The Monaco Grand Prix* as described (and partially relived) by Pepe.
He is not a Hamilton fan.
The big smile was switched off when the topic of the referendum was unearthed by Orla at 7 PM.
Glad it wasn’t me,
* I have absolutely no interest in Formula 1 but this secondary consideration has never deterred Pepe from telling me all there is to know about it (it’s cars, they all try to finish first)
… you must be on your way.
Farewell, old Saab.
I know, I know, we started off on the wrong foot.
But you ended up delivering just over three years of fine motoring.
Ok, fine-ish motoring. You were no Volvo V70.
We never took you on cross-country drives, we kind of knew that cross-city was about as much as we could expect.
But you did it. For three years. And you always started in the morning, without fail.
Your turbo did not fail on that first fateful week. Just the dumping valve (must some sort of automotive speak for car anus).
You were a bit of a petrol guzzler, but I knew it from the start.
You’ve been good to us, but it is now time to part.
Good luck old lady.
I can’t quite fully understand it.
This is Ireland, not the Atacama desert.
Yet each and every “unexpected” shower triggers a widespread hysteria.
As if hydrochloric acid-spitting aliens dangling by their stretchy penises from their glowing UFOs were trying to exterminate the population below.
In my experience, those who do not over-hype their services are more likely to deliver.
The day I see a sign for a business that says:
Not the cheapest not the dearest either… somewhere in between
Delivering when we are ready”
I’d be very much inclined to try it out.
I long for an absence of superlatives.
A honest acceptance of limitations.
A refreshing absence of bullshit.