Who Needs An Idiot?

Karl Pilkington. King Of Idiots.

My Kind Of Idiot.

I have just had the best week to have the worst week. I have just come home from possibly the most relaxing holiday imaginable. I was floating down a canal in Burgundy, experiencing incredible food, outstanding countryside, sumptuous luxury and extremely delightful company. The joy of such an amazing break was not overshadowed by the disasters that were occurring in my absence. In fact, the idyllic week on board La Belle Epoque pushed almost every disappointment, frustration and outrage firmly to the back of my mind. And I would like to thank every person involved in my week for that. You may not know how important you were.

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The End Of An Era.

Tackling the Dodgepot McDougals.

We are often separated from our friends.  Some we outgrow, some move onwards and upwards, some are snatched away from us.  I have covered that subject in previous posts. We find our friends in many different ways and in many different circumstances.  Going to school with someone is no guarantee that you will even remember their name by the time you reach your twenties. I have memories of my mates at school making me laugh, people in my class choosing to emulate Robert Smith’s biggest hair day while The Cure still enjoyed a cult following, and that funny looking kid wearing his Dad’s old shoes. The key there is “that funny looking kid”. I don’t remember his name. But I remember his Dad’s shoes. I was like a 6’6″ version of Carrie Bradshaw in my youth; it was all shoes, shoes, shoes to me.

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