What a weekend that was. Not only did I watch with glee and satisfaction, reruns of the destruction of Corbyn’s bunch of seedy, glum faced and utterly miserable losers, by a buoyant Boris and a rib-tickling Rees Mogg – who managed to put forth arguments and positive ideas to the House in a language that the opposition couldn’t even understand, leave alone find credible answers for (Diana Abbott is still Googling up most of the words as we speak!), but I also discovered I had won yet another £15 million in a lottery; a game of chance that I have no recollection of, but is nevertheless kindly being held for me by the American Ambassador to Nigeria who wants to arrange a meet to hand it over.
He will be arriving in the UK next week and has requested I send my address and phone number, so he can ‘deliver the package in person!’ Before I do that, I must urgently (‘before time will be against us’) send $280 to the cargo registration officer, a Mr Nwabundo Iscanyi Benjami in Lagos Nigeria.
The letter is actually signed by Ambassador W Stuart Symington himself, so it is obviously genuine and subsequently this column will unfortunately be my final offering as I could, by the time it is published be off on a well-deserved golfing trip to Honolulu! To complete my weekend, I actually found myself the recipient of gale force winds at the end of Cromer pier!
I know, I know, what a rich and abundantly varied life he must lead I hear you say. Well, in fact, that is precisely how it panned out this weekend. After attending yet another tedious, but necessary specialist appointment in the UK (Don’t worry folks there’s life in the old canine yet!), I took up the kind invitation of some old friends to join them in a couple of days of frolics in the depths of the beautiful Norfolk countryside. One of the weekend highlights was the summer variety show on the historic and quintessentially British, Cromer pier.
Picked up by a coach (what else!) with the delightful title of ‘Marriots Chariots’ prominently displayed on its side, the highly skillful ‘charioteer’ wove us through the meandering byways and hedgerow flanked ‘low ways,’ till we soon found our selves savouring the sight of the crashing waves and slate grey briny of our Cromer seaside destination.
Naturally, in true British tradition, the crippling Sahara record- breaking conditions had changed overnight and the wind, although not cold, was whistling across the bay, whipping up the surf and, once again in true British fashion, completely undeterring a whole family of swimmers and surfers frolicking happily on the stony grey and swirling foreshore.
The end of the pier show was utterly delightful with all the rich British content and humour one would expect from this most local of traditions. Surrounded exclusively by the accents of dear old GB and even regaled at one stage by the National Anthem, my pint glass positively overflowed. A million thanks to all concerned.
Keep the faith,