Vindictive beasts, and Brighton

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So I was hanging out my washing and this wasp started hassling me. I tried to gently waft it away. Kept hassling me. By co-incindence a mate told me 2 days ago how to deal with this. A wasp hovers mostly - not a fast mover. So you can clap your hands over it and kill it - it has no time to sting you. But I knew I couldn't bring mysef to do that, and so it proved. So I kept trying to waft it away then the vindictive little bastard stung me. I can't remember being stung before, but it hurt. Not only that, the beast was clever enough to creep into my t-shirt and sting me on the back of the neck! I must have looked like a madman leaping around the garden tearing my shirt off!

So what was the point of that? I was near the Apple Tree (no, not a Mac networking site, a real Apple Tree. You know, nature 'n' stuff) so maybe it thought I was invading it's food source. Little shit. Then I get back into the house and there's this wasp hovering over my cooker. May have been the same one, after seconds. So I clobbered it with the Observer Business section. What else could I do?

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A day in London tomorrow.
Tube, Train, Drive, Bus?
It's fine being near London, then you look at the logistics of a day out and it's a frigging nightmare. I'll have 7 hours to kill while Dubson does whatever Dubson does. So thought I'd start at The Tate, go to St Pauls, read my book somewhere, then inevitably end up in a Pub watching England lose at football eating soup inna basket. And it will be pissing down, I expect.

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The work front is not too bad. Could be a lot better. You know who your friends are in these times. Stars, gems and sweetie-pies. I love them all. Not like the old crowd. Post Reformation TLC. Look it up.

VERBLOG

Grew a Courgette. Was it? Green thing • I didn't grow a Courgette. Given a pot and it grew. All of it's own accord. Everything else dies on me • Grew some Marigolds, but then they ended up looking like old blokes with faces like an unmade bed, all unkempt and wayward. A bit like my hair used to look. So I dug them up • You can't abuse a Pepper. You can abuse a Chicken, but not a Pepper • Fill - on. Keep - on. Edit - off. I'm not sure if I can be bothered to keep on doing this • Quote: [It started about 10 years ago, and now it's a real middle class retreat. Shit Pubs. Shit Atmosphere. They think that if they go there they'll all live in harmony away from the moths. It's such a Victorian idea. You can't hide like that. It's The Guardian's version of The Prisoner. They're so middle class they put pebbles on the beach so they don't get any sand between their toes. It's not a patch on Blackpool. That's the real seaside town.
It's the second Iron Circle, after London; you can't come in unless you're making £40,000 a year and you're a media puppet.
Blackpool, on the other hand, that's a great place to spend a holiday. There's no cultural elitism there, thank fuck. They've got some smashing chip shops as well. It gets a lot of stick for some odd reason. I think it's because it knows what it is - it's not striving to ape elsewhere. I like places that know themselves. Not like Brighton ... I'd rather have Riley in the band than live there] • Discuss •

HOMAGE À DUBSON

(get the phrase, stick it through a translator, and post.
Dunno why, seems to work)

Old Street Station est un grand, il se connecte au monde • Bon après-midi, où est mon petit-déjeuner? • Ainsi puis-je faire, papa? Puis-je? • Vous pensez encore que je suis comme, 5. •