So Saturday was McFly day. Seemed like nice enough boys, despite having had to wait almost an hour for them to arrive and their manager having a crazed rant at the girl who organised the photo shoot.
Spent Saturday night at home guzzling bottle of rose watching trash on telly until 1am. Got up v early on Sunday to get Glastonbury tickets. I appear to have no control over myself nor any sense of sensibility. Why would you stay up until 1 drinking rose (at home alone, I might add…) when you know you have to get up early?
Anyway, got Glastonbury tickets – but getting up early to get them meant I then had the whole of the rest of the day ahead of me, with nowt to do. So I stuck on an old motown record and pranced around the living room, pretending I was doing exercise, when really I was singing into a wooden spoon and inadvertently entertaining the neighbours. I did raise a slight sweat though, so clearly can count that as an exercise session for the week (when I say slight sweat, what I mean is that I got red-faced and blotchy, and my clothes required post-prance wringing). It was such a gorgeous day that it seemed only right that at 5pm I crack open the rose and watch more trash.
Tell me this – why is Barry Scott so shouty? What’s up with him?
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