IT'S the end to another sorry rugby World Cup campaign for Wales and the wringing of hands and wailing noises are preventing me getting to sleep at nights. Sometimes I don't understand these people I live amongst. They have known for around two years that their team has a snowball's chance in hell of success in the tournament, yet they still act shocked and mortified when the whole thing shudders to a halt. Ah well, at least it gives Roberts, my rugby writer, something to get his teeth into.
He's never happier than when the faeces has flown into the air conditioner and he can rant at people over the phone. "Hey, it's all turned to sh**, mate, it's a ******* shambles. What about that tw** who was in charge? What was he doing? It's a total cock up."
After he replaces the handset I venture to ask: "Who on earth were you talking to then, mate?"
"No one... only the Welsh rugby union group chief executive."
Strange thing is, they all listen to him. Which makes me wonder: Who IS at fault for the state of Welsh rugby?
It's not just rugby that Roberts has a passion for. Standing outside the side entrance smoking a ciggie today, he looks across the road at the women leaving the BT offices and declares: "I love this time of the year?"
"Why's that, mate?" ask Wathanovski and I in unison.
"It's the boots, mate... the boots!"
He's been watching the girls leave the building, but I am wondering what the real attraction is. Some of us reckon that when this extremely private man gets home he has babes in boots padlocked to the walls of his dungeon. Or, if not the babes, perhaps he just walks around in his size eight stiletto boots.
Shutts, meantime, has moved home with mum, but is still acting like a 100 per cent wus. So much so that he is now cussing his mother for not keeping the house tidy enough. "She even leaves the butter out on the counter. It's disgraceful," stormed the giant. It could be the latest case of a child divorcing their parents, by the sound of things.
Quite a quiet weekend. Wren came over and we went for a couple of beers and had a nice Sunday lunch, watched Argentina knock Ireland out of the rugby and read the papers. That was about it.
On Tuesday I went to Bristol to see a goal four minutes into injury time rob the Gas of a first home victory of the season against Southend, which put me in a pretty bleak mood. Still, watched the end of Series 3 of 24, a video well worth investing in as the brilliant Jack Bauer finally wins the day again - having shot and killed one of his colleagues and chopped the arm off another. He could have added a great deal to the Welsh pack.
As for the recipe, a tribute to France and memories of the World Cup for my French buddies, I made a cassoulet on Tuesday. But the recipe will have to wait for tomorrow as my Boozeday Tuesday membership is already in danger of being ripped up and I don't want to miss Wednesday club as well. Ta, ta for now...