Sex and Bowls

I have long been an admirer of privatesecretdiary.com, a little bit like Bridget Jones, if Bridget Jones was a ruddy faced Norfolk man who specialised in bowls, pool and the keeping of chickens, not to mention the keeping one step ahead of the LTLP. I have marvelled at his passion for bowls and long wondered about the day when oldness would creep up on me and cosh me with a sensible jumper. I am still a boy, and bowls strikes me as the sort of pastime that your only suited to once the mid life crisis has come along and knocked you about a bit.
However, this good weather has allowed me to sit out in the Beer Garden of the village pub, which previously, in the bad weather, was solely the domain of the desperate smoker that once made the great British pub great (allegedly). It is here that I have come across petanque, a hybrid of the great crown green tradition and the game that is always being played behind Judith Chalmers when shes extolling the virtues of some hidden jewel in Provence. Here an assorted collection of varying shaped men resplendant in ill fitting Welsh Rugby shirts can be witnessed chucking small silver balls up and down a gravel pit, while providing an increasingly louder commentary on their prowess to the onlooking crowd of three (and a dog)
They are one short - they invite me to join. I think I will wait for Judith Chalmers to arrive!

Did you miss me?.....anybody?

My blog posts are now entering the parallel universe inhabited by major sporting events i.e. every two years. This has not been by design, I have no plan to conquer cyberspace by leaving irreverant, or possible irrellevant messages on this blog every four years, reminded to do so by the four yearly under achievement of our national team at the World Cup.
I blame Gordon Brown and the Dog, no not for our elimination in the last sixteen, but for my failure to engage properly with this blogging business. I thought self employment meant earning money for yourself, keeping it out of sight of the taxman, buying a caravan in Tenby, or if you were really good at it an impractically small studio apartment in Fuengerolla. I have been conned. It appears that I have been working for Mr Brown, single handedly supporting the NHS, MPs expenses and our annual humanitarian aid hand outs to struggling overseas nations like the Isle of Wight. This toil has left me bereft of good humour, money and probably self respect, in short, the Dog has risen above me in the pecking order at Chez-nous, and its time to fiight back.
Whilst I have been barren in the blogging stakes I have been treating the Dog on our morning walk to a full discourse of what is going wrong in my life, the sad, the lighthearted ,the pithy and the pissy and I am beginning to believe that he has created his own blog for which a book deal must be on the horizon.