That’s it. Curtain down on tartan thirst traps. This is now a haven for observations & ramblings. Want the windswept monument to years of bad weather & poor decisions? I save that for Instagram. DM like a respectful adult, and maybe I’ll whisper directions. #unfollowedindroves
I love a discarded receipt. Wee glimpse into a stranger’s soul. Eight bottles of Newcastle Brown and a Hello Kitty bag. That’s no shopping list, that’s a cry for help.
Given I’m built like a bargain bin Frey Bentos and carry the erotic charge of a wet sock, I’ll be holing up in here indefinitely. Permanently. Tell my family I’ve joined a monastery.
I’ve bought a book on feline philosophy. The cat thinks I’m talkin shite.
There used to be a photo of Noel Edmonds in here. Married here in the 80s. The photo’s long gone. All that remains is a pale rectangle on the wall.
There’s a sports reporter at the BBC with a name that sounds like someone has tried a bit of manscaping and taken a cut to the ring piece with a razor.
Waiting on my agent to call. I’ve realised why there’s no adverts for boring, white, middle aged men. It’s not controversial. It’s David Beckham. He’s nicked the lot. Air fryers, Stella, loft insulation in East Kilbride. Doesn’t need the work, Me? Just feeding a mild Vinted habit
Why d’you see those online ads for magnesium banging on about “energy” and “sleep quality” like it’s a wellness retreat and never mention the real headline? It turns your bowels into a panic room evacuation.
There’s a singer on BBC One Scotland called Robert Robertson. That’s not a real name, that’s the name you give the police when they pull you up for drinking cider behind the Co-op at 14
I appear to be in the early stages of a romance with a scammer, and rather than resist, I’ve decided to treat it as a light social experiment and see how far the nonsense can be taken.
A Cher picture on Vinted for six quid, if I talk them down, that’s my retirement plan sorted.
That awkward moment when you hear someone in the next toilet cubicle taking a photo on their iPhone.
Contrary to what Jake would have you believe, I’m not an open book. I’m past fifty, I keep to myself and you can ask me questions all you like, but the answers all fucked off years ago.
Spotted in Lidl. Box of Thorntons and a and a cucumber, nothing says “date night” like that.
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