My mother patiently picked out the coriander leaves from her dessert, I noticed, and we never got around to the roast vegetables. But as our first effort in entertaining in a long time, it went well enough. Much wine was consumed.
At two o’clock I took my hangover to the Boldon Lad to watch the match. Don’t Get Me Started on bloody Newcastle U-bloody-nited this season. This was, as the commentator put it, the Last Chance Saloon for them, and they were thrown out. By Manchester U-fucking-nited, who, as I passionately explained to a man at the bar, represent everything that’s bad about football, the bastards.
Apparently, the fans of that ‘club’ are worried about an American capitalist getting a controlling interest. Well, pity for them: that’s capitalism for you, and what goes around comes around: if you want to play in a world of big money, it’s unreasonable to whinge when that world’s predators come sniffing your arse. The fact that the Toon got beat four one hasn’t fuelled my spleen one bit, mind.