Foe those of you expecting a learned exegesis of the banking proposals (not that this blog does learned exegeses), or an assessment of the diplomatic implications of Cameron's playing footsie with Putin, or even further dire prognostications on the future of the euro, forget it. In the immortal words of Ella, it's too darn hot. According to the BBC website, the Malaga temperature at 8 o'clock last night was 95 degrees. I'm just melting away ...
And the rugby has disrupted my routine. There's something not right about watching an international match at 3 in the morning, beer in hand. Not helped by the over-excitable Scott Hastings, only marginally better than mogadon man, Vickery. And that commentator on the French match who, having made an attempt at both the English and French pronunciations of Vincent Clerc, settled for a mish-mash of the two (albeit failing to decide whether to pronounce the final consonant in the man's surname). Do these guys not do any homework?
And despite Scotland's less than sparkling performance (and none of the other favourites did particularly well), hope springs eternal for the match against the Georgians ...
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