Another morning, another news report stating that Forest are looking for a new manager.


Just bloody #GETWARNOCK, etc.

I’ve been wanting Colin Wanker down at Trentside since one of the happiest days of my life, watching The Pies in the old Wembley play-offs back in 1991

Failing Warnock, then Young Nigel would do.

But sadly Forest just aren’t that type of community club anymore.

Hey hoe.

I switched to a cricket breakfast to try and add some sporting optimism.

‘cos that went well, Jase.


Anna and I then cycled off along what was a very icy Trail.

I haven’t seen it so slippery since the first winter when we moved to the estuary wilds some six years ago [GOSH].

I deliberately took it slow.


Oh ffs.

Not again – the second consecutive Sunday.

I’m not sure if my slow bicycle ride contributed to the bloody puncture, but I was right pissed off.

The front tyre on the winter MTB let me down about a quarter of the ride into the gym.

What now?

Turn around and back to bed?

Bugger that.

I am optimist, especially during non-working hours.

I decided to walk with the bicycle all the way to the gym, grunt and groan with the weights, and then get the puncture seen to in Sunny Colch.

Anna was very patient for a freezing cold Sunday morning.

We had planned to be gym buddies on Sunday morning.

I give a blank stare when every other geezer in the Essex gym refers to me as “bud.” I haven’t got the same excuse when it is my wife doing it.

@MrBoom was on the treadmill next to us. There was also a lady wearing a leotard on the cross trainer. I didn’t know where to look.

Anna seemed to enjoy her gym debut. I am still convinced that I have a broken foot.

I don’t have a broken foot.

I arsed around in the spa, and then braced myself for the bloody freezing walk across the Moors and into town.

Cycle King did the business in under five minutes flat.

Cheers, fella.

I took the strategic decision to avoid the Trail for the return leg, climbing Boundary Road and the University instead.

Back at base and I re-enacted the Withnail chair smashing firewood scene.

The arrival of the South Lambeth Road kitchen chair yesterday meant that we had a battered old Essex piece of furniture to hit very hard with a hammer.

It ended up underneath the shed as a five star stag beetle hotel.

And then I did something a little unexpected – I went to watch the tech rehearsal for the Wivenhoe Panto.

Well I never.

A gym changing room conversation earlier with Mr Director led me to the Loveless Hall. I snapped away, and then teased the show a little.

We watched the first half of the Man Utd Vs Liverpool match, and then DARTS.

Some pretty hefty school policies dropped early evening. The rest of Sunday was written off editing and publishing these.

Punctures can piss right off.