It’s been one of those weeks that hasn’t quite panned out how I thought it would.
I think the trouble started when I fell asleep at my nephew’s 18th birthday party. Unforgivable behaviour – especially as there were still gallons of wine left to drink. It’s not even as if I were that drunk. All right, I was a bit drunk but I’ve been much worse and stayed awake, afloat and upright for much longer. I was actually exhausted and should never have sat down. That’s probably why I always stand up in pubs - though clearly I’d forgotten the solid logic behind that move.
Then there was Sunday and Andy Murray’s Wimbledon defeat. Not to detract from him but apart from his mum did anyone actually think he was going to win? But what none of us saw coming were the tears. All of a sudden we couldn’t help but like him. For a start he strung together far more words whilst blubbering than he ever has done when in a more composed state of mind. No sports person has won more attention by shedding a few bunny ears since that memorable day in the 1990 World Cup when Paul Gascoigne (the man thought to be the thickest bloke ever to kick a football until Wayne Rooney came along) was shown his second yellow card and lost the chance of getting to the final (which, naturally, the rest of the team didn’t make either).
Political sobbers don’t have the same appeal. Hillary Clinton shed so many tears during her 2008 campaign trail she was accused of using them as a campaign strategy. And Ken Livingstone? Well, he wept with gratitude that so many “ordinary Londoners” wanted him to be mayor. What are you doing now Ken?
Anyway, I’m saving my tears for the Only One’s wedding in two weeks time.
As the week went on I was just warming back to Labour when they announced they’d appointed Tony “Show Me The Money” Blair as adviser. How badly advised could they be?
Even the Tories have come up with a half way decent idea or two recently. Then they blew it this week with the suggestion that “better off” pensioners should lose their winter fuel payments, free prescriptions, bus passes and television licences. Good grief, there are few enough things to look forward to in old age but there goes four of them if the Posh Boys get their way. At a saving of £5bn a year - probably about the total spent on executive travel by our dear leaders and their squabbling partners per annum.
Still, there was always the wretched summer to write about. Two dozen flat race meetings cancelled; harvests delayed by weeks and the worst growing conditions in three decades; high street barbecue, garden furniture and clothes sales going down the pan faster than a Marks & Spencer fashion ad; festivals in Leeds, Coventry and Edinburgh cancelled and others little better than mud baths with a loud soundtrack. And then even Kylie and Jason called off their reunion because of the conditions.
Then the sun came out and I took a walk round a busy Blackpool... only to be told to go forth and multiply by a complete stranger for no reason whatsoever.