My hour for tea is half-past five, and my buttered toast waits for nobody.

Weird day. Well, it's daylight saving which always discombobulates, but then I was a'googling and discovered the nekkid actor I was ogling yesterday is a political blogger. Well, well, well. Turns out young Octavian is a flag waving Democrat. Who knew? Well, you did, probably, but I've not had much time to wander on the webby, except this morning because I'm annoyed and grumpy. Woke up annoyed and grumpy. Went to bed annoyed and grumpy.

Which isn't to say yesterday wasn't enlivened by oiled and nekkid Simon Woods, oiled and nekkid James Purefoy, a young skinny McAvoy and two hours of Winchester Brothers.
( more: subtext rapidly becoming text )

So last night I watched Hustle. I really did. But before that, I did something else. I was tired and grumpy but this particular brand of magic never fails to work.

And I'm so glad I did. They were fekkin brilliant. I still can't believe how good they were. Nor could I believe my luck. Not only did I stumble into a prime viewing spot, I was like this close, which amuses me, because it's not often, I suspect, one would see the number one band in the UK in such an intimate venue, shall we say (ie, tiny, wee, small, cramped, packed to rafters).

In fact it's not often, actually never, that I ever get to see a band at the height of their powers. Usually it's all over bar the shouting when they decide to tour down here and they breakup up on the plane. So that was exciting and new. Very.

And what were they thinking? They must have decided to flee the traditional drubbing in the press and decided to hide out down here when the album was released. Or something. So, there they were, one of the most popular bands in the UK, playing a tiny pub gig on a Wednesday.

Strange, but brilliant.

Thanks to my special phone camera for taking fuzzy out of focus pictures and making stuff that was only 2m away seem like 20, you can't tell, not even if you squint and tilt your head just so, but trust me, last night I beheld the wonder that was...( more: my darling boy )

I don't know which to reel in horror from first: the idea of a Sweeney reimagining or Clive and return of the velvet jacket.

The Sweeney, probably, as I'm so swamped with dread I can barely comment, but the I Spy travesty quickly comes to mind. This is all LOM's fault. Hmph.
( more: why Gene isn't getting any )