Oddly enough, the gathering of the Insertnamehere clan at Lenin House this year did not result in fist-fights, food-fights or agonised discussions about who did what to whom in 1976*.
From this I conclude the best way of dealing with my family is to shove vast amounts of food into them as soon as they arrive.
The Second Test.
Could this match get anymore exciting?
I spent most of Sunday, watching the game with my jaw firmly lodged on the floor.
And how fuckin’ good were JP Duminy and Dale Steyn**?
I hope you’re enjoying the match, Melba. It really doesn’t get much better than this.
Proof again that being a playwright of some note doesn’t stop you from being a complete cunt in other aspects.
And here was me thinking Ertha Kitt was rhyming slang.
*I didn’t even tell my sister to “put a feckin’ sock in it” when she kept rabbiting on and on about reflexology – such was my restraint.
**The answer – fuckin’ good!