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