DPM's diary: 3 July 2007

Weekly round up of events at Bogcaster Council...


Dave is back from his self-imposed exile from depravity and is, I am pleased to say, restored to his old drunken, unkempt and insolent self. The marriage is off. Not sure what tipped him off the wagon, but it might have been the discovery that his intended thought that Linux was a kind of floor covering. That, and finding out she had been seeing a Steerier salesman on the side. Not that he will be closing any more "partnership" deals, not from the bottom of a shallow grave.


Dave is drinking so heavily that Charlie and I are having difficulty keeping up with him when we join in at lunchtimes. It is only today that we remembered that he is already married. You see, we all drink to forget. The trouble is that after a while you cannot remember what it is you forgot.

Then after another long while you forget almost everything - except, for some reason, how to code in C++ and half a dozen obscure programming languages. These things never leave you.

I can still put together a workable plan instruction set, though strangely, only after blood alcohol levels pass 200 milligrams. What a pity I do not have a room-sized ICT mainframe to run it on.


Trendy Blur departure day. We drink even more than usual.


Disappointment. Despite sitting all morning by the phone no call came. All this talk of a government of all the talents... well, I had naturally assumed.

Maybe not a cabinet post, but junior minister for IT at least. Mavis is crestfallen. I had promised to take her to Whitehall with me. She was so looking forward to being a special adviser. Ho hum. Never much cared for too-clever-by-half Presbyterian Fifers anyway.


In order to console Mavis, I buy a dozen bottles of goodish pink champagne, stick them in the car fridge and drive us up to Wester Ross to spend a weekend at the croft before the midges get too thick to deal with, as they do later in the summer. On the way we are treated to appalling sights of devastation and destruction in northern England.

Huge pools of stagnant water everywhere. Blocked roads and city centres looking like war zones. Bloated bodies of drowned farm animals in the fields.

Of course we had seen it on the TV, but in real life it is much worse. And this is only the cricket season, wait until the footie gets started.

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