Tonight me, the fishy solicitor and Rosemary amble down to the pub, where “da yah waant ah f**king drink ah naat” is seen as an affectionate welcome, to compete in their quiz. It’s a fortnight since my less than stellar performance as “quizmaster with attitude and anger” failed to ignite the audience, forcing a near bar brawl with one of my more vocal critics, a dwarf with a cussing vocabulary as I recall. If I’d been blogging at the time you would have had the whole story but suffice to say the evening started out with me calling the adorable (and currently strangely unavailable) Future Mrs Hardy “Teresa”, not her name but the name of a wonderful woman I was engaged to thirty years ago, and ended with the lonely walk of shame into the shadows some hours later. Tonight I’m hoping for a more peaceful evening, though a chance to slug the cussing dwarf would not go amiss.
This rock, on some faraway Welsh beach, has more chance of winning tonight than we do