So, the Scotsman, the caber, and the KY Jelly salesman …
No, I’m afraid it can’t be told. Largely because neither I nor Frankie Boyle have made it up yet. And if you haven’t got a clue what I’m talking about, you’ll have to have a peek at the previous, pre-break entry.
This is the Napper report on our short UK meander:
Keswick and Derwent Water were wonderful, the Isle of Bute was beautiful (if you ignore the shopping experience that is Rothesay town centre), peaceful and quiet, and Glasgow was in mourning after the Scottish football team lost to Princes Risborough Reserves, or something similar.
In Glasgow we saw the amazing Burrell Collection, the mind-boggling Science Centre, and the bustling, edgy, sparky, merry-to-drunken, almost-inviting-but-slightly-intimidating, cosmopolitan-to-ultra-Scottish legend that is Sauchiehall Street on a Saturday night.
Don’t take your maiden aunt there. Unless she’s a party girl who so-doesn’t feel the cold that she likes to wear a slip of a dress and little else when the Nappers have a fleece and a waterproof on over the top of several other layers.
Different world.
We couldn’t wait to get back to ours. Where nothing had changed – it was raining, Kevin Keegan had resigned again, and people were moaning about immigration, the cost of food, and the housing market.
It's good to be back. I'll be in top gear again tomorrow. Well, third at least ...
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