It’s another Bank Holiday Monday here in the UK — and like the best stuffed chickens prepared by the world’s best chefs, I’m squeezing the sage and onion hard up the nose of this blog post ahead of time.
If the planet is swept away overnight by floods originating in Leicestershire, no one will ever bear witness to my diligence.
In its way, my preparedness is the very least I can muster to convince you that I’m not a master criminal.
So thank me kindly on the way to the abattoir, metaphorical poultry all.
By the time this post slaps onto the internet’s front bottom like a tongue of smoked salmon released by a spinning terrier, we should all know whether or not Leicester City have romped home with the Premiership trophy by crushing a navel-gazy Manchester United with zero display of mercy.
There is a reassuring swagger about the City right now.
Neither cocky nor throbbing with bravado, it’s more the kind of funky, knees-bent experimentation of a recently vasectomised ballet dancer testing his legs for movement in a pair of Oxford bags.
We had Richard III dug up a while back, and now the start-of-the-season’s no-hopers are Ranieri-ing away with it.
It helps also that the City has been positively multicultural and super diverse since before the dawn of time.
You can walk out pretty much anywhere here — apart from in the middle of the road, which is a stupid thing to do anywhere, especially fucking Italy.
Cats abound, youngsters cavort, and couples smooch with the openness of skyscraper lift shafts.
Maybe I’ll go shopping today, I dunno.
Prolly the windows of BHS could do with a good licking.
And it’s been a while since I burned my insides through to my skin with the treats on offer at McIndians.
What a fine concoction of possibilities upon which to base all Bank Holiday speculation!
I hope you are similarly blessed, dear readers — though take care if you’re out and about, and be sure to nail down any hats you’re wearing because Sara Blizzard has given out wind...