Today, the day lost mometum as it went along. I’m avoiding the awfulness of Jedward on Eurovision and forced to pass the time a-writing in here.

So early morning on the beach with windswept Hub. Not another sinner in sight on the way down the beach pre 7:00am. Portstewart the way I like it.

Reflections on a win I didn’t see coming. But then, in these girls guts aren’t far below the surface.

Home, papers read. Tay drunk. Out. Swimming pool run completed. Home.

Out. To take under 8 training at which I erred grievously in telling the assembled group of P2s and P3s that my right foot was ‘shite’. The ‘shite’ sort of fell out of my mouth before I realised it. And me the most experienced coach there. The other lad with me merely remarked, they’ll probably remember that bit of coaching. At least no-one heard to report it to the social workers.

The last thing I need is a conversation with some boy in a tweed jacket or some doll in flowing skirts, determining whether I am a fit coach or whether my AccessNI should be withdrawn for bad language in a coaching setting. Bring it on.

It’s only 11:00am at this stage. Off to Glenullin in the pissin rain to watch a daughter playing camogie. Apparently I shouted at her. Another one for the do-gooders to analyse.

Home to watch Man Utd win the league (what a piss boring end to a match) and since then. . . I have done little. A lazy Saturday, not too many of them about these parts.

Off to a blitz in the morning which must be in doubt if this rain continues. Chance to catch up on some work and invoice a few people. Keeping the wolf form the door. There’s a story. Getting tired of this.