Cough Cough.

I still feel like I'm breathing through a wet sock, with this god awful chest infection I've got, so I've spent the whole day in my bed with a leggy blonde nurse, a hot toddy and a bottle of cough syrup.

One part of that statement was false. Did you spot which one?

Give yourself a pat on the back if you spotted that the leggy blonde nurse was actually a brunette...

Because of this I've got fuck all to write about other than whatever my mind can spew forth from the depths. So lets face it, this post may be something of a disappointment. Or perhaps not... Who can tell where this will all end up. Perhaps it'll be a sordid tale of woe that ends in a happy ending, perhaps it'll be gripping and dramatic or perhaps it'll end with a laugh. Whatever. Just don't expect miracles.

For some reason my mind is pushing forward a memory of when I was a kid and lived in Westburn Grove... Oh well, lets see where this goes...

I loved playing in the west burn when I was young, even though my mum used to tell me to keep away from it. To be fair, it was barely more than an open sewer that regularly got choked with used tampons, toilet paper, condoms and the, very, occasional dead rat.

I still recall the look on my mums face when I came home one day having stood on a rusty nail while playing in the burn and walking in with a hole in my foot, leaving a long streak of blood on the hall tiles. I'm sure she thought It would get poisoned and I'd be Westburns version of Tiny Tim. Which would have been fun, as I would have had the perfect excuse for affecting a Cockney accent and asking strangers in the street if they could "Spare 10p, for a new wooden leg guvnah?"

Hey, if Dick Van Dyke could make money from doing a shitty Cockney accent why couldn't I?

But it wasn't to be. I didn't get some nasty virilous disease and didn't lose my leg. Which is just as well as I'd never have got to play football with George Best if I had. And I never will now...

...Unless there's a Heavens 11 football side and I get picked to play in it after I turn up toes and buy the farm. But I doubt that as well, there's no way I'd get picked. God gets all the best players in history together after they've, metaphorically, hung up their boots and he picks me to play alongside them?

I'd be lucky to be allowed to be the one who retrieves the ball after one of players had skyed a shot and had hoofed the ball past the goals...

...I'm wandering now. I shouldn't be eulogising about Bestie when I was trying to tell a story of how I should have a bulletproof immune system after playing in such a bacterial breeding ground as the west burn.

But hey, that's the thing I enjoy about writing. I never know where it's going to lead. And neither do you. We're both only along for the ride. Strap yourself in and enjoy it.

Stay happy. It could be worse. You could be Welsh.