Well, that's the annual Eurovision humiliation over and done with. Auntie P is going about with a self-satisfied smirk on her fizzog. She is going to be impossible for the rest of the week, at the very least.
Just when I was beginning to think that the various Doctor Who's, like the polis, are getting ever younger, the BBC recruit the oldest actor yet in the grizzled form of John Hurt. Even Norman Hartnell wasn't that ancient when he hung up his Tardis to concentrate on the dressmaking.
So Uncle Lucas is in a mood now because he wasn't offered the role. I suggested he contact the Beeb and enquire if he could portray some ghastly monster which crawls out from under a rock. The cantankerous swine tried to pull my head off. There was no need for that.
Anyway, I must dash as Groida is making lunch. He doesn't actually know it yet, but I am sure I can persuade him with a cast iron ladle ...
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