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Postcard From Birkdale - Friday

Dear Mum,

You'd think I might have ventured a few miles along the coast to see The Cavern and Paddy's Wigwam by now, but no, here I am, still in Southport, even though I haven't managed to spot Lee Mack or Miranda Richardson.

There seems to be an invisible hand guiding me to Birkdale ever day. Last night I bumped into this canoodling couple at Rocco's Italian restaurant - no disrespect, but there's something unsavoury about people over 50 making out in public - and the bloke gave me a couple of passes for the Open. He was called Norman, I think. Anyway, we turn up at the ground or the course or whatever, and check it out if Norman's not out there slashing away at that little white pill. At his age! To be honest, I'm getting a bit sick of being soaked, then blow-dried, then soaked again.

And while I'm on a bitchy tip, the fans could get a little bit more excited. Great for Berghaus anoraks, terrible for giant foam hands with 'We love you Monty, you miserable old sod!' on them, or anything. Whatever happens tomorrow, there's nothing standing between me and a day at New Pleasureland. Check out their Facebook site - it's got 13 fans!

Love,
Jack x

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