This week, it was, apparently, won by a dog.
I say, apparently, because I never have the opportunity to watch it, our telly being constantly tuned to Arabic stations – one of which is “Arab’s got Talent.” This is devoted, largely, to bints warbling along to enthusiastic cries from the audience. This is superceded only by some guy doing the same thing, equally assisted by a bored-looking orchestra.
Of course, their efforts are wasted when faced with what the Brits can, cunningly, come up with when they are pushed into a tight corner.
I can’t wait till I go to the village to buy a packet of fags. Where my status will have been elevated to stardom by the assumption that I know someone, or know someone’s Aunties, Uncles, Godfather’s cousin who couldnt give a flying fuck about dogs that can dance and jump through hoops, but are just satisfied that that they can shit outdoors.
Rule Britannia !
