Had a fantastic morning preparing for England's win in rugby.
Or will it be a win in Derby?
Well, it's not that I will be attending the match, or that I might even watch it on television – in fact I don’t even know if or when they are playing - but I could tell something might up judging by the copious amount of Carlsberg Lager people were buying from the supermarket when I popped in at 7.30am.
I had been instructed by the wife to purchase some "low fat" (could have sworn that is the name of our local Chinese Take-Away) red cheese, and found out something that made me slightly suspicious, not that I might be in any way cynical when it comes to supermarket shopping, you will understand.
All the red cheese - the normal, the "Be Good" to yourself, the simply red cheese (presumably the stuff Mick Hucknall buys), the super-duper "Taste the Difference" and the Con You Sir, oops, I mean Connoisseur red cheese contained EXACTLY 33.7g fat per 100g.
That, to me, is one of life's true con-incidents, oops, I mean coincidences. Smells a bit fishy. Or cheesy.
Were they perchance from the same batch, genetically related, only packaged differently in order to sell them to the unaware shopper at varying prices? Or was I being a little too harsh on the supermarkets who, after all, offer on the one hand such good value to the farmers they beat up, and on the other, save local shopkeepers from paying rent by forcing them out of businesses?
There were also a few logistic problems at the checkout - one of those multi-ones for baskets only, where four operators sit back to back. The Sikh checkout didn't want to sell a joint of beef, while both the Jewish and Muslim operators didn't want to sell bacon. The Jehovah’s Witness was refusing to sell a woman sanitary towels.
Then the supermarket team leader adjusted his shorts, straightened his "Bob the Builder" badge and frogmarched into the fray, unprepared to speak to anyone who wasn't related to either someone with an OBE, or who, at the very least, had an Oxbridge education. Although with his headphones on, shouting self-important instructions into his microphone, it’s a wonder he could talk to anyone (those who shop in the same supermarket I do will know the one I mean - the buck-toothed, greasy-haired little oik who was in charge of North Korea in a former life).
After all this excitement, I then dashed home to watch Jeremy Kyle, only to discover I can’t stand the programme and don’t even know what channel or when it’s on!