Wednesday 21 May

Footerball, footerball, footerball, you’ll soon be having me for a dunderheaded sports fan! But tonight, dear reader, I promise you a victory for the Red Devils in Europe heralds the season’s end (and perhaps the commencement of new and exciting outdoor activities – fishing for girls, baddie-baiting anyone?) Suffice to say Swarthy Erick, Dempson, Charlton and myself get through our fair share of beer and wodka tonight, watching a representation of the match at the Gaffers via the worldwidewotsit. You will neither be surprised to learn that, having given all my carriers the night off (a couple making the long journey to Moscow to see it in the flesh, as opposed to the Feathers) I select the drunkest bird left available to me for the drunkest of tasks. Once the Bleughs have missed their final spot-kick I lean out of the window to indulge in some ‘Champion-eee’ themed arias. I am soon sending lone females scuttling down Chorlton’s backstreets, seeking shelter. I refuse to learn my lesson. Lewis is sozzled; his red eyes blinking ‘Stop’ like primitive traffic lights. I insit on sending him veering off into the night, in search of a nearby bed, the one careful lady owner of which I immediately sense will be none-too happy with my amorous message. I can only hope Lewis is pulled over by flying pigs or stops to peck at a piece of kebab pie and forgets where he is. He isn’t and he doesn’t and she isn’t…