I use the word 'depressed' with all due caution. I am a manic depressive (I've got the pills to prove it) so I know whereof I speak. It's not really bad just at the moment but the signs are there and on this occasion it's not anything particular to me or mine, it's bloody everything else. The world is, and I've thought about this, weathering a shitstorm just at the moment. I'm not going to go ranting on again about Trump, but, really, the a man is a scar on the face of a great and important nation. And the American left is responding to him in all the wrongheaded ways so favoured by your proper leftists. Please someone, just realise that what is needed in the face of ignorant ghastliness is an outbreak of decency and humanity.
Of course the other thing it is pointless for me to bang on about is Brexit. What a complete and utter shambles. What a missed opportunity. How very British.
Knife crime - this one makes me feel like crying.
But enough. Snap out of it Dave, the happiest four days of the sporting year are almost upon us - next week is the Cheltenham Festival. To cheer myself up I have been crawling the net and getting contradictory betting advice to the point that I have now heard persuasive tips for practically every horse that will be saddled next week. No matter, BFP will venture into the betting jungle fortified by the thought that because last year was a financial disaster, this year is bound to be better. In his heart of hearts, the Pig does know that this is deeply flawed thinking. But he doesn't care.
So don't worry about the Pig. He's feeling better already. Writers write.
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