certainly better than what was happening on the pitch, which was violence of a more psychological nature. This was just fighting. It was like 1973 all over again. Part of the Corbyn-inspired nostalgia drive. We’re all going to be driving Ford Capris. Wearing flared trousers, having bubble-perms, spouting the words of Chairman Mao and then forming Inter-City-Firms to kick the merry shit out of each other at football stadia every weekend. Its probably a good time to buy shares in Stanley Knives.

But Stoke is not a normal place. For a start its not in London. Stoke people are certainly not normal, in any statistical or psychometric meaning of the word. And their football team shouldn’t be beating royalty like Spurs. Or drawing. But it feels the same.

We have a wonderful striker. He was injured. We looked for another but the cupboard was empty.

So why can’t I forget the horrible things, like I do all the useful things??

Happy… errr… Tuesday? Monday?? Friday???

A ????