It's quite a nice day today so I thought I'd take the opportunity to reassure 1) Chris that I'm still an architect and 2) Dick that my house ought to be complete before Dublin's greedy maw devours North Leinster, by taking a few pics:
I might get an opportunity to correct my daughter's misidentification this weekend. Similar father-child bonding opportunities also present themselves for my brother and brother-in-law as all of our spouses will be in Brussels on a 'hen' weekend. I find it hard to muster up any apprehension or foreboding for this task - a diffidence my wife finds faintly alarming - although it may well be the case that my currently calm demeanour will be a distant memory come Sunday afternoon.
Things have come to a sorry pass for David Beckham when even his staunchest defender, that determined occupant of the comfort zone, Sven Goran Eriksson admits his form has declined. Beckham's career since his departure from Old Trafford, on and off the pitch, has done nothing but vindicate Sir Alex Ferguson's decision to sell him.
Last night's game against Bayer Leverkeusen saw more racist chanting from Real Madrid fans. This time directed at Bayer's Brazilian defender Roque Junior. TV cameras also picked up footage of Neo-Nazis sieg-heil-ing, swastika tattoos proudly displayed. The diffident reaction to this in Spain might be usefully contrasted with Blackburn's swift sanction of two "fans" for directing monkey chants at striker Dwight Yorke.
Spanish complacency is at the heart of the problem here. There are undoubtedly people just as unpleasant as these Neo-Nazis in the UK. The difference is that their behaviour is no longer acceptable on British football terraces.
Even "commie" dames got some standards. Diana explains how not-being-a-serial-killer, while it might be a necessary condition, is hardly a sufficient condition for friendship:
Anyhow, if anybody told me that I had to like him because he was not going to pump six bullets into my chest, I would feel a little bit under whelmed by his interpersonal skills. ‘Hey sugar, let me buy you a beer, after all I have no intentions of cutting your ears off and submerging you into a tub full of acid.’ ‘Oh, ok, then. I like you. You seem like a nice guy.’