My!  Aren’t we colour-ordinated?  I’m referring to the fine male specimen behind me in the photo, whom my friend craftily tried to get a picture of, at one point scolding me to “move out of the way”.  Charming.

Well, hello again!  It’s the second week of the new, spanking, sexy look of uk-fusion and things are looking fine.  I’m overwhelmed by the reaction and can’t quite believe my eyes as we’ve clocked 100,000 hits in a week.  Thank you ever so much, but please don’t stop!  Tell everyone you know to bookmark this site and check it every day, and maybe then we will be taken seriously. 

But yes, 100,000 is the truth.  Impressive, isn’t it?  It certainly means you like what you see, and judging by the stats, it looks like I’m in the lead on the editorial team page.  Ha, Michael!  (Er...)

More surprisingly is what you made of my snap with Mr Blair – I mean, Lionel.  I impressed myself on that one too, until I saw him again last week, sitting outside the same café at the same table at around the same time I met him a few weeks back.  He was either stalking me (well, he definitely leaned over to see me) or was just asking for attention, but I backed out on this occasion.  The first time was funny, after that it somewhat loses its novelty.

I trust you had a good weekend.  Great to see England doing fine – in cricket, I mean.  They won the series 3-0 to New Zealand, not that a large contingent of chavs and alike were aware, too busy flying the flags of St. George on their Ford Escorts.  I had the misfortune of running into one quite literally because the moron failed to see a car coming from behind and proceeded to reverse as if it were his right.  I sounded my horn (bad move, I know) and waited for him to drive on.  Sadly I had to look at his ugly face.  Feeling threatened, he yelled back in his most chaviest/common shit of an accent “What she fuckin’ lookin’ at???”  God knows who he was talking to because there was no other passenger in his crap mobile.

He was repulsive.  Sporting a baseball cap and the obligatory chav chin pubes, I felt compelled to smack him.  I hate chavs!  I really do!  I do not class myself as the most intelligent person ever, nor did I get straight A’s in my exams but oh my gosh, at least I have manners and speak coherently.   What a tit – stupid arse, I hope the coppers book him for speeding!

I’m not going to touch upon the football too much, seeing as it’s mostly full of chavs on the TV screen during the news bulletins.  So many St George’s flags about here and er, what for?  The tournament is in Portugal, and it goes without saying who most people will be supporting in England.  Duh!  Besides, how many flags come out on St George’s Day? 

One of my friends took the risky decision of booking a holiday to Tunisia on the day of the final.  He’s a huge footie fan so why did he do it?  “Well I know England won’t get that far…”  The man’s got a point. 

I was having a lovely time in my garden yesterday, until Naked Grandad’s grandson next door (allow me to tell you about Naked Grandad another time) decided to do a spot of revision/sun-bathing (sitting up, mind) with the stereo on full blast, playing fucking footie songs.  I had to endure Fat Les’ ‘Vindaloo’, Pavarotti’s ‘Nessun Dorma’ and some other nonsense twice over.  His mother told him to turn it down but he eventually cranked it back up again.  The little swine.  He won’t be playing that CD again after last night’s result, that’s for sure.  Ha!

I’m in a bad mood, probably because I have got a mountain of work to get through including some long-awaited interviews – and possibly because I am O’Ding on the Lucozade.  I’m doing them as fast as I can (the interviews, I mean), whilst having the chance to breathe so please PR people, bear with me.

In the meantime, I’m sure you can entertain yourselves with what Dr Charles Lake is dishing out next, as well as the latest reviews all superbly written by my wonderful writers. 

And if you missed last week’s spiffing editorial, you can read it in the archived section under Features.  That’s efficiency for you.

Until next week, my dears...