1. There’s no such thing as “an extra hour in bed” in this house when he clocks change.  Not when the missus is off to work in a couple of hours and Pearl has the noisy, early and incontinent waking habits of a toddler.  6.35 this morning (7.35 in old money);
  2. Not since I heard that someone had punched Leona Lewis in the face have I experienced such exquisite schadenfreude as when I heard that the inexplicably-adored Steven Morrissey collapsed on stage last night.  In Swindon.  Apparently doctors haven’t confirmed whether his indisposition is in any way related to the fact that he’s a self-regarding twerp who sings like he’s had a stroke.  One possible treatment might involve him fucking off back to California, or wherever he lives, and staying there.