The motor’s in dock for a wash and brush-up, and my courtesy car is one of those high-revving dinky toys that growl like a Ferrari and drive like a hamster. Gets me to the nearest town – four miles away – for milk and papers. Six forward gears and I have yet make it out of second.
Hard luck, Aussies. I didn’t think it was a penalty either. Gudgeon was cheering you on – as instructed. Life at the homestead is governed by Mrs G’s rules, and supporting cheese-eating surrender monkeys in the current Brexit climate is a no-no. Though frequently berated for my casual racism, it seems there are acceptable and non-acceptable forms of racism – and mine, inevitably, fall foul of the arbiter.
Yeeees! Let’s hear it for Iceland.