Hoovering, dusting, cleaning of windows, mopping of kitchen floors, plus even an unsubstantiated claim of some bloke in Spalding giving the inside of the toilet bowl a right good seeing to with the ol' Cillit Bang.

Either we've all been watching a bit too much Colin & Justin, or more plausibly, the subconscious football psyche has been working overtime in preparation for a mouthwatering afternoon of uninterupted footy action (and I'm not talking about Gretna v Celtic).

Oh yes, we may all be prancing about like twats with feather dusters this morning, but this all counts as a severe and weighty deposit of footy credits to be redeemed on the stroke of 1.30pm, when the Mr Sheen drops to the floor mid-spray with a mutter of "fok that", and it's arse down, feet up, belly out, lager opened and pizza ordered.

And of course, when half of the Dog & Duck roll along shortly afterwards, she's not expecting us to go and let them in, is she?

We're a smart breed, guys, a proper smart breed. (Although, a quiet word for Andy in Accrington: next time, look closer and you'll see that the hoover is actually powered by electricity, and does pick up slightly more dirt when plugged into the wall.)

<<back to diary home