Good old Sir Archie, the bluff old cove, has managed to net 2 tickets for Manchester to see the 2 surviving members of a group once called Queen, performing together again after all these years, with that other chap who used to be on that programme with Dusty Bin, and naturally he has invited my good self along to the show.
"I'm genuinely pleased for you," says the good Reader, " but what's your point? Incidentally, that was an unnecessarily long sentence."
Well, I'm coming to the point, be a patient fellow and we'll get there soon enough. And I'll take that extra criticism on board, damn your impudence. I can't fault your spelling, though.
My point is that unless Archie's playing me false, and is pocketing the balance (he's a man after my own heart y'see, but I could see he was playing it straight for once), that seems an extremely high sum to pay for this, perhaps, once in a lifetime experience.
"For 75 quid, I expect a lock of Roger's hair," joked Archie.
"For 75 quid, I expect to butt-fuck Roger," spluttered I.
Thinking on it, for 75 quid I expect to see bloody Freddie back, not a long dead game show host from the late 70s/early 80s, whose only claim to fame was a neat twiddly finger trick.
The sheer cheek of it!
Mind you, I paid up. Meekly and with a few harsh words.
Actually, I haven't paid up yet. He kindly agreed to roll it over for a couple of weeks as I'm rather short after a poor run on the horses, rot 'em. A 25-1 cert it was, the useless three-legged carthorse. It's a good job they had it put down afterwards, because I'd have shot it myself given half a chance.
If anyone else is going to Manchester, look out for Archie and I somewhere on the lower tier. He'll be the one stood there drunkenly cursing. And I'll be the one making off with his wallet.
FLASHMAN STRIKES AGAIN!
Paul Rodgers is not the best thing since fried Fred.