_. The first of bleedin' June. To the YP with my suitcase because after work I begin my pilgrimage to the shrine of St David of Stockport, patron saint of warm beer.
I phoned Mother this morning. We had a fiery exchange on my arrival home last night over the 'new' bed I have acquired from the Baker residence. She thinks it's an atrocious piece of furniture but I stood firm and demanded my right to keep it, pleading for my civil liberties, human rights, and all that. At times dear Mama plays President Brezhnev to my Russian Jew.
A hot day. Left at 5. Sat in the coach depot until my coach left at 6. By 8 I was languishing in the Hollywood with a glass of heavily polluted lager. Dave was in fine form. Joined by Billy and Garry. Poor Dave fancied a night on the town, but once again he was trapped in his own pub. Jim Glynn didn't look well.
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