Those of you in the know, realise how outta character it is for me to harp on about a subject. I am by nature a leave well alone kinda gal. I like to look each day in the eye and start afresh, leaving behind and looking onwards.
Ok you can come back now, I'll start telling the truth. That ridiculous sketch 'You wouldn't let it lie' was written for me. My two readers, who I incidentally pay to read this, know I have never let anything go in my entire miserable existence.
This blog post was meant to be a follow up to the last. I was going to expound on my views of humour, to carefully make the point that whilst I am allowed to poke fun at da events which accompanies living in South Leeds, those not living in da neighbourhood are not. So leave your opinions at da back door. (A response to all the negative stuff I read about my area).
You may of guessed I got bored of carefully making a point. Instead I used a metaphorical sledge hammer, and now I am reading this back in the worst American Italian accent you can imagine and wondering why every old member of the Godfather looks like my dad. I am tired beyond measure and probably not making much sense; first I blamed my son for waking up so early but I think I truly blame Francis Ford Coppola for making the criminal underworld so compelling, and bizarrely moral. Perhaps this is why they all remind me of my Dad. Possibly for that comment, tonight I sleep with the fishes.
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